Flight (8 page)

She tries sitting back only to find herself leaning forward again, her right elbow on the desk while its hand takes the weight of her forehead.

Will Lynette and Jeremy be better off, she wonders? Is she helping by taking them away, or just making things worse?

She jumps when she sees the shadow along the floor. Looks up to see Terry standing in the doorway.

“Didn't mean to scare you,” he says.

How long has he been watching? What's he heard?

“You shouldn't sneak up like that.” She wonders if his feet touch the floor when he walks. You turn around one minute and no one's there. The next, Terry's standing right behind you.

“Sorry.”

The less anyone knows about her trip to the west coast, the better, she thinks. All it takes is one slip up. One misstep. Like a chip in a windshield that turns into a crack and runs the whole length of the window. “What do you want?” she says at last.

Terry shoves his hands in his pockets, fiddling away with his coins. “Nothing. Only that the rain has stopped and would you maybe like to join me outside for a bit of fresh air?”

She grabs the electric bill off the desk, folding it in half and shoving it in her pocket.

“I'll be right up.”

Terry lingers a second before going.

Although she's just put it there, she slides her hand back in her pocket to be sure. That's her way, lately, doing something and then not trusting she's done it. How many times in the basement at home, for ex- ample, has she wedged her fingernails beneath the floor panel to be sure that the money she'd just put there is there? How often too, has she written down the plan only to rip it into tiny squares a moment later?

7 a.m.: Wake.

7:05: Wake children.

7:06: Get money from basement.

7:10: Fruit Loops for Jeremy; Honeycombs for Lynette.

7:15: Wash face and hands. No time for bathing. And on and on.

Sometimes, on her days off, she'll take the children down to where the ferry docks to watch the passengers get on and off. Other times, the three of them will make the forty-five minute ferry journey themselves, for practice, although she'd never tell them as much. Soft-serve in cones. Chocolate for Jeremy; a mixture of strawberry and vanilla for Lynette. Then up to the second level to watch the ferry pull away from the dock, their hands gripping the railing. They'll ask why their dad's not with them. “This is just for us,” she'll say.

She takes off the sweater and reaches over to switch off the desk lamp, then just sits there in the dark.

The last time she took the ferry she was alone. Three weeks ago. The children in school; Kent in meetings. The day off from the grocery store. Her father waiting there in his car. The whole way to Gander he played the radio and tried talking but he's terrible at talking, so eventually he shut up. At the kitchen table afterwards, over tea, her mother patted her knee and asked if everything was okay at home. She nodded, said things were fine. “You know what would be perfect with this tea?” she said then, “Peek Freans.”

“No Peek Freans,” her mother said. “I've jam jams though.” Emily asked her father for his car keys then, so she could go to the store and get Peek Freans. Her dad wanted to go and get them for her, but she raised her voice and he sat back down. Nearly forty-five minutes by the time she got back. The tea was cold and her father asleep on the chesterfield. Her mother forced her eyes away from the
Young and the
Restless
. “Go to St. John's for the Peek Freans?”

“Christ,” Emily said. “I forgot the cookies.” Her mother's eyes right on her. “If you didn't get the Peek Freans what in the name of God were you doing all this time?” Emily sat on the edge of the sofa where her father's feet didn't quite reach. “Driving. Just driving.” Her mother went back to her show, and her father snored himself awake. Tucked inside her jacket pocket were three plane tickets to British Columbia. Three weeks from Friday.

* * *

TERRY'S DRYING OFF A MILK CRATE with paper towels when she pushes open the back door.

He turns to her. “One second.”

She stands there watching him, her hand in the pocket that has the old electric bill.

He wraps the paper towel around his pinky in order to get at the rainwater that has fallen between the crevices.

Though the clouds have lost their purple tinge, they still look like they have more rain to unleash. There's wind too, chilly enough to raise gooseflesh, strong enough to mess her hair. The air is a mixture of dog shit and tree bark.

“Okay,” he says, a thumb pointed towards her now-dry seat.

