The Secrets of Flight by Maggie Leffler Read Free Book Online

there was a hint of a smile on the corners of her lips. Finally, she shifted her gaze back to me. “So, what’s this business proposition?”
    â€œAh. Well. As you can see I suffer from a bit of a tremor,” I said with a laugh, even though nothing about the tremor was funny to me. “It is quite hard for me to write these days, and I’ve been looking for someone to type my memoir.”
    â€œIs it written down somewhere?” she asked.
    â€œWhy surely,” I said, tapping my skull.
    Elyse smiled again, a lovely smile that made me feel hopeful and young myself. “So, like, you’d just talk into a computer mic or something? And I would, like, take the flash drive home and type it?”
    â€œNo. No, that won’t do.” I wanted to figure out if MiriamLichtenstein could ever exist again. For reasons I couldn’t begin to explain, I didn’t want to do it alone. “Perhaps you could just sit and listen to my stories and jot down some notes that might help me to organize my thoughts,” I said. “You would be more of a collaborator, of sorts . . . and certainly I would pay you.”
    â€œIt’s okay. You don’t have to pay me.”
    â€œWell, of course I would pay you. Isn’t your time worth something? Don’t ever give away your talents for free, my dear. Do you have an income now?”
    â€œAn income?” she repeated, her voice dubious. “I babysit my little brothers for, like, five bucks an hour, even though the going rate for sitters is ten.”
    â€œThat’s called ‘earning your keep,’ my dear. In my day, no one got paid for watching a sibling.” When she looked down at her Danish, I wished I hadn’t started a sentence with “In my day,” which is probably why I said, “I’ll give you fifteen.”
    â€œPer hour?” She looked up in wide-eyed delight. “Just so you know, I got a C in typing last year.”
    â€œI don’t care if it looks like rubbish,” I said. “Who’s going to read it?”
    The words were strangely liberating—what was there to fear if no one was ever going to see these pages? We arranged a time for Saturday afternoon, a week and a half later. I invited her to my apartment and asked her to bring her laptop. “I don’t have one,” Elyse said.
    â€œDoesn’t everyone your age have a computer?”
    â€œI have a desktop. Which sits on my desktop.” Elyse rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t allowed to have a cell phone for emergencies until last year.”
    â€œWell, good. Teaching a girl to think for herself.” When sheshrugged, apparently unconvinced, I studied her for a moment. “So, Elyse, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
    â€œA doctor and a writer.”
    Now, that made me smile. A girl who had plans! There was hope for her yet. I told her my simple rule, which I’d shared with the group: “Don’t write because you want to be a writer. Write because you have something to say.” She cocked her head to the side.
    â€œMy grandma Margot says that, too. She’s a writer—she published a novel when she was twenty-six. The Secrets of Flight .”
    â€œSounds intriguing.” I smiled.
    â€œI’ve never actually read it.” Elyse shrugged and took a bite of her Danish. “She moved away when I was ten.”
    â€œWell, I think any book written by a family member should be required reading—even if the author lives in Timbuktu.” Elyse stopped chewing, as if considering this for the first time. “And medicine?” I asked, picking up my mug. “Where does that come from?”
    â€œI’m probably going to need a day job,” she admitted.
    â€œMy son Dave was supposed to be a doctor—just like his father,” I said, a confession. “He was an early microbiologist, you see. At the age of seven he would pull the agar plates