Flight

by Darren Hynes

  “Are we going on a plane?”

  The bundle, still bound by its elastics, she takes first, then the plane tickets, shoving both into the pockets of her pants. Starts gathering the loose bills then, not bothering to put them back in the sock. “You have to learn to mind your own business.”

  “I was just looking,” Jeremy says. “How much is there?”

  “Never mind. I told you to pack some clothes.”

  “I was about to,” he says.

  She thinks that, jumbled in her hand like this, it’s like she’s robbed a bank or something. “Every dollar better be here.” She moves towards the door.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see” she says, her back to him.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  She freezes, amazed that he’s waited this long to ask.

  “I didn’t hear him leave this morning,” Jeremy says.

  Whatever it takes to get him on that plane. “Dad spent the night in Gander. With work.”

  “Where are we going?” he asks again.

  Before turning around, she tries relaxing the muscles in and around her face, to regulate her breathing. “You’ll see, I said.” She faces him now, trying her best to lift the corners of her trembling mouth.

  Jeremy takes a step forward. “Is he coming with us?”

  “We’ll meet up with him later,” she says, surprised at how easily the lie comes.

  “When?”

  “Later. Now get that stuff packed. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

  She goes back to her bedroom. Stuffs the money and the plane tickets into her purse and then starts packing, gabbing handfuls from hauled open drawers. Hopefully in Vancouver later this evening, a decent pair of jeans will be there to put on, a blouse or two, and a turtleneck maybe.

  Shoes, she thinks. Need some of those – a job interview, or, if it ever comes to it, the welfare office. She runs to her closet and takes two pairs from the rack, one red, another brown, and throws them atop the mess.

  Dipping her hands into the pile of clothing now, she finds a pair of jeans and a hooded sweater, bra and panties, and a thick pair of black socks. She changes in front of the mirror, yesterday’s clothes a crumpled mess near her feet.

  7:23. Fifteen minutes from here to the ferry. Less if they hurry.

  She bends over and pulls on her socks, then runs over and zips up the suitcase. Slings her handbag over her head so that its strap lies between her breasts. Runs back to her daughter’s room.

  Lynette’s fastening the last buckle of her jean jumpsuit when Emily comes in.

  “That’s better,” she says, laying the suitcase beside the dresser. Unzips it and starts tossing Lynette’s clothes inside. She goes to the closet and randomly yanks dresses and sweaters off hangers, a long coat and scarf.

  She piles everything on top of her own unfolded clothes, then tries pushing it all down, one palm over the other, like she’s trying to restart a heart. It won’t close.

  “Sit on top,” she says to Lynette.

  Lynette comes over. Kneels instead of sits.

  She manages to get the zipper partway closed before the metal piece gives way in her hand. “Jesus,” she says, “I just broke it.” Then to Lynette, “Get off.”

  Lynette’s too slow.

  “Get off!”

  Lynette gets to her feet awkwardly, tears welling in her eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to yell, honey.” She opens the suitcase and dumps everything out. “Wait here.”

  Emily runs back to the basement and grabs another suitcase. Smaller than the first, but it’ll have to do. She’s on her way back to the stairs when everything suddenly tightens in her stomach. She makes it to the bathroom just as the rush of vomit comes. Coughing and spitting then, a few dry heaves, her arms wrapped around the toilet as if it were the last solid thing on earth. The smell like overcooked meat.

  7:28.

  She wipes her mouth, flushes, then goes upstairs.

  Lynette helps her transfer the clothes into the new suitcase.

  “Jeremy!” Emily shouts.

  No answer.

  “Jeremy!”

  His voice faint, as if muffled under quilts. “What?”

  “Are you ready?”

  “What?”

  “Are you ready?”

  No answer.

  Emily does the suitcase up and gets to her feet. “Let’s go.” She moves to the door.

  “Wait,” Lynette says.

  “What?”

  “My giraffe.”

  “Get it. Quick.”

  Lynette lifts it from the bed, holding it in her arms like something alive, like something she’ll need to burp.

