Free Flight by Darren Hynes Page B

pregnant woman’s back – up and down, then in a circular motion.
    â€œStop it,” Irene says.
    â€œSorry.” Emily leaves a hand on the pregnant woman’s shoulder.
    No words between them now, just the sound of Irene’s breaths – deep and steady for a while and then her holding it. Her holding it for a while and then deep and steady.
    Not yet noon, but the clouds are making it feel like dusk. The rain’s still pecking, about to unleash its downpour. She looks to the door, wondering what’s taking Terry so long.
    It’s ages before she senses Irene’s body relax. She takes her hand away as the woman sits up to full height.
    â€œFeeling better?” Emily says.
    Irene nods. Spits and then wipes her mouth on her sleeve. Massages her closed eyes. One more long breath before she whispers, “How will we live?”
    Emily says nothing. How will we live? Out west without nearly enough money or resources or hardly knowing a soul other than Jackie and Stephen. And not even Stephen really, seeing as she’s never met him. How long before they kick her and the children out, she wonders? A week? Two? And what was it Stephen had said: something about knowing people and finding her a sublet? Great, except how long – seeing as there’s only $1,125 underneath the basement floor – will she able to pay the rent? She imagines Jackie and Stephen asking them to go finally. The three of them walking the streets of downtown Vancouver. Gripping one another’s hands for fear of being swept away. Three lost faces in an ocean of them.
    Terry’s back. Rather than water, he’s holding Fruit Punch Gatorade. “To replenish those electrolytes,” he says, holding the bottle beside his face like he’s in a commercial or something. He twists the cap en route to Irene. Hands it to her.
    Irene takes a gulp, some of it dribbling down her chin. She wipes away the spillage, then the wetness beneath her eyes.
    â€œLet me drive you to the clinic?” Terry says.
    She shakes her head. Takes another sip before twisting the top back on the Gatorade. Holds out her arms like a child who longs to be picked up.
    Terry goes over.
    â€œSit a minute longer,” Emily says.
    â€œI’m alright.”
    Terry helps her to her feet.
    The rain’s steadier now.
    â€œCome inside,” Terry says.
    â€œNo.” Irene puts the hood of her raincoat over her head and draws the string. “A bit of rain won’t hurt.” She holds up the Gatorade. “How much?”
    Terry sticks out his palm. “I won’t hear of it.”
    The pregnant woman puts the drink in her coat pocket, her face strained with pain, and turns to Emily. “I wish you wouldn’t have lied about it, that’s all.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Emily says. “I was hoping for a miracle, I guess. That maybe the layoffs wouldn’t happen after all.”
    Irene stays looking at her for a moment, then turns around and starts walking.
    Emily and Terry watch until the woman disappears around the corner.
    The rain suddenly comes – cold, hard enough to split your skin.
    Terry runs for the door. Turns back once he gets there. “Come in!”
    She stays where she is, staring off at where Irene had just gone, the woman’s words still ringing in her ears. How will we live? Fear rises to the back of her throat. She swallows it back down. Uncertainty takes fear’s place then, so she swallows that too. You’ll never get away with it, she thinks. Kidnapping your own youngsters.
    â€œYou’re getting drenched!” Terry shouts.
    She ignores him, allowing Irene’s words to float around in her mind still: How will we live ? It occurs to her that that’s why she’s going in the first place. So that she can live. So that her children can too.
    Terry’s voice again. “Please come in!”
    Finally she turns to him, but can barely see through