Chapter 14

Kim's turn:

It's summertime and to thousands of divorced dads around the country, that means the kids are coming. Or in my Tim's case, THE kid.

Vicki and I and Tim talk at least twice a week, and sometimes she calls me just to talk at random times.

I told her about Terri and Rachel. Worse, I told Terri and Rachel about Vicki. Of course, everybody knows. At least we finally got moved into the apartment.

I'm trying to do an assessment. I mean, I have been immersed in the ongoing saga of the pTerri-dactyl and Rachel, and I talk with my Vicki, and I'm not one of those helicopter moms who thinks that her precious little snowflake is SPECIAL, but forgive me, I think Vicki's exceptionally smart, too.

I expect critical mass. Tim and I have talked.

"I hope they get along. Vicki's a year younger. That's a big deal to kids her age."

"Hon," I said, "We ARE talking about Terri who's done presentations for Google and for the university. I don't think she knows about age. And they do well in the homeschool group, from all reports."

"Still, it's my daughter..."

"OUR daughter," I corrected. "Just like Terri's Tina's daughter."

So we did the 'pick the kid up at the airport' thing. The surprise was Vicki's haircut was shorter. With bangs. "I told Mom that it made sense for the summer," Vicki said. Then she giggled. "What I really wanted was to get it cut like yours."

"You're an evil child," I laughed. "No wonder your dad and I love you so much!"

"Come on," she said. "Let's get my stuff and go meet my new friends."

That pretty much took care of any worries about her being bashful about her new surroundings.

The trip home got us Vicki with her head swiveling to absorb. "I've never been in Alabama before. And when can I meet Terri and Rachel? Will they like me? I'm younger than them."

"They will like you, baby," Tim said. "It's unavoidable."

I smiled. Maybe I was doing a bit of selective recall, but I see parallels between my Vicki (MY Vicki?) and Tina's Terri and Beck's Rachel. Precocious. Intelligent. Inquisitive.

"Will somebody take me flying? I've never been in a little plane."

"I'm just a student," I told her. "So's your dad. We can't carry passengers. But there's a CLOUD of pilots..."

Little girl giggle. "I see what you did there," Vicki said. "Cloud of pilots. Pretty good. Dad married you because you're smart."

"No," I laughed. "He married me so I'd think you were wonderful."

"You didn't even KNOW me then..."

"I saw your dad and I knew he had to have a spectacular daughter."

"Dad?!?"

"I did," Tim said. "I have a spectacular daughter and I married Kim because she's smart enough to know it."

"You're messing with me," she whined playfully.

"Only a teeny tiny bit..." I laughed.

"Dad, she's quantifying 'tiny'."

"Tim, Vicki knows what 'quantifying' means..."

"You two stop it!" Tim laughed.

"It's a good thing you're in the back seat, Vicki," I said, "Or I'd have to do punishment hugs."

So yes, started off happy.

We'd only recently moved into the apartment ourselves. Tim's big printer and other engineering tools didn't make the cut. The printer became a backup in 3Sigma's arsenal. All that meant that the second bedroom could actually LOOK like a bedroom, and we furnished it for Vicki after consulting with her. No PINK! Single bed. Desk. Bookshelves.

We rolled into the parking lot and unloaded Vicki's bags. She looked around.

"Nice! Just like you said."

We weren't inside two whole minutes. Vicki was wandering around, taking the measure of the apartment. My phone made an 'incoming text' sound. I looked. Terri.

Two words – "too soon?"

I sighed. Now it starts. I thumbed a quick 'Come on!'

"Vicki," I said, "Get ready. They're coming!"

She squealed, grinning.

In a minute, the knock on the door.

"It's unlocked," I said.

Tina pushed through with Terri and Rachel in close trail.

"Here we go," she said.

I somewhere harbored the idea that the first meeting would be three young girls standing there bashfully looking at each other. I harbored that. In its own little compartment. Because I remember the first meeting with Cindy and Tina and Susan and Nikki.

I saw critical mass being formed right before my eyes as the three ran together in the center of the room and hugged.

Tina had the same idea. "If you ever wonder what the center of a plutonium bomb looks like right before it goes boom, that's probably it."

Just like that ... Three shorts-clad pre-teen girls exited in close order amid "Let's go show you Bot-bot" and "Cindy's got cookies" and "I want you to show me the lab."

I turned to Tim. "Dad, that's how you lose a daughter."

Now, about that 'flying' thing. We – me and Tim – are really working at it. Mister Wally, the owner/operator of the airfield where everybody keeps their planes, is a certified flight instructor. He's doing our training – three sessions a week, an hour or so a session, plus I get extra cockpit time with Susan or Tina or Nikki in Susan's little Cessna 152.

I am told that the average student solos – has his first flight by himself without the instructor in the cockpit – after eight hours of dual instruction. I suppose it's true, but I had a bit over five hours of instruction by Mister Wally.

"I ain't stupid, Kimmy," he said, holding my logbook and a pen. "I knew you'd be out here with the gang."

"You're not mad, are you?"

