Baggage Read online

  That’s my job. She tells me,

  “Just find something

  we can donate to,

  doesn’t matter what.

  I’ll get the money flowing.”

  We’re a team.

  She does passionate crusader.

  I do researcher sidekick.

  Sometimes I wish

  I was an issue

  and she could get passionate

  about me.

  Brittany

  English teacher drones on

  about poetic devices.

  I scribble slogans in my Writing Practice notebook.

  OPEN A DOOR TO A NEW LIFE!

  SUPPORT REFUGE FOR THE HELPLESS!

  SHINE BRIGHT LIKE A DIAMOND!

  SAVE THE WORLD ONE CHILD AT A TIME!

  HOW FAR WILL YOU WALK TO SAVE A REFUGEE?

  They all sound pretty solid

  Maybe a poster series

  made into memes

  Multiple shots, multiple slogans.

  The boy is cute,

  kind of exotic.

  Leah can photoshop pix

  add slogans

  post on social media

  print 11x17 posters

  on the CADD lab colour printer.

  A few sound bites

  from Kevin’s research

  we’ll be good to go.

  I can hardly think

  about anything else.

  This is different from other campaigns

  collecting blankets

  or coats

  or canned food

  and sending them away.

  Once we all went down

  to the soup kitchen

  served the homeless

  but that was only one afternoon

  and the people who came

  were smelly old men

  with swollen noses

  and red eyes

  sometimes families

  no one who looked as good

  as our kid.

  Mrs Farr walks between desks

  checking our metaphors.

  I show her my writing.

  The boy was a wilting tropical flower

  shrivelling in the breath of the North Wind.

  I know what she likes.

  She moves along.

  I’ll go see Ms Nelson

  after Kevin updates me

  about the refugee thing.

  I need to send Leah in

  with a camera

  to wherever he is.

  She’s got an eye.

  I’ve almost got it

  figured out.

  KEVIN

  Church youth group

  starts with check-in

  then discussion topic

  then business.

  The meetings can be lame

  depending on who comes

  but my mother gives me shit

  if I miss it.

  It’s easier just to go.

  Brittany came once

  but said it was too

  religious.

  My check in

  is about the airport kid

  what might happen

  how I’m trying to figure out

  what we can do.

  I don’t mention

  Brittany’s project.

  Tonight’s topic is The Good Samaritan.

  The Rev is excited,

  swings his arms

  in big circles

  bushy hair waving.

  We hear the original

  (Good News Bible version)

  and then he shows a news clip

  on his iPad

  air-played on the Apple TV big screen

  about a small plane

  that crashed onto the highway near the airport

  drivers running over

  pulling passengers

  from the burning plane.

  “Yeah,” says Courtney.

  “I remember, my cousin was caught in traffic

  for, like, five hours

  because they closed the bridge.”

  “One rescuer guy,” says Salvador,

  “got third degree burns,

  didn’t even notice.”

  “My sister’s

  brother-in-law’s friend

  was supposed to be

  on that plane,” says Tony,

  “but he cancelled,

  like, last minute.”

  We all discuss

  where we were,

  who was injured,

  who died.

  The Rev talks about

  what it means

  to do good,

  why we should care about strangers

  but most of us are caught up

  in our own stories.

  I think

  he’s disappointed.

  I’m a little embarrassed

  for him

  when he wraps it up

  with an obvious statement

  about Living the Faith,

  how Goodness is More than Words.

  We listen politely

  and move on

  to plan the Christmas party for the Sunday School

  our bowling night

  in November.

  Leah

  I stay up late

  finish my English essay

  fiddle with my online computer science project.

  Yoko, my dog,

  lies on my feet,

  eases the ache

  from two hours of the punishing

  catcher’s crouch.

  She snores quietly

  soothingly.

  On my sketch pad

  I draw faces

  of manga hero boys

  with spiky dark hair

  confident grins.

  They look

  just a little

  like Kevin.

