She patted her face with toffee-coloured mineral powder from her compact, dusted rouge onto her cheekbones, and applied lipstick. Eye makeup was out of the question; between the shaking of her hands and the rocking of the train, she would probably put her eye out with the mascara wand. Satisfied that she looked better than she felt, she slowly walked back to her seat, holding on to the backs of other passengers’ seats.
She eased herself into her seat with a sigh of relief. Her ears tuned in to the sounds of clinking and rattling, which grew louder as Jeannie approached Suzette’s section of the train car, pushing a snack cart.
Suzette paid for a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a cup of tea.
“Crackers?” Jeannie asked, holding out two packages of soda crackers.
“Yes, please.” Suzette’s fingers brushed Jeannie’s as she took the crackers. The warmth of Jeannie’s touch reminded her of Anaaya’s hand in hers. “Thank-you,” she said, smiling up at Jeannie.
On instinct, she reached for her bag in order to test her sugars. As her fingers closed around the glucometer she stopped and slumped back against her seat. She had no insulin to take with this meal. Her last injection had been right before breakfast.
Suzette’s head hurt and her heartbeat quickened when she thought about missing her insulin injection and another dose of antibiotics. She imagined keeling over unconscious in her seat and poor Jeannie, green eyes filled with panic, notifying the conductor who would bring the train to an emergency stop at the nearest town where medical attention could be sought. She would die here in her seat before they could get her any kind of help.
Suzette told herself to stop being silly; she would be fine. The effect of her breakfast injection would have peaked by mid-morning and could last for the rest of the day if she ate very little. No use making herself sicker with worry. She would find a way to get insulin in Dorval or Kuujjuaq.
She drank the soup, leaving the noodles and the crackers, and drank her tea black.
Suzette breathed in slowly, checking to see how deep she could inhale before her lungs hurt and sputtered. She would be in Dorval in less than an hour and needed to think of a good strategy for getting her hands on medicine. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead and neck. Frowning, she swiped a napkin over her face and beneath the collar of her sweater. She fanned herself with the travel magazine and prayed for an idea to come to her. She needed to focus, not worry about things she couldn’t help.
Her heel thumped against the duffle bag under her seat, triggering an idea. Suzette recalled a former colleague complaining that an airline had lost his luggage. He had gone as far as accusing the baggage handlers of theft. Perhaps Suzette could claim that she had left the case containing her medicines in a washroom or passenger lounge at the station in Belle Rivière and had only realized it when the train was pulling into Dorval.
She knew it wouldn’t be that easy; she imagined every possible question the pharmacist might ask her and how she might counter them. Naturally, the pharmacist would have to check with her doctor to confirm her prescriptions. She supposed leaving the hospital without her doctor’s blessing made her a kind of fugitive and she imagined the worse case scenario: her doctor could insist that she terminate her trip and be escorted immediately to the nearest hospital, at which point she would flee the pharmacy, since turning back was not an option she was willing to consider. She wished she’d had more time to plan things out before leaving.
***
“Dorval Station. We have arrived at Dorval,” announced Jeannie, extending her arm to help Suzette out of her seat. Once Suzette was standing in the aisle, Jeannie bent down to get her bag from under the seat. Jeannie went through the open door of the train car and stepped onto the platform. She handed Suzette’s bag to a porter and helped her out of the train. Jeannie gave Suzette’s shoulder a gentle pat and said, “Good night.”
The porter asked her if she had any checked baggage to claim.
“No,” she said. “This is it. I am travelling light.” She did not see how she could divide her time and energy between looking for a pharmacy and catching a flight out of Pierre Elliott Trudeau. She took a breath and asked, “Where can I get a bus or a taxi to the airport?”
***
November 29, 1918 (Wolf Point)
The woman lay on a bed of animal furs with her eyes open. Her lips moved, but Claude could not hear what she was saying. Her chest rose and fell in jerking motions. She held on to the crying infant with one arm while the other arm lay limp at her side. A small boy, no more than a toddler, lay on top of her. Claude stared at the large birthmark that encircled one of his eyes. The boy’s body was bloated and stiff and Claude knew what that meant. He leaned in for a closer look at the woman.
