YVR

As it turned out, she had never before boarded a plane.

Moira had worked at Vancouver International Airport for near twenty years, had seen countless passengers come and go, had even held a few boarding passes when she needed to chase down those passengers who dropped them or plain forgot to take them once they’d paid for their coffee. It was remarkable how many people were so careless when it came to their travel documents – not so much by being oblivious to personal security, Moira thought, but more so for the fact that they were leaving behind their golden ticket. Moira held those cards as though she were holding the Host, a blessed sacrament. 

In the name of the pilot, the cabin crew, and the holy wings that could transubstantiate you anywhere else in the world; that could transform your life and take you away. A Holy, wholly spiritual document that people could so easily discard. 

Moira would chase these careless passengers down and hand over their tickets. They’d smile, act flustered or grateful, or sometimes (somehow) seem inconvenienced by having yet another Pilipino woman cleaning up after them. 

No, Moira had never been on a plane, but when she held those golden tickets she could squeeze dreams out of the paper, could rub her thumb over those three letter acronyms for escape and freedom, and allow herself to hope for a better life somewhere else. 

12hrs till boarding

Because she was the manager of the coffee shop, she had the keys and the full responsibility from open till close. The days working, she assumed, were not all that dissimilar to a 12hr flight. Fussing about for preparation, mis-en-place like the safety video and crosschecks, followed by a rapid acceleration to take-off once the espresso machine had heated up, and the morning rush of customers had snatched up their drinks. A smooth commute for the most part. Turbulence here and there – a petulant customer, a wrong order, followed by a gentle descent and landing into the end of the day where she could disembark and close up shop in an airport that never seemed to close. 

11hrs till boarding

Sharon was close, better than a friend – as was Shasta. Sharon and Shasta - Secret Sisters of the SS, they would joke. They were sweet and soulful women. Sensual and subtle. Significant and sincere … in short, all that which Moira believed she was not. 

Sharon’s double-double was made (extra hot, the way she liked it) and on the counter before she’d even ordered it.

‘Thanks Ra-ra,’ she told Moira through a yawn, ‘how are you this morning?’

‘I’m fine.’ Moira replied in her apologetic tone that ruffled both Sharon’s impatient and sympathetic feathers; the full plumage of her emotion.

‘Your eye is looking much better.’ Sharon lied. 

‘Yes it is,’ Moira conceded ‘the swelling has gone down.’ And she let a cautious finger explore the space just above her cheekbone. The swelling had subsided, but the repugnant purpleyellow stain ran a ring round her one racooned eye. It didn’t even look like running mascara after a drunken night sobbing – and not because Moira didn’t cry anymore (was actually concerned she couldn’t). 

It didn’t look like anything other than what it was.

‘Are we …’ Sharon trailed off, doubting whether this was a good time to discuss it or not.

There was no one else around yet, so both women assessed it was safe to talk it through, in the open. 

They whispered anyway. 

Just to be safe. They whispered because it was still dark out and there was an inexplicable suppression, something primal that didn’t allow one to talk too loud before the sun came out. 

Moira never wanted to talk loud in the morning because her husband was inevitable hung-over and irritable before the sun came up.  

All Moira did was breathe a deep inhale/exhale at Sharon. It was enough of an answer. Sharon nodded her head. Good. Pleased in an almost guilty way. Couldn’t tell if she was excited for Moira or terrified. 

“Tonight.’ Sharon said.

‘That’s the plan, anyhow.’ Moira confirmed. 

Was there a tremor in her voice? Why the scepticism? Did she think she might capitulate and chicken-out? Surely not.

Then was she being morbid? Suggesting she might not make it till the end of the day? By her husbands hand? She’d survived this long. By her own then? 

Sharon refused to mull over either of these scenarios. She pushed the thoughts from her mind at the same time she pushed a five-dollar bill across the counter.

Moira pushed the money back. 

Sharon didn’t bother fighting the free coffees anymore; instead she slipped the money into the tip jar. And maybe the faintest hint of mirth felt its way to the corner of Moira’s mouth, like someone dipping a toe into an unfamiliar body of water. This should have relaxed Sharon, but it didn’t.

