Uncontrolled flight, p.29
Uncontrolled Flight, page 29
“Atta girl,” Sheldon says. “We’ll have a grand time.”
“We can get there on the twenty-second,” Nancy says. “Or else the night of the twenty-fourth. Not too many wanting to fly Christmas Eve, eh?”
“Any time is fine. Whenever you like.”
“Let’s go with the twenty-second. I’m booking it now, Sheldon.”
Frenetic tapping begins on the other end. Now that it’s done and she’s committed, Sharon sinks further into the pillow. “For heaven’s sake, don’t book a hotel. There’s plenty of room here.”
“No, no, no,” says Sheldon. “We don’t want you going to any trouble. You don’t need to be getting the place ready or having a bunch of people underfoot. Not this year.”
There is silence on the line. The ways in which this Christmas will be unlike any other — it’s been on Sharon’s mind all fall. In October, when Sheldon and Nancy first invited her to spend the holidays with them, she’d dismissed the idea: Halifax would feel too foreign, too far outside her comfort zone. For the same reason she’d ruled out a cruise. It was bizarre to think of sailing away for Christmas, even though Colleen had offered to accompany her, horrified that her sister might spend the season alone on the high seas and unpersuaded by the argument that no one is alone on a cruise. Sharon knows that piling one alien experience on top of another at this time of year will only topple the precarious life she’s constructed since summer. A visit from Sheldon and Nancy will be familiar, a glimmer of life as it used to be.
“I mean it,” she says. “It’s no trouble. I’d like it if you stayed here.”
“If you’re sure then,” Sheldon says. “But you change your mind, just say the word. We’ll do this whatever way’s easiest for you.”
Nancy pipes up. “And … we’re booked. Evening of the twenty-second. Be there in time for dinner.”
“You go back to sleep now,” says Sheldon. “We’ll see you in a few weeks.”
After saying goodbye she lies still a moment, eyes shut. His voice is not as deep as Rafe’s and his Nova Scotia accent is thicker, but the cadence of Sheldon’s speech is identical to his brother’s. “You go back to sleep now.” Rafe always said that when he had to work early. Then he’d lean over and kiss her forehead. “I’ll love you all the day long.” His own special farewell to her.
She misses him still, in spite of everything. It is a complicated ache.
The mattress shifts as Will leans over to take the phone from her and place it in its charger. He hovers but she’s no longer ready. He must know: he returns to his side without touching her.
Eyes closed, she lets her mind drift. The last time she heard Sheldon’s voice was over six weeks ago, mid-October, after the Transportation Safety Board released the draft report on the Tracker. As next of kin she’d received an early copy. Three times she read it and three times got the same message: the elevator trim may have malfunctioned and forced the plane down. Rafe’s long experience was noted, as was his accident-free record. The report ruled out many factors — fatigue, alcohol, drugs, medical issues — and described the flight circuit as routine. There was no evidence to suggest that Rafe had done anything wrong. Pilot error was never mentioned.
At the end of her third read, the fear she had quietly nursed for months fell away. He was exonerated. He’d made no mistakes that fatal morning. No matter what his state of mind, he went up and performed his perilous job flawlessly, same as always. She stared at the slim report, which had arrived by courier, “Protected” stamped across the cover page. It wasn’t me, she thought. I didn’t kill him.
She went out to the side yard that October day, desperate for air, and steadied herself against the rough bark of the witch hazel. It was a fear she was barely conscious of harbouring, the fear that their separation and the upheaval it caused might have contributed to the crash. Even though they’d reconciled that day in the park, and a new start awaited them, she had made him work for it. She had made him beg. What does that do to a man’s confidence? The question had lurked unasked at the back of her mind. Now, thank God, she had an answer.
One question the report did not address, however, at least not directly, was what precisely caused the crash. Her careful readings could not tease out an answer. The elevator trim may have malfunctioned. Did it or didn’t it? If a trim problem didn’t cause the crash,what did?
