Read On Little Wings for Free Online Page A

of worry and his sudden interest in the batteries of our smoke detector. I folded my arms around Mother’s waist and pressed my cheek against her back. Unlike some mothers and daughters, we weren’t made to fight. We rarely ever tried and the few times we’d attempted it, it never worked out. We just liked each other too much. When I pulled back I could see her familiar smile playing across her mouth. She resumed her work with swift, fluid strokes. My father inhaled visibly and, looking like a man who just diffused a bomb, sunk into the sofa with a copy of Popular Mechanics and a sheen of sweat shimmering on his forehead.
    Taking his lead, I finished my homework and spent the day quietly. When my Mother ran to the store I snuck onto the computer to look up flights to Smithport. It looked like I would fly into Bangor airport and navigate a car around several lakes and miles of rugged shoreline until I reached the town. I never imagined Maine before, but if I had, I would not have envisioned so many lakes, or such a broken, winding coast. A ticket would cost hundreds of dollars. Not a problem; My personal hoard of birthday, Christmas and paycheck money more than sufficed.
    The funds I possessed. The transportation I could arrange. I could make my way across half of the continent, if I could just find a way through my mother’s stubborn anger. That journey seemed insurmountable, like passing through the fuming flames of Hades. I cannot say why I felt so compelled to go in spite of her pain. I felt the pull of her sorrow, only it wasn’t coming from Claire Newsom in Nebraska. It was a sigh of suffering coming from Claire Dyer of Smithport. I couldn’t comfort her until I found her.
    In less than a week I had a plan. A badly organized, make-it-up-as-you-go-along plan pieced together with bits of Cleo’s advice and snatches of my own intuition. And like all plans, the day came when it had to be tested, for better or worse. The evening of May 24 th my father fired up the grill for our dinner and I figured he might as well roast me in it. By the time he laid a platter of meat and grilled vegetables on the table I had never been less able to eat. I stared at the food and willed my parents not to notice me for a few more minutes. No such luck.
    “Are you okay, babe?” my mother asked.
    I felt green with nausea but I jerked a fast nod and started filling my plate with food I knew I would never touch. My mother stared at me for so long that before I knew what I was doing, I plunged into the abyss. “I want to meet Aunt Sarah.”
    My father dropped the serving fork with a musical crash against the metal platter. My mother’s expression didn’t change but for a fractional widening of her eyes. She was frozen. Silence. Except for a dull thumping sound that filled the quiet like a metronome. Only after my parents both looked down at my feet did I realize that it was the toe of my shoe rapping nervously against the leg of the table. I pressed my foot firmly against the floor. Now the quiet was absolute. And unbearable.
    My mother’s head fell down, concealing her face. “I thought we finished this business last week. What do you want me to say, Jennifer?” Her words were so heartbreakingly soft that I almost relented. But I was fighting for three now. For Sarah’s sake and my own, and my mother's, I had to answer.
    “Yes,” I answered, choking on the word. “I want you to say ‘yes, you can go.”
    “Go?” my mother’s head rose in alarm. “What do you mean go ? Go where?”
    My thoughts had been so full of Smithport that her confusion startled me and I stammered, “Well, to meet her. I want to go meet her . . . in Smithport.”
    My mother’s voice came out much quieter than I expected but it reverberated with a steely coldness, “Like hell you will.”
    I shivered. Never had she spoken with such icy contempt, let alone to me. My father must have seen some of my inner turmoil reflected in my face because he took a