I just get really soaked. When I finally run into my house and slam the door behind me, a huge puddle forms at my feet in about ten seconds. Water drips off me hard. I walk to the top of the laundry room stairs and peel off my wet clothes, which land with a heavy slosh on the floor. Cassie waddles into the front hall, wagging her tail.
“Hi, Cass, don’t ask me to take you out for a walk, because I’m not going out in that again!”
After a hot shower I get into dry pyjamas and spend the rest of the afternoon curled up on the couch with Cassie, watching kiddie cartoons. Mom and the Chrissies come home around six o’clock after the twins’ piano lesson, and we have a boring night doing homework and getting dinner and arguing about what to watch on TV. I almost forget about floating.
Until the next morning, when I wake up on the ceiling again.
FIVE
This time, I wake up with my feet dangling down toward the carpet as my body slowly circles the room. Cassie is sitting underneath me, quietly watchful. She doesn’t seem as freaked out as she did yesterday. Which is good, I guess.
I must have been up here a long time. My head is lolling to one side and a little drool is sliding down my cheek, which I wipe off with my sleeve. It’s odd, but floating is actually kind of a comfortable way to sleep. There aren’t any tired spots on my body, nothing that fell asleep from lying on it. I stretch a little and wiggle my toes, which makes me look like I’m running in mid-air. I actually start to move around the room a little. So I try again. I move my legs like I’m on a bicycle, and I make a little progress in a straight line across the room. Like I’m walking.
Interesting. Circling my arms around like I’m swimming doesn’t really work very well. But taking a few air-steps works.
Noted. I air-walk a few times around the room, almost getting the hang of it. I’m still a little unsteady, and I don’t always go exactly in the direction I want, but it’s better. Just then, I hear my mom coming up the hallway stairs. I have to get down, fast!
Yesterday I fell to the floor like a rock when I touched the bedpost. This time I’ll be more careful. I put both hands out and get ready to hold on tight. I touch the bedpost and nothing happens.
Uh-oh.
So it worked yesterday, but it isn’t going to work today? How am I going to get down off the ceiling? I try forcing my way down the bedpost and get stuck halfway … when Mom walks into the room. I look like a monkey, like a little kid climbing up and down the bedpost. I used to do that a lot when I was little, so I pretend I’m doing that now.
“Hi, Mom!” I say, as I hang on with one arm, my legs clamped around the bedpost for all I’m worth. Then I tickle under my other arm like a monkey. “OOH-OOH. Got any bananas?” I ask innocently. My heart is pounding in my chest, though, so don’t think I’m not scared.
She looks at me like I’m crazy, then laughs. “You don’t need any more bananas, Gwen! I think you are bananas!” she says, but comes over to ruffle my hair. As soon as she touches me, I can feel the weight re-enter my body, and my feet slowly slide down the bedpost to the floor. Touchdown. Phew. Feet firmly on the floor once again, I hug my mother.
She hugs me back, surprised. It seems like our first hug in ages.
SIX
I walk to school. Mom drives the twins, but I really feel like walking by myself, so she lets me. It’s Friday morning and a beautiful spring day. All the rain from yesterday makes everything smell great, and the trees are starting to turn green. The grass is greener too, and flowers are coming up fast, those first ones, the little ones that look like bells, and the tall yellow ones.
I feel like skipping, I really do, just like a little kid. But I don’t skip. I make myself walk along in the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other regular way. It’s a struggle not to skip, but I’m kind of worried that skipping might lead to bouncing, which might give my body ideas about being weightless. And floaty.
That I don’t need. I walk, but I keep a close eye on nearby trees and fences in case I have to grab on to anything to keep me earthbound.
But nothing remotely floaty happens.
So I walk. And as I walk, I bump into old Mr. McGillies, wearing his filthy long coat over his raggedy clothes. I’ve never seen him wear anything else, and I’ve known him my whole life. He’s pushing a cart along, which is rattling because it’s filled with empty bottles. Mr. McGillies grew up when milkmen dropped full bottles of milk off at your front door every morning, then collected the empty bottles every night. Now that he’s old, people think he’s pretending to be a milkman with all those empty bottles. But I think he just likes bottles. Some bottles he collects, and some he returns to the recycling depot for nickels. People think he’s crazy, but Mom says he’s just old, not crazy. I’ve always kind of liked him.
“Hi, Mr. McGillies. How are you today?”
He stops and looks up at me (he’s really short). He pushes his thick glasses up his nose.
“Well, young Gwen. How’s flyin’?” he says. I blink. Flyin’?
“Er. Flying?” I say, not altogether very intelligently. What does he mean? He can’t possibly mean … flying, can he?
He cackles. He has a really funny laugh that always makes me laugh, too. He sounds a little like Grover from Sesame Street when he laughs. I smile. I can’t help it. I’ve watched Mr. McGillies push his empty bottle cart around our neighbourhood since I was a little girl. He did always make me smile. But this is a bit odd — he’s never mentioned flying before.
“Flying, Mr. McGillies? What do you mean?” I repeat.
He winks at me then and says, “Flying, missy. You heard me! You know exactly what I mean!” He cackles again, but this time I don’t smile. I think my face must do a downturn, and I go from looking like I am being nice to Mr. McGillies to being horrified by him.
He starts to hum a little tune. “Scrub and wash, scrub and wash, scrub and wash the bottles,” as he turns away. He’s not getting off that easily.
I run up to him and stand in front of his bottle cart. I put my hand on the cart and ask him again, sterner this time, “What do you mean? Flying? What do you mean?” It’s starting to dawn on me that Mr. McGillies knows something I don’t. But he isn’t owning up to anything. He cackles again.
“Oh no, Miss Gwennie. All in good time! All in good time! Don’t fly away now!”
His old brown face splits into a wide smile, one of the widest smiles I’ve ever seen. How did I not notice that Mr. McGillies has a gold back tooth? I guess I’ve never seen him smile that wide before.
Then he trundles his cart away, and no matter how much I pester and yell and downright whine at him, he pretends he can’t hear me and goes on humming his crazy man scrub-and-wash-the-bottles song. He shuffles off down the sidewalk.
Okay, this is just very odd. I shake my head and decide that despite what my mother thinks, maybe he is just a crazy old guy. A crazy old guy who somehow knows exactly what is happening to me.
I am going to have another chat with Mr. McGillies, really soon, but right now I have to get to school.
SEVEN
I make it through the morning at school without any body parts floating away from me.
It is actually such a dull morning that I catch myself wishing for that floating feeling.
It would be a welcome distraction