Flight

by Darren Hynes

  His hand meets hers halfway, covering it like a second skin, resting them on his lower thigh.

  How well she knows this hand, she thinks: its large knuckles; its fingers, so accustomed to work; the fat vein on the back that she’s traced a thousand times with her forefinger; the perfectly clipped nails.

  “Try and eat something,” she says finally, indicating the cooling plate of macaroni and cheese with a thrust of her chin.

  “How?” He turns his face towards the window despite there being only blackness. “How can I?” With his free hand he wipes beneath each eye.

  The last time she’d seem him cry was just after Jeremy was born. He couldn’t look at her then either.

  It seems like a long time before he’s able to meet her gaze. He lets go of her hand and gets to his feet.

  She does too. She smells the earth and sweat and his deodorant, feels his fingers running through her hair.

  “I love you,” he whispers.

  “I love you,” she says.

  He holds her for a long time. Then says, “I’m off to bed. Coming?”

  “Not yet.”

  “All right.”

  She watches him move along the kitchen. At the threshold of the hall, he turns back to her. “Snuggle up to me when you come?”

  “I will,” she says.

  7

  SHE CARRIES THE CORDLESS PHONE through the kitchen and into the foyer. Doesn’t bother putting on her shoes as she grips the handle of the front door and pushes it open, looking back over her shoulder as she does. She steps out onto the porch and eases the door shut.

  The night is cold. Goosebumps on her bare arms, her breath like smoke. She turns back towards the door, thinking she can see his silhouette within its frame, but when she turns away and looks back, he’s gone.

  She enters the number, then puts the phone to her ear. One ring goes through, then another. She swallows during the third ring, chews the inside of her cheek as the fourth and fifth come and go. On the sixth she goes to hang up, but then she hears a voice. She brings the phone back to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Hello?”

  “Jackie?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s me, Emily.” She realizes that she’s speaking loud enough to wake the whole house.

  “Oh, Emily. Hi.”

  She turns again in the direction of the door. “Can you talk?” This time she’s whispering.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  Jackie pauses, then says, “It’s late there.”

  Emily glances at her watch, realizing it’s almost midnight. “What time’s it in Vancouver?”

  “Nearly 7:30.”

  “I keep forgetting it’s such a big difference – ”

  “You sound far away.”

  “What?”

  “You sound far away. Must be something wrong with the connection.”

  Her eyes still on the front door. “I’ll speak up.” She moves to the stairs and walks down a few, but then static’s on the line, so she has to go back to where she was.

  Jackie says something, but she misses it.

  “I didn’t hear you,” Emily says.

  “No, I was talking to Stephen.”

  “Oh.”

  “He wanted to know how many cranberries to put on the salad.”

  “You’re eating? I’ll call back.”

  “No, we’re not. Not yet. The chicken’s nowhere near to done. How many times have I told him to defrost before baking? But you know, in one ear out the other, right?”

  Emily tries to imagine Kent stuffing a chicken, then sliding it into the oven to bake. Basting it halfway through. Sprinkling cranberries on a leafy salad.

  “So?” Jackie says at last. “When are you coming?”

  She cups her hand over her mouth and the receiver. Stares so hard at the door that she’s likely to burn a hole through it. She breathes in. “Friday.” Exhales.

  Jackie doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s short notice, I know.”

  “That’s like, four days.”

  “I would have called sooner, but I was trying to find somewhere else to stay. You know, so we wouldn’t be in your way, but everything was so expensive. Even the shitty places.”

  “Vancouver’s not Lightning Cove.”

  The bathroom light comes on. She nearly drops the phone. “I might need to call you back.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She takes the phone away from her ear and waits, her thumb hovering over the ‘end’ button.

  “Emily?”

  The faint sound of the toilet flushing, then the light going out. She looks to the front door expecting him to walk through it.

  Jackie’s voice then, as if coming from a dream. “Emily? You still there?”

  She waits. Listens for his footsteps, but he doesn’t come to the door.