  I rip them out

  crumple them

  throw them in recycling

  before anyone can see.

  KEVIN

  Walking home

  through dark streets

  I think about the discussion.

  It’s easy to see the good

  in rescuing people

  from a burning plane crash.

  But can you help everyone

  and still keep your own life?

  What if they take advantage?

  Will you be the loser

  who always says

  YES?

  The Rev wants us to get involved

  gives sermons on

  “Making a Difference”

  “Being Someone.”

  He was a marcher

  for something important

  in the 80’s.

  But our congregation is hardly

  revolutionary material.

  At home

  I finish my English essay on

  moral choices in The Crucible

  return to my research on child refugees in western countries.

  The legal language is hard

  but spits out words

  trauma-slavery-stateless-detention-shackles-separated-minors-alone

  My brain’s too tired to understand

  the article from Refugee Law Journal

  but I see real problems

  for this kid.

  He doesn’t need a Good Samaritan

  to pull him from a burning plane.

  He needs a lawyer

  a “Designated Representative”

  paperwork

  a passport.

  Brittany keeps telling me

  how cute the African guy is

  how much she wants

  to save him

  but it will take more

  than good looks

  and good deeds

  to beat this bureaucracy.

  I turn out the light.

  A plane crash

  is a lot simpler,

  I think in the darkness.

  Everyone can see

  who’s on fire.

  The Reverend

  I came to my vocation late.

  Before I answered the call

  the mountains were my cathedral

  the wind through the poplars my call to worship

  the clean air of autumn my priest’s robe

  a flock of migrating geese my choir.

  It wasn’t enough

  for the girl I loved.

  Neither was I.

  Here in the city

  it’s harder

  to be uplifted

  by the wonder

  of a Higher Power.

  Ms Nelson

  Brittany hovers

  at the classroom door

  after the final bell.

  I wipe the whiteboard

  enter notes for Monday’s lesson

  on the War of 1812

  close my marking folder.

  She looks fresh, fired up.

  I brace myself

  for her enthusiasm.

  “So like Kevin said kids like this

  fall through the cracks

  and sometimes even go to jail.”

  At my blank look she rolls her eyes.

  “The boy from the airport.

  Did he get a foster home?

  How can we help him?”

  I tell her he’s in good hands

  that the social worker was looking

  for a placement.

  Brittany’s eyebrows rise,

  her face wide-eyed

  with what looks like innocence.

  “Kevin said with no passport

  no proof of age

  he could end up in jail.

  He said it’s called ‘stateless.’

  “I would call but I don’t know who

  and they would tell you more

  because you’re a teacher

  and they’ll listen to you.

  “Don’t you think

  he might need a lawyer

  or better clothes?

  He’s not dressed for winter.

  “Do they even have,

  like, Walmarts in Africa

  that sell warm jackets?”

  I hold up my hands

  to stem the flood,

  tell her I’ll call,

  let her know Monday.

  Brittany’s face lights up

  and I can’t help but smile

  with her.

  She scribbles her number

  on a lime-green post-it note.

  “Please, Ms N, would you text me?

  I’m so worried.

  If he needs a place

  we’ve got an extra bedroom.

  My mother said it would be okay.

  And I won’t share your number,

  not with anybody.”

  As the door shuts

  behind her

  I shake my head.

  She knows exactly

  what she’s doing.

  My involvement was going to end

  with reporting the boy to Immigration.

  I had no intention

  of getting in too deep.

  We all want to do the right thing

  but after last year’s school trauma

  with that boy from Central America,

  Miguel something,

  it took months

  to get back to normal.

  In Brittany’s eyes

  I see a reflection

  of my old passions.

  She’s longing to make

  a better world.

  Hard to resist.

  Leah

  For two weeks

  while she was on her Japan exchange

  I missed my sister

  but I’m relieved

  when the door shuts

  and Brittany heads out to teach piano.

  The intensity in the house subsides.

  I can finally get my mother’s attention.

