Alaska Virgin Air

PROLOGUE

THE TRUTH IS, being clairvoyant is a life sentence.

It’s something I hate to talk about, and yet, despite my best efforts and better judgment, it invariably comes up. I touch someone, I pick up someone’s purse or change or a postcard and it happens. I try to avoid it at all costs, but then I bump into a stranger, brush hands in a restaurant and it happens.

Once people find out, they want to know about their jobs or lovers or children, and depending on how it plays out, people end up either hating me or treating me like some kind of God-like healer. Either way, I don’t have a choice. The drama piles up, and I wind up leaving.

When I came to realize I was destined to be a traveler, I bought an ancient motor home, named her Big Ellie, decorated her in early garage sale, along with a few pieces of my favorite art, and headed out.

I’ve worked more jobs than I can count: a teacher in Georgia, a handyman in New Jersey and a cat-sitter in Seattle, to name a few, finally falling back on my degree in counseling, going from small-town USA East Coast, to small-town USA West Coast, catering to those folks too embarrassed to talk with someone local who might spill all their beans over at Charlie’s Bar or Muffy’s Café. Working really hard to ignore any part of being clairvoyant or healing, through any means other than good old-fashioned psychology.

Until last week, anyway. When for some strange and inexplicable reason (I was homesick. Okay?) I went home and visited my mom. Which, by now, I should know is always a mistake. Trust me on this one. Really.

Mom, aka Vincenza Therese Vertuccio, is approaching fifty, looks forty, tells people we’re sisters, exercises like a freak, goes eighteen hours a day and never looks the least bit tired. She lives in an amazing, four-story Victorian landmark on Long Beach Island, a sun-filled, private section of the Jersey shore. Not the armpit the likes of Jay Leno and Conan would have you believe.

Long Beach Island is an East Coast paradise, with warm, white beaches, crashing waves, the ubiquitous line of fishermen hoping for the next big catch and a noticeable absence of Abercrombie and Fitch, The Gap and every other major chain store. Admittedly there’s also crappy tourist art and tacky souvenirs, but nonetheless, Long Beach Island is truly a paradise. At least for those who can afford it.

Mom writes travel guides about the underbelly of every place you’ve ever dreamed of visiting. They’re extremely popular, though it’s hard to imagine why. Who wants to have their most exciting fantasy bubbles burst, anyway? Big mystery. Not unlike the one that came crashing to the surface recently, all because I made the mistake of going to New Jersey for what I thought would be a nice, quiet family vacation.

I am so gullible.

CHAPTER ONE

ABBEY, DID YOU know that Thailand is the prostitution and drug capital of the world? Mom asked, as she glanced up from her research notes and frowned at me. This is exactly the kind of lurid detail that always manages to find its way into her books.

I mumbled something noncommittal in response, but that didn’t slow her down a bit.

I wonder if that’s why Jerry Abbott goes there every year?

Mom! Stop.

Well, he does. Go there, I mean.

Mr. Abbott is seventy-two, Mom. A deacon in the church. You think it could be the beautiful beaches? The culture? The low prices?

We got beautiful beaches right here. And culture. We got plenty of culture, she said and stabbed the air with her pen, punctuating her point.

I love Long Beach Island, but I’m thinking, what culture? Here, it’s mostly white people, Yankees games on the radio, bus trips for seniors to Atlantic City and pinochle on the beach.

And what’s he need with cheap prices? He’s rich, for God’s sake. It’s not like he’s surviving on canned cat food, she snarled before returning to her writing—ensuring, as always, that she got the last word in.

So the question was this. How was I going to survive this visit? One week with my mom—a force of nature, like a lightning storm or a . . . tsunami—is usually about all I can take.

She likes brash and trash—everything from noisy biker bars and over-tanning on the beach to porn-like erotica in books and DVDs. She likes gambling all day at Atlantic City, invariably winning enough to come out even, flirting with guys half her age, who invariably flirt back, and cheap sex, as much and as often as possible. Oh, and drinking. Lots of drinking.