She goes and sits.

“Not too cold, is it?” He says it like it's just occurred to him.

She shakes her head.

“Because we can go inside.”

“It's fine.”

“I'd hate for you to get sicker – ”

“I'm
fine
, Terry.”

“Okay.”

He doesn't pay half as much attention to his own milk crate before dropping the soaked paper towels into the garbage pail beside the back door. He comes back over and sits down. Lifts his bum and inches the crate forward so that he's closer to her.

She notices how he can't get comfortable, moving forward till his backside is almost off the seat, then sitting back again. His greenishgrey eyes rest on her, then move away.

“I'm almost done down there,” she says finally.

He smiles. “I'll count the rest, don't worry.”

She looks away.
Don't worry.
Worry's been with her longer than her children. There to wake her in the middle of the night, and to keep her looking over her shoulder; worry's the relative she never sees but knows is there, the taste she can't get rid of, the message on her answering machine she can't erase.
Don't worry?
She wouldn't know how.

In the silence, she watches him pick the calluses on his right hand, every so often pulling away bits of dead and dried skin, letting them fall discreetly between his feet.

“You want to say something,” she says.

He rips off another piece and tries releasing it without her noticing. Looks towards the door and then back at her again. Shifts forward some more so that his knees are nearly touching hers. He makes to stand up. “I'll bring you my sweater.”

“No.”

“But you're shivering.”

“Tell me,” she says.

He sits back down. Looks at her. At last, he says, “I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about yesterday.”

The air's colder suddenly. She feels heavy in her belly despite nothing being in it.

“I shouldn't have mentioned anything,” Terry says.

“I made a dumb mistake. You had every right to say something.”

“It upset you.”

“It's okay.”

A peck of rain lands on her forehead. She wipes it away.

Overhead, a flock of seagulls pass, their squawks half drowned out by the building wind. Candy wrappers that had once lain on the top of the garbage bucket are being whipped around in the gale, scattering around their feet, just above their heads.

After a moment, Terry says, “You happy?”

She doesn't answer, choosing instead to tilt her face towards the sky. Another raindrop lands on her cheek. “Starting to rain again.”

Terry looks up too. “Lightning Cove in May for ya. We're lucky it isn't snowing.”

They go quiet. Then Terry says, “Did you hear what I just asked?”

She looks at him, then away. Folds her arms across her chest, letting the question sink in, her eyes on the ground. “I'm as happy as anyone else.” She lifts her face and stares at him. “Why?”

Terry looks past her shoulder. Shakes his head. Shrugs. “No reason.”

A speck of rain clips the tip of her nose. Another lands on the back of her hand.

“Let's go in before it starts to pour.” She gets to her feet.

Terry's about to say more, but before he can get any words out, the back door swings open, revealing Heather. She offers them a side profile of her face in order to speak to someone that's standing behind her. “She's out here,” she says, stepping aside to let Irene Baker pass.

Irene seems to have aged ten years since yesterday, Emily thinks. Paler than usual, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, her belly so large she looks like she might fall forward.

“Irene,” she says.

The woman comes closer, her two hands on the belly of her raincoat, as if it's the only way to keep the baby from suddenly dropping out.

“Don't
Irene
me,” she says.

“What's the matter – ”

“Stay out of this, Terry,” Irene says. “This has got nothing to do with you.”

Heather's still in the doorway, her fingers bracing its frame.

“Mind the cash,” Terry tells her.

“There's no one in there,” Heather says.

“Go.”

She does, rolling her eyes in the process and slamming the door.

Terry offers the pregnant woman his seat.

“Stay where you're to,” Irene says to him, “this won't take long.” She takes a few more steps so that she's within touching distance of Emily. “No layoff's, huh? ‘Maybe it won't come to that,' you said. Filthy liar.”

“That's enough,” Terry says.

Irene turns to him. “It's fine for you. You got your precious little store. But what about us that depends on the plant, huh? What about
us
?” She looks again at Emily. “You knew all along that Myles didn't stand a chance, didn't you?”

