Flight (20 page)

He looks like a youngster all of a sudden, she thinks, a youngster who's wandered away from his parents and is now lost. She goes to reach out to him, offer comfort, but then changes her mind.

“A coward is what I am.”

“No,” she says.

They're silent for ages then.

Rain hammers the roof.

The steady drip, drip, drip into the bucket.

Finally Emily speaks. “Okay, say you did one of those things: got in Kent's face or called Roy. What then? After you'd gone, I mean? And after Roy had written up his report and then wrinkled it up in his fist on his way back to the car because he thinks the sun shines out of Kent's ass, what then? I'd still be left, wouldn't I? And Kent'd be even more pissed, wouldn't he? And what do you think would happen?”

Terry lifts his gaze from the floor and looks at her. “So it's true then?”

“No, I'm not saying that. But if it were, I mean.” Her dream from the other night comes back to her again: the knife going in and out. She pushes the thought away. Moves a little closer to Terry. Then says, “Perhaps sometimes… walking away
is
helping.”

He doesn't say anything.

“But it wasn't what you thought it was, Terry.
Honest
. So there's no need to feel bad, okay?”

Although he nods, she doesn't think her words have offered him any comfort.

He'll miss her the most, she thinks. She imagines him looking for her in one of the aisles and then suddenly remembering she's gone. Up and left without telling anyone. Him driving home in the dark to that empty house, falling asleep in front of the television, the volume blasting from his surround sound. Waking up in the middle of the night, the cushion under his chin soaked with saliva, not bothering to find the stairs in the dark, or to sleep for once in his own bed.

He's just said something.

“What?”

“No, nothing.”

“Tell me.”

He takes a hand out of a pocket in order to scratch the back of his neck, then runs that same hand over his head, as if searching for stuck-up hairs even though there aren't any. “I said…I'm fond of you, that's all.”

How many packages of Wine Gums had he slipped into her pocket over the course of her working here, she wonders? How many surprise cans of Ginger Ale and bags of ketchup chips? How about that finger-and-a-half of whiskey they'd share in his office at the end of every month? A reward for all their hard work, he'd always say. She'd obliged him because she knew there was no one else for him to share a drink with. That, and perhaps, despite her own family, she was lonely too.

“I'm fond of you too, Terry,” she says.

It's his simplicity that's always drawn her to him, his matter-of-fact approach to living, taking things as they come and resisting the urge to look too far ahead. His predictability too. She knows that the man she sees when she pushes open the door in the morning is the same one she says goodbye to at suppertime, and still the same one when she walks in the next day. She knows, for instance, that when he smiles he's happy to have her near, and that his hand on her shoulder means that he appreciates her. There are times too when they'll graze each other as they pass on the stairs or in one of the aisles, and she'll know he's watching out for her somehow. He's been her comfort food, her extra glass of wine, her few minutes longer in the bath.

“Are you okay?” he says.

“Hmm?”

“You look sad.”

She shakes her head.

Another silence. Then Terry says, “Should get back to that leak, I suppose.” He starts to go, but Emily's voice stops him.

“Hang on a minute.”

He turns around.

She walks up to him and stops so close she can feel his breath on her face. Cinnamon. She reaches out and undoes the top button of his shirt. “There,” she says, “That's so much better.”

Terry rolls his neck to one side and then the other. “It
is
easier to breathe.”

They both laugh.

After they stop, Emily says, “Thank you, Terry.”

He needs a moment before saying, “What did I do?”

She shrugs, and says, “I don't know,” then hugs him.

He hugs back. Not too tight though. Terry gives her room to breathe.

7

SHE'S RUNNING, RAINWATER SPLASHING with each footfall. Despite Terry having loaned her his umbrella, she's soaked. It's because the wind keeps blowing the umbrella inside out. Her handbag is pressed against her ribcage, its strap digging into the groove of her neck, in the space between her breasts.