“Drink… please… drink,” the woman whispered in Inuktitut.
Claude saw the dark spots inside her lips and on the palms of her hands. Death was imminent. He tore his eyes away and scanned the interior of the house for water.
Not seeing any drinking water, he leaned back with Marie still in his arms and turned his attention to the infant whose cries had drawn them there. Though Marie was a nurse, he did not want her to touch the woman for fear she too would become infected. He couldn’t lose Marie; she was everything to him.
The baby’s head was covered in thick black hair and her face was deeply flushed from crying. Marie pulled away from Claude before he could tighten his hold. “Marie, no,” he commanded, but Marie knelt next to the woman and stared at the small bundle squirming in her mother’s loose embrace. She reached for the baby and the woman’s eyes followed her movements.
Claude’s voice cracked as he urged Marie to leave the child alone. He laid a powerful hand on Marie’s shoulder in warning, but Marie’s back tightened and she leaned in closer.
***
March 7, 1991 (Dorval)
Suzette lowered her eyes and slumped against the First Air ticket counter.
“I’m sorry, madam, but that is impossible. As I said, there are no more passenger flights to Kuujjuaq leaving this airport today.”
First Air and Air Inuit were the only airlines flying to Nunavik out of Pierre Elliott Trudeau and neither had any flights to Kuujjuaq scheduled until tomorrow morning. Suzette closed her eyes and surrendered to the pain, tremors and tightness she had defied for hours. The ticket agent was speaking to her, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Suzette’s skin was hot and damp and she really thought she might faint. Her pulse raced. She didn’t want to pass out here. Or die. She needed to get to Kuujjuaq. Evan would be there. Evan would be able to help her. She believed in Evan - remembered his smile and trusted the heart behind it. It was Evan who told her of Anaaya. Evan will be there.
Suzette’s vision was so blurry she couldn’t make out the writing on the agent’s nametag. Her thoughts became frantic and crashed into each other like bumper cars.
“Madam!” Suddenly, the agent’s voice cut through loud and clear. She looked up and locked eyes with him. He laid a hand on the receiver of a telephone on his side of the counter.
“No!” snapped Suzette. “Don’t.” Breathing. “You.” More breathing. “Dare.”
His eyes grew round and his cheeks coloured. “Excuse me, madam, but you are sick, no? You almost fainted here.”
She squinted at the nametag pinned to his purple blazer and said, “Pierre, I don’t need a doctor. I am not going to the hospital.”
“But”—
“What I need,” said Suzette, looking him squarely in the eye, “is to get to Kuujjuaq by dawn tomorrow morning.”
“But I told you, madam. There are no planes flying out of here to Kuujjuaq until tomorrow morning, after dawn. The earliest you can arrive in Kuujjuaq is 10:30 a.m. There is nothing better you can do.”
“There is always something better a person can do. Now think. Please.” Her stomach twisted at the thought of Anaaya’s grave being opened without her being there.
Pierre sighed and drummed his f
ingers on the counter. The teacher in Suzette recognized his body language. Everything in his posture was directed downwards—shoulders, hands, chin, and eyes. He could be pushed. Persuaded, even. These thoughts strengthened Suzette and she stood straighter.
“Do you understand what I’m saying? I can’t wait until tomorrow. I must leave tonight.”
“Forgive me, madam, but may I ask why?”
Suzette’s body stiffened. It was an excellent question and it echoed in her mind. Why was she so driven to do this? She was about to panic at the seeming insanity that must have come over her, when the answer came through with perfect clarity.
“I have family business to attend to.”
Pierre inclined his head slightly and said, “I see.”
“A funeral, actually. I’m in charge of something special in the ceremony. I have to be there. “
“Well, madam, I am very, very sorry for your loss.” Suzette looked into his eyes and believed him. “Can you call the other members of your family who are already there and ask them to wait?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. She had no idea how to reach Evan Strauss. “What about driving? Is there a bus or a train I can take?”