Emily doesn't answer.

“Didn't you?”

“She's got nothing to do with any of that,” Terry says.

“Except that she lives with the very one whose business it's
supposed
to be to look after men like my husband.”

Emily points to her milk crate. “Won't you sit down, Irene?”

“Just answer my question?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I knew. Or had a pretty good idea, at least.”

Irene's sknees suddenly buckle. Terry is close enough behind her to catch her before she falls. Emily goes over to help, draping one of Irene's arms across her shoulders. They lower her gently onto the milk crate.

“What's wrong?” Emily asks.

The woman is clutching her stomach, her chin buried into the top of her chest.

“It's not coming, is it?” Terry says, his voice a whisper.

Irene lets out a long breath, then takes a few more. “Not today.” She looks up at them. “I'm so thirsty.”

“I'll get you some water,” Terry says. He runs to the door, throwing it open, then disappears inside.

Emily rubs the pregnant woman's back – up and down, then in a circular motion.

“Stop it,” Irene says.

“Sorry.” Emily leaves a hand on the pregnant woman's shoulder.

No words between them now, just the sound of Irene's breaths – deep and steady for a while and then her holding it. Her holding it for a while and then deep and steady.

Not yet noon, but the clouds are making it feel like dusk. The rain's still pecking, about to unleash its downpour. She looks to the door, wondering what's taking Terry so long.

It's ages before she senses Irene's body relax. She takes her hand away as the woman sits up to full height.

“Feeling better?” Emily says.

Irene nods. Spits and then wipes her mouth on her sleeve. Massages her closed eyes. One more long breath before she whispers, “How will we live?”

Emily says nothing.
How will we live?
Out west without nearly enough money or resources or hardly knowing a soul other than Jackie and Stephen. And not even Stephen really, seeing as she's never met him. How long before they kick her and the children out, she wonders? A week? Two? And what was it Stephen had said: something about knowing people and finding her a sublet? Great, except how long – seeing as there's only $1,125 underneath the basement floor – will she able to pay the rent? She imagines Jackie and Stephen asking them to go finally. The three of them walking the streets of downtown Vancouver. Gripping one another's hands for fear of being swept away. Three lost faces in an ocean of them.

Terry's back. Rather than water, he's holding Fruit Punch Gatorade. “To replenish those electrolytes,” he says, holding the bottle beside his face like he's in a commercial or something. He twists the cap en route to Irene. Hands it to her.

Irene takes a gulp, some of it dribbling down her chin. She wipes away the spillage, then the wetness beneath her eyes.

“Let me drive you to the clinic?” Terry says.

She shakes her head. Takes another sip before twisting the top back on the Gatorade. Holds out her arms like a child who longs to be picked up.

Terry goes over.

“Sit a minute longer,” Emily says.

“I'm alright.”

Terry helps her to her feet.

The rain's steadier now.

“Come inside,” Terry says.

“No.” Irene puts the hood of her raincoat over her head and draws the string. “A bit of rain won't hurt.” She holds up the Gatorade. “How much?”

Terry sticks out his palm. “I won't hear of it.”

The pregnant woman puts the drink in her coat pocket, her face strained with pain, and turns to Emily. “I wish you wouldn't have lied about it, that's all.”

“I'm sorry,” Emily says. “I was hoping for a miracle, I guess. That maybe the layoffs wouldn't happen after all.”

Irene stays looking at her for a moment, then turns around and starts walking.

Emily and Terry watch until the woman disappears around the corner.

The rain suddenly comes – cold, hard enough to split your skin.

Terry runs for the door. Turns back once he gets there. “Come in!”

She stays where she is, staring off at where Irene had just gone, the woman's words still ringing in her ears.
How will we live?
Fear rises to the back of her throat. She swallows it back down. Uncertainty takes fear's place then, so she swallows that too. You'll never get away with it, she thinks. Kidnapping your own youngsters.