She overwhelms me.

I like the quiet rhythm of a long-haul road trip and the sounds and smells of the Atlantic Ocean crashing on a deserted beach in November. I like Joni Mitchell and Ani. I buy my clothes at the Goodwill and garage sales. I love Big Ellie, aside from her chintzy shower, and enjoy the simple life: a good book, pizza, caffeine-free Coke and Hostess cupcakes. I’d like to flirt and possibly have lots of sex, like Mom, if only I wasn’t so afraid of the price I’d have to pay.

She can’t believe I’m her flesh and blood.

JUST LIKE MOM. It didn’t take long for her to ditch me for the beach under the guise of frying her dark Sicilian skin into an even darker shade of mocha. Unlike Mom, I’m not a beach bunny, so I headed up to my favorite place in the house: the attic, a treasure-trove of antiques, memorabilia and generic detritus, where I happily waded through stacks of yellowing photographs and heavy albums with thick black pages and photos held in place with tiny triangular squares, lost in the familiar faces and places.

I reached for a random photo and wham. My insight or radar, or whatever (call it Spidey sense if you have to, but please don’t call it clairvoyance) kicked in. It’s not even fair. I mean, I work so hard to avoid it. But there you have it. More and more I find myself shrinking away from the casual handshake and the resulting vision: some guy in bed with the wrong woman, some woman believing the lie. All it takes is a brief touch on the arm of a stranger in Trader Joe’s and the image of her, sick in bed, him crying silently. I hate the drama. I hate knowing things I have no right to know. Thank God it doesn’t happen every time, but enough. More than enough.

So when I touched the photo and flashed back to another time, I wanted to run and hide. Forget I ever saw it. The problem was, I felt like I knew the person staring back at me. Only I had never seen him before in my life: khaki pants and shirt, standing in a large, empty field, wearing an expression made stupid by love. Behind him a heavy cloud-filled sky. It wasn’t the Pine Barrens of New Jersey, I was certain. Maybe Alaska, where Mom and I had lived, on and off, when I was growing up. The funny thing was, I would have been attracted to this man if it wasn’t clear that the image was about thirty years old, and he’d be fifty or so to my thirty-two by now.

I turned the photo over, searching for clues. Handwriting, a date, anything, and there it was, in a large and expansive hand I didn’t recognize: Fairbanks, 1972. Only what did that prove? Really. The photo could have belonged to anyone. It could have fallen out of a library book or been left behind by any number of friends, now long removed from the Jersey shore. Fairbanks, 1972, might not have anything to do with Vinnie Vertuccio whatsoever.

Except for the chills running down my spine, though it was over ninety in the stuffy attic. Except for the goose bumps covering my arms, and how when I rubbed them out, they popped right back up.

I looked at the image one more time and knew my life was never going to be the same.

Don’t ask me how I knew. I just knew.

I slid the photo into my pocket and forced myself to shake off the feeling of gloom and doom. Beyond the window, there was Mom, laughing on the beach with a hunky lifeguard, about my age, wearing what looked like sprayed-on swimming briefs, sporting more muscle than I’d ever seen outside of a fitness magazine. I was trying to shake the image in my head of Mr. Muscle without the tiny briefs when the phone rang.

I answered the call. Because how was I supposed to know the gods were messing with me?

Abbey, is that you?

It was my grandma, who insists on being called Luna ever since my grandpa died and she decided that changing her name added up to changing her life. It had something to do with putting Grandpa Noah in the past and moving forward into the next phase of what she calls her journey.

You don’t have to tell me. I know. I’m surrounded by mad women. But then I’m clairvoyant—forget I said that—so add me to the bunch and get out the strait jackets.

It’s me, Gran, I answered. Ah, Luna, I mean.

I really try to remember. I do.

Just the person I’m looking for, she said, then shouted, Get that load out on the runway. We’re gonna be late.

Luna, what’s going on?