  “I’m going to Alisha’s place

  to work on our Socials project.”

  She nods.

  “Call if you need a ride home.”

  Alisha lives around the corner,

  along the river

  across the wooden bridge

  through the carefully tended park.

  We live in a neighbourhood of heritage-style houses

  with cottage roof-lines

  and white picket fences.

  It’s a cleaned-up little fishing village

  in the corner of the city

  Only a few fish boats left now,

  nothing smelly or dirty,

  no more fights in the streets,

  not so many fishermen lost at sea.

  The fishing industry is mostly

  in the museums now.

  Tourists like it.

  I kick aside brilliant fall leaves

  cross the walkway by the fountains.

  Brittany is teaching a piano lesson

  in the condos nearby.

  She has a student list of four

  all little kids.

  They love her

  set out cookies and milk

  when she comes to their houses

  like she’s Santa Claus.

  I quit piano early

  strum a guitar sometimes

  alone in my room.

  Performances make me nervous.

  Sometimes I wish

  we had another kid

  in the family.

  It would be nice to have

  a sibling who looked up to me.

  Alisha is at the door in sock feet.

  “So what’s up at your house?

  Everyone’s posting

  that a cute African guy

  is being thrown in jail

  because he doesn’t have a passport.

  Everyone says

  Brittany’s going to save him.”

  She’s disappointed

  I have no updates.

  My phone has been charging

  on my bedside table since this morning.

  I’ve missed all the online talk

  but they trust Brittany

  to do the right thing.

  I promise Alisha

  I’ll tell her first

  when I know anything.

  Ms Nelson

  When I get home from school

  all I want

  is the chair on my balcony

  a glass of wine

  the delicious promise of Friday afternoon.

  Since the divorce

  I’ve relished these moments alone.

  But a worm of worry burrows in.

  I have an hour

  before government offices close.

  I dig out my cell phone

  ring the Ministry of Children and Family Services.

  At last

  I break through bureaucracy

  to the social worker in charge.

  Her voice is tired, tight.

  She tells me

  he’s been put in detention.

  No paperwork

  no proof of age,

  no nationality

  the Department of Immigration

  considers him at risk of flight.

  “It’s Immigration Holding, not jail,

  but the boy is not at liberty.”

  Guilt swells.

  I left him with professionals,

  confident of the promise of care.

  My anger shows.

  The social worker’s voice is weary.

  “No one knows

  whose jurisdiction it is.

  He says the woman he was travelling with

  took all his documents

  and disappeared.

  “It’s hard to place his age, or nationality.

  Children from developing countries

  look younger than Canadians

  because of malnutrition.

  “They say

  he could be a man,

  not a boy.”

  My breath catches at the nonsense.

  “Just give me a number. I’ll see about that.”

  Part 2

  Thabo

  Green walls close in

  Doors lock

  No one tells me

  why I’m here

  where I’m going

  where the old woman went.

  The other man in my room is older,

  speaks a white language

  not English.

  He lies on the bed

  stares at the ceiling.

  I fall asleep

  at strange times,

  wake with bad dreams

  fire

  boots

  fists

  fear

  that someone

  will find out.

  Brittany

  Ms Nelson calls

  as Dad and I do dishes.

  Leah’s at fall softball practice,

  Mom’s got a shift at the hospital.

  It’s frozen lasagna night.

  Yoko gets the leftovers.

  Ms Nelson wants to talk to Dad

  and I have to hear it all

  second hand

  through Dad’s confusion.

  He rolls his eyes at me.

  “She said her mother offered what?”

  I rinse.

  Dad hangs up in silence.

  In his slump at the table

  I read his yearning

  for Mom.

  “We have the extra room, Dad.

  I’ll take responsibility

  with the Global Leadership Club.

  We have so much.

  He has so little.

  We can make a difference here.”

  Dad sighs.

  “We’re taking him

  because you committed us and

  Ms Nelson has no room.

  Your mother agreed

  without discussing it with me?”