‘You’re too good to me.’ She said, but Moira didn’t respond. She was looking over Sharon’s shoulder at the approaching customer. ‘Morning, what would you like?’

10hrs till boarding

Shasta was gorgeous, a men’s magazine version of what a flight attendant should look like. Hair pulled back tight across her head, glistening red lipstick that seemed almost too suggestive when she spoke to the children on her flights. Perfect figure, and what made it all worse was her personality: she was so unbelievably generous and thoughtful. Made it impossible to hate her no matter how bad you wanted to. 

This didn’t leave Shasta exempt from drama though; if anything her gentle nature was the thing that caused so many men so much pain. All wanted her, yet none had ever met one who’d had her. She was elusive – none the least to Moira.

Envy was too brutal a word, but Moira wished to be able to begin to understand how the Shasta’s of this world got around; what was there to worry about if you never had to worry about the percentage of liquor sloshing through your husbands blood after he’d gone out for a rip? 

One of the more egregious mistakes her husband made was to assume that Moira was stupid. She would often stare off into the middle distance. Blank face. And something her husband never could grasp was that, simply because she wasn’t paying attention to him, didn’t mean she wasn’t paying attention. God forbid she thought of something else, something distant, something happy, because if a smile touched her lips her husband would be sure to slap the condescension off her face and the thoughts of the proverbial other man out of her mind. 

Shasta never need worry of these things.

The girls spoke of hockey once.

‘Jeez I hope the Canucks can come back this week. It’s getting embarrassing,’ Shasta said. And Moira didn’t reply, because sure being a fan of this team was embarrassing, but Shasta wasn’t in any danger if they lost. Not the way Moira was in danger. 

Moira hated the Canucks for how much she needed them to win. And she envied Shasta for how few real concerns she had in her world. Her world that was indeed the world, as opposed to Moira’s that was limited to a few different neighbourhoods in the one city. 

She had envied Shasta’s life and attitude the first time she’d been caught with markings on her body.

‘It’s not that simple.’ Moira hated hearing herself say.

‘Yes it is!’ replied Shasta, ‘simple and obvious.’

‘Where do I go?’

‘Anywhere. Anywhere else, and if you don’t, you’re a fool.’

It was tough to hear, but Shasta wasn’t wrong. Tough but true, as is often the case with things worth hearing.

But that little conversation planted enough of a seed in Moira’s head to where she one day sprouted the idea of starting to hide a little extra money at the café. 

The first time, she slipped a twenty into an envelope and placed it under the change drawer. At the time she didn’t even have her escape plan fully formed in her mind. Though it must have been knocking about somewhere in her subconscious. By the time the idea bore fruit enough to harvest into an actionable plan, she had more than enough cash squirrelled away to keep her off the streets long enough to begin again. 

Instead of paying for the coffee this morning, Shasta put her money straight in the tip jar – add to the exodus fund. 

7hrs till boarding

Even though it wasn’t going to happen till this evening, Sharon could already feel that lump in her throat begin to swell and croak. She served her Duty Free customers all day in a trance-state, her mind somewhere else. 

All morning she’d steal glances over to the café, and to Moira at the till taking orders, to make sure she hadn’t left yet. Hadn’t run away, or backed out, or left early, or (god forbid) been caught out – anything, something. The stress only built with every hour. 

Whenever she could, Sharon would duck back into her staff room and check the pile of clothes she’d written-off as ‘stolen’ or ‘damaged’ but had really set-aside for Moira. There were tops and Jeans and dresses, even toiletries and god, even a box of granola bars because lord knows if Moira won’t be too scared to remember to feed herself. 

Christ, this was becoming the most nerve wracking thing Sharon had done in her life, and the stress would be unbearable if it was for anything, or anyone, else – but because of her situation, because it was Moira, it not only made the day-long panic attack worthwhile, it almost made it conspiratorial … almost exciting. 

A revolutionary act. 

Then, as if summoned by equal parts will and fate and magic, Shasta herself walked in, excitement personified. She wheeled behind her a mini carry-on suitcase with her airlines logo embroidered across the front pocket. 

She held in her hand the last coffee Moira would ever make her.

Shasta and Sharon, both wrapped-up in the furtive nature of it all (the espionage) gave one another a muted greeting. Overly formal for anyone who knew either woman.