There's a car pulling out of the half-flooded parking lot of the Royal Bank, water up past its tires. Farther along, she notices an uprooted tree in the playground, its trunk lying across a broken teetertotter. There are deep puddles beneath the swings. A gust of wind nearly blows the umbrella from her hand. She struggles to hang on as cool rain pelts her eyelids, the top of her head. She thinks of Jeremy and Lynette walking together in the likes of this. She should have left work early and gone and picked them up. She looks at her watch: 4:30. Should have been home half an hour ago.

She turns onto Trinity Street. Hanrahan's Seafood has taken the sign displaying the special on trout and shrimp out of its window. Anique's Antiques has a ‘Going out of business, everything must go' notice on the front door.

At the end of Trinity, she turns right, continuing along the slow rise. Chest and thighs burning, gasping for breath. She slows to a fast walk. Thinks of tomorrow morning. The three of them lugging their suitcases. She doubts she'll even notice the burning then.

She'll call the airline when she gets in, she thinks, make sure the flight's on schedule for tomorrow. She'll ask them about the storm too, if it's supposed to move out by early morning as Pat had said.

At the top of the street she starts running again. Wind and rain and sneaker soles against the pavement in her ears. Her bangs in her eyes.

Lynette's staring through the curtains and waving when she turns into the driveway. She waves back.

At the top of the porch she closes the umbrella. Goes to reach for the handle of the door, but Lynette is pulling it open before she gets the chance. “Hello, baby.” She steps inside.

“You're soaked, Mom.”

“I know, sweetheart.” She shakes the wetness from Terry's umbrella, then holds it out to Lynette. “Take this for Mommy.”

Lynette takes it, leaning it against the coat closet.

Emily shuts the door. Runs her hand through her hair. Lifts the strap of her handbag over her head. Starts unbuttoning her sweater. “Where's your brother?”

“Watching TV.”

She kicks off her sneakers. “Did you get caught in the rain?”

Lynette shakes her head. “We got a ride.”

“From who?”

“Clancy's dad.”

“Myles, you mean?”

Lynette nods.

“I'm so glad, Mommy was worried that you and your brother were going to get drenched.” With her purse in one hand and the collar of her sweater in the other, Emily moves to the basement door. “I need to hang this up downstairs.” She uses her shoulder to push open the door and starts walking down the steps. Nearly halfway down she realizes that Lynette is following her. “Go back up, sweetheart, Mommy'll be there in a second.”

“I want to come.”

“Go back up, I said.”

Lynette does, closing the door behind her.

Emily continues down. On the second-last step, she stops and pulls the chain for the light, then goes to the far corner of the room, to the makeshift clothesline that she and Kent had put up some years before, each end of the rope looped and knotted through hooks that they'd screwed into the walls. That Kent had screwed into the walls, really. She'd just stood there and watched, directing him on the appropriate height since it was she who would be using it the most.

She throws the sweater on the line, not bothering with clothespins, then moves to the washer and dryer. Laying the purse down, she gets on all fours and starts running her hands along the floor. Eyes downward, then on the stairs. On the floor, then on the stairs again.
He's in Gander. Won't be home for hours yet. Hours
.

She finds the one, sliding her pinky underneath and pulling upward. Puts the panel aside before taking out the plane tickets and the Adidas sock. Hardly any room left in there for what's in her purse, she knows. Unzipping her handbag, she reaches inside for the manila envelope. Hauls it out, and slips her hand in.

The wad is too thick to grip with one hand, so she uses two. She sits back on her haunches then, just staring at it. More money then she's ever seen let alone held. How much did Sonya say was there? Eight thousand? Twelve? Fifteen? She has no idea. In fact she can barely remember the bank teller counting out the bills, or bounding the money with elastic bands, or sliding the envelope across the counter. She tries to recall the look on Sonya's face. Shifty eyes. No, she was smiling. Or was it more of a frown? Or had her lips been pursed so tightly together that they'd gone white? White with the gossip she could barely contain a second longer. Won't be long before the whole town knows, Emily thinks. Before Kent knows –

The basement door opens suddenly.