“Unfortunately, there is no rail service into Nunavik and you cannot drive into Kuujjuaq or anywhere close to it.”
“What? This is Quebec, not Antarctica.” Did he think she was daft? “There is a road to go everywhere in Quebec.” She snapped her fingers a few times and asked, “What’s that road that goes north?”
“The James Bay Road?”
“Yes! That’s it. The James Bay Road. Is there no bus I can take up there?”
“No, ma’am. There has been talk about extending the road from Shefferville into Kuujjuaq, but so far that’s all there is—talk.”
“How can there not be a road? Or a rail service?”
“Well, madam” –
Suzette’s hands flew to her face and she groaned.
“Madam?”
“Good God!” She uncovered her face and looked up at the ceiling. “This is ridiculous.”
She heard a low rattling in her chest and blinked back the tears that so desperately wanted to fall.
A man in blue work coveralls rolled a mop bucket over to the adjoining ticket counter and began mopping up a puddle of brown liquid that could have been cola or black coffee. Stunned at her bad luck, she watched him work. Keys and white plastic cards jangled from a ring fastened to his belt. He was completely bald, and his face reminded Suzette of a walrus. Both of his forearms were covered in a colourful tangle of fantastical creatures.
“I am truly sorry,” Pierre said, “but I cannot make a miracle happen.”
Suzette oscillated between the compulsion to fight on and the thought of surrender. The word “miracle” flickered in her mind like a faint Morse code and she tried to hone in on it, but it was like trying to catch a little butterfly in her hands.
The janitor worked the mop closer to Suzette's coordinates and she caught a glimpse of wings feathered in blue, green and gold. Then she realized what she was looking at. Angels. Spiritual warfare inked on muscular forearms. She could have parted the long bristles of his moustache and kissed him on the lips.
Suzette studied the angel tattoos and formulated a plan that was so crazy it just might work.
She stood on her toes and leaned closer to Pierre. “Do you believe in angels?”
Pierre’s eyes once again grew round and he opened and closed his mouth a few times without saying anything. He seemed unsure as to how or even whether to answer her question. Then he straightened his shoulders and said, “Yes, I do.”
Bingo! Suzette felt like she was back in the classroom, coaxing young minds across the rickety rope-and-plank bridge that spanned the gap between ignorance and enlightenment.
Pierre furrowed his brow and asked, “Why?”
“It is important that we believe in something. Personally, I believe we can see angels in everyday life. What do you believe?”
He lifted his chin and said, “Actually, I am a firm believer in the presence and work of angels.” His head drew back slightly, as if he was unsure whether to expect reward or criticism for his confession. A muscle in his cheek twitched.
Suzette’s eyes bore into his. “What if I am an angel?”
“Madam?” A fresh sheen of perspiration coated his face. He licked his lips and took a long sip from the ceramic mug next to his keyboard.
“Does the bible not say that when entertaining strangers you could be entertaining angels?”
Pierre remained silent for a moment, resuming his earlier posture: shoulders, hands, chin, and eyes all turned down. “Well, yes, I think that is in the bible somewhere” -
“And am I not a stranger?”
“Well, yes. Yes, you are. I mean…we’ve never met, but… I don’t know.”
“What if I am an angel?”
“But you are not,” he said, his voice slightly higher. “I don’t think an angel would… well...”
He seemed flustered. It was a good sign. Suzette knew he had reached the point where he would have to fully accept her rationale or deny it. The odds were even.
“Are you saying you believe you are an angel?”
“What I am saying is simple.” She leaned back, gripped the edge of the counter and pulled herself close again. “Help me because I might be an angel and if I am, you would not want me to go back to God and point you out as the man who did not help me. Don’t be that man, Pierre. Simple as that.”
Pierre rested his elbows on the counter and clasped his hands together. There were dark hairs on his knuckles. He shook his head and said, “This is the strangest conversation I have had in a very long time.”
