Flight (27 page)

She's deserted him. No other way to put it. Left him behind like old clothes in a box.

She remembers her husband's smile, the way his hand had stayed up in the air. Probably saying to himself, “Don't you see us standing here?”

Myles takes a hand off the wheel and flicks on the radio and presses in the lighter and reaches inside his coat for his smokes. “I'll die if I don't spark one up,” he says. “You mind?”

“Roll down your window, sweetheart,” she says to Lynette.

Lynette does.

“I'll roll down mine too,” Myles says.

“Can you spare one?” Emily says.

“Didn't know you smoked.”

She shakes her head. “I don't, not really.” She rolls down her own window.

He takes out two and hands her one. Offers her the lighter first before using it himself. Puts it back in. Hauls out the ashtray. It's overflowing with butts, the stink alone enough to cause lung cancer.

She sucks in hard, her throat on fire. Blows out in the throes of a strong head buzz. Looks in the side mirror. Nothing. Now that his truck is all smashed up what would Kent be driving anyway?

Them just smoking now.

James Taylor barely coming through the crackling radio.

Myles flicks his cigarette ash on the floor instead of out the window or in the ashtray.

Smokes finished and another song on the radio. Blue Rodeo. An old one she hasn't heard in a while. Something about seeing the world through rose-coloured glasses.

Myles switches it off.

Lynette's dozing in the back. Too much for a little one to take.

A long silence.

Finally, he says, “It's hard to imagine.”

She turns to him. “What?”

“Him beating on you.” He runs his tongue over a tiny cold sore on his top lip, then nibbles on it. Rubs his forehead, his eyes. “I mean, Christ, I've known him for years.”

She doesn't say anything. Turns away and stares at the shoulder of the road, at the scattered patches of yet-to-melt snow, and the blur of trees whipping past. Hard to focus. Like her life.

“It's not that I don't believe you or nothing, cause I do. I do. It's just that he doesn't seem like the type, you know. I mean, he's so big and you're so tiny, right?”

She looks again in the side mirror. Nothing.

Another silence.

She turns to him. “I shouldn't have gotten you involved. I'm sorry.”

He lets out a big breath. “A lot a good that does me now.” Then, almost immediately, “I didn't mean that.”

“It's okay.”

To prevent the car from exploding, she thinks, Myles eases up on the gas.

“Not far now,” he says.

She nods, then turns back around. Just empty road behind her. She wonders where they might be now, Kent and Jeremy. On the ferry back to Lightning Cove probably. She remembers not having bothered to put the tarp back in place. What will he think? Clothes strewn about their bedroom. The middle drawer of their dresser nearly pulled out all the way. Just wait until he withdraws from their bank account. She can see the receipt balled and suffocating between his clenched fist.

“He's never hurt the kids,” she says.

He looks over at her.

“I can imagine what you must be thinking. But he hasn't.”

He doesn't say anything. Offers her another smoke from his pack.

She shakes her head.

He lights up another for himself. Rolls down his window again.

Chilly air streaming in.

“He's a better father than I've been a mother. Lately anyway.”

He blows smoke out through his nostrils. After a while, he says, “Where are you going?
Really
?”

“Away.” That's all she'll allow him.

The sun is shining directly into their eyes now. She reaches up and lowers the visor. Myles doesn't bother with his.

“Are you coming back?” He says.

Again her face is pointed toward the passenger side window. Not looking. Hard to with her eyes squeezed shut.

“You're not, right?”

She takes a moment before she speaks. She says, “I really appreciate the ride, Myles, but can we just be quiet for a while?”

More smoke through his nose. A clearing of his throat. The slightest of nods. His foot heavy on the gas again.

7

SOMEONE'S SHAKING HER. A voice calling in the distance.

She opens her eyes but has no idea where she is.

“We're here,” the voice says.

Myles. It's Myles. Everything comes back like an old pain: running away, Jeremy left behind.

Myles smiles. “One minute you were looking out the window, the next you were slumped over.”

The codeine, she thinks. Stronger than she'd expected. Numb in her body now. A perpetual pulsing in her hand, but it isn't painful.

“Go inside and get a cart, I'll get your suitcase,” Myles says.

Lynette's yawning when she turns around.

“Come with me, sweetheart.”

They get out. Walk towards the sliding doors, Lynette through first, she next, her feet like warm bread. Bright lights inside. Passengers mingling. Some children gathered around an outdated video game beside the restaurant. The smells of french fries and stuffing and gravy.

“There's one,” Lynette says, pointing at an abandoned cart beside a row of padded chairs.

Emily goes over and takes it, pushing it with her good hand back outside.

Myles has their suitcase waiting beside the car. He picks it up and walks in their direction. Loads it on.

They stand looking at each other afterwards: Myles with his hands in his pockets and the brim of his Maple Leafs' cap down low; Lynette pushing the cart back and forth as if she were trying to hush a crying baby.

Finally, he says, “What should I say when I see him?”

She breathes in deep, then looks beyond his left shoulder at a parked taxi, the engine still running. A fat man stands near to it, an unlit pipe in his mouth, reading
The Telegram.

She looks back at Myles. “Tell him to blame me.”

He nods. Pulls the brim of his cap even lower. Coughs a phlegmy cough, but doesn't bother covering his mouth. Swallows a ball of mucus before saying, “You aren't coming back.” It isn't a question.

She says nothing. Looks at her watch. Not even ten. An hour of waiting. Thinks of Jeremy again. His face. Hadn't the whole point been to get him out too?

Myles has said something but she hasn't heard it. “What did you say?”

“I said, Irene'll be wondering where I am.”

“Of course,” she says. “Go. Give her a hug for me.”

“I will.”