We have a shipment going to Bettles, and if we don’t get the plane loaded, we’ll be late. But that’s not why I’m calling.

Of course not.

I’m calling because I need you to come up here right away.

See? Fate. Gods. Didn’t matter. I was screwed.

Gran owns and runs Alaska Virgin Air—AVA for short— a rural air service to a dozen Alaska bush communities. She facetiously named the company after her great-aunt Mae, who climbed the Chilkoot Trail and made her living with gold miners in a none-too-respectable manner. AVA has four bush planes and a large hangar attached to a runway called Metro Field, located in Fairbanks, Alaska. It has one chief pilot and another all-around pilot and baggage handler, which until recently included my ex-husband, your typical walking, talking pile of doggy doody named Rob.

AVA, which is run by Gran and her boyfriend, Al, started as a family business with Grandpa, Gran, Mom and Dad and for a while, me, until someone (hint: Rob and his keeping-his-pants- up problem) drove me away from our home, the business and Alaska. A total eclipse of the sun.

Mom left Alaska the first time when dad didn’t make it back from Vietnam; we returned and left again several times until she finally settled down in her little piece of heaven, in—yes—New Jersey.

What’s up, Gran? I asked, although more than half my attention was riveted on the action heating up on the beach. Mr. Universe had his hand on Mom’s ass, while she was busy sliding one finger back and forth inside the waistband of his itsy-bitsy bathing briefs. Oh My God! There were children on that beach!

I leaned out the window and yelped, before she got arrested for child endangerment or something. Mom, Granny wants to talk to you. Stat.

It took a while, but she pulled herself off of The Hulk and came inside, shooting Sicilian evil eyes at me.

Save it for your porn video, Mom! I whispered. So Gran wouldn’t hear.

Whatever are you talking about, Abigail? Mom asked, employing Sicilian Diversionary Tactic #1: Act Innocent No Matter What Happens, before she yanked the phone from my outstretched hand.

Hi, Mom! Yeah. Yeah. Eye roll. Uh, huh. Right. Yes, I will. Yes. Okay! Eyes heavenward, hands on hips. No. Okay. Here’s Abbey. She tossed me the phone and hightailed it right back out to Mr. Wonderful. Started right back where she’d left off, except this time I was pretty sure she was off to a one-afternoon-stand of hot sex and piña coladas.

Fine. I’m petty and small-minded. I know.

So, Luna? Mom’s having sex on the beach these days. Any suggestions?

What are you waiting for? Get it on!

Get it on? What? A threesome? Forget about it.

Not talking to you, Abbey. Sorry. It’s crazy here. What was I calling for? Oh, yeah. I need you to get back up here pronto.

What the hell? No! Okay, thankfully, I stopped myself before the words flew off my tongue, followed by some hideous screeching sound. Go back to Alaska? Near Rob? I’d rather take my chances with a man-eating shark than go back to Alaska. Thankfully I recovered enough to pull Sicilian Diversionary Tactic #2 out of my hat. Grandma, do you know a guy? Blondish hair, around 6 foot 3. Perfect dimple, sweet smile?

I don’t know. That could be anyone, she answered.

Thank you, Sicilian Tactics! But wait a second.

Abbey, Al and I—you remember Al—are going on the road with his band.

Of course I knew Al. Grandpa Noah passed over ten years ago, leaving Gran with the business and, like me, a lot of empty spaces in her life. Al came along two years ago and fit nicely into all of her spaces, thank you very much. And now they were taking off together? Hmm. No flashes.

But, Gran—

Luna, and no buts, except yours, on the road, ASAP, and with that, she hung up on me.

So Mom had Mr. Muscle, Gran had Al; and I had . . . an ancient motor home and an old photo.

Great.

I WENT DOWNSTAIRS to think things over, by way of a Coke and what they call in Jersey, The Everything Bagel. What a mess. First the weirdly compelling photo. Then Gran’s insistence that I come back to Alaska, right away.

