Page 33 of The Fall Before Flight

Two caskets sit side by side, poised above the dark cavities that will house them forever. One full-sized, one child-sized. Their matching mahogany surfaces are so polished they catch the sun through the trees and send glare periodically into my eyes.

The weather is a mockery. This isn’t real.

Nothing’s real.

“What does it feel like?” Chastain asks.

He sits in the uncomfortable wooden folding chair to my left, dressed in a dark suit with a crisp white shirt. He’s not wearing glasses and his hair is mussed and natural, like he just rolled out of bed. No razor-sharp part in sight.

I know I’m dreaming. He’s not really here. Neither am I—at least, I’m not here as I was, a seven-year-old in an ill-fitting black dress and shoes that pinched my toes. Shoes that were dug out of my closet from where they’d been gathering dust since Christmas. There hadn’t been time or the desire to buy new ones.

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, then wipe damp palms on my knees. “Like emptiness.”

“Is that what you imagine death feels like?”

I glance around, seeing only blurry faces. Apparently as a child I hadn’t paid much attention to the other attendees. I briefly wonder why the two chairs on the other side of me are empty—on this horrible day, they were occupied by my father and Jameson.

“Amelia?”

“I don’t know what death feels like,” I answer belatedly. “I mean, not really.”

“You’ve come close before…”

I think of the Cave of Swallows and my malfunctioning parachute. The moments in which my backup chute hadn’t responded to my desperate tugs.

“Weightlessness, maybe.”

He nods contemplatively. “Where are your brother and father?”

“I don’t know,” I say crossly. “This is a dream.”

“Don’t you think it’s interesting they’re not here?”

I tell Dream-Chastain, “I think I hate you.”

He smiles like I’ve only seen him smile once before, at Nix’s farewell party, giving me a glimpse of a younger, more carefree man. Leo, not Dr. Chastain.

The knowledge hurts for some reason.

When I don’t speak, he says musingly, “Perhaps they’re not here because in this difficult time, you were alone. Left to process your feelings without the support of loved ones.”

I smile tightly at him. “This dream sucks. Can you at least take your shirt off or something?”

He chuckles, deep and amused. “No.”

I throw my hands up in a wordless plea. “Fine. You’re right. My grandparents were all dead by this point. My aunts and uncles tried to help, but I wasn’t exactly receptive to sympathy.”

“Why not?” He pauses. “You think you should have died instead of your mother and brother?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

“The rational adult says no, the emotional child says yes.”

“Whatever you say, Doc.”

He smiles again. “It’s not me saying anything, Amelia. You’re speaking to yourself through me. Your guilt has driven you to become the adult you are today. With no one to tell you as a child that the accident wasn’t your fault, you’ve carried misplaced shame all your life.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” I whisper unconvincingly.

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