  Emily leaves the room and rushes down the hall – Lynette right behind her – and stops at Jeremy’s door. She knocks.

  No answer.

  She knocks again. Tries the handle. He’s locked it again. “Jeremy!”

  Still no answer.

  Calm down, she tells herself, calm down. Breathe. “Honey, open up.”

  Nothing for ages. Then at last his voice, sounding close, as if he’s positioned himself right against the door, his lips close enough to kiss it. “Dad’s coming?”

  Breathe. Okay, Let it out…slowly. You expected this, right? Knew he wouldn’t come willingly. “I told you already, honey” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Didn’t I?”

  Another pause from the other side of the door.

  She waits, repressing the urge to kick the Jesus door down and drag him out kicking and screaming.

  Finally, he says, “Where’s his stuff?

  “His stuff?”

  “His suitcase and that?”

  Past 7:30. Less than half an hour to make it to the ferry. “His stuff is…he already has his stuff, silly. Took it with him to Gander now, didn’t he?” Please come out, Jeremy. I’m doing this for you, you know. For your sister. For all of us.

  “I don’t want to go,” he says.

  Without intending to, she slams the door with her fist, sending waves of pain along her wrist and upper arm and into her shoulder.

  Lynette jumps back in fright.

  Emily turns to her. “I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to scare you. We’re just running out of time, that’s all.”

  “I want to talk to Dad,” Jeremy says.

  She turns back to the door. “Dad’s in Gander.”

  “On the phone. I want to talk to him on the phone.”

  When did her hands go up to her face, she wonders? She imagines leaving without him, then him trying to track her down years later, the mother that had abandoned him. Her opening a door somewhere and him standing on the front stoop. A carbon copy of the man she married all those years ago. Neither of them having anything to say.

  Lynette’s voice brings her back. “I need to pee, Mommy.”

  “You’ll pee on the boat – ”

  “Why can’t I talk to him?” Jeremy says.

  Lynette takes a step towards the bathroom. “I really need to go.”

  “ENOUGH!”

  Lynette stops.

  No sound at all from Jeremy’s side of the door.

  Her ears are ringing from the sound of her own scream. Trembling she is, and her heart beating so fast it might stop. She collects herself, then says to Lynette. “Alright, go pee. Quick.”

  Lynette doesn’t move.

  “Quick, I said.”

  Her daughter goes.

  Emily turns back to the door. Steals a peek at her watch. Wonders then if this is how it’s all supposed to end? All her planning to get no farther than the outside of her son’s bedroom door. Kent showing up some time later to see Lynette and her seated in the hallway, their legs crossed at their ankles. “What’s going on here, then?” she can hear him saying.

  At last, she speaks. “Stay then if you want.”

  Jeremy says nothing.

  “But your father won’t be happy when he has to come all the way back here and get you.”

/>   Still nothing.

  “You’ll be grounded ’til you’re twenty.”

  Quiet on the other side of the door.

  The sound of the toilet flushing. Then Lynette walking down the hall and standing beside her.

  “Come on,” Emily says to her.

  They get past the hallway and a few feet into the kitchen when she hears his door open. Then his voice. “Wait for me.”

  A breath escapes her. She nearly falls.

  His steps on the hardwood, then he appears in a Simpson’s T-shirt and jeans, his suitcase – looking too tiny to hold clothes enough to fit him – dangling from his big hand.

  “Come on then,” she says, pointing towards the foyer.

  Jeremy and Lynette brush past her.

  “Hats and mittens too,” she tells them. “It’ll be chilly on the boat.” She follows them, then lays her own suitcase down and puts on her boots. Takes the long coat off its hanger, slipping her arms through, not bothering to do it up. Her handbag’s underneath for safety, pressed against her side. Her whole life’s in there.

  Jeremy puts on his Montreal Canadiens’ toque. “When are we coming back?”

  We’re not. Ever. “Next week.”

  She bends down and helps Lynette zip up her jacket.

  The phone rings.

  Lynette makes a move for it.

  “Leave it,” she says.

  Jeremy comes forward. “What if it’s Dad?”

