Baggage Read online

  Baggage

  Wendy Phillips

  Coteau Books

  © Wendy Phillips, 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

  a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll-free to 1-800-893-5777.

  In this book, names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Edited by Alison Acheson

  Designed by Tania Craan

  Typeset by Susan Buck

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Phillips, Wendy, 1959-, author

  Baggage : a novel / Wendy Phillips.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-55050-970-0 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-55050-971-7 (PDF).--

  ISBN 978-1-55050-972-4 (EPUB).--ISBN 978-1-55050-973-1 (Kindle)

  I. Title.

  PS8631.H57B34 2019 jC813’.6 C2018-905774-2

  C2018-905775-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018952788

  2517 Victoria Avenue

  Regina, Saskatchewan

  Canada S4P 0T2

  www.coteaubooks.com

  Coteau Books gratefully acknowledges the financial support of its publishing program by: the Saskatchewan Arts Board, The Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Saskatchewan through Creative Saskatchewan, the City of Regina. We further acknowledge the [financial] support of the Government of Canada. Nous reconnaissons l’appui [financier] du gouvernement du Canada.

  To my father, Archibald McEachern Phillips (1921 – 2014), who brought up his children with the conviction that a better world was just around the corner, no matter what our previous baggage.

  Ms Nelson

  The boy leans against the smooth stainless steel

  of the baggage carousel

  in International Arrivals,

  scans the faces of travellers

  his eyes wide

  his forehead creased.

  Behind him

  wheeled Samsonites

  backpacks

  child seats in plastic bags

  jostle down the conveyor belt.

  I wait

  beside my jetlagged students

  in the Customs line,

  watch him

  from a distance.

  Thin, brown,

  alone

  he looks like

  baggage.

  Thabo

  The faces

  of passengers

  are all colours

  but I do not see

  the one I look for.

  Travelling people

  look past

  reach around me

  for their baggage.

  A voice

  through the speaker

  calls out names of cities

  Toronto

  Los Angeles

  Tokyo

  and more things

  I do not understand.

  Languages

  swirl around me

  like birds

  words

  don’t settle

  fly away

  through the hissing

  glass doors.

  Leah

  The bat cracks

  a ball soars

  towards the field lights.

  Over the ball field a plane roars

  as it glides in for a landing

  at the International Airport

  the other end

  of the city.

  I watch the lights from centre field

  wonder

  if it’s my sister coming home

  or some other exotic

  unconnected

  strangers

  arriving from the other end

  of the earth.

  A raindrop

  hits my cheek

  always a threat

  in fall ball season.

  I keep an eye

  on the sky

  wait for the fly ball

  to drop into my glove.

  Ms Nelson

  Most parents have arrived

  rushed past me

  embraced offspring

  pulled them

  jet-lagged,

  nostalgic,

  laden with souvenirs

  from their Japanese hosts

  out to the parkade.

  My eyes burn

  from too many hours awake,

  cheeks ache

  from smiling

  professionally.

  With only one student left

  I send my grateful colleagues home.

  No need for us all to wait for stragglers

  and I have no children

  no husband

  waiting for me.

  October rain splashes down outside.

  Dreariness swishes in

  through automatic doors.

  Brittany

  Ms Nelson stands guard

  under the airport’s massive

  art installation

  indigenous carvings,

  looming wooden

  First Nations welcome people.

  My mother is late

  again.

  My phone buzzes

  as I connect to the world.

  I text my sister.

  Where are u?

  She answers

  Mom’s emerg shift ran late.

  traffic

  #jet lag

  #13 hours from Tokyo

  #12 days away from home

  That can wait.

  Typical.

  Thabo

  I am still waiting

  after three hours.

  Before she left

  the old woman told me,

  “Wait here.

  I will get food.”

  Her eyes looked everywhere

  except at me.

  She took my travel book

  my papers,

  smacked my head when I asked,

  “Can I go with you?”

  Now

  I am still waiting.

  I did what I was told.

  I don’t know what else

  to do.

  Ms Nelson

  There’s always one parent

  tied up

  forgetful.

  This time it’s Brittany’s.

  She fumes

  tosses her hair.

  I spy the Tim Hortons doughnut shop,

  Canadian comfort food

  tell her I’ll be back.

  Out of the corner of my eye

  At the base of the Clayoquot welcome figures

  I see the boy again.

  In the shadow of the outstretched cedar arms

  he hugs his knees

  rocks back and forth.

  Leah

  Sweat

  chills my skin.

  My sister has arrived

  from her international travels

&nb
sp; needs her carriage.

  Traffic jam at the airport

  means Brit will be sitting

  spitting

  mad.

  I close the car window,

  long to pull off

  my cleats

  wash the home base dust

  from my hair.

  Mom grips the wheel

  peers through the windshield.

  She smells of antiseptic

  latex-free gloves

  sudden death

  ER smells.

  But this

  being late

  is her real emergency

  today.

  Brittany

  Ms Nelson must be pissed

  that she has to wait –

  some legal thing.

  She stops

  in front of a black kid

  who leans against the plexiglass wall

  around the totem pole

  bends over to hold out the bag

  and I think

  She should watch

  those honey crullers.

  The boy takes one

  downs it,

  looks at her with big dark eyes.

  His clothes are light

  for west coast October rain

  but they look good

  on him.

  I take a selfie

  with the boy in the background

  post it on Instagram.

  #tired of waiting

  Thabo

  My body shakes.

  I stay as still

  as possible.

  I don’t know where she went,

  the old grandmother who brought me

  to this strange, cold place.

