Algoma

by Dani Couture

  Delirious with pain, her judgment skewed by drugs, Algoma looked at Ferd’s face with a dreamy expression and called out, “Leo.”

  Ferd’s eyes grew wide. Leo had returned, just as he had prophesied.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

  Algoma smiled, put her head back into her pillow and shut her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  ______________

  3:03 p.m. 18°C. Wind unknown.

  Recycled air. Dull roar of a thousand parts.

  Gaetan stared down at the dense land of northern Ontario below. The mottled forest was punctuated by kettle lakes and winding rivers that looked like mercury when the sun hit them. From this altitude, the clear-cut lands looked inverted, like islands rising above the trees. He could see where the workers had tried to hide the damage, leaving up thin ribs of trees along the roads. The appearance of undisturbed land. And behind the scrub, logging trucks hauled away lumber, like organ thieves emptying a body.

  Gaetan fell asleep and when he woke up the plane was over the prairies. From a distance everything looked like something else. An ox bow river was a great looping signature. The ragged edges of dry river bed looked like an old woman’s pursed mouth. Square patchwork fields were replaced by circular ones—endless pie charts of wheat and soybean.

  He pulled the in-flight magazine out from the pouch in front of him, its edges dog-eared, greasy thumbprints on the cover. He flipped through the pages until he found the menu and spent a great deal of time assessing each option, giving more thought to what he was going to eat than to where he was going, or what he was going to do when he got there. That morning, he had left the hospital and gone to his apartment to pack a suitcase. He’d called and left a message for the building’s caretaker, that she could keep or toss whatever was in the apartment. He left a second message at the bar saying he wouldn’t be in for his next shift or any other shift.

  “I’m sorry,” he’d said into the receiver, but he wasn’t. He’d requested that his last cheque be sent to Algoma and recited her address, providing no explanation about who she was. “Just make sure she gets it.”

  It was getting easier and easier to leave things now that he had practice. The thought of Algoma and Ferd filled him with a warm nostalgia, as if they were his ancestors or characters in a novel he’d read.

  Gaetan tapped the menu with his finger. Pizza. He would have the chicken and feta pizza for dinner. And a beer. Domestic. He turned his head toward the window and was lulled back to sleep by the murmuring conversation of the passengers around him. The next time he woke, it was to the white blindness of complete cloud cover. A milky sea lapping up against his portal window. His hand prickled as feeling returned to it.

  “Can I get you anything from the menu?”

  Surprised, Gaetan jumped in his seat.

  “I’m sorry,” the stewardess apologized. “Would you like something to eat or drink?” She motioned toward the food cart and smiled, but her eyes were flat and expressionless. She looked tucked into her tight polyester uniform and seemed to resent his inability to make a decision. “I can come back, if you want.”

  After the stewardess rolled on, Gaetan ate his cold pizza and lukewarm beer in silence. He looked outside. At first he thought he was looking at two layers of clouds, one much lower than the other, yet as his eyes refocused, he saw there was only one layer of clouds. The second lower layer of white was snow—they were flying over the Rocky Mountains. The black ridges of the mountains looked sharp enough to cut air.

  Instinctively, other passengers started to move around and put away their belongings. They were almost there. Gaetan took a bite of his pizza and allowed himself to imagine the plane crashing into the mountains, the wreckage and fire that no one would see. The plane trembled and the seat belt light blinked on. He tried to think of something else.

  There were no mountains back home, only one large hill that everyone called “The Mountain.” Gaetan had never had the heart to remind people that The Mountain was a reclaimed land fill. Even people who had lived in town for eighty years or more couldn’t remember a time before The Mountain was there, a backdrop to their lives. It had grown with them and was part of them. A single man-made path wound round the hill, going all the way to the top where teenagers went to drink at night. The “summit” was always littered with cigarette butts, broken glass, and the occasional half-burnt log from a late-night bonfire.