I guess it could be worse. If I returned to Alaska, I wouldn’t have to watch Mom rubbing her success with men in my face. Wouldn’t have to listen to her every opinion about my career, my non-existent love life and everything in between. As for the photo, maybe I could simply ask Mom about it; although, to be honest, getting the truth out of her . . . well, that would be like expecting honesty from the CIA, FBI or KGB.

But seriously. No way in hell was a crusty old photograph landing me within a thousand miles of Rob, who I had no reason to see. Hoped I’d never have to see. Okay. Wasn’t ready to see. Either way you looked at it, between my mom and Rob, my chances were about even. A total lose-lose situation.

I headed back to the attic, determined to solve one mystery the good old-fashioned way: turn on my radar, look for any recurrence of the man in the photo or the feeling I’d felt when I last saw him. Anything to keep my mind off of Alaska and Rob and command performances by Gran, another immovable force of nature.

As luck—or no luck at all—would have it, I wasn’t there twenty minutes when Mom called out.

Abbey. Abbey, where the hell are you?

Here, Mom, I leaned over the railing and shouted.

Her steps tapped softly on the attic stairs, and when she arrived, her face was flushed and happy, in that I-just-got-good-loving kind of way.

Abbey, how the hell are you going to meet anyone hiding in the attic all day? And what’re you doing up here, anyway?

For one, I didn’t realize I was there to meet someone. For two, I needed a good lie. Looking for my old baby albums.

Always one to leave well enough alone, at least when it didn’t affect her directly, Mom bought it.

I’ll help, she said as she uncharacteristically jumped in with a burst of energy and starting pulling out boxes, ripping open lids and pointing out things of general interest.

Oh, look, here are your baby shoes. God, you had big feet. And, Look, Abbey, my yearbook from the University of Alaska, l975. She stuck the dusty book under my nose, making me sneeze. I look better now, don’t you think?

While Mom tried on assorted fringed leather vests and bell-bottoms, I dug through an old trunk, where I found a small jewelry chest tucked between the folds of a homemade quilt. I turned the box over, dumped the contents into my lap and fingered the familiar junk jewelry I’d played with as a child: Mom’s outdated pop-bead necklaces, tarnished charm bracelets and watches with worn-out batteries.

I caught my reflection in a cracked watch face and tossed it aside. No use pondering how, in a purely physical sense, Mom and I could be twins, with our dark hair, eyes and skin. Same great posture, cup size and steely determination. And yet, somehow I always came off looking like the nice girl next door. Meaning boring. While something about Mom made people want to get close to her—even if it meant being consumed by the fire.

I dug deeper into the knotted mix of trash and treasure, until I came across a silver puzzle ring with eight individual bands, the kind you take apart and put back together again if you’re skillful or lucky enough. I worked the bands, pushing and pulling on them without much success, as I built up the courage to ask Mom about the photo. Jeans and vests strewn around her, she sat back on one arm and flipped through an old yearbook, all the while gossiping about the people frozen in the pages.

That’s Frank Wilcox, she said, pointing to the picture of a red-faced boy with equally red flyaway hair and a sketchy moustache. He took your Aunt Lou’s cherry on prom night then ran off and married Phoebe Webb, the class slut. What a prick! she said, and flipped the page forcefully, as if that would rid her of the vermin named Frank.

Joe DeLucca. He had a huge one, if you know what I mean. We were a hot item until your dad came to town. She turned her face to the sun streaming through the window, a dreamy-eyed look on her face, and sighed. Too cute for words!

Who? Dad or Joey?

Both.

She was in such a good mood, I couldn’t help myself. I pulled the photo from my back pocket, and waved it in front of her face to get her attention.

Where’d you get that? she asked, her tone cool and casual. But if the photo wasn’t important and she didn’t care about it, why’d she grab for my outstretched hand?

I snatched my hand back, but she was too fast. Life Lesson #1: Anything Vinnie Vertuccio wants, Vinnie gets.

Who is it, Mom?