She drops the money, then scrambles to pick it back up. Turns towards the stairs, swears that she can see his boots, his way of taking the steps two at a time.

Not
his
boots though. Big Bird slippers, she realizes. Lynette. Just Lynette.
Gander
.
That's where he is. Won't be back until late.

Lynette takes a few steps down, then stops. “Mommy?”

“What, baby?”

“Are you coming up?”

“In a minute.”

“Jeremy's hungry.”

“I'll be up in a minute. Now close the
door
!”

Lynette's slippers turning and then tramping back up.

She stays where she is, her eyes on the stairs. A moment later they're
still
on the stairs.

Finally she looks away. Picks up the money and jams it into the hiding place. The Adidas sock's next, then the three plane tickets, pressing everything down with her palms. All of it fits. She picks up the panel of hardwood, puts it back in place. She makes a fist and brings it down hard against the spot. From the other side of the room, she looks to see that it's flush with the others. Pretty good, she thinks. Not so much money that it eases her worry, yet enough to give them a fighting chance, buy them some time.

She goes back over to the clothesline. Takes off her pants, shirt, and socks, hanging them beside her sweater. Stands there in her underwear and bra then, the floor cold under her feet, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth.

So long she's waited. How many times had she imagined this very moment? Hours away from freedom. Imagining, yet never really believing it would come. How strange then to be here now and feel as if everything is moving too fast.

Breathe, just breathe.
No choice now but hang on tight and focus on the end. Everything does, eventually. End.

She goes back over and presses the heel of her foot against the spot, just to be sure, and then picks up her purse. Goes up the stairs.

Lynette's at the kitchen table, drawing. Pencil crayons scattered.

Jeremy's against the counter, his hand in a box of Fruit Loops. “Mom!” he says, looking away because his mother is practically naked.

“You came out of this body, don't forget,” she says, walking past them and into the hall. “I'll put fish sticks on in a minute.”

“Can we have french fries too?” Jeremy says.

“Okay.” She pushes open her bedroom door.

“Deep fried?” he shouts.

“Baked!” she shouts back.

She unfastens her bra and slips out of her panties, throwing both in the clothes hamper. She finds a new mismatched pair at the bottom of her drawer: white, with a tiny hole at the crotch, and a lacey red bra. Puts them on. Nice to be in dry underclothes after having spent too long in soaked ones. Over them she steps into her favourite jeans, the ones with the holes in the knees, and her grey fleece. Doesn't bother with socks, just slides into her slippers.

She goes into the bathroom and towel dries her hair, thinking how old the face that's staring back from the mirror is. Is it too late to get back all that's been lost, she wonders? To scavenge the scattered pieces of herself?

After she puts frozen fish sticks and french fries in the oven, she sits with the children. Lynette has flipped the paper over so she can draw on the other side. Jeremy is still eating Fruit Loops by the counter.

“Put those away,” she says.

“But I'm starving.”

“I said put them away, you'll ruin your supper.”

He does so, reluctantly, not bothering to close the box. Then heads for the hallway.

“Where're you going?”

“To my room.” He keeps walking.

“Come here,” she says.

“Why?”

“Come here.”

“I want to play PlayStation.”

“Come here.”

He stops. “What!”

“Sit down with us.”

“Why?”

“Sit down with us.”

He comes back, hauls out Kent's chair at the other end of the table and sits. Puts his elbows on the table and rests his chin in cupped hands. Barely a trace on his face now from when she hit him. Like his father when it comes to healing.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.” She pauses. “We never sit together.”

Lynette slides her paper across.

“Who's that, Baby?”

“You.”

“Wow, it's good.” She looks closer. “But my hair's not red, is it?”

“Couldn't find the brown pencil crayon.”

“Oh. Well, it suits me, doesn't it, red hair?”

Lynette nods. Takes the picture back. “It isn't finished.”