  Probably wasn’t Kent at all. One of the children instead. Jeremy most likely, all that bloody Dr. Pepper he drinks. She puts the phone back to her ear. “Jackie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry. Thought I heard one of the children crying.”

  “Oh.”

  In the silence, she thinks about cutting the call short and forgetting she’d ever bothered her old high school friend in the first place. She imagines going back inside and putting the phone back in its cradle and walking down the hall to their bedroom and slipping underneath the covers beside him and forgetting the whole Jesus thing.

  Jackie’s saying something.

  “What?” she says.

  “I said, I’m sorry. I was just surprised to hear that you’re coming so soon.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It was stupid of me to suggest we stay there – ”

  “It wasn’t stupid, and I want you to come. We both do.”

  She sees herself and her youngsters asleep on the living room floor of Jackie’s condo. Stephen having to tiptoe over them in the morning. “No, it was a bad idea.”

  “Look, just come. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

  Emily says nothing.

  “You can’t stay there,” Jackie says. “Not with Kent the way he is.” Then, “I’m still in shock to tell you the truth. Just can’t believe it.”

  Sometimes Emily can’t believe it. Happening to someone else.

  “Hold on a sec, Stephen’s saying something.”

  She waits. Tries to pick out what Jackie’s husband is saying, but can’t.

  Jackie comes back to the phone. “Stephen says he knows lots of people here. Might be able to find you a sublet or something.”

  “Really? That would be wonderful. Thank him for me.”

  Jackie does, then says to Emily, “He says you’re welcome.”

  Silence for a moment.

  “What time on Friday? We’ll pick you up at the airport.”

  “No, I’ll grab a taxi or something. Is there a bus?”

  “Emily, we’ll come and get you. It’s no trouble. We actually live quite close to the airport.”

  She pauses briefly, then says, “Okay. Seven-thirty. In the evening.”

  “Let me just write that down. And what airline?”

  “Air Canada.”

  “Air Canada. Alright, got it.”

  Neither woman speaks for a moment, then Emily says, “I should get off the phone now.”

  “Hold on.”

  “What?”

  It seems like ages waiting for her friend to speak. Finally, Jackie says, “He’ll want to know where his kids are, won’t he? Eventually.”

  Again she thinks about hanging up. Hanging up, and then tossing the phone into the yard.

  “Have you thought about that?” Jackie says.

  No. In fact, it just occurred to me that second when you mentioned it. She’s lost nights thinking about it. Whole afternoons. Days. “I have, yes.”

  Quiet for a minute.

  “And?”

  “And,” Emily whispers, “you’re only aiding and abetting if
you’re complicit in it, which you’re not, right?”

  Silence on her friend’s end.

  “I mean, as far as you and Stephen are concerned, I’m just coming out for a little visit. To take in the sights, right? A drive up to Whistler, a ferry across to Victoria, maybe.”

  “My God, I didn’t even consider that,” Jackie says. Then, “No, I was thinking about you. About Kent calling the cops or something. Having you arrested.”

  “Arrested for taking my own kids.”

  “They’re his too though, right?”

  Emily doesn’t say anything.

  “I know you’re doing what you think is best,” Jackie says. “I’d just hate for you to get into trouble, that’s all –”

  “I’m scared, Jackie.”

  “What?”

  “I said I’m scared.”

  “I know.”

  “No you don’t. I’m sorry, but you don’t.”

  Jackie stays quiet.

  “It’s different now.”

  Jackie’s breathing, then her saying, “What’s different?”

  “I don’t know. Him, I guess. He’s different. What he’s capable of is different.”

  “And what’s he capable of, Emily? You’ve never really said.”

  She goes to speak, but stops herself. Breathes, then tries again, “So much that I’m willing to risk anything to get away. To just get away.”

  Neither woman speaks for a long time.

  Finally, Jackie says, “Okay, see you Friday.”

  “Alright.” Then, “I really should hang up.”

  “Okay. Jesus, please be careful.”

  “I will. Thanks, Jackie.”