Doubt gnawed at her long enough that she finally emailed a scan of the report to Sheldon. She’d been cautioned not to share the draft, but he was family, she reasoned, and had as much right to the truth as she did — maybe more, having shared his younger brother’s life from beginning to end.
He called the next day. “I see where you’re coming from. It’s a shifty bit of writing. The finessing that must’ve went into it. That’s the feds for ya.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Seems like they think the trim got stuck and forced his plane down.”
“But they don’t come out and say that was the cause.”
“Well, they can’t, now. At least that’s how it looks to me. They only got the say-so of that witness, whoever it was Rafe talked to before takeoff, and that wouldn’t be enough. They’d need some proper evidence to go further.”
“So they haven’t really come to a conclusion.”
“You could say that. Or you could say there’s lots of conclusions. There’s lots of things they haven’t named as the cause. They can’t find anything wrong with the engines. They rule out the weather. They rule out visibility, seeing as how the fire wasn’t massive and most of the smoke was underneath them, not around them. He had the right amount of fuel and retardant, so the weight and balance wasn’t an issue. Doesn’t seem he went against orders or made a bad decision, or did anything wrong at all. Way I see it, that says a lot right there. Those’re all conclusions about what’s not the cause.”
“I take your point. But still …”
“You wanna know for sure.”
“Well, yes. Don’t you?” In the background metallic clanging rang out, like cars smashing in a derby. “Everything all right there?”
“Oh, it’s fine, it’s all fine. That’s just Aaron having conniptions in the kitchen. Him and his brother are supposed to be cooking dinner. At least I think that’s what they’re up to. For our anniversary.”
“Sheldon! I completely forgot.”
“No, no, no, don’t you worry about that. It’s not till next week anyways. Just this is the only time they can come over. They’re like friggin CEOs or something, the two of them, between the jobs and the sports and the girlfriends and the gym and the I don’t know what, they’re booked up months ahead. I want a hand stacking firewood or putting up the storm windows, I gotta make an appointment for chrissakes.”
“Dad! Quit exaggerating!” It was a rich baritone that boomed out, a man’s voice. How long had it been since she’d talked to the boys? They flew out for the funeral, but did she speak to them? She must have, can’t imagine ignoring them. Yet the memory was lost, like so much of that dreadful day.
Now she will make new memories by spending Christmas with Rafe’s brother, in the rain, in her cramped townhouse, no rowdy boys underfoot to lighten the mood. She comes to. Glances over at Will, hands behind his head, eyes closed. Maybe asleep.
There will be one boy.
The realization lands slow and hard: Will. How does he fit into this holiday reunion? How can she explain that there is a man in her life, in her bed, mere months after the death of Sheldon’s beloved brother? And not just any man — Rafe’s flying partner. She cannot fathom it herself. How can she expect them to? She has made a mistake, a terrible mistake. Now it’s too late. The flights are booked, the plans made. How could she have been so thoughtless? She flings one arm over her eyes as if to block out the morning’s developments.
Will isn’t asleep. He rolls over and taps her bent elbow. “Hey. Look at me.”
She presses her arm tighter.
“You doing that hungover actress thing?” He pokes her side, trying to rouse her. “Should I bring you your diamond eye mask? No? Your little dog then? Poochie always makes you laugh.”
She doesn’t move, will not smile.
“A crust of toast? Dry toast, of course, never butter. Scotch on the rocks? No? How about that big blond gardener who’s always raking out back with his shirt off?”
She can’t help it; her mouth twitches.
“I saw that.”
She shakes her head, keeping her arm in place.
“You smiled.” He plucks her arm away and kisses her eyelids. “You can’t help yourself. I am too hilarious to withstand.”
She purses her lips and blows a jet of air into his face.
“What?”
“You said withstand.”
“So?” His mouth grazes her jawline.
“So who ever says that? No one actually speaks that word out loud.”
“Says who?”
“I’ve worked in libraries. I know these things.”