  “I said, leave it.”

  She picks up the suitcase and hurries to the door, throwing it open like the foyer were on fire, then stands there with her back against it as Jeremy and Lynette pass through. She hears his recorded voice on the machine: Hello there, you’ve reached the Gyles’s residence. Sorry we missed your call. Please leave a message and one of us will do our best to get back to you. Have a great day.

  The machine beeps.

  “Hi there. Me calling…”

  Although he’s halfway down the steps already, Jeremy hears his father’s voice. He drops his suitcase, then turns around. “That’s Dad.”

  He twists himself in Lynette’s direction; she’s already halfway along the driveway. “Hey Lynette, it’s Dad.”

  “…thought I would have heard from you by now.”

  Jeremy starts back up the steps, but Emily thrusts out her palm to stop him. “Stay!” she says.

  “But it’s Dad.” Jeremy keeps coming.

  She stands in front of the door, blocking his way. “We’ll miss the boat.”

  “Let me answer it.”

  “…I miss you guys…”

  She pushes him so hard that he nearly flies off the porch, then reaches back inside for her suitcase. Picks it up. Stops though when she hears Kent say,

  “…it’s finished. They’re shutting her down. Three months, but I allow it’ll be sooner.”

  She wills herself to close the door, but still can’t for some reason. 7:45. What’s she waiting for?

  “…could really use that vacation now. I can’t wait. Hope you’re looking forward to it. Just wanted to let you know that I’m –”

  She slams the door so hard that the whole house shakes, then rushes along the porch and down the steps.

  They’re watching her from the end of the driveway. Bits of orange in the early morning sky behind them. Lynette, one hand in her coat pocket despite wearing mittens, and her giraffe in the other; Jeremy with his hat pulled down so far that it’s a wonder he can even see. Lost-looking, she thinks. Orphans watching another young couple drive away. Damaging them if she stays, damaging them if she goes. But she can’t leave them behind, she knows. Needs them like she needs water, food…air.

  “Didn’t have to push me down the stairs,” Jeremy says. “I only wanted to talk to him.”

  “You can talk to him later. All you want.”

  7:50.

  “We’ll make it if we run,” she says.

  It’s not until she’s near the end of their street that she looks back. Both of them are at her heels. Jeremy’s suitcase flopping at his side. He’s holding his sister’s hand. Lynette’s strangling her giraffe.

  3

  A MAN IN THE DISTANCE GUIDES THE LAST VEHICLE ALONG THE GANGWAY. Another man standing on the wharf is untying the temporary knots that have moored the ferry to the dock.

  “Wait!” she shouts, knowing that from this distance no one will hear.

  “I’m tired, Mommy,” Lynette says. She’s lagging now, Jeremy having to pull her along.

  “Just a little bit farther,” she says, her eyes focused on the boat, as if the slightest turn of her head will cause it to disappear.

  Her thighs are burning. Her arm too, from holding the suitcase. Her chest feels like it might catch fire. There’s a pain in her lower back. She imagines the bottom discs rubbing together, eroding like stones on a beach.

  “It’s leaving,” Jeremy says, barely breathing hard.

  “We’ll make it,” she says, not quite believing it herself.

  The man doing the untying throws the last of the ropes to another man on deck, then gives a ‘thumbs-up’ to the control room on the upper level.

  “Wait for us!” she screams, flapping her free arm now like a castaway.

  Churning water near the stern now. The ear-splitting departure horn.

  She trips on a lace that’s come undone. Face first into the pavement. The back of her hand coming up just before impact. Suitcase flying across the street. She feels everything shift inside of her on impact, the air being zapped from her lungs, her fingers protecting her face.

  Almost immediately she is back on her feet, straining for breath.

  “Are you all right, Mommy?” Lynette says. She and Jeremy have stopped beside her.

  Jeremy lets go of his sister and points at his mother’s hand. “It’s bleeding.”

  She looks, skin like raw meat, flecks of it hanging off. No pain though. She glances sideways at the suitcase. Still intact. Back to her children now. “Go, I’ll catch up!”

