Cut Remnant: Amelia Earhart

Nico and I casually stroll through the mall on a crowded Saturday, dodging groups of teenagers and families with young kids. I spot Waldenbooks and reflexively turn towards it. Nico lets out a quiet groan before following. After checking out the magazine section, we wander through the small bookstore.

Nico stops in front of a table stacked high with biographical books and picks one up. "Tell me why every dead person's biography is super long."

I shrug. "Because they can't sue?"

He grins. "That's dark." Opening the book he's holding, he says, "This one is over 500 pages long. What's the obsession with writing about the lives of people who are long gone? I wonder if someone will write a book about me when I die."

I nudge him with my shoulder. "I'm not sure getting your IA License in Gran Turismo is all that interesting."

"Ah, come on, that's my life's greatest achievement. It took me three whole weeks. I got it on gold, Indi. That's got to be worth at least a hundred pages."

I raise an eyebrow. "Have you ever actually read a book?"

"Does Archie Comics count?"

I laugh, taking it for the joke he means it to be. "What is that book you're holding on to so tightly?"

He hands it to me, still open on a page towards the middle of the book. I look down and see the title East to the Dawn: The Life of Amelia Earhart. My eyes zero in on one of the passages on the page: "Eugene Vidal... He was the great love of Amelia's life."

A familiar feeling washes over me, like my world tilting on its axis. I urgently grab Nico's arm, warning him that a remnant is coming.

"Oh crap," I say, as the feeling completely overtakes me.

* * *

Between one blink and the next, the scene changes and I find myself standing in a bedroom. The late afternoon light filters through tall sash windows, casting long shadows of oak leaves across the floor. Outside, the sounds of the city are muffled.

The room smells faintly of old paper and dust. Stacks of books are piled on nearly every surface, spilling off shelves and onto the floor. A woman lies on her back in the bed, the sheet pulled up to her waist. Her short, tousled hair is matted against the pillow, and a sheen of perspiration clings to her collarbone. When her face shifts in my direction, I immediately recognize her. Amelia Earhart.

Beside her, a man props himself up on one elbow. He is dark-haired and handsome, with the broad, sculpted shoulders of an athlete. He traces a finger along the line of her jaw, but she doesn't lean into the touch. She stares at the ceiling, a tightness around her eyes.

"He called again this morning," the man says quietly, his voice deep and steady. He withdraws his hand, letting it rest on the bed. "Before you even arrived."

Amelia blinks, turning her head to look at him with a mixture of affection and exhaustion. "George?"

"He wanted to know if you'd left the hotel yet," the man says, a flash of irritation crossing his face. "Your husband tracks you like a flight path. It's not just worry, it's inventory control. He gets jealous if you're out of his sight for an hour because that's an hour you aren't generating headlines."

I gasp. This isn't her husband? Is she being unfaithful?

As if she hears my silent question, her next words answer my thoughts.

"Jealous is not an emotion he should experience when it comes to me," Amelia replies. "It's not like I didn't warn him the day we got married that the medieval code of faithfulness was not one we should hold each other to."

Is she saying she's in an open marriage?

"I was more referring to your time being occupied not making money for him," Gene says.

Amelia sighs, sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Her back is to him now, her shoulders hanging low with an invisible weight. She reaches for a silk robe, pulling it around her thin frame.

"I wish you were wrong." Her voice is raspy as she stands and walks to the window, peering out. "But you know the arithmetic as well as I do, Gene. The jealousy... it's part of the contract. He made me."

"You made yourself," Gene counters, sitting up. "He just sold tickets."

"He sold everything," she corrects him, turning back. "Do you know he's mortgaged the house in Rye just to keep this project afloat?

"Most of what we have is tied to that airplane. If I don't make this flight, if I don't produce the book that comes from it, we'll be in very bad shape."

"So let him go bankrupt," Gene says, his voice rising slightly. "You don't have to pay for his risks with your neck."

