by kc dyer
“Honey—it was my fault. Don’t worry,” she soothes.
“Object overboard reported to be an empty car seat,” Customs Guy says into his radio, and then touches his earphone. “I—uh—no, I can’t confirm that.”
He glances back at the couple and says, “Roger that,” before replacing the radio in his belt.
“You two are going to have to come with me,” he says, and makes a sweeping gesture with his arms toward the Canadian side of the bridge.
The baby sneezes, thoroughly spraying both the father and Customs Guy in the process. I stare at the child in disgust.
Look. I cannot be happier the baby is safe, okay? Cannot be more delighted. That doesn’t stop me from wanting to murder her parents with my bare hands.
After being ushered back to the Canadian side, all the guards will say is that the bridge will be closed briefly.
“Pardon me for interrupting,” I say. “Before you go, can you open the door to let me through?”
Customs Guy looks at me as though he’s never seen me before.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says. “But there’s been an object overage incident on the bridge. Until it’s resolved, all traffic has to be halted.”
“But you’ve already returned my passport,” I say, and wave it at him. “Stamped it and everything.”
“We have to follow policy, ma’am,” he says.
“No one was hurt,” I say to the officer, whose gloved hand is gesturing firmly in a direction I do not want to go. “You can see the dad has the baby. It was only a car seat.”
He gives me the tight smile I’m sure he reserves for idiot tourists to whom he is forced to be polite.
“The bridge will be closed until the incident is declared resolved,” he says, reaching out a hand to guide me on my way.
I dodge his hand on instinct. Before I know it, I’ve bolted back inside the American customs area, and am pounding on the window at the woman who is still patiently settled on the other side.
Which is how I find myself with an armed escort, each holding one of my elbows, for the remainder of my march back across the bridge into Canada. Luckily, these guards are members of the Niagara Parks Police and not the RCMP. During the course of this march, I explain to them several times how I have a train to catch, how my uncle is being forced to sell his bookshop, and how I need to be back in New York City today. The guards, in turn, point out all the grounds on which they can arrest me.
By the time we step back onto solid ground, we have reached an agreement which involves me not being arrested on the condition I not set foot on the Rainbow Bridge again today.
I have enough sense left in me to obey.
A light drizzle begins to fall as I hurry away from the police lights flashing at the end of the bridge. It feels much colder than it should for this time of year, thanks to the icy wind swirling up from the water. Also, thanks to the fact that I was sweating my ass off in Singapore what feels like mere minutes ago.
The remaining tourists have done the sensible thing and gone to watch the 4-D version of the falls, inside where it’s warm.
Alone on the bank, I stare out glumly across the railing at the thundering waterway standing between me and the state of New York, and burst into tears.
* * *
—
Public displays of emotion are generally not my thing. Every time I’ve hit bottom on this trip—and thinking back over the last month, there have been plenty—I’ve had to duck into a shadowy corner somewhere to get a grip on myself.
This time, as the rain patters down and mingles with my tears, no one can tell. I’m the only idiot still standing out of doors beside the falls. Equal parts soaked and discouraged, I cross the street and step under a familiar green Starbucks awning, only to have the corner of it give way, cascading yet more water into my eyes. As I scramble to find a tissue in my pocket, I dislodge my wallet, which—naturally—falls in a puddle. After wiping my eyes, I use my last remaining tissue to dry off the outside of the wallet, and then check inside to ensure my passport is still dry. The handful of American bills are fine, and only the edge of a white card appears to have been soaked. It’s the card Dominic’s note is written on. The water has washed away his message.
The symbolism of this is not lost on me, but as I’m about to lose it completely, I turn the card over and Ganesh’s name leaps out at me. Dominic’s message may have been in water-soluble ink, but Ganesh’s info is printed with tougher stuff.
As I hold the soggy remains of the card, I remember his words to Dominic as he stepped off the Wahash Mahat.
“If you ever need any help, call. My whole family is on the sea. You never know—maybe we can assist.”
I brush away a stray raindrop and study Ganesh’s name, and his cell phone number.
The display on my own phone indicates I have two hours until the train departs from a station on the other side of a thin ribbon of water. A station I can almost see from here.
Two hours.
I lean against the damp Starbucks window, and start to text.
* * *
—
Even though it must be the middle of the night for him, when I send the text, I get a response almost immediately. To my surprise, he calls me.
“This has to be costing a fortune,” I gasp, instead of the usual hello.
I can hear the smile in his sleepy voice.
“We’re in port, and it’s FaceTime. Your message sounded a bit too urgent for text, eh?”
He’s right, so I give him the quickest rundown I can.
“I’ve run out of people to call, Ganesh. When I found your card, I remembered how . . .”
“There’s always a way,” he says, cutting me off. “If it was summer, I have an uncle who pilots the Maid of the Mist, but at this time of year . . .”
His voice trails off, and I think for a moment the line has gone dead.
“Hello?” I say, and then he’s back again.
“Leave it with me,” he says. “Give me five minutes. No planes, correct?”
“Right. No commercial aircraft.”
