Chapter 5 – Paradise

Sunday, October 4

“O-o-o-h,” I groaned as I rolled over in my bed. My arthritis hurts the most in the morning. I could feel every bone in my back. But that wasn’t the worst.

I knew I had to get up this morning. I had no time for lying about getting slowly unkinked and limber. I had to go to the airport and fly to see my grandchildren in Cleveland. At least it was warm here in Paradise, Arizona. Not in Ohio.

I might as well get the worst over with. I rolled off the bed onto my feet. Pain stabbed my ankles, knees, and hips. I gasped and slowly straightened.

There. I was standing. My pains subsided to a dull ache from my ankles to my neck. Then I took a step. Ouch. With each step, a spike of pain flared in my joints. But it was less than the first time I stood.

Coffee. I had a pot from yesterday. Too bad it wasn’t freshly brewed. How nice it’d be to smell brewing coffee as I stepped into the kitchen. Then the smell hit me. And the sound of water trickling.

I looked upon a fresh pot, just finishing its brew cycle on the kitchen counter. Just what I wished for. How’d this happen? My son had a timed coffee pot that’d start in the morning before he got up. Mine was old, fifty years old, dating from when I was a single woman after college.

As I stared, the smell of the coffee made everything feel better. “Wouldn’t it be nice if the smell of coffee cured arthritis?” I talked to myself, as I often did, ever since my husband Ray died five years ago.

The more I breathed the scent, the better I felt. “Maybe I’ll be completely cured if I drink a cup?” I joked to myself. I poured a cup and added pure cream. Might as well enjoy the fat. I was seventy-seven, and I didn’t know how much time I had left.

I felt the warm, creamy coffee all the way down. My aches were completely gone. “That’s odd. The last time I was pain-free was what? Think Angie. Ten, twelve years ago?” That was before we moved to Paradise, Arizona. My husband cashed in his IRA and built a complete homestead off the grid next to the old ghost town.

Suddenly ambitious, I whipped up a southwestern omelet. I made buttered toast with honey and gobbled it all down.

After cleaning up the kitchen, I went past our living room to my bedroom. I looked fondly at my bookshelves of science fiction and fantasy books flanking our stone fireplace. I had packed all my favorite books in my rolling suitcase. Still, I’d miss my other books on my trip.

After changing into my comfortable travel clothing, I rolled my heavy bag out the door to our gravel drive. Ugh! I could barely roll the bag on my smooth tiled floor. I couldn’t budge it on the gravel. I pivoted it on the corners and walked it toward my car. It slipped from my hands and fell with a crunch.

“Oooh! I wish you had legs and could follow me!”

Obediently, the bag sprouted four legs and trotted along behind me.

“This is creepy. I loved the walking luggage in Terry Pratchett’s books, but in real life, it’s weirding me out.”

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We got to the car. I opened the back door. “Hop right in.” The luggage reared up on its hind legs and climbed up on the seat, just like a good dog.

“Good luggage!” How do you train luggage? I had no clue.

I did not look forward to the three-hour drive to the Tucson airport. But that’s the price I pay for living in the beautiful Coronado Forest next to a ghost town. And my arthritis seems to have settled down.

I chuckled to myself. It’s been such a weird morning, why not? If luggage can walk, can I–?

“I wish this car would fly to the airport!” I pictured the Tucson airport route in my mind. Up from Paradise to Route 20 and then West. I always liked to get the whole trip route in my mind before I started.

Wings sprouted out the car doors of my old Canolla. They were faded mint green, just like the car.

“Whee!” I yelled as I swooped into the air. I hadn’t had this much fun since—? My memory didn’t go back that far.

I turned the wheel, and we swooped back and forth. How could I make it climb? On a hunch, I unlocked the adjustable wheel and lifted it. Up the car climbed. I returned the wheel to its normal location, and I leveled out.

I looked at the instrument panel. We were going over a hundred miles per hour! I’d get to Tucson in an hour. What would happen if I floored the gas pedal? I pushed it down.

The speedometer soon pegged itself at one-twenty. I didn’t even articulate my next wish. The speedometer morphed before my eyes and the top speed showed two forty, and climbing. The wind whistled noisily through the leaky windows. The car wasn’t designed for two hundred, let alone the three hundred that I just passed.

I kept the gas pedal floored. I was curious what the top-end speed would be. The metallic wings beat furiously, like a hummingbird’s. The thrum grew louder. I passed four hundred and seemed to peak at four-fifty. Huh. Just like a World War II fighter. I was probably the only girl who ever built a model collection of every fighter from World War II. My dad had been in the Air Force then.

At this rate, I’d be in Tucson in another fifteen minutes. I watched the horizon and saw Tucson appear, nestled in the mountains.

This is fun! Should I try to fly all the way to Cleveland in my Canolla? Even at my maximum speed, it’d take over three hours. What if I ran into bad weather? What if I got cold?

I got cold feet—literally. I cranked up the heat. That’s better. I wonder what my altitude is? An altimeter appeared next to my gas gauge. Seventy-four hundred feet. I could see Tucson and Sentinel Peak looming over it. I veered the car south toward the airport.

Oops. I’d better land before I get to the airport. I didn’t want to freak anyone out with my flying Canolla.

I backed off the gas pedal, and the car slowed. Three hundred, two hundred, one hundred. The car descended as it slowed. The sun rose directly behind me, so I knew I was heading west. I could see the airport directly ahead of me, which meant the road below me must be South Tucson Road.

I coasted about a hundred feet above the road. How do I get down? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I braked. The wings stopped me in midair, and I plummeted down. The speedometer went to zero and then back to sixty. I pulled the nose of the car up just in time as I landed on the road. My four wheels squeaked as they went from zero to sixty in a second. The wings disappeared into the doors. A guy behind me honked.

“Sorry!” I yelled and waved at him. He shook his fist at me as he zoomed past.

Then I noticed the engine had never started. I was in neutral, coasting at fifty.

“That’s one way to save on gas,” I said to myself as I started the car. A police siren wailed in the distance.

“Just a little old lady driving her car, officer,” I said to myself, practicing in case I got stopped.

I parked in long-term parking and checked myself in my rearview mirror. My blue-grey eyes peered out from my wrinkled face. I had never used much makeup, and I gave it up completely when my husband didn’t care. I don’t think it would help my face much now. But . . . I did look a little younger. Maybe sixty-seven instead of seventy-seven? Or maybe I was on a coffee high.

“Out you go, luggage,” I commanded.

My bag scrambled out.

“Legs back in. I don’t want anyone to have a heart attack.”

It withdrew its legs. But not before it tilted itself upright on its wheels and extended its handle.

“Good luggage!”

Maybe this trip will be easier than I expected.