Flight (14 page)

Heather puts the can down between her feet. Reaches inside her coat and hauls out a pack of Player's Light. Pulls one out of the pack and, cupping it to block the wind, flicks open her Zippo lighter and produces a flame. Leans her face into it, her cheeks indenting as she sucks.

Emily breathes in the smell of tobacco before holding out her own hand. Placing the cigarette between thin, dry lips, she inhales, holding the smoke in for a moment before blowing out. Lightheaded immediately. She drags on it again, then hands it back. Looks across at the high school dropout who still lives at home with her mother, who can't add to save her life, who constantly has customers coming back to complain that she's overcharged them, and who'd prefer a
People Magazine
to a novel any day. Even Terry had been apprehensive about hiring her. “It'll just be a
job
to her,” he'd said. “A job is just a job to
most
people,” had been Emily's reply. Yet Heather's the one, before anybody else, to put it all together. Not even six months they've been working together. Before that, the most Emily had seen of her was in posters taped to light poles: Heather in the foreground, her bandmates behind her,
The High
-
Top Bay Girls
in unfocused lettering above their heads.
One Show
Only!

“Here,” Heather says.

Emily takes the smoke. Drags twice more. Gives it back. “That's enough for me.” She puts her hands in her sweater pockets as a shiver shoots through her.

Heather finishes the rest and then snuffs it out on the sole of her boot. Puts it in her pocket. Tilts her face towards the sky. “I could do this at work.”

“Do what?”

“Sit here doing nothing.”

“Don't you, usually?”

They share a laugh, then go quiet.

A car drives by, the child in the back seat staring right at them. A squirrel drops from a tree onto the deck railing, then leaps back into the same tree. The wind picks up for a second, then dies away.

Heather zips up her coat, tucks her chin underneath the collar for warmth before taking it out again. Looks across at her. “There was something else too.”

Emily returns her co-worker's stare. Doesn't say anything.

“Besides looking scared, Imean.” Heather crushes her empty pop can with the sole of her foot.

“What?” Emily says, both wanting and not wanting to know.

It seems like forever waiting for Heather to speak. Then finally she says,

“Sadness.”

Emily's eyes are suddenly wet. She uses the collar of her sweater to wipe the tears away, then looks beyond the younger woman, at the sea. Not a boat to be seen.
Sadness.
All this time it hasn't had a name. It's been heavy limbs, sore feet and headaches, nausea and dizziness, it's been waking up and wanting to go back to sleep, drifting too far into the middle of the street, hearing hello and not saying it back, looking into a face but not seeing it. All these years to have this woman – girl, nearly – tell her what she hasn't been able to tell herself: Sadness. She feels Heather shift even closer, so that their knees are almost touching.

“How long this time?”

She tries to attach a number, but can't. How long since she's been eating? Sleeping? “I don't know.”

“The kids too?”

“No,” Emily says. “Not the kids.”
More than I can say for myself.

Neither speaks for a while.

“There's places,” Heather says. “Not here, there's fuck all here, but in Grand Falls, I mean. St. John's.”

“You mean a shelter?”

“Yeah.”

She shifts in her chair. “I did once. This place in Gander. Couple of years ago.”

“And?”

She looks away. Breathes in the smell of salt water. Rubs her hands over her face. Looks back. “And…I went back to him.”

A flock of seagulls passes over the house, their hungry squawks slicing open the morning's quiet like a scalpel through flesh.

“You're shaking,” Heather says.

“What?”

“Your hands.”

She looks down, remembering when she could thread a needle without wetting the thread's tip, when she could hold full cups of coffee without spilling a drop, when she could read to her children without needing them to hold the book so that she might see the words.

“Then leave again,” Heather says. “Whatever it takes.”

She pauses for a moment, then says, “Don't tell anyone, okay.”

Heather nods.

Emily leans in close. “Promise.”

“I promise.”

