Claire's Head

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Authors: Catherine Bush
replaced by a tanned young man in a denim shirt whose sleeves were not rolled but ripped above the elbows. A copper bracelet encircled his right wrist. He had the look of a student, whether or not he was one. He was leafing through Peterson’s
Field Guide to Mexican Birds
.
    She wondered, not for the first time, about the nature of Rachel’s train encounter – was it the first, the only one on public transport? (How exactly did you go about seducing a stranger on a train, on a plane, or allow yourself to be seduced?) Presumably, Rachel’s desire had been palpable, her avidity, her curiosity, her restless desire to be desired, her confidence that she would be, augmented by her longing for a baby. Claire hadno idea how you got from here – sitting beside a man on a train – to there – having sex with him. What did you say? Had Rachel asked about sexually transmitted diseases? Surely, for the sake of her child-to-be, she’d made certain that the engineer didn’t get migraines.
    Claire’s gaze travelled along the chestnut arm of the young man across the aisle. He looked up as if her regard were a touch, but his glance did not appear to be an invitation. What could she say to the reader of
Mexican Birds
(strange choice for a trip through Ontario), or he to her? What had the Bombay-born engineer seen in Rachel? (Her longing? Her beauty? Her grief?) Had he and Rachel made their way to the train compartment’s tiny bathroom singly, or together, heedlessly, bodies already helplessly brushing, figuring they’d never see anyone around them (including each other) again?
    Claire’s room in the Hotel du Parc was seven floors off the ground and faced south. It was four paces wide and eight paces long. It contained a king-sized bed, a desk, and a bureau that held a monstrous television above a locked mini-bar. She walked straight to the window and switched off the air conditioner, stopping the chemical flow of coolant into the room. She tugged open the small panel of window that vented to a real, murky city breeze as Rachel, even in winter, had no doubt done. Travel by train was not as bad as air travel, but any sealed environment posed hazards. Hotel rooms weren’t the worst but had their perils: recycled air and powerful cleaners and chemically suspiring carpets.
    Claire had told Rachel about a man she knew who’d been a vet, until the smells of the disinfectants used in the clinic where he worked began to give him migraines. It took him a while to figure out the connection, and it depressed him when he did, because he loved animals and loved working with them, but the recurrent pain was making it difficult for him to function. So he became a travelling salesman for veterinary products, hoping to keep his hand in the business somehow. As he criss-crossed the country, the headaches came back, as strong as ever. He realized he was reacting not only to veterinary products but to the cleaners and aerosol sprays used in hotel rooms. He hit upon a temporary strategy. He’d go for product conferences and, walking into his hotel room, fling open the windows. He refused to stay in rooms where the windows didn’t open. He’d instruct the housekeeping staff not to clean or enter his room while he was staying in it, although they often disobeyed him and he’d return to the telltale traces of air freshener. Eventually, he gave up on animal care altogether, went to architecture school, and became a city planner.
    With her head out the window, Claire listened to the city of Montreal, its streets swollen with tourists out for a stroll or a late supper on a muggy summer night. She could order from room service or go out to join them. If Stefan had been with her, they would have gone out. She felt the imagined clasp of his hand in hers. They had been to Montreal together five years before, staying with a friend of Stefan’s who lived on a flat and treeless block of Hôtel de

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