  8

  SHE GLANCES UP AT THE WALL CLOCK. Past one but she isn’t sleepy. Exhausted maybe, but not sleepy. Hard to imagine there was a time she didn’t know the difference.

  She sits back, letting the chair take her weight, savouring the silence. So still she sits. Closes her eyes. Opens them a minute later to realize it’s not completely quiet after all. Faintly, from all the way down the hall, and despite their closed bedroom door, she can hear his deep breathing, it somehow reminding her not to enjoy the moment too much.

  Getting to her feet takes more effort than she expects, leaving her slightly dizzy. After it passes, she moves along the kitchen and down the hall to Jeremy’s room. Inches the door open slightly, just enough to fit her head through. He’s on his back, his Simpson’s pajama shirt hiked up to just below his chest, exposing soft, unblemished skin. Red cheeks and hair damp from sweat. Beside him, lying scattered, are PlayStation games: Mortal Kombat II, NHL Hockey, others she can’t make out the titles of. The remote control still in his fist and the television left on. She tiptoes over and shuts it off. Slips the remote out of his hand and lays it on his dresser beside the picture of him and Kent, taken last year when they’d gone fishing, each of them holding a trout by its gills. Could their smiles be any wider? Hats on backwards, and hip rubbers. The lake behind them and the sun beaming down. Father and son. She wonders how she’ll stop Jeremy from telling Kent where they are. Nothing at all for him to pick up the phone. “Vancouver, Dad,” she imagines him whispering late at night from Jackie’s living room. “Vancouver!” Kent goes. “Yeah, you know, the Cunucks.”

  Just get him away first, she thinks. Work the rest out later.

  Lynette’s curled into a ball when she pushes open the door, her stuffed giraffe pressed against her cheek and her night light casting her body in a pinkish-red glow. Mouth slightly open and the tip of her tongue resting on her bottom lip. If not for the steady rise and fall of the sheets above her, she’d wonder if her daughter was breathing at all. An angel sleeping. Before leaving, she walks over and pulls the comforter up to just below Lynette’s chin, then kisses her forehead.

  Back in the kitchen, she grabs a small pot from a cupboard, fills it with 2% milk and puts it on the stove. In a drawer beneath the cutlery, she grabs the same wooden spoon she always uses – its tip blackened from overuse – and dips it in, stirring absent-mindedly, envisioning all those angry plant workers, their hands all over her husband, pulling and grabbing. Curses loud in his ear. How often had she wished for this very thing? So he might know a little of what it feels like to be her. Someone’s hand slapping his face, or him forced onto the ground, palms pressed against the back of his head. How strange then, now that it’s actually happened, not to feel the slightest vindication.

  The milk bubbling over the sides of the pot brings her back. She takes it off the element, the smell of burnt milk filling her nostrils. How did she not notice? Not hear the sound of it boiling? No point drinking it now.

  She pours it down the sink. The bottom of the pot is charred black, so she drops in a little dish liquid and fills it with hot water, deciding to let it soak overnight.

  Instead of going to bed after switching off the stove light, she goes to the window over the kitchen table. Peers out into the night, wondering if the sky will be the same out west. Will the moon be brighter or duller? The stars more plentiful or fewer? Will she still be able to smell salt on her clothes after coming in from outside like she can here?

  She knows that, while she longs to go, a part of her is frightened, too. That’s why, lately, she can’t stop her hands from trembling, why at night, despite being bundled under heavy blankets, she can’t get warm.

  Suddenly feeling short of breath, she slides open the window, sucking at the night air, imagining that it’s the Pacific instead of the Atlantic she’s hearing. Imagines too being woken by the birds outside her window instead of by Kent’s weight on top of her, his hot lips and coffee breath, his fingers through her hair.

  She shuts the window and walks through the kitchen and down the hall. She opens their bedroom door and goes in, so light on her feet she feels weightless, like a ghost.

  He’s curled in a ball, his hands cupped and jammed between his thighs like a little boy. She’d often found him beautiful this way.