No relief has come with sharing her secret, she realizes, not like she'd hoped. If anything, her worry has increased. In her mind, she'd imagined a discreet disappearance: she and her children walking along the gangway, then up the stairs to the top level of the ferry. The fog as thick as butter. No words between them. Suitcases at their feet. No one to wave goodbye to as the boat drifts away.

“It's easy to forget that you deserve better,” Heather says.

“What?”

“Over time, I mean. It's easy to forget. Then suddenly you're used to it.” She pauses. Then says, “Just like my mother got used to it.”

It's quiet for ages.

“Not that long ago people used to think my mother and me were sisters,” Heather says finally. “Can you imagine that? She wouldn't pass for my grandmother now. Lines around her mouth. Not from laughing, don't worry.” Heather pauses to undo her jacket. “Jesus place, cold one minute then warm the next.”

She notices too that the wind has grown milder. “Then Dad dies and I think she'll be okay, you know. But it's too late, right.”

After a moment, Heather gets to her feet. “Come tonight.”

“What?” She stands too. “Where?”

“To the show.”

“I don't know.”

“
He
won't let you, I suppose.”

“It's not that. I don't expect he'll even be home by then. The kids'll need a sitter and everything.”

“Right. Well, if you change your mind, you know where we are. It won't be anything too heavy if that's what you're worried about. Rock/Celtic sort of thing, you know.”

She nods.

For a while they just stand there looking at each other. Then Heather says, “I should get back. Can't leave that
one
customer waiting.”

They both laugh.

Heather turns away and starts down the steps. Halfway down she turns back to Emily. “Let me know…if there's anything I can do. You don't have to be alone in this.”

Something about the word ‘alone' makes her look away. Steals her breath. Swells the back of her throat.

“You okay?”

She looks back at the younger woman. Nods. Then says, “Thanks.”

5

“SORRY,” SAYS THE MALE VOICE ON THE OTHER END, “it's all booked for tomorrow. Would you like me to try Saturday?”

“No.”

“Sunday –”

“This weekend's no good.”

“How about Monday?”

“No! I'm sorry, um…that won't work either.” She sits on the edge of the bed. Then turns around to make sure that the bedroom door is still closed. Puts the cordless to her other ear. “How much did you say it was to change the flight to a day next week?”

“Like I already said, Miss, your booking was during a seat-sale, and everything next week is full price. You'll have to pay the difference.”

“How much is the full price?”

She listens to his busy fingers atop the buttons of his computer.

“Three thousand two hundred and seventy dollars,” he says.

“
What!”

“Three thousand two hundred – ”

“I heard you, I just don't believe it.”

“It's eight-seventy-two per person.”

“The kids too?”

“Yes. After fees and surcharges that's the total.”

More than what she's saved at the grocery store, she thinks, letting herself fall backwards onto the bed. She imagines it splitting at the centre and sucking her in.

“Are you still there, Miss?”

“That's nearly double what I paid.”

“If you'd called sooner then maybe – ”

“It's just that I'm on a fixed budget.”

He doesn't say anything, just breathes.

“Look, I'll have to call you back –”

The line suddenly goes dead.

She presses the ‘off' button and just lies there staring at the ceiling fan. She doesn't have enough money, but what choice has Kent left her? Either she pays the difference or she doesn't go at all.

The phone's still in her hand when it rings. She nearly flings it across the room in fright. She presses ‘talk' and, thinking it might be Air Canada calling back, says, “I'll pay the difference –” she stops herself.
Oh my God. It could just as easily be Kent on the other end.

She waits.

“Hello?

She sits up.

“Emily?”

“Terry?”

“What did you just say?”

“What?”

“Something about paying – ”

“I was talking to one of the youngsters.”

“Oh.”

Quiet now, just the sound of each other's breathing.

She remembers her dream: the knife going in and out, Kent standing over him, Lynette and Jeremy watching it all. Again she looks to the door. Keeps her eyes on it for a minute just to be sure that no one will come barreling in. That
Kent
won't come barreling in.