  They don’t move.

  “GO!”

  They start running again.

  She goes over and picks up the suitcase. Feels a warm ooziness spreading along the palm of her hand, into the fingers and towards the nails. Somehow it’s dulling the pain.

  Running again now, although it hardly feels like it. More like flying. No sensation of feet hitting the asphalt, or of body resisting. Light now where, just moments ago, she’d been heavy.

  She’s gaining on them.

  Lynette being dragged again, but still managing to look back, charting her mother’s progress. She’s the one calling now, the one ushering her forward. “Hurry, Mommy. Hurry!”

  “I’m coming!”

  The gangway is lifting. “No!” She screams.

  They’re one hundred feet away. Less. Eighty feet. Seventy-five. Yet they’re pulling up the gangway. No point once that starts. But can’t they see them running? The man coiling the heavy ropes, his face outward, seemingly looking in their direction? How about the one on the wharf? Turn around and you’ll see us. Why won’t you?

  She’s beside the children now, the three of them running. Running towards freedom, she thinks, away from Kent, although the youngsters don’t know it. They’re hurrying because they think they’ll see their father at the end of the journey.

  Forty feet. Won’t make it. Gangway almost up. “Wait!”

  “Wait!” Lynette says.

  Even Jeremy says it.

  The man standing on the dock finally turns around. It’s Donny Boyle.

  “Please wait!” she says.

  He squints in her direction. “Emily?”

  She finally makes it to where Donny is. Stops. “Yes, it’s me,” she says, fighting tears.

  “You just missed her.”

  “No.”

  “Look at your hand why don’t yah.” He takes a step closer.

  Lynette starts to say something but Emily cuts her off, “We need to get on this boat.”

  �
�It’ll be back in a couple of hours, sure.”

  In a couple of hours, she thinks, Kent could very well be on board. Overnight for observation, the nurse from the Gander hospital had said last night. Released in the morning. Who’s to say that he hasn’t already been discharged? On his way to meet the ferry himself, probably.

  “No, Donny,” she says. “We can’t wait.”

  Donny casts a glance at the now completely-up gangway, then looks back at her, his hand smoothing the four or five days’ growth on his chin. “That hand’s a mess.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I can’t stop her now, my dear.”

  She takes him by the arm and drags him away from the children. Lynette starts to follow. “Stay with your brother,” she says.

  Lynette steps back with Jeremy.

  Once she’s far enough away, she whispers, “You have to. You have to stop her.”

  “I’d like to, but –”

  “Kent’s dying,” she says.

  It’s like Donny’s swallowed his tongue. “What?”

  “He was in a car accident last night and they don’t know if he’ll live.”

  Quiet for a second.

  “Jesus, Emily…I’m so sorry – ”

  “Don’t be sorry.” She grabs the collar of his jacket with her good hand. “Just get us on board. Please.”

  He pries her fingers off and then runs back to the ferry. Shouts to the man on deck who, a few moments ago, had been coiling the rope. “Emergency, Doug!”

  Amidst the swirling engine and another blast of the ship’s horn, Donny’s words get lost.

  “What?” Doug says after the sound of the horn subsides.

  “Emergency, I said! Hold for three more passengers!”

  “But the gangway’s up!”

  “Then lower it for Christ’s sake! It’s an emergency, I said!”

  Doug disappears up the stairs to the second level while Emily walks back to rejoin her children.

  Donny shoots her a look: squinted eyes below scraggly red brows, lower lip trapped beneath coffee-stained teeth, square jaw pulled taut because of those same teeth.

  She imagines the boat inching away from shore, a plane lifting off without them, then going back to that house, every room echoing the sounds of their near escape.

  Donny turns back to the boat – his hands on his hips.

  She stands there holding her wrist, the first pinpricks of pain starting to flutter in the hand. Still nothing though, she thinks, compared to the thought of not getting on board. Might as well have a broken neck or have all the air snuffed out of her lungs or have her heart stop right where she’s standing. No point in any of it if she can’t get on.