"And Purdue?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "The university poured fifty thousand dollars into that flying laboratory. They bought the Electra for me, the great Amelia Earhart, not some housewife to sit in Rock Creek Park." She makes a vague gesture at her surroundings. "My name isn't what it used to be. I owe them a flight around the world."

Gene starts to speak, hesitates, then tries again. "I've been hearing rumors," he hedges. "Some of my staff are saying President Roosevelt asked you to take a few pictures for him while you're flying over Japan."

Amelia shakes her head slowly, moving one foot back and forth across the floor. "No, of course he didn't ask me. He had Eleanor do it, though she didn't seem to like it." She looks up at Gene. "Sometimes I think Frank takes advantage of our friendship for his own devices. 'For the good of the country,' he says."

"And what did you tell her?" Gene asks.

"I said no. There's already too much riding on this trip." She begins to pace the room, stepping over a stack of hardcover books on the floor. "There are lecture tours booked for after the return, the department stores want a new luggage line, the stamp makers are waiting on special covers. The machinery is too big to stop now. It feeds too many people."

I study her more closely, feeling her pain. I can only imagine what she must be feeling to be under that much pressure.

"You're not a machine," Gene says, watching her.

"I feel like one lately." Amelia's voice drops to a whisper as she stops pacing. "I'm tired. I've never been this tired before a flight. The first attempt in Hawaii... cracking up on the runway... it felt like a warning I'm ignoring. The plane is heavy and it's complicated. And the route is so long."

"And the rumor that your crew is down to just you and Noonan, that Manning and Mantz are out? What of that?" Gene's forehead wrinkles with concern.

Amelia stares at the ground, worrying her lip. "George thinks Fred and I can handle it. After the crash on the first attempt, there isn't money for a larger crew."

Gene gets out of bed and crosses the room to her. He places his hands on her shoulders, his grip firm. "Don't go. Let George figure out the money. Stay here, with me and the boy."

For a second, the temptation is visible on her face. The desire to stay in this cluttered, quiet house and let the world spin on without her. But then, the mask slips back into place and the determined set of her jaw returns. "I can't be Mrs. Vidal. I'm already married, remember?"

Gene's hands slide down her arms, taking both of her hands in his. "I wasn't proposing. I just wanted you to know you have options."

"I have to go," she says, stepping back. "George is expecting a call at six regarding the fuel logistics in Miami. If I'm late, he'll start calling the neighbors."

She dresses quickly, pulling on slacks and a simple blouse, and descends the main staircase, the wood creaking softly under her loafers. As she reaches the foyer, I see a preteen boy sitting on the bottom step, a book balanced on his knees. He shares the dark eyes of the man upstairs, his expression sharp and observant.

"Hello, Amelia," the boy says, not looking up from his page.

Amelia pauses, a genuine smile breaking through her stress. She reaches out and ruffles his hair. "Hello, Gore. What are we reading today?"

Wait, Gore Vidal? That's him as a kid?

"History," the boy says, finally looking up at her. He studies her face with unnerving intensity. "You look tired."

"Occupational hazard," she says lightly. She hesitates, her hand lingering near his shoulder. "Your father is upstairs. You'll keep an eye on him for me?"

"I always do," Gore says solemnly. "Are you flying again?"

"Just a little trip around the middle," she says, gesturing vaguely to signify the equator.

The boy watches her closely. "You worried about it?"

"You know, kid, everyone keeps asking about the Pacific, but it's Africa that weighs on my mind." She visibly shakes off a frown and gives him an affectionate smile. "I'll bring you a stamp from New Guinea."

"If you want," Gore says with a shrug, his intelligent eyes and serious expression making him look far older than he is. "Just make sure you come back to give it to me."

Amelia's smile falters for a fraction of a second. "I'll do my best," she whispers, before pushing open the front door and stepping out into the humid air, leaving the sanctuary of the house behind her.