Dreaming of Flight

Stewie braced himself, thinking the doctor was about to say, “Oh yes, your sister told me about her. She told me Marilyn is this lady who reminds you of your grandmother.” It occurred to him that if the doctor did that, he really might get up and leave. Even though it would be breaking a promise to Stacey. It made his face feel hot just to think about it.

“Tell me about Marilyn,” the doctor said.

Stewie waited a beat or two, but the doctor said no more.

He sat back, breathed deeply a few times, then said everything he could possibly think to say about his new friend. But nothing that would lead back to the topic of Gam.



They drove toward home in silence for a time. Stacey was driving with her window open, her elbow on the edge of the door. The hot wind whipped in and blew her hair around. Stewie mostly watched his own bare legs dangling over the edge of the car seat and bouncing.

“Did you like Dr. Briggs?” she asked suddenly.

“Oh, is that his name?”

Stewie figured he had been told the doctor’s name. But it hadn’t stuck in his head. Maybe because he’d never particularly wanted it to.

She seemed to be waiting for him to say more. To answer the question. He didn’t.

“So did you like him?”

“Not very much, I don’t guess.”

“What didn’t you like about him?”

“He just kept asking me all these questions. He asked me about Mom and Dad. That wasn’t too bad. But then he asked about Gam. Not even just about who she was and what I liked about her and stuff like that, but about her dying. And he brought it up more than once. I don’t see what good it does to talk about things like that. I know he said to give it a try. And I know he’s the doctor, and I’m not the doctor, and he probably knows more about it than I do. Probably everybody knows more about everything than I do. But I don’t like to talk about Gam dying, and if I don’t want to, I don’t see why anybody would want to make me do it. It only makes me feel bad, and he said he wanted me to think about him as my friend, so I know he doesn’t want me to feel bad. And I know you don’t, either.” Then he paused. And, suddenly unsure, he added, “Do you?”

“No,” Stacey said. “Of course not. I want you to be happy.”

“I’m happy,” Stewie said. But it sounded more, to his own ear, like arguing a point, or defending it. Less like simply stating a fact.

“Are you?”

“I think so. Don’t you think so?”

“No. Actually, Stewie . . . no. I think you could be a whole lot happier than you are. I think you’ve been a little sad for almost all the time you’ve been alive, and so maybe now you don’t even know it’s sad. Maybe you’re just used to it and it feels normal to you. But it looks sad to everybody else.”

Stewie felt his eyes go wide.

“Everybody thinks I’m sad?”

“Well. I don’t know. I don’t know what everybody thinks, so I shouldn’t say. I guess I should just say what I think.”

Outside the window, Stewie watched the Olsen place flash by, a big ranch with lots of black-and-white cattle. Stewie had always liked those cows and steers, at least from a distance. They made him feel a little better just by being there, chewing.

“I’m happier when I’m not talking about Gam dying,” he told Stacey, careful not to look over at her. “Why even do it, then?”

“Because things hurt us even when we’re not talking about them. Even when we’re not paying attention to them. We think we’re getting away with not feeling it. And we think that when something feels painful, it’s better not to feel it at all. But it’s almost like . . . if you had drunk poison, or eaten something that was spoiled. You might want to resist throwing it up, because that’s such an icky process. And because maybe we associate throwing up with being sick. But why hold on to something if it’s hurting you? Especially if you could feel better by getting it up and out. It’s better for you in the long run. More likely to lead to your being happier.”

“That’s gross, Stacey.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. It might not have been the best way to say it. But I think you probably know what I mean.” She allowed a pause, in case there was something Stewie wanted to say. But there wasn’t. “Do you understand what I mean by all that, Stewie?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Good.”

“But I still don’t want to do it, though.”

Stacey only sighed, and they drove on in silence for a time.

“You need to take me by Marilyn’s,” he said suddenly. Then, realizing he had sounded rude, he added, “Please?”

“Why do you need to go by there?”

“I worry that she burned the house down because I wasn’t there to help.”

“Stewie . . .”

It made him wince, the way she said it. He thought it was interesting how neither one of them really needed to say more. The whole comment was contained neatly in the way she said his name.

“Please, Stacey? Please? You said you wanted me to be happy.”

Stacey only sighed again, but that was how he knew he had prevailed, and that she would take him.



Stewie knocked on the door, then glanced over his shoulder at Stacey waiting in the car. She didn’t seem to notice. She was staring out over the lake as if lost in thought.



A second or two later the door swung open and Marilyn looked down on him.

“Oh,” she said. “There you are. I actually thought I’d see you earlier.”

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I had something I had to do.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. You’re not required to be here. It’s not your job. But I’m beginning to know you a little, so I was just surprised is all.”

They both just stood a moment, neither looking at the other. An awkwardness had seized the conversation, and Stewie wasn’t quite sure how to defeat it.

He could hear Izzy’s voice in a far-off room. A kind of droning narration, tons of words all run together into one long sentence, as if she was lecturing one of her dolls.

“Everything okay in there?” he asked after a time.

“Yes, I haven’t burned the place to the ground yet today.”

“I didn’t mean any offense by it, ma’am.”

Stewie wasn’t looking at her, but he heard her sigh.

“Oh, none taken, I suppose. I know you’re only trying to help. But your sister is waiting for you in the car, and Sylvia will be home any minute. You should go now and have dinner with your family. If you want to come by tomorrow or the day after that, I’ll have a small gift for you.”

Stewie stood a moment, unsure what to say. He wanted to be elated about what she’d said, but he felt strangely sure that he must have heard her wrong, or somehow misunderstood.

“A gift?”

“Yes. A small one. I don’t mean to oversell it.”

“You bought me a gift?”

“I ordered one. It hasn’t arrived in the mail yet.”

“But you bought a gift, and it’s for me?”

“Are we just going to keep going around like this?”



“Sorry. Why did you buy me a gift?”

“I’m not sure I need a special reason. People buy little gifts for each other all the time. But I suppose it’s because you put out my cooking fire, and then came over and helped me babysit for Izzy.”

“I would’ve done that for nothing, ma’am.”

“I realize that. That’s why I thought a small gift was in order. But I really think this is getting built up too big, because it’s just a little token and wasn’t very expensive, and I’m not even sure if you’ll like it.”

“Oh, I know I’ll like it,” Stewie said, “because no matter what it is, you got it for me.”

As soon as he said it, Stewie could sense that he had pushed the matter of his affection a step too far. She seemed to retreat slightly, as though closing a door Stewie couldn’t see.

“Well, we’ll see,” she said. “Run along now and don’t keep your sister waiting. Sylvia will be home any minute and I’ll be fine in the meantime.”

And with that she took a step back into the house and closed the actual door. The one Stewie could see.

He trotted down the concrete steps, barely feeling his feet touch down.

When he opened the door of Stacey’s car, it seemed to startle her, as if he had brought her up from a deep sleep.

She looked at him long and hard as he climbed in, and he squirmed slightly under her gaze.

“Huh,” she said.

“What?”