“Have a little faith, Pierre. Just as small as a mustard seed. That’s all you need.” She touched his forearm and said, “I have faith in you.”
Nicely done, she thought, smoothing out her clothes and putting both hands on the handle of the cart. She pursed her lips and hiked her eyebrows. Fixing him with her most authoritative look, she said, “I’m going to use the restroom.” She held that eye contact with him for a couple of beats and said with her eyes only, and when I get back, I expect a solution. She turned and left Pierre to wrestle with her unspoken demand.
***
November 29, 1918 (Wolf Point)
The sick woman lifted her chin and tried to speak. Her eyes blinked rapidly. At Marie’s touch, her grip on the infant tensed slightly. Claude noticed it. Marie must have noticed it, too, for she looked away briefly and drew in a deep breath before easing the baby girl out of her mother’s embrace.
Claude moved to Marie’s side and held his face so close to hers that the fur on her hood brushed his cheeks and eyelashes.
“Give it back,” he demanded in a furtive whisper.
But Marie refused to meet his gaze. She began wrapping the child more tightly in the soft animal skin and looking for additional coverings to shield the tiny body from the cold outside.
“No, Marie! I will not allow you to do this.” He grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to face him. “I forbid it!”
Just then a gurgling sound came from the woman’s throat. Her eyes opened wide and her chest rose in one final heave. Claude held his own breath, and searched her waxen face for some sign of life, but found none. His muscles bristled with rage. How could a divine God be so negligent?
Marie put her lips close to the baby’s face, and said, “I am your mother now. Yes, that’s right. Your mother.”
Claude’s jaw tightened and he stormed out into the biting cold.
***
March 7, 1991
Suzette leaned against the counter in the restroom and concentrated on her breathing. Her legs felt like rubber and she didn’t know how much longer she would last. She could stave off hyperglycemia by eating little, but hunger was taking its toll. Even if there was a way for her to get to Kuujjuaq tonight, she could go into a crisis while there or die along the way. There
was no pharmacy in the airport and she did not have the strength to travel into the city and look for one. Who was she kidding? She was no nurse. She didn’t know what she was doing.
She shuddered and warm tears filled her eyes. But it wasn’t despair that moved her. It was gratitude that flooded her soul and spilled down her cheeks. She thought of Claude and Marie, and how they had loved her; of the birth mother she never knew, that brave Inuit woman who died on the cold shores of a Nunavik river after giving birth to her; of Evan, whose bold visit had opened her mind to things she never thought possible; and of the nurses at St. Jo’s, especially sweet Monique who she hoped would forgive her for all the grief she had surely caused. And, she could not forget Stephanie, who worked so hard for her; a job that up until now, Suzette realized with remorse had been completely thankless.
She used some quarters from her change purse to buy feminine napkins from the dispenser. Inside a stall, she took off her pants and hung them on a hook. Next, she removed the soggy Depend undergarment, and none too soon because the gel-like stuffing was erupting from inside of it. She took a pair of clean underpants from her bag and lined them with the feminine napkins.
Once she was cleaned and dressed, Suzette stood for a moment, regarding herself in the mirror. She frowned and wondered if the pneumonia had affected her brain. What was she doing running away from the hospital, further and further from the medicine and care she desperately needed, and trying to manipulate people into moving mountains for her? She closed her eyes and admitted to herself that she was acting like a fool.
She opened her eyes and stared at her reflection. It was time to stop this. She had come as far as she could. Pierre had said there were no more flights and no buses or trains. It was time to take no for an answer. She had tried her best to be there for Anaaya, but she needed to end this journey now and look after her health. She lifted her chin and walked back to the First Air ticket counter, so depleted of strength that she could barely keep her shoulders from drooping.
At the counter, Pierre was leaning forward on his elbows with his chin resting on his knuckles. His expression was somber, but just as Suzette was about to begin her apology a brilliant grin parted his face, leaving her speechless.
Walking Through and Other Stories Page 26