Roost

by Ali Bryan

  On our way to Calgary, we divert to Toronto for a medical emergency. A woman in the rear of the plane is in labour. She breathes and snorts like a mechanical horse. Paramedics meet the plane. The flight attendant and a passenger guide her down the aisle and send her down the stairs and I wonder if it would have been easier if they’d inflated the giant yellow slide and rolled her down. I watch from my window as she is loaded into the back of the ambulance, her youthful face twisted, her pants wet. I start to get restless in my seat. Wish the flight attendant would escort me off too. Help me down the stairs and into a waiting SUV full of Swiss Chalet fries and the flaming cheese they serve in Greek restaurants. Another flight attendant opens one of the overhead compartments and pulls out a large charcoal-coloured carry-on bag she then delivers to the ambulance. The captain comes on a few minutes later, unnecessarily explains the reason for our landing in Toronto, and says we will be back in the air shortly. First the pregnant woman’s suitcase needs to be removed. In the meantime the ambulance takes off. It looks like a toy beside the planes. The luggage, I presume, will be held for the woman in the airport or perhaps delivered to the hospital. I watch below as the guy loads a black suitcase onto a waiting luggage trolley. It has a green tag and an orange bandana tied to the handle and if you look really closely you can see where Joan rubbed my deodorant across the zipper. The door closes, the flight attendant prepares for take-off, the plane begins to taxi, and I go to yell “stop” but it comes out like a dull “uhh” the way it does in dreams where you’re being chased and you have no voice.

  I think about pressing the call button, but the flight attendant has already fastened his seat belt and he might get mad or play the flute or something. Somewhere over Manitoba I realize it’s too late to do anything but dig through my purse for a distraction. I find a small juice box left over from the Senior Olympics in the side pocket of my bag. I’m surprised it got through security. I remove the straw from its plastic and jam it in the box. A fountain of purple juice sprays out of the straw with the force of a pressure washer. It gets the top half of my shift dress. I resemble a gross teething baby. My neighbour offers me his single-ply plane-issued napkin, which I use to wipe my chin and pat my chest.

  When we finally get to Calgary, I wait at the luggage carousel in denial, hoping perhaps my bag made it to Alberta via large bird. It takes a while for the carousel to start up. People mingle and discuss the flight, its detour, the collective suspicion that a relative of Andre the Giant was sitting in the first row. I don’t know why I wait with them. Why I don’t identity myself at the baggage claim and explain that my bag was mistaken for the pregnant lady’s.

  Finally the red light flashes and the carousel lurches forward. Passengers gather around the perimeter watching and waiting for their bags to descend from the chute. One by one they claim their duffle bags and hard shells. The odd cardboard box with St. John’s tags.

  Eventually I am the last woman standing. A single grey bag makes its rounds unaware that its owner is giving birth somewhere in the GTA. I watch it round the corner and chug closer and closer. My dress sticks to my chest. Sweet grape. It will stain and I won’t have any clothes to wear tomorrow and the Mac’s at the end of the terminal only sells bananas and Certs. A WestJet employee emerges from baggage claim and walks towards the carousel behind me. It is now just me and the bag. In four seconds it will be in front of me. In six it will have already passed and will be snatched up and sent back to Toronto. I will have nothing to wear to the training in the morning. I haul the bag off the belt and make like a criminal for the nearest exit.

  After a short ride to the hotel, I ride the elevator with anticipation to the fourth floor. The suitcase is like a giant grab bag. I rub my eyes leaving makeup smudges on my hands. Once I’m in my room, I haul the suitcase onto the second bed and read the luggage tag: Mallory Pepper.

  Inside are stacks of maternity clothes. Pants with big spandex panels. Shirts with empire waists. Seamless stretchy underwear. If I can’t get the grape juice out of my dress, I will have to go the training pregnant. I empty the rest of the suitcase and find a hairdryer, a bag of toiletries closed off in a freezer bag, some Mary Jane Crocs, pajamas, which I change into, and a notebook with the Eiffel Tower on the cover.

