Baggage
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.