“Okay. Give me a few minutes, I’ll call you back.”
“Thank you,” I yell into the phone, but he’s already rung off.
I use the time to dash into the unisex washroom inside Starbucks. I’m reaching for the toilet paper when my phone rings again.
“Where are you?” Ganesh barks at me.
There’s such a thing as too much information. “In the Starbucks,” I hiss. Someone outside the cubicles is washing their hands. “Near the—I don’t know what it’s called. The promenade, I guess. Overlooking the falls.”
“American or Canadian?”
“Well, obviously I’m on the Canadian side . . .” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Which falls?”
“American,” I say quickly. I flush the toilet with my foot and hope it sounds like Niagara.
“Cross the street and look down,” he says. “Straight down. Tell me what you see.”
I yank up my yoga pants and dash out the door. On the street outside, I jaywalk right across the center of the block.
What have I become?
Gasping for breath after the mad dash, I drop my suitcase and lean over the railing. “I see a couple of little railcars for going up and down . . .”
“Funiculars,” Ganesh interrupts. “And below them?”
“There are a bunch of guys in yellow, running around two grey rafts—is that what you mean?”
“Ah—brilliant!” he says cheerfully. “Now, Romy, you have to move fast, understand? You should be quite near the entrance to the boat tours, yes?”
“Yep.”
“Is anyone near?”
“Nope.”
“Good. Jump the gate, then take the stairs beside the funicular. You n
eed to catch that Zodiac.”
“The raft? What do . . .”
“Just go! My uncle says they were supposed to leave already. If you make it, you have a chance.”
By the time he finishes this sentence, I’m over the railing and halfway down the stairs.
“Which one is your uncle?” I pant, trying not to slip as I clamber down. The iron stairs are corrugated, but covered in a thin layer of frost.
“My uncle is not there. But his friend Winston is SAR, and they have to go collect a baby seat that—uh—went over the falls, I think?”
“Right,” I say as I hit the rocky beach and aim myself at the group on the shore. One of the Zodiacs has already set out, but the other hasn’t left yet. A figure in yellow lifts a hand to me.
“He sees me, Ganesh. Thank you so much! Next time you’re in New York, I’ll take you for dinner.”
“Ha!” he replies. “Next time I’m in New York, your man can bake me some of that rum cake, eh?”
He rings off before I can explain.
* * *
—
So it seems that Ganesh’s uncle, the tourist boat captain, is friends with the head of nautical search and rescue. His name is Winston Tubbs, which I learn as he unceremoniously hauls me into the boat.
“Usually we’re fishin’ out bodies,” he says, tossing me a giant yellow raincoat. “The only reason I agreed to taking you is today’s target is apparently a baby seat, hopefully empty. Piece of cake job.”
He zips up his own coat to the neck and chuckles. “Also? I owe Shiv a favor. So this is your lucky day, baby girl. Now put that life jacket on and sit yourself down there.”
He points to a spot on the floor of the Zodiac near the back, and I do as I’m told.
Revving the engine, he follows the other boat out onto the Niagara River.
This close to the water, I can see the ice floating in jagged pieces, under the surface. It looks like we are flying across a mosaic of broken glass.
Within seconds, my hood has flown back and my face is frozen solid. I squeeze my eyes closed against the unrelenting cold.
In under a minute, the engine gears down and I risk opening my eyes again. The first Zodiac is bobbing nearby, and a yellow-clad figure near the prow of the boat is reaching into the water with a long hooked pole. He needs both hands to wrestle his catch into the boat, and in fact, the driver has to come forward to help. Seconds later, the missing car seat splashes onto the deck of the other Zodiac. As the driver makes his way back to the motor, the man in front holds up something to wave at us.
It’s a sodden and fully naked baby doll.
The other boat peels away, back to the landing stage, when Winston holds out a hand.
“Shiv tells me they stamped your passport?” he says. “Let’s see it.”
I dig it out of my bag and hand it over.
“Cause I ain’t riskin’ the law for smuggling no immigrant,” he says, peering closely at the stamp on the page.
Satisfied, he holds a thumb to the radio attached to his shoulder, says something into it, and points the prow of the Zodiac away from the falls.
“You taking the Amtrak?” he asks.
When I nod, he bends over the huge motor.
“Right then. We’ll go for a little ride upstream. Less notice that way, an’ closer to the station,” he says as the engine roars into life.
We speed past the bridge and around a little section of land near the far side in no time. Outside the immediate influence of the falls, a low fog rolls in over the water to greet us.
As the engine gears down, Winston waves me to my feet. “I’m gonna drop you at the old dock,” he says. “There’s steps up the side, but they’re steep and rickety, so take care, will ya? From the top, it’s less ’n a mile to the station, across the Scenic Parkway.”
He waves off my thanks as I clamber onto the dock with my suitcase. As I toss back his life jacket, it lands on the deck of the Zodiac beside him, but somehow my phone goes with it. Even though I drop to my knees and plunge both arms into the water, it slips away beneath the ice-crusted surface, and vanishes deep into the Niagara River.