“Mmm, the sexy librarian.” He is kissing her neck now. “All quiet and bookish, then off come the glasses, down goes the hair, and boom, she’s a hottie. She winks at you, then waves, and before you know it you’re in.” His tongue touches her earlobe.
“That’s pretty fast. You sure you didn’t skip a step or two in the whole seduction process?” She guides his head down to her breasts, still baffled by her unflagging desire and her new brazenness.
“Nah.” He kisses one nipple, then the other. “Librarians are always ready to go.”
He rolls on top of her and she feels his hardness pressing her. She parts her knees and in he slides, easy, effortless. He knows the way. Deep inside, in a place both intimate and foreign to her, a place she has never touched or seen, she feels every thrust, each one going farther than the last until she is sure he will push up through her throat, and she wants him to, wants some invisible part of her to rip open and let him, impossibly, all the way in. Never, ever, has she felt like this.
“Will,” she breathes. “Spend Christmas here with me.”
Part
Three
Flight
Thirty-Three
Twenty-one weeks after
I’ve always thought Christmas was overrated. Only now that it’s fashionable to scoff at all the hype, the canned music, the dollar-store decorations, to disapprove of the excess packaging and the consumerism, I find myself kind of wishing I didn’t. Who wants to be part of a trend?
The aversion goes way back. When I was a kid and my mom was still alive, it seemed that Christmas wound you up only to let you down. Mom always went big. She put aside her translation work for two weeks and dove right in, shopping, baking, sending cards, putting up lights, making wreaths, wrapping way too many presents, inviting people over for cider, taking gifts to neighbours and random people like her hairdresser. There was no such thing as too much. The closer we got to the big day, the more she stressed about getting it all done, and doing it all perfectly. Every detail had to be just so, like a translation, I guess. By the time Christmas Eve arrived, the three of us were worn out. It’s like those store-bought birthday cakes you think you want, neon icing and candy sprinkles and your name on it, but then you get one and from the first bite it’s too much, so sweet it’s sickening.
After Mom died, we didn’t have the heart to do anything special. We had some pretty bleak Decembers, my dad and I. Mostly they involved ignoring the calendar as long as possible, usually until Christmas Eve, at which point my dad would mumble some apology for forgetting to put up a tree and I would say I didn’t care. On Christmas Day we went to my aunt’s, my dad’s sister’s, for turkey. Sitting at her table with a bunch of cousins and the occasional stray neighbour, we’d act like the people we used to be, warm, laughing people who loved our family and enjoyed trading stories over eggnog and shortbread, when what we really were were shells, the living matter sucked out of us, our casing still intact but so brittle that it would take one person, with one careless step, to crush us into powder.
Last night’s West Air Christmas party took me back to those dismal years when the joy was fake and the smiles were forced, and the person who mattered most was the one who wasn’t there.
This year Jeff chose the North Shore Lodge, a 1920s ski chalet turned conference centre in a wooded area at the base of the North Shore mountains. The place was decked out: pine boughs framing the windows, wreaths on every door, red candles and mistletoe and logs blazing in the eight-foot-high fireplace. Before dinner I wandered the dining room, mulled wine in hand, saying hi to guys I hadn’t seen since September, hearing tales of scuba diving in Mexico, skiing in Banff, kitchen and bathroom renos, and, in the case of our youngest and newest pilot, a knifepoint mugging on a beach outside Cartagena. Over it all hung a thick sheet of artifice because of what we didn’t talk about. Not one person mentioned Rafe.
I get it. It’s a party, the wives and girlfriends are there, you want to keep it light. But for such a central person to be missing, a dynamic, attention-stealing person — well, his absence rang loud. To me, the crater he left behind far surpassed the physical space he’d occupied.
So I was relieved when at fifteen minutes to prime rib Ernie stumbled in, cheeks red from outside, black hair standing up like the bristles of a boot scraper. Every year Jeff invites the provincial air attack officers and every year they send their regrets, scattered around the province and a marginal part of our flying world as they tend to be. Ernie’s the exception. Most years he uses the gathering to escape from Vernon, where his extended family goes a little nuts in the lead-up to the holidays, getting on each other’s nerves and taking sides and breathing life into old resentments that lie dormant the rest of the year. Judging by his worn-out eyes, I figured this year was no different.