Shasta handed over the suitcase and when Sharon lifted it across the counter, felt it was empty and waiting to be filled with the clothes she’d set aside for Moira. Empty and ready to be filled with Moira’s new life. 

Shasta even tapped her nose; a ridiculous mime, a game the girls were playing. Without knowing, Sharon clicked back a wink to her partner in crime.

This was fun. 

Moira shot Shasta and Sharon a grin, even though it hurt her cheek and eye to smile. 

No!

She smiled because it hurt. Because she saw Shasta drop off the empty carry-on she would use to begin again, and she knew with that bag, with help from the Secret Sisters of the SS, and with a little bit of courage on her part, she might never again have to hide her smile for the pain.

4hrs till boarding

Friday evenings extended hours had saved Moira on more than one occasion and tonight was to be yet another instance to add to the fortuitous list. Were everything to be put-away and tidied her husband could easily come in and swoop her away before she’d have a chance to know what was happening or to realise she was doing nothing to protest it. 

He didn’t often surprise her at work, but it wasn’t completely out of character. Usually his unannounced visits were on the heels of some kind of indiscretion, when he was drowning in guilt (or at least drowning in his own ability to look after himself and needed a happy wife at home, if only to make sure the place didn’t burn down. 

He’d apologise when the state of the house became unrecognisable – he was magnanimous like that.

Tonight was no different. Since their most recent misunderstanding she’d been moping around the house with no sign of abating. It was near a week and she’d maybe muttered a handful of words to him. 

Actually been quite snippy on those few occasions when she was forced to interact. 

And that was tolerable, she could be curt with him, he had after all cut her excuses short with the back of his hand – why should he expect a lengthy discussion now?

Posey’s worked. Posey’s always worked. And it was often a solid move to bring them into the café. Anyone who saw the bouquet would smile and think oh, isn’t she a lucky girl, someone loves her and he enjoyed this. It’s one of the only times strangers smile at a strange man: when he’s carrying flowers. Even if they suspect he’s done something wrong their smile seems to say well at least he’s trying to set whatever he’s done right, and that’s exactly what he was doing right now: he was setting things right, even if it meant setting aside his pride. 

1hr 30min till boarding

Sharon took a final sip of her cold mouthful that sat sediment in the bottom of her cup. She’d nursed it that long the paper was soft and beginning to collapse. She’d closed her Duty Free department hours before and there comes a point at the end of every encounter where people need to finally say goodbye. People need to go home. 

‘No they don’t,’ Moira said, not meaning to provoke, but more so realising her new truth, ‘I don’t ever have to go home,’ and now she was beaming, ‘I don’t ever need to go back to that place.’

Sharon tried to twist her face into something positive, something that looked supportive, but tears kept washing her efforts away. She instead reached out and held the side of Moira’s face, the good side. 

The friends held one another for a moment, not so much to wring out every last drop of mutual affection, but more to affix that love to the sticking place, to leave a piece of themselves within the other that could forever and at any moment be drawn upon, summoned up, whenever that requisite measure of love was needed. 

She couldn’t say goodbye. Simply held her face a while longer, the stood and walked out.

As Sharon left, sniffling her way past the closed shops and open gates on her way to the staff parking lot, she studied the hideous pattern in the carpet; she kept her head down so as not to embarrass anyone with her red eyes and dripping nose. 

Sharon kept her head down, and didn’t realise as she passed Moira’s husband. 

45min till boarding

All Shasta had said to Moira when she approached the counter was ‘Be either first or last,’ as she handed over the boarding pass. She seemed to have no qualms about the handover, seemed to not understand the power of the little paper dream, but Moira snatched up the golden ticket and quickly tucked it into her front apron pocket.

That coveted piece of paper, this one (although fake, or stolen – we don’t ask how Shasta acquired it) was none the less hers. 

The weight of the thing seemed to tug down at her apron like a toddler in the kitchen trying to get her mothers attention. 

Moira now had 90% of the café close done; the floor was mopped, the benches wiped, dishwasher gurgling behind her and the suitcase was packed with the clothes Sharon had brought over earlier tonight. 