  Mme Moholo, o ea kae?

  Faces around me

  most as pale as salt

  their voices sharp

  and flat

  and hard.

  I don’t know where

  the real people are.

  Ms Nelson

  I’ll get to the bottom of this.

  This child should not be left alone.

  Anyone could take advantage.

  Thabo

  The grandmother told me

  RUN

  if I saw police

  but this woman

  with the large white face

  takes me to them.

  I tell them,

  “Ha ke tsebe”

  I don’t understand.

  They shake their heads

  look at each other.

  One is Chinese,

  the other wears a turban.

  They look at me

  I try to show nothing

  that can make trouble.

  Brittany

  I thumb through texts

  Courtney’s student council info

  Tricia’s update on the coffeehouse talent show

  Kevin’s offer to pick me up.

  I check likes & comments

  on my Instagram

  check Twitter & Snapchat.

  I answer some

  like

  share

  retweet

  send sleepy emoticons

  see my follower count is up since yesterday

  look up from my phone.

  Ms Nelson has the black kid by the hand

  is marching him

  towards the information desk.

  Even after 13 hours in the air

  ten days counting student heads

  she still has that

  take charge

  no nonsense

  walk.

  I need to know

  what’s going on

  get up

  when she waves me over.

  Leah

  When we finally walk

  through the automatic glass doors

  into the warmth of Arrivals

  Brittany isn’t mad

  like I expected.

  She’s head to head

  with her teacher

  who holds a slim, brown boy,

  by the arm.

  Brit’s excited.

  “He’s been abandoned.

  Who knows

  what they intended?

  He’s just been left

  at the airport

  like unclaimed baggage.”

  When Mom says

  sorry we’re late,

  Ms Nelson waves her apology away.

  “This boy needs help.

  It’s a good thing I’m still here.”

  A Sikh man in a uniform

  and turban

  walks towards us.

  His eyes are tired.

  He walks like his feet hurt.

  Mom hugs my sister,

  waves at me to follow.

  “Thanks, Ms Nelson.

  We’ll get this one home.”

  KEVIN

  Her posts tell me

  she should be home

  by now.

  I can’t stop checking my cell

  for a message

  just for me.

  My parents won’t be home from work

  for hours.

  The house rings with silence.

  I connect my iPhone to bluetooth speakers

  crank up Arcade Fire

  to chase it away.

  I offered

  to get out of badminton practice

  pick her up at the airport

  but she said

  don’t bother

  as if it’s a bother.

  I check my phone.

  Nothing.

  Leah

  Brittany hammers

  on our bathroom door.

  “Hurry up Leah.”

  Nice to see you too

  big sister.

  Downstairs at the kitchen table

  Mom smiles.

  Brit flows down the stairs

  like a wave,

  eyes dark

  with dramatic hollows.

  I settle into the back seat

  of the family

  as Brit opens her bag

  pulls out shimmering silks

  white-faced doll

  wood sandals

  little porcelain figures

  of Hello Kitty.

  Not much different

  from the Daiso downtown

  but they smell of foreign markets

  Tokyo traffic

  impossible sophistication.

  She pulls me to my feet

  wraps folds of cloth around me

  pulls in my ribcage

  with a stiff wide belt

  pulls it tight until

  I can’t breathe.

  ”Isn’t it great, Mom?”

  In the mirror

  I stare at my reflection,

  the kimono gaping awkwardly

  on my thin body.

  I unwind everything.

  “You show me.”

  The kimono lends Brittany

  a curving, transcendent grace.

  She flutters a painted fan

  slides bare feet into sandals

  pouts like a geisha

  twists her hair into a bun

  with a chopstick.

  Irresistible.

  Her years in Drama

  have taught her

  to slip into a personality

  like putting on a coat.

  I fiddle with my Winnie the Pooh phone charm.

  Everyone in Japan


  has one

  Brittany tells me.

  She’s two years ahead of me

  but I know

  even when I’m her age

  I’ll never be like her.

  Brittany

  I tell them

  about the boy at the airport.

  Mom leans forward

  her Japanese silk

  rustling.

  “No one knows

  where he comes from

  or his language.

  “He’s just a kid,

  no family

  all alone.

  “Ms Nelson and I

  got him to Immigration.

  They said

  they’d take care of him.

  “He might be a refugee

  a child soldier

  maybe

  a terrorist’s kid

  maybe

  a victim of child trafficking.”

  I show them his pictures on my phone.

  He could be a teen model

  with his smooth, coffee-coloured skin

  prominent bone structure

  hollow cheeks

  huge liquid brown eyes.

  Ms Nelson wants me

  to look up the process

  of separated minor

  refugee claimants.

  Maybe she’ll make him

  a project

  for bonus points.

  KEVIN

  First day back

  she seems happy enough

  to see me

  but her public

  absorbs her.

  She wears some outfit

  from the Asakusa market.

  When I touch her shoulder

  its silkiness

  takes

  away

  my breath.

  She flashes me a smile

  turns back to the others.

  “We need to take action,”

  she tells the Leadership class.

  “This kid has nobody, nothing.

  He’s defenceless.”

  Brittany loves projects

  loves to talk to crowds.

  She can persuade anyone

  to join her.

  Her favourite part

  is getting people passionate

  about issues

  they’ve never heard of.

  Not that there’s anything wrong

  with that.

  It’s easy

  to see we should care about

  homelessness in the Downtown East Side

  AIDS in South Africa

  mudslide victims in the Philippines.

  The hard part

  is what to do.