  I retrieve my mini toothpaste and brush from my own carry-on. Wash my face with water only and then my underwear. I soak my dress in the tub with green tea hotel shampoo. Mallory’s pajama pants sag, so I tie them off with the drawstring. I turn off the main light, and trip a few times, feeling my way to the bedside table lamp. After I’ve clicked it on and I’m in bed, I open the notebook and flip furiously through it, but it’s blank. I feel twelve. I decide she intended it to be her birthing journal. I turn back to the first page, grab the hotel pen, and write: 7:30 pm-ish, EST(?), went into labour over Vermont? Syracuse? I close the book, toss it in the open suitcase, and begin searching for signs of bedbugs.

  It’s too late to call the kids. It is almost three back home. I roll over in my bed, manoeuvring my head across the gel pillow, and realize I’m in possession of stolen property. There’s still time to call the airline and tell them I mistakenly picked up Mallory Pepper’s luggage, but then I will have to take off her pajamas and they are surprisingly comfortable and smell like vanilla. Calming. I think about how late it is and how tired I’m going to be in the morning and fall asleep hoping the rest of her clothes smell like coffee or Red Bull.

  36

  I encounter my dress in the bathtub the next morning. It is stiff and still stained. I wring it out and hang it over the curved bar before turning on the shower. I might be able to wear it tomorrow when it has dried. My underwear is still damp from last night so I take the dryer to it and then dress in Mallory’s clothes.

  I like being pretend pregnant. At breakfast I order bacon and sausage and three eggs and white toast and think about being real pregnant. The heaviness of my belly. The offensive but magnificent feeling of a tiny stranger ramming into my pelvis like an ice breaker. And the sex. So ugly but so good. Glen always on the bottom and me parked on top. Legs of ham and breasts so dense and full I half expected them to start firing Skittles on climax. And the orgasms. Shaky and sweaty and tight. At times I think they frightened Glen, but they undid hours of tension. The hours of disagreeing about how to put together a crib.

  After breakfast, my stomach bloats out unencumbered, actually assists in keeping the pants up. By the time I make my way to the hotel’s conference room with the digital easel displaying the company logo, I am already walking pregnant. I pick up my name tag and find a seat. A presenter in a navy suit opens his laptop. The first slide of his PowerPoint presentation opens up: Foundations for Operational Excellence. I debate whether to slit my wrists now or wait until the first break.

  People file in and take their seats. Some of them wear cowboy boots, others hats. I stare at them and can’t decide whether it’s a joke. A man vaguely resembling Matt Damon with black plastic glasses sits beside me. I check his feet for cowboy boots. Doesn’t have them. His forehead is enormous like a beluga whale. A giant Cro-Magnon white board. I need a marker. He shoots out his hand and introduces himself.

  “Carl,” he says.

  “Claudia,” I reply, shaking his hand.

  “Prairie or Central?” he asks, removing the liner off an over-sized muffin he’s helped himself to from the snack table.

  “Maritime actually,” I reply.

  He looks surprised. “I’ve been to New Brunswick once,” he says, massaging his legs with the heels of his hands. I wonder if this is because his hands are clammy or his quads are sore. “It’s nice out there.”

  I nod.

  “This guy’s a pretty good presenter,” he says, gesturing towards the man in the navy suit.

  We continue to talk until the welcome speech begins. Thanks for coming, directions to the washrooms, instructions for smokers, agenda, what is operational excellence — Carl smells good. I occasionally look over at him. See if he’s taking n
otes or drawing squares or the little barns you draw without lifting your pencil off the page or crossing over any previous lines. At one point I excuse myself to go to the washroom and I forget that I’m supposed to be pregnant and my pants nearly fall down. I yank them up and create a temporary camel toe. This is not going to work, I think. I stall my return to the conference room and pass by the front desk to get a peek at the weather outside. The sun is shining. It looks warm and inviting.

  “Is there anything I can help you with, ma’am?”

  I turn and face the clerk behind the desk. She looks my size. “Do you have any pants?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you have any extra pants?”

  “Airline lost your luggage?”