  The captain announced over the intercom that they would begin their descent shortly: “The weather in Vancouver is sunny. Twenty-two degrees. Welcome and enjoy your stay. Please ensure that you take all of your belongings with you. Thank you for flying with us. We hope to see you again.” The nose of the plane dipped down like a nod of approval, or recognition of the inevitable.

  As the plane finally circled around in preparation for landing, Gaetan sat up straight and looked out the window. A view of the calm ocean gave way to the dark mud flats along the shore. He clutched his arm rests and hoped for a smooth landing. For the first time since he’d left, he felt the cool empty space on his ring finger as keenly as if the ring were still there.

  The wheels touched ground and the plane bounded and screeched before moving into a slow parade-float roll. Even before the seat belt light was turned off, passengers flipped open their cell phones and started dialling the people who were likely waiting for them on the other side of the arrivals gate. He pictured the expectant faces on the other side of the glass, some holding flowers, others the keys to the cars that would drive them home.

  The plane seemed to taxi forever along the tarmac, choosing new paths to a familiar destination. Impatient to arrive, passengers began to move around in their seats. They shifted their weights, looked at their watches, checked the zippers on their carry-on luggage. They looked at their seats to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything—a book, toys, earphones. They patted down their pockets, flipped open wallets to stare at their ID, their own faces floating beneath the plastic.

  Inside the terminal, the luggage carousel jolted to life. Gaetan stood at the edge and carefully looked at each suitcase that passed in front of him. His suitcase was the seventh to show up, but he refrained from picking it up, instead watching it spin around in slow lazy circles along with the others. Each suitcase, except for his, had some kind of personal identifier to set it apart from the others: red scarves, twine, or string; children’s stickers stuck to the wheels; Mayan designs painted with Wite-Out; freehand needlepoint. Gaetan looked at his suitcase. It was uniformly black with no special markings, nothing to tether it to him or him to it, so he felt no regret when he left it behind.

  ______________

  5:14 p.m. 22°C. Wind NW, strong.

  Waves like loose hair across the river.

  A girl.

  As soon as the delivery room door opened, Ferd lunged toward the opening, escaping the many octopus arms of his aunts who reached out to grab him. He ran down the hall and past the bank of elevators. At the end of the hallway, he reached the stairwell and took two steps down at a time, nearly keeling over with each leap, his legs not long enough to match his commitment.

  On the landing for the third floor, he paused. There was a man standing in the corner. A patient dressed only in a pale blue hospital gown and paper slippers. Ferd could see the angry tip of a healing heart surgery scar peek over the collar of the gown. In one hand, the patient held up his IV bag, and in the other hand, a cigarette. The man pointed at Ferd with his half-smoked cigarette: “Shhh…”

  Ferd backed up slowly and continued down the stairs.

  On the main floor, he raced through the maze of obstacle-filled hallways until he found an exit that wasn’t locked or wouldn’t set off an emergency alarm. He burst outside, nearly bowling over a woman on crutches, and ran across the main visitors’ parking lot.

  “Where are your manners?” she yelled out as he ran aw
ay, shaking her crutch at him.

  When Ferd reached the other side of the parking lot, he slowed down to see if anyone was following him. There was no one, only row on row of empty parked cars glinting in the sunlight. He waited another minute, half expecting, half hoping, one of his aunts, or even his mother, would come out.

  A girl.

  His uncle had been right. Ferd turned away from the hospital and ran, his thin arms pumping up and down as he blasted through parks and over hot asphalt. He ran until he could taste blood at the back of his throat, a hot metallic tang. His lungs burned like twin hot air balloons taking him further and further away from everything.

  The day was bright and the sun was a high white orb in the sky, the air as clean and clear as liquid glass. Everything shimmered. Everything looked sharp. When he reached the centre of town, the streets and sidewalks were overflowing with people. A street fair. All around him, the burnt-sugar smell of cotton candy and the bright blinking lights of the poorly constructed rides. There was even a frog ring toss. His favourite. Throw a ring around a plastic frog and win a stuffed animal.