Winston roars off into the fog without seeing what happened. In any case, there’s nothing to be done. I wring out my sleeves, and turn to face the precipitous wooden staircase, in the last light of this April day. Thanks to Ganesh, a Tamil sailor on a ship half a world away, I’ve made it back into the nation of my birth. After eleven countries—counting the stop in Singapore—only a single train ride stands between me and the end of this race. Clinging to the icy wooden railing, I scale the steps, which are as rickety as advertised, and race through the darkening streets of Niagara Falls, New York.
chapter sixty-four
No phone. No camera. No Insta post.
April 30
Niagara Falls, New York
Against all odds, the final train trip of the journey unfolds without a single mishap. This is possibly due to the worst having already happened. Now, I’ve not only lost Dominic, I’ve lost my phone too.
Nevertheless, I fall asleep in my seat almost instantly, waking long enough to stumble blearily to the washroom. Forgetting all my hard-won travel lore, I splash my face with water from the tap. It’s not as cold as the Niagara River, and it only revives me long enough to get back to my seat. The minute I pillow my hoodie under my head, I’m gone again.
I wake as the train slows, chugging a little, into the lights of the city.
My city.
Slinging my daypack over my shoulder, and clutching the handle of my suitcase, I step off the train onto the platform of Penn Station, a full minute before 11:00 p.m. on the 30th day of April.
I’m home.
* * *
—
The sleep has revived me somewhat, and I literally hit the ground running at the station. A deep longing for a large cup of highly caffeinated tea grips me, but there’s no time for that now. My suitcase is so light, I tuck it under one arm to make the running easier, and feel all my pockets for my phone—twice—before I remember it’s at the bottom of the Niagara River.
Glancing up instead at the mammoth old clock on the wall, I watch the minute hand move to four minutes after the hour as I flash my ticket at the sleepy employee by the gate. The fact that I finish this quest alone, exactly the way I began it, slams me with a pang of disappointment so strong, it makes my mouth taste sour. Taking a deep breath, I head up through the main concourse of the station. Merv and Tommy need this. It will be worth everything I’ve gone through.
It has to be.
I take the stairs two at a time up to the street. It feels so weird to be home, I have to stop at the top and breathe in the unmistakable New York smell, and get my bearings. If I go through to the subway at Herald Square, I can pick up the M line, which will take me right down to the ExLibris offices.
Above me, the lights of Macy’s gleam down, and there are tulips in the little garden boxes at each entrance.
The streets are still busy, and I even have to dodge a little traffic before the steps to the Thirty-Fourth Street Station appear. I thunder down, and then have to stop at the bottom to dig my transit pass out from the deepest pocket in my wallet.
As I run down the escalator, there’s a low rumble from the approaching train. I hit the platform as the train roars up, and the doors swish open. At this hour, there’s no crowd off-loading, so I step inside and drop my suitcase at my feet. Glancing up at the map above the door, I confirm I need to go two stops. Only two stops and I’ll be at ExLibris. I take a step forward to look up at the digital clock on the platform. It’s only 11:30.
I’m going to be early.
Outside, the whistle goes, and I step back as the doors slam shut in front of my nose. As I do, a figure comes shooting down the escalator, but the train has started to move. I catch a glimpse of long leg
s and flying dreads.
“Wait—Dom?” I yell, and run down the aisle inside the nearly empty car, but the train is moving too fast already. I smash my face against the window, but it’s too late.
“What the actual hell?” I mutter.
A drunk guy, flopped across a whole row of seats, peers up at me blearily.
“You givin’ up that suitcase, lady? ’Cause I could use a nice suitcase.”
I snatch it up, and go stand at the far end of the car.
* * *
—
By the time the train hits the stop at Twenty-Eighth, I have a plan. Leaping off, I race down to the far end of the platform, and position myself in the best strategic spot for watching the next train. If it was Dominic, he will have hopped on, and I will see him as it pulls in. If it wasn’t, I hop on and take it the final stop to ExLibris.
I’m so hyped up on adrenaline, I can’t stand still, so I pace in small circles near my spot. There’s no one on the platform, since all the waiting passengers have climbed aboard the train I just hopped off, which means there’s no one to side-eye my pacing, or more importantly, to make a play for my suitcase.
After five minutes, I start to freak out. Where’s the next train? I risk leaving the case where it is, and trot down closer to the electronic sign board, but where it usually lists the next arrival, only the current time is on display.
11:43, it says in red LED lights.
11:44.
At 11:47, I can’t stand it anymore. I know the trains become less frequent at night, but this is ridiculous. Where is it? They never stop before midnight. But it’s five full city blocks to ExLibris from here. Can I run five blocks in thirteen minutes?
What choice do I have? Walk in late, complaining of poor service on the MTA?
Not this New Yorker.
Clutching my suitcase, I fly up the stairs, and hit the exit turnstile at full velocity. By the time the tall tower housing the offices of ExLibris comes into view, I’m panting like a Mumbai street dog, but the iron clock on Fifth Avenue reads four minutes to midnight. The comparatively deserted streets of New York have helped, but my land speed has definitely improved on this journey.