  She moves toward him. Stops near the bed. It’s hard to believe the things he’s done. Every now and again she’ll wake and think it’s all been a dream and, for a moment, will feel such relief. But then the truth will settle over her like snow, and she’ll wish for the years back. To start again.

  She pulls the sheets over him before sliding in herself. Rests her head on her right palm. Stares at the still ceiling fan. And what’s he capable of, Emily? Jackie had asked earlier. You’ve never really said. For a moment, during that conversation, she thought she might tell her friend about the last time she took the kids. How Kent, after realizing she’d gone, had shown up at her parents’ place. How he stood in her father’s kitchen and promised never to lay a finger on her again, how he shook her dad’s hand, and kissed her mother on both cheeks, and how later, as they leaned against the rail of the ferry waving goodbye to her parents, he’d bent down and whispered in her ear, his breath melting her eardrum. “If you ever take my kids away again, I’ll kill you.” Her heart had almost stopped. Then the boat started to drift away from the dock, and her mom and dad started walking back to their car.

  She turns over onto her side.

  And what’s he capable of, Emily? You’ve never really said.

  Before slipping into sleep, she imagines a new answer to Jackie’s question. Killing me. That’s what.

  TUESDAY

  SHE WAKES TO THE SOUND OF WIND and rain against the window. Although her eyes are encrusted with sleep, she doesn’t feel rested. Every joint and ligament aches. She’s running a fever, she thinks. It hurts to swallow. The pounding inside her skull is relentless.

  The only remnants of Kent are wrinkled sheets and dried blood on his pillow. All last night he had slept with his arm around her and his face pressed between her shoulder blades, his scalding breath burning a hole in her back. Half the night she had to put up with his mumbling, his jerking limbs. Twice his knee had come up and hit hard against the back of her legs. Another time, the arm draped over her had smacked against her f
orehead. She’d rammed her bum against him then in frustration.

  No parting kiss again this morning, she realizes. It occurs to her too, that, for the first time in ages, she’s slept through his engine revving and horn blasts.

  She reaches across Kent’s side of the bed and twists the clock around. 7:30. How could she have slept through the alarm as loud as it is? She turns over on her back, willing the energy to get up. She kicks off the sheets, and sits on the edge of the bed. They’ll have to walk tightly together this morning, she thinks, seeing as there’s only one umbrella. Jeremy will love that.

  She slips her feet into her slippers and stands up, then waits for the dizziness to pass.

  The clouds outside her bedroom window are a fat purplish grey and so burdened with moisture they look as if they might fall from the sky and wash away the whole town. She welcomes the thought.

  Is that coffee she smells? Probably left over from what Kent had brewed.

  Despite her fever, she’s shivering. Definitely a cold, she thinks. As if she doesn’t have enough to worry about. On a hook behind her closet door, she grabs her robe and puts it on, tying the knot tightly around her waist. Walks to the bedroom door and pushes it open.

  Out in the hall she thinks she smells bacon. Perhaps Kent had wanted something different from baloney for a change.

  In the bathroom, she resists the urge to look in the mirror on her way to the toilet. She sits slowly. The porcelain is cold against her backside. Elbows on her knees and her chin cupped in her hands.

  Although she’s finished, she stays sitting, wishing she could skip this day and move on to Wednesday. Better yet, to Friday. Get it over with. She imagines her cushioned Air Canada seat, its back reclined, and a book in her lap. Jeremy on her right; Lynette, her left. Their table trays down with glasses of Coke sitting on top, the light through the plane’s windows reflecting in the ice cubes.

  She grips the edges of the toilet bowl, like someone arthritic, and gets to her feet. She can’t stop herself from looking in the mirror as she lathers her hands with soap. It wasn’t so long ago, she thinks, that she saw herself as pretty. Not someone who could turn heads or anything, but attractive all the same. She could do a lot worse than her tiny nose with the curved tip, and the wide cheekbones, the slightly crooked teeth, and the far-set eyes. Even the two noticeable veins converging in the middle of her forehead, and her largish ears have never really bothered her.