No one. I don’t know. Still, that didn’t stop her from tucking the photo into her back pocket. I don’t recognize him. It must belong to your Aunt Lou.

Aunt Lou was in Costa Rica, researching herbal remedies in the rain forest, so I wouldn’t be asking her any time soon. Not that it mattered. As sure as I am a Vertuccio, I knew Mom was lying.

In a nervous gesture, I twisted the puzzle ring, still in pieces in my hand. My breath caught in my throat. Beads of sweat pooled under my arms. Dizziness gripped me as another vision hit. This time I saw a younger version of Mom, clad in hip huggers and a worn leather fringed vest, holding a peace sign, and the man again. Hip-huggers, long hair, one arm draped around my mother’s shoulder, the other held high. Then it was gone. Rats.

One important part stuck with me, though. I recognized Gran’s building in the background. Alaska Virgin Air. I glanced over at Mom, who apparently had missed the drama, preoccupied as she was with her running commentary on old classmates, from fond to scathing. Clueless, as usual. I gave up. Grilling my mom, a master of evasion, with centuries of Sicilian blood coursing through her veins and the keeper of the Vertuccio family secrets, was hopeless. But that didn’t stop me from wanting to know exactly who this man was, did it?

What was wrong with me? I needed to drop it. Because this whole mess was leading back to Alaska and I didn’t need the answer that badly. Not that what I wanted mattered. Remember the part about Gran calling and needing me for reasons unknown? No two ways about it. I could kick and scream and kid myself. I could make believe I had anything to say about it at all; but truth is, I was going back to Alaska. Because when your grandmother calls for a command performance, you go. You just do. Even when Mr. Doggy Doo is in residence. Even when your personal version of hell is cold and spelled ALASKA.

I never stood a chance. Even with Rob there, even knowing I’d have to face his lying, cheating, heart again.

Honestly, I didn’t know if I could do it.

Wimp, you say. Easy, you say. Avoid him.

Good advice, except that Fairbanks is the size of a teacup. Nowhere to hide, no way to avoid an old friend or enemy, and I wasn’t stupid enough to convince myself otherwise. I had to face facts. I’d be seeing Rob again.

I shook the thought from my mind, left Mom to her memories and silently exited downstairs and through the back door to pack up Big Ellie for the long trip home.

Damn and double-damn.

THIS WAS THE part that should have been simple. Pack up, say goodbye and move on. Except here’s the weird part: Mom caught me packing up, found out where I was headed, and God save me, offered to go along for the ride.

What? I said and took a few steps back, careful not to land on my rear as I tripped over my own two feet.

I can’t let you drive 4,300 miles alone, she said, innocently enough, if you didn’t know better. And I did.

I felt like snapping, Since when? But I managed to bite my tongue.

It’ll be great. Mother-daughter time, she said, offering me a cookie, as if that would seal the deal.

I took a huge bite, wondering what I was getting myself into here.

Don’t you mean sister-sister time? I mumbled through a mouth full of chocolate.

She shook her thick, black curls, causing that familiar shot of jealousy I’ve always felt when Mom was being especially spectacular. Be like that. It’s high time you settled down. Traveling all the time, never finding a home, no men. It can’t be good for you.

As if the curls weren’t enough, she stuck out her still-perky breasts, shoulders back, daring me to disagree.

What’s really going on here, Mom? I couldn’t help asking. It was so unlike her. Noticing me and all. But then things were back to normal so fast it made my head spin. She ignored me. Sicilian Tactic #3 in her arsenal of mother-daughter weaponry.

It’s good you got back into counseling, Abbey, but counseling from a dilapidated motor home? Come on! Cat sitting? Waitressing? Handyman? What were you thinking?

She stopped for a quick breath. Not long enough for me to get a word in edgewise, but it wasn’t like I had a snappy comeback, anyway. While she had me on the ropes, she continued with her litany of life according to Vinnie. "You’ll fix that hair of yours. Go to Alaska and run the business. Put on a little makeup and get back