  I pause before answering. If I say yes I fear I will have her again upon checkout and when she sees me with a suitcase she will think I lied. Unless I tell her my bag was recovered and delivered. If I say no, she will wonder why I’m wearing gigantic pants. I say, “I packed the wrong pants.”

  She looks at me confused.

  “My mom’s pants. I packed my mom’s pants by mistake. I took them out of the dryer and it was late at night and I didn’t check before I put them in my suitcase. She must have added them to my load because I don’t recall washing her pants and I got here late last night and didn’t have a chance to buy new pants.”

  I have broken the rules about lying. Good liars keep their replies to a minimum. One word, maybe two.

  “So you’re going to be a big sister?”

  “Huh?”

  She looks at the pants with the beige stretchy panel I’m holding together.

  “Your mom’s expecting?”

  “Oh, no my mom’s dead.”

  “Pardon?”

  “A deadweight. She’s fat. Belly fat. Loads of it. Stressful job. Behind a desk all day, you know? It causes belly fat. And too much processed food. White bagels, instant oatmeal, soup. I keep telling her she needs to change her diet or job or go to the gym, but maternity stores enable her.”

  “Right,” the front desk clerk replies suspiciously. “I’m afraid I don’t have any pants, Ms. —”

  “Pepper,” I cut in, crossing my arms over my chest to conceal my name tag.

  “Thank you, Ms. Pepper, but there is a mall not far from here. I can give you directions.”

  “That would be great. Maybe I’ll get those after this is over.” I point towards the conference room.

  I slink back into the room and into my seat. Did I ever fuck that up. I am thirty-five and live at home with my fat mom and wear her pants. Sorry, Mom, I think. Just in case she can hear my thoughts.

  37

  By the time the conference lunch starts, I am increasingly uncomfortable in Mallory’s big pants. I eat a foot-long sub and three cookies to try and hold them up. Carl joins me for coffee before the afternoon session gets started.

  “Is there dinner tonight?” he asks.

  “I don’t think there’s anything planned,” I say. “I think we’re on our own.” I search my bag for my conference agenda but don’t find it.

  “There’s a restaurant just down a bit from the hotel. They have really good Alberta beef. Interested?”

  I consider the offer. I am interested. I like beef. Especially when it isn’t ground. And the idea of a restaurant that doesn’t have a playroom and isn’t Boston Pizza is appealing.

  “Sure. Dinner would be good.” I take a sip of my coffee. It tastes like a Bunn machine.

  I head to the side table feeling intoxicated. A cocktail of nitrates, macadamia nuts, and liberty. I imagine Mallory doesn’t have kids, other than the one on the way. And that she doesn’t have to cut her father’s toenails or tell him when to go to bed. That her mother’s alive and well and her brother still gives her rides on the back of his scooter. Mallory, I decide, dines with strangers. I haven’t dined with a stranger since Glen and I were together or since we’ve been apart.

  I add a flavoured creamer to my coffee.

  “When are you due?”

  “Excuse me?” I reply, turning to a young man making tea beside me.

  “I asked when you were due?”

  “Uhh …”

  “My wife is due a week from today. It’s our first,” he says. “I’m so excited.”

  “Congratulations.” I look to see if Carl is paying attention. I want to order wine at dinner.

  “She has the same shirt,” he says, pointing to Mallory’s red v-neck. “Do you know what you’re having?” He doesn’t let me answer. “We’re having a girl. Her name is Delilah.”

  “That’s a nice name,” I lie.

  “What are you having?”

  I test my coffee a second time and reply, “We’re leaving it a surprise.”

  The afternoon session drags on. By 4:00 p.m. no one gives a hoo-ha about operational excellence.

  “Did I hear you say you were pregnant?” Carl asks, placing his pen and notes in his briefcase.

  “No, I’m not pregnant.”

  “Oh.” He accepts this simply, finishes off his bottled water and screws the cap back on. He asks if it’s too early for dinner.

  “I’d like to go back to my room first and ditch my stuff.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll wait in the bar.”