  “Try your luck, kid. Three rings for a dollar,” the barker yelled. “You feeling lucky?”

  Ferd looked at the man’s ill-fitting clothing, his yellow fingernails and thinning hair, and ran. He pushed his way through the sweaty bodies, using his elbows like paddles to dig into fleshy hips and stomachs.

  The river.

  That his mother could betray him this way was treason. She was no longer welcome in his country, his world. The girl—his sister—was not family. She was a butcher bird who had murdered for the nest, usurped his brother’s place.

  Ferd cut through a familiar alley until he reached the trail he was looking for: a shortcut that led to the bridge. By the time he reached the first wooden slat of the walkway, his legs gave out beneath him. He stumbled, falling hard on his hands, slivers of wood threaded through his palms. He picked himself up and looked in both directions. No train. The rails were unbroken rays of steel that shot out in two directions. Ferd put his hands on the rails. They were cool and still. Despite the good weather, there was no one on the bridge. They were all in town at the fair, buying tickets, eating corn dogs, being spun dizzy on cheap rides.

  What was his mother doing now? Had she already named the girl? She’d probably already forgotten about him. It was probably what she’d wanted all along: a new family.

  Ferd was half-way across the bridge when he noticed something in the water below. He stopped. A small island appeared to be making slow progress across the widest part of the river. He leaned over the railing and looked down.

  A black bear.

  His already thin chest deflated. He tried to regain his breath, but it was gone. Even from the bridge, Ferd thought he could hear the splashes of water as the animal’s legs punched the surface with each stroke.

  The railing was all that separated him from the animal below. Awkwardly, he clambered over the top rung. The hot metal had the names of a hundred teenagers carved into the layers of paint. An ephemeral memorial.

  Stefanie and Leesa BFF.

  Roger was here ’94.

  Mary Lou Rulz.

  Once over the railing, Ferd stood on the thin rusting lip of the bridge. His narrow body arched out like a bow as he steadied himself.

  He looked down.

  The black mass was directly beneath him now. It looked like a planet slowly escaping an undesirable orbit one huff at a time.

  Ferd closed his eyes and tried to picture Leo, but all he could picture was a reflection of his own face as he saw it every morning in the bathroom mirror. Despite the sun, his hands were cold and his body chilled. The wind had picked up. The tail of his too-large white T-shirt—his father’s—waved like a surrender flag.

  He released one hand from the railing, flakes of multicoloured paint sticking to his palm, and then the other, leaving behind an audience of teenage autographs, knife-carved professions of undying love and friendship, for his ride below.

  ______________

  5:30 p.m. 21°C. Wind NW, strong.

  Clean windows like frozen puddles.

  A small bell tinkled as Josie pushed the door to the toy store open. On entry, she was offered two options—the left aisle or the right—and both were equally terrifying. To the left: pastel lions, giraffes, and bears piled three deep on glass shelves; the animals’ thick glass eyes sparkled under the round light fixtures that hung from the ceiling like disembodied pregnant bellies. To her right: dozens of glassy stalactites, high-end baby bottles, their pink and yellow rubber nipples erect and pointing toward the ceiling. All of it so new. Objects with no stories or history.

  “Get in and get out,” Josie whispered to herself. Her hands hovered nervously at her sides, her fingers twitching.

  “Can I help you?” the shop girl asked, her voice high-pitched like a child’s.

  Startled, Josie uttered a small yelp and flushed in embarrassment. The girl had appeared out of nowhere. Her dark brown hair was pulled up into a high ponytail that bounced every time she spoke. Trampoline hair. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, Josie thought. What did she know about babies? “No, I’m fine,” Josie stuttered. “I’m just going to take a look.”

  She veered toward the stuffed animals, her elbow taking out a half dozen in one shot. “Oh Christ, I’m sorry,” she apologized and rushed to pick them up. The shop girl bent down and picked up a stuffed bear and cooed into its dead eyes: “Dere you go Sergeant Brown. All beddar.” She propped him up on a pile of folded afghans. “Don’t you look tough!”