Before he can turn to go, she grabs him. It's an awkward hug, but a hug nonetheless. She pulls away, wishing she could run hima warm bath and make him some soup, shave his face and let him know that better times are to come. “Thank you,” she says. “You've risked a lot, I know.”

He loops his fingers in his belt like a cowboy. “Breathing's a risk.”

She nods, then unzips her purse and pulls out some of the money. Hands it to him.

“What's this?” he says.

“For the gas and everything.”

“By the looks of that wad you'd think I was driving a transport truck.”

She holds it out.

He pushes her hand away. “I bet you could probably use that more than me.”

“Please take it.”

“I won't, Emily. Thanks all the same.”

He lifts the bill of his cap so that he doesn't pluck out an eye when he bends down to kiss her cheek.

She lets him.

He bends over and gives Lynette a hug, then starts walking back to the driver's side of his car.

Emily's voice stops him.

“What?” he says.

“I said that I haven't been honest with you.”

“About…”

“The fish plant.”

“Oh.”

“It's finished. By Christmas, Kent says.”

He nods. Gives her a look that says he'd expected as much.

“I couldn't find a way to tell you.”

The slightest of pauses before he waves and gets in his car. Waves again as he pulls away.

8

IT FEELS LIKE SHE COULD MELT INTO HER CHAIR. Wonders how she'll get up when the call comes to start boarding the plane. The 747 out on the tarmac is being refueled, two men loading baggage.

She brings hers, Lynette's, and Jeremy's boarding passes close to her face, wondering if they're real. What about the plane outside, is that real? How about the seats beneath them? Or the smell of Lynette's half-eaten french fries?

Seats A, B, and C in row nine for what were supposed to have been the three of them. Can she really do it, she wonders? Leave without her boy? She puts the boarding passes in her pocket. It's bad enough that he has to lose his mother, but his sister too? The same for Lynette, she supposes – a father and a brother.

She reaches out for a french fry. It's soggy from all the vinegar Lynette dribbled on top. Still, she manages to chew and swallow it, wondering when it was she'd last eaten.

She tries moving the fingers of her injured hand, but only the thumb and pinky work, the rest like frozen sausages, barely any feeling at all. She'll take that though, over the pain she'd felt before taking the codeine. Two more tablets in her pocket. For the plane.

So tired. So bloody tired. She tilts her head back, letting the chair take its weight. Closes her eyes. How easily she could envision her new life out west before this morning. Every day for weeks she'd seen things so specifically, down to the smells in the air, to the colour of the paint on Jackie's living room wall. Not now, though. Nothing but blackness behind the lids of her eyes now. Sleep without dreams.

A pre-boarding announcement – those needing assistance or traveling with small children.

She decides to stay put, not quite ready to lift her head, not quite ready to go forward in all of this. Not yet. Besides, Lynette isn't a small child. Not anymore. Eight in January. Only ten years younger than she herself when she married Kent. She resists opening her eyes and telling her daughter that there's plenty of time and no need to rush.
Fight to stay young
,
my sweetheart,
she imagines saying,
for as long as you
can
.
All the time in the world to become a woman
.

She hears passengers sauntering up to the gate, whispers and laughter. A young child is crying softly.

“I need to use the bathroom,” Lynette says.

She doesn't open her eyes. “Be quick. We're boarding in a minute.”

Lynette's steps on the floor fade into the white noise of coming and going, into the things we do to say hello, and those we must in order to say goodbye.

He's standing in front of her when she opens her eyes. Near enough to touch were she to straighten her legs, point her toes.

He looks worse close up, like starving wolves have had their way with him. His eyes like a bare canvas, telling her nothing and everything.

So still. She wonders if he's even breathing.

It occurs to her that, for the first time, she's unafraid. How funny not to be. Is it possible to use up too much of something so that there's nothing left? A tear duct can only release so much water. A heart can only beat so much.

“It's you,” she says. She doesn't bother straightening up in her seat.

“It's me,” he says.

They're quiet for a moment.

“How'd you get through security?” she says.

He reaches inside his coat pocket and hauls out a boarding pass. “I got the window seat in row 12.” He looks at her. “You?”

She doesn't answer.

“Bloody expensive though, eh? Better off booking in advance.” He puts the boarding pass away. “That what you did?”

A long silence.

“I didn't see you following us,” she says.

“I wasn't. Not at first. Boarding the boat when Jeremy told me you were going on a plane.”

“I thought you'd still be in the hospital.”

“You
hoped
I would be, you mean.”

She doesn't deny it.

“I thought I'd come home and surprise you.”

She says nothing.

“Surprise!”

She looks beyond him. “Where's Jeremy?”

“In the truck.”

“What truck?”

“The one I rented.”

“You shouldn't leave him in the truck.”

“No? You shouldn't
leave
him.”

“He wanted to go with you.”

“What did you expect?” He pauses and then says, “Where's Lynette?”

She doesn't say.

He edges closer.

“That's far enough,” she says.

He grabs hold of her upper arm. “Get up.”

“Let go.”

He squeezes. “Take my kids away, will ya?”

“I said, let
GO!”

A few in the distance are staring. A child points its finger.

“We're not at home now you son of a bitch.”

He holds on a moment longer, then lets go. Stares at the gate that she and Lynette will have to pass through. Turns back to her. “Halifax, eh?”

She nods.

“Then where?”

“None of your business.”

“It is if you're taking my daughter.”

“Is it?”

“That's right.”

Silence.

“How long?” he says.

“How long what?”

“Have you been planning this?”

She doesn't answer.

“No return date on your ticket, I bet.”

The child's still pointing as her mother passes ID to the attendant at the gate. Those who had been staring earlier still are, turning their heads away whenever Emily's gaze goes to them.

“Come home,” he says.

“What?”

“Come home.”

“What's at home?”

“Everything.”

“For
you
.”

“For you too.”