  I get into my hotel room and flop down on the bed. I check my cellphone. I have a message from Glen asking where Wes’s Beaver necktie is, and another from a baggage claim agent at the Calgary airport.

  I call the airport first and quickly sort out the details of my suitcase. They will have it delivered to the hotel. Then I call Glen. “Hi, it’s me. The necktie is in one of the legs of his jogging pants. It got caught in the dryer. Yes, I left it there, I thought you’d search a little harder for it than that. Did he get in trouble for not wearing it?” I speak fast. It’s the four cups of coffee. “WestJet called. My suitcase is on its way over.”

  “It didn’t arrive with you in Calgary? Did you file a report?”

  That would have been the logical thing to do but instead I stole Mallory’s suitcase and fled the building.

  “I intended to, but I was so tired I just left the airport.”

  “What are you doing for clothes?”

  “I bought some,” I reply.

  “They give you money for that stuff, Claud. But you have to report it.”

  “They give you money?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “If they lose your luggage they have to compensate you until it’s located and delivered.”

  “But they didn’t lose it. They must have took it off in Toronto by accident.”

  “You had a stop in Toronto?”

  Technically. “Yes. Anyways, they called, it’s on its way to me now.”

  “Oh. Okay, then.”

  “How are the kids?”

  “They’re asleep. They miss you. You should call tomorrow.”

  “I will.”

  I hang up.

  The airport’s close, but I’m pretty sure it’s unlikely my suitcase will have been delivered to the hotel in the two minutes since I talked to baggage claim. So I dig through Mallory’s suitcase for something suitable to wear for supper and find a print dress. It is navy with white bird silhouettes. I pull it on over my head. On Mallory it probably looked woodsy and nesty. Mama bird. On me it hangs a bit heavy. The birds don’t have any big parts to perch on. I wear my own earrings, dangly ones because Joan’s not around and can’t pull them from my ears. I smooth down my hair and examine myself in the mirror unable to decide whether I look ready for dinner with Carl or pre-natal class with Big Bird.

  38

  Carl is waiting for me at the bar as promised. He is attractive despite the big forehead and round-toed black shoes you’d expect someone working at McDonald’s to wear.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asks.

  “I’ll have a Corona.”

  He orders accordingly and we sit at the bar. We talk casually and watch people in the lobby come and go. Most seem to be
here on business. They carry suit bags and laptops and small non-descript suitcases. A team of Lufthansa flight attendants check in. They are all tall and beautiful. Assholes. I think about the predicament of Mallory’s suitcase. I have come too far to simply return it. They will ask questions. They will want to know why I am only noticing a full day later that I have the wrong suitcase. They will accuse me of wearing her pajamas.

  “Can I get a shot of Sambuca?”

  The bartender takes a shot glass from below and fills it.

  “Do you want one?” I ask Carl.

  His expression indicates he’s reluctant to do the shot. He is not twenty-two or wearing someone else’s clothes. He’s unsure of the meaning of it.

  “To operational excellence?” I muster.

  He throws his hands up and accepts.

  “Another, please.”

  The bartender lines up a second shot in front of Carl. I still have my beer in the left hand. We raise our Sambuca and drink. It momentarily calms me. I am ready for beef but Carl is a slow drinker. His beer is still full. I spin on my barstool and knock into him with my legs.

  “Sorry,” I say. “This stool has a mind of its own.”

  Carl smiles and makes steadfast eye contact. He barely blinks. In the five or so minutes that follow he does little more than sip his beer and look at me. He has the calm of a well-trained distance runner. Confidence. I feel like I’m running a fucking steeplechase.

  I sip quick and fidget. I can’t control the volume of my voice and yell, “How’s your beer?” Several patrons look to see if this question is addressed to them.

  “Good, thanks,” Carl says.

  I drink a third of mine at once.

  Noticing my nerves, Carl asks, “Should we go eat?”

  “Yes,” I say, disturbed by my own behaviour. It’s like I’ve never been on a date before. I don’t even know if I am on a date. This used to be familiar. Before Glen, when I had my own apartment but was still young enough to wear glitter eye shadow and one-shoulder shirts.