“Hey man, good to see you.” I pointed at his hair. “Your new look?”
“Heh. Shit.” He ran a hand over his head to smooth down the brush, which instantly returned to vertical. “Pain in the ass hair. One day I’m gonna give up and shave it all off.” He beamed at me. “Good to see you, bro. Lookin’ good.”
“Doing what I can.” I was more pulled together than usual, in a pale blue shirt and slim-fitting sports jacket that Sharon had helped me buy.
“Who you with?” It was the question I always got, and Ernie asked it the same way every guy did, looking not at me but all around, curious about the leggy beauty who should’ve been a few steps away awaiting an introduction.
This year I had no one to show. There was never any question of bringing Sharon. When the invitation came in mid-November, right after we got together, I considered not telling her but then realized how stupid that would be. She went to the West Air bash every Christmas; of course she knew there’d be one this year. So I gave her the when and where, but before I could frame the question she smiled and said, “You go and enjoy it.” And that was the end of it.
“I’m on my own.”
“Seriously?” Ernie went all wide-eyed, as if I’d said I brought a pony.
“What’s with everyone? I’m not allowed to enjoy my own company once in a while?”
He shook his head slowly, his gaze somewhere in the region of my knees. Not much of an eye-contact man, our Ernie. “Oh-kay.” He drew it out. “If you say so. But it’d be a first. Heh. Definitely a first.”
“Screw you.” I downed the last of the mulled wine, my third cup.
“Just sayin’, you always get the ladies.” He chuckled as he surveyed the festive decor. “Not like me, eh?”
“Christ almighty, not this again. I keep telling you, you’d get ladies if you ever talked to them. There’s no accounting for the women who walk this earth, but they have a weird preference for men who say actual words to them, like, out loud. Silent guys who stand there staring at the floor, not so much.”
“Heh, heh. You’re a card.” His smile split his wide face. “You should be dealt with.”
“Come on, Leno. Let’s get some seats.” I steered him to a table where the new pilot, the one who’d been mugged, was settling himself and his shimmering girlfriend onto two of the six chairs. I figured the Colombian exploits of a guy who barely knew Rafe beat an evening of bullshit small talk with a bunch who did. Evidently no one else agreed, because the last two chairs at our table stayed empty.
The evening played out as these things do. We discussed the weather, then Colombia, then backpacking in South America, then surfing in Tofino (my meagre contribution). We ate salad, beef, Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes, peas. Slices of frozen Yule log topped with smashed raspberries. Ernie smiled a lot and offered the occasional schoolyard joke, every one of which collapsed the new pilot’s girlfriend into giggles that brought tears to her sparkle-lidded eyes. I had to hand it to Ernie — he was almost talking to a woman. Granted, she wasn’t an available woman, and he never spoke to her directly, but as the evening wore on and her laughter met with increasingly forced smiles from her boyfriend and me, it became clear the humour was for her benefit.
“Oh, God,” she said, breathless after an especially energetic burst. “You are too funny. I have to visit the ladies’ room before I pee myself.”
She sauntered off, unsteady on her high heels, and her boyfriend quickly fled to the bar, where the server was cracking open the hard stuff. Ernie toyed with his unused wineglass while I beckoned the waitress over to top up mine. She obliged, throwing in a sweetly lopsided smile for good measure. I drank off a third of the glass, which, I might add, had been refilled an untold number of times. I briefly wondered how I’d get home now that driving was no longer an option.
“Thirsty, eh?” Ernie coughed up a brief version of his trademark cackle, but his eyes weren’t laughing.
“What the hell. ’Tis the season.”
The party’s clamour closed around us. A peal of female laughter soared, then fell back into the general din. At least the women were having a fine time. Ernie twirled his wineglass some more and addressed the tablecloth. “So, how you doing?”