All Shasta gave was a wink of those perfectly smoked eyes and spun around on one of those heels she’d change for flats mid-flight. Moira watched her wiggle her way out the door and down the concourse towards the travelator. Everyone loved to watch Shasta leave. Moira couldn’t help it.

Just like buddy over here couldn’t help it – this guy who had stopped at the entrance of the café and watched Shasta walk off. Moira watched this guy’s free hand adjust the lump in the front of his pants before she saw the hand holding the flowers. 

All this before she saw his face. 

Here she had a brief moment where a handful of emotions tumbled through her like the sickening dip in altitude. 

Even before she could think what the hell it was he was doing here, how he could possibly have caught her even before she’d tried to run; what mistake she’d made; where she’d slipped up; he was on her, arm around her waist, flowers in her face and his not-completely-flaccid self pressing up against that boarding pass in her front apron pocket. 

She’d greeted him with a kiss before she knew what was happening. 

‘Oh, is it that easy is it?’ and he smiled that disarming smile that used to be so sweet, but now only his things. 

She didn’t respond, not articulately, just made a noise. 

‘I got you poesy’s.’ He said. 

Moira hated poesy’s, but she brought them to her nose, if only to cover her face. 

The two were alone in the café. Chairs were up on tables, the roller door was half shut, and now he was here. Now she couldn’t leave. He had her. Moira had lost.

Sharon was gone.

Shasta was gone.

Her secret support group couldn’t help her now, and there was a sickening comfort in that. There was ugly relief in the knowledge that her dreams would never take-off. Failure was easy – easier than fighting. He was here now to take her back to a life from which she could never escape and the only thing she needed to do was to forget about hope.

‘…forget …’

‘What?’ Moira replied, not sure she heard what her husband had said.

‘Did that little number forget her luggage?’ He repeated. He was pointing towards the mini-carry-on with the airline logo stitched across the front. 

Moira looked back and forth between the suitcase and her husband. She said nothing.

‘I wish I had her life,’ he said to Moira, ‘I mean, what could she possibly ever have to worry about?’

‘I wonder the same thing sometimes.’ Moira agreed.

‘If she wasn’t pretty, she’d be fucked in this world.’ And here he reached over and pulled the bag towards him. ‘What’s she got, her whole life in this thing?’

Moira showed nothing on her face, but her heart was playing her ribcage like a marimba. All she could smell was fucking poesy’s and as he reached to unzip the bag and spill out her confession, her secret, there came a brightness to Moira’s vision and she felt as though she might faint. 

‘Ah, fuck. What do I care?’ He said, not bothering to open the bag. He dropped it at Moira’s feet and extended the arm of the bag towards his wife. ‘Here, go give this to the silly bitch before she takes-off.’

Moira took the handle and began to walk out of her café. Her feet moving on their own.

‘I’m gonna eat some of these doughnut’s okay?’ He called to her as he took a chair down from one of the tables and sat in the closed store. Moira stole a look back at her husband. 

‘I’ll watch the store, it’s fine. Just hurry up, I’m hungry, I wanna get home.’

And she said nothing. Moira left.

Boarding

The final boarding call came over the PA system as Moira approached the gate. The seats were empty and the last stragglers were being ushered down to the runway. Shasta was the one making the final announcement, and the visible relief when she saw Moira, still in her uniform, come wheeling her bag towards the terminal was nearly enough to make both women well up. 

When Moira approached the desk, Shasta gestured towards the flowers. ‘They for me?’ She said without thinking.

Moira didn’t even realise she was still holding them.

‘No.’

She placed them down on the desk. That seemed to be enough. 

Shasta was quick to act. ‘Okay, come on, you’re the straggler one we’re all waiting for.’

‘You told me to be either first or last.’

‘That I did.’

Here Moira dug into her front apron pocket for the boarding pass.

‘Doesn’t matter Ra,’ Shasta said, ‘it’s just –’

But Moira pulled out the magic slip of paper anyway. ‘Can you, please …’

Shasta smiled that warm smile and took the fake boarding pass, scribbled something on it, then handed it back to Moira and welcomed her aboard. It had to be real, it had to be official, otherwise the magic wouldn’t work.

Shasta wheeled her friend’s luggage in one hand down the tunnel towards the plane. She led Moira into her new life with her other hand. 

They left the Posey’s on the desk.