She looks at the alarm clock. 6:15 p.m. All evening she's been waiting for him to come back, to finish what he's started. There's nothing worse than waiting, she thinks. Nothing in the world.

“Can we talk?” Terry says.

“Aren't we?”

“No. Not over the phone. Can you come to the marina?”

“What? Now?”

“Can you?”

“I've got the youngsters.”

“Bring them.”

Again she looks over at the clock. Takes a few seconds before saying, “What's so important that it can't wait 'til tomorrow?”

He says nothing.

“This wouldn't have anything to do with earlier, would it?”

Terry doesn't answer.

“What did you say to Heather?”

He stays quiet.

“What did you say to Heather, I said?”

“Only what I saw.”

“And what do you think you
saw
, Terry?”

His breathing in her ear, and then him saying, “Come to the marina, please. I'll drive you home afterwards.”

“What do you think people will say, Terry? Me and you sipping coffee over there at the marina.”
What would Kent think?

“What? Two work associates can't have coffee?”

She looks over at the door. Gets up and walks over to the window. Stares out. No sign of his truck. She stays there, still feeling where Kent's hand had been at the top of her arm, his grip so tight. If she bothered pulling up her sleeve, she'd find finger marks.

Ten minutes to walk there, she figures. Another few to hear what Terry has to say. If she runs back, she can make it in six or seven minutes. 6:16 now, back by 6:45 the latest. Other than last night, when has he made it home before eight these past months? Plenty of time, she thinks. Plenty.

“Hello?”

“I'm here,” she says.

“You're distracted.”

She nearly laughs.
Distracted
.
How does forgetting what I'm doing right
in the middle of doing it sound? Distracted
. Another word she can add to
sad
, she thinks. “Just tired.”
So tired
.

Silence on the other end.

Then she says, “Ten minutes, Terry, that's all you get.”

“Okay. Thank you. I'll just lock up here and drive on over.”

“I won't wait, if you're not there,” she says.

“I will be. Promise.”

She presses the
off
button without saying goodbye. Turns away from the window and leaves the room. Walks down the hall and into the kitchen, putting the cordless phone back into its cradle. Goes to the living room. They're lying on their stomachs watching television.

“Gotta go out for a few minutes,” she says.

Only Lynette bothers turning around. “Can I come?”

“Stay with your brother, I won't be long.”

Lynette turns back around.

“Look out for your sister.”

Jeremy doesn't answer.

She goes into the foyer, then slips her jacket off its hanger. Hauls on her boots. Before opening the door, she says, “Don't touch anything, Mommy'll be back soon.” She steps onto the porch, the cold going right through her. 6:45, she thinks. The latest.

6

TERRY POURS IN A CREAMER AND THEN STIRS. Hers is black. She takes a sip. Looks over at Evelyn Ricketts sitting at a centre table with her fat, diabetic second husband, Perry, half-eaten slices of pie on their plates and large mugs of still-steaming hot chocolate in front of them. So much for his diabetic coma last year, she thinks.

Some teenagers she recognizes have pulled two tables together, sharing from three baskets of home-cut fries and sipping glasses of Pepsi. The few girls amongst them are getting more attention than the fries, having to endure pinched thighs and pulled bra straps.

She leans towards him. “So. Talk.”

Terry stops himself in midsip. Puts the cup back down. “You don't waste any time, do you?”

She doesn't say anything.

“Why didn't you bring the little ones?”

“Because I didn't, that's why. Now, either say what you have to or I'm leaving.”

“Okay.” He pushes in his chair, then takes another sip of coffee. He looks at her. Picks at a callus on the palm of his right hand.

“Terry,” she says. “
What
?”

He pulls a piece of hardened flesh away, holding it between his fingers, then says, “I'm worried about you.” He lets the skin fall to the floor, then reaches for his mug.