"Nope. I have plenty of real work besides teachin' engineers to fly. But you still have to meet the FAA rules for your license. This solo thing is up to the instructor." He scribbled a solo endorsement into my logbook. "Now, three circuits. Two touch and goes, last one you end up right back here, okay?"

I haven't grinned that big since my wedding day.

"Remember, Kim. You're taking off with a hundred and eighty pounds less than you ever did before, 'cuz I ain't sittin' there. It's going to accelerate and lift off and climb much faster. Be careful!"

I walked out of the office building and waved my logbook. Tim's off on a job, but Susan and Tina are there. I give a very snappy pilotish thumbs up and go to the plane and do my preflight check.

Mister Wally's outside his door, leaning against the building, watching. I get into the cockpit, buckle my harness, pop the window and yell "CLEAR!" then start the engine.

"Don't be nervous, Kim," I tell myself. "You've done this right plenty of times or you wouldn't be here." I taxied to the end of the runway, did my run-up, pivoted to check for approaching aircraft, then hit the 'transmit' button on my headset.

"Cessna four eight seven five three, taking the runway at Midstate. Will stay in the pattern for touch and goes." I let up on the toe brakes and goosed the throttle a bit to get moving, then carefully lined up on the center of the runway.

'Kimmy, ' I told myself, 'this is one of those 'first times' in your life.' And I pushed the throttle forward.

Mister Wally was right. The little plane accelerated noticeably faster and the wheels were off the ground in a bit over half the normal run. I got the nose up for normal climb and noted that the rate of climb was over a thousand feet a minute instead of the normal seven hundred or so. But then, like Mister Wally said – one person, and a third of a full fuel load.

I know this stuff. Thousand feet above ground level. Make the turns. Remind myself that the same dynamics that get me OFF the ground faster will translate to better glide characteristics and reluctance to touch down. I'll float further.

On the downwind leg of the pattern I'm level and I take a deep breath and look around. I am flying. Kimberly Elkins Duncan is flying a freakin' airplane. This ain't supposed to happen. I start giggling.

Now I'm parallel with the end of the runway. I cut back power and set up for the glide. It really DOES float. Base leg. Final. Line up with the runway. Nose. End of the runway. Glide. Floatfloatfloat. Touchdown! Throttle. And I'm back up! There is no fireball. No footprint of fragmented aluminum. I have done it.

One more, then the last one, to full stop. I taxi up to the fueling station and shut down and I am mobbed by Tina and Susan. And Mister Wally with a pair of scissors.

"Let's have that shirt-tail, Kimberly," he said.

I wore an old shirt today. Pilot's first solo – they cut off your shirt-tail. Old tradition. I need to find out the history, but right now Tina and Susan have my shirt pulled out and Mister Wally's hacking away with those scissors.

He waves the trophy at us. "Well, how'd you like it?"

Cindy's apparently giving subliminal squealing lessons.

"Top off the fuel. Take it out for an hour. Come back."

I step up, kiss his day-old beard, and turn around.

"First time a student ever kissed me," he laughed.

I did it. Hour out in the air BY MYSELF! I swooped and turned and reveled in the feel of Gs forcing me into my seat and I ran the tables as I did it. Sixty degree bank – two gees. forty-five degree bank – 1.4 gees. Slow flight, nose up, splitting the thrust of the prop into vectors, one horizontal component pulling me along, the other a vertical component adding a bit of lift, that 'hanging on your prop' thing that Cindy and Jo use to their advantage for spot landings.

It's a physics lesson. I can picture the representative curves in my head. And it's a study in greens and browns over the fields and forests of Alabama and it's ME doing something that a year ago I would have never imagined doing.

I'm still flying in my mind as Tina and Susan help me push the plane back into the T-hangar.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Tina said.

"Omigod!" I blurted, then, "Omigod! I can't believe I just said 'Omigod!'"

"Words fail, sometimes," Susan said. "Soloing is one of those times."

"I know exactly what you're thinking," I said.

Susan giggled. "Tell me. What AM I thinking?"

"You?!? Your honeymoon..."

"Ummmm," Tina said. "Yeah. That's about the only thing that beats it..."

That was the week BEFORE my evil stepdaughter showed up.

Now she's here. I'm sure she'll show back up. She left with Terri and Rachel and I have two options that haven't happened. First, they didn't bring her back. Second, she didn't come running back in tears. That leaves the third possibility – she's fitting in, kind of like the last segment of the core of a nuclear bomb.

Phone text message. Terri. "I can't believe that Vicki has no phone. Come to Cindy's. We will discuss."

"What?" Tim said.

"Vicki needs an iPhone, according to Terri. I am supposed to go to Cindy's to discuss it?"

"What's to discuss? She's the only one of us who isn't connected. Take 'er down and get 'er one."

"Oh, come on, Tim, I'm not giving up THAT easily. She's got to at least tell me why. And ' Everybody else has one' is not a sufficient argument." I scooped him into my arms. "Timothy Duncan, we have a most interesting offspring." And I kissed him and left. Yeah, I know – stepdaughter – not my natural child, but here I am, and she's delightful and we get along.