  Determined to get out of the store as quickly as possible, Josie took a deep breath and stuck her hand into a mountain of stuffed animals and pulled out whatever she grabbed first: a pony. It had a white spot of fur in the shape of a heart on its narrow forehead. Its tag read: My name is Sammie. I’m yours. Love me and take care of me. Josie tucked Sammie under her arm and quickly scooped up a half dozen baby bottles, a yellow receiving blanket with pink trim, and a small sun hat that she could picture Algoma wearing if it were adult-sized.

  At the counter, the shop girl, her cheeks perpetually flushed, her face radiating obscene joy, gushed over the pony.

  “She’s my favourite,” she said. “Makes me wish I had someone to give it to.”

  Josie could swear the girl’s eyes were beginning to well up. “Can you wrap all of it up? Fast?”

  In the parking lot, Josie loaded the brightly wrapped packages into the passenger seat of her truck and used the seat belt to secure them in place. Seated in the driver’s seat she sighed. “In and out. In and out.” She turned the key in the ignition and drove toward the hospital.

  ______________

  5:50 p.m. 21°C. Wind NW, strong.

  Housefly crawling through the rip in the screen door.

  Algoma had given birth. A girl. Bay listened as her sister happily described the newborn over the phone, the child’s tight and angry face, her impossibly small nails.

  “She’s good luck, I know it.”

  “You should really name her after me, you know,” Bay said. “I could show her the ropes.” Algoma’s laugh stung. It was the laugh of someone who hadn’t even considered the idea for a second. Bay tried a different approach. “How’s Ferd doing with all of this?”

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “He ran out,” Algoma said. “But he’ll be fine. He’ll come back soon. Steel’s out looking for him.” She didn’t sound sure.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Bay said. “I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

  Algoma said she was getting out in a couple of hours. “I just want to go home.”

  “I’ll see you soon,” Bay said and hung up the phone. She turned off the ringer. Joy was exhausting.

  Early evening light spilled in through the windows of B
ay’s house. There was no need to turn on a light. She went into her study and sat down at her desk. She picked up the hospital bracelet that was sitting beside her computer and tried to wrap it around her wrist. The ends had been destroyed when it had been ripped off, so that it wouldn’t stay on.

  While Bay did not believe in good luck, she believed in bad luck. Superstitious, she thought it a mistake to keep a hospital bracelet, yet she’d held onto this one after it had come in the mail the week before. She wondered what the mail carrier had thought when she’d delivered it. Port had kept both bracelets she’d “earned” in recent years from the two concussions she’d had: one from skiing, the other from one too many drinks at a house party paired with an unforgiving oak window sill. Despite Bay’s constant insistence that Port throw them away, she kept them. They were souvenirs from a trip where she had been able to forget the bad details.

  “A collection only grows,” Bay had warned her sister.

  Port had rolled her eyes.

  Bay ran a finger over the laser-printed details on the plastic bracelet: G. Beaudoin. There was also some sort of hospital identification number. She turned her computer on and searched for hospitals in Toronto and called every one she could find. Most of the operators were reluctant, bound by privacy laws, they said, and were unable to tell her anything. Finally, someone let slip that, yes, they’d had a patient by that name, and yes, he had been discharged, but the operator had stopped short of telling her why he had been hospitalized in the first place.

  “Are you his wife?” the operator asked.

  The line crackled. Bay stalled.

  “Hello. I said, Ma’am, are you his wife?”

  Bay pressed the receiver button to end the call, but continued to hold the earpiece tightly in her hand. She listened to the dull hum of the dial tone, as if it would reveal some mystery to her. If Gaetan had been discharged, he had to be okay. She examined the bracelet further to see if it would give her a sign, but there was nothing. What she did know, however, was that the bracelet did not belong to her.