Nine hours on a plane can do strange things to you.
I stand in the Los Angeles airport trying to shake the kink out of my spine. My head throbs. The backs of my knees ache. My toes protest in my shoes. I have a permanently sour taste in the back of my throat that no amount of sugar or sweet beverages can remove. I stare out at the darkness of the runway, eyes heavy. It is after 11:00 p.m. But I am in “no time,” a strange limbo achieved after too long on an airplane.
He had said goodbye a half-hour earlier and rushed off to find the car waiting to take him to his hotel. He was staying in Los Angeles for meetings, while I was catching a connecting flight back to Vancouver. We had half-slept on the plane back from Thailand. He had read papers, made notes. I had watched movies. And then as we disembarked, he had bent down, slightly rumpled but not unrested, and kissed me on the forehead. It had felt paternal. But I am the first to admit that airport farewells are as awkward as they come. I watched him go, hair curling around his collar, cotton shirt slightly wrinkled, leather jacket slung over his arm, carry-on case on his shoulder.
The getaway had been Michael’s idea. It had been a relief to escape the wet moodiness of a Vancouver winter. Archibald had been locked away in his office working on a new project and cursing his editor on the phone. It was painful to observe, even from the fringes. I’d told everyone I would be travelling through Thailand with a girlfriend, and it was accepted as normal, escapist twenty-something behaviour. Even my mother seemed resigned. No one seemed to have noticed that they have never met one of my supposed “girlfriends.” Only Sam knew the truth, and he didn’t seem especially thrilled when I told him.
They call my flight, and I line up to get back on the plane.
We had spent the days on private beaches, sleeping in sandy coves, snorkelling, swimming, and boating, and the evenings in the tiny resort restaurant. We lounged on the outdoor deck in a bamboo pagoda, drinking mango or pineapple shakes, eating seafood dishes, pad Thai, and coconut-laced soup. It had been my first tropical experience, and the world had seemed transformed into a lush, exotic dream. Until it happened…
I had been napping, or trying to, lying on the canopy bed with a cool cloth pressed against my head. A victim of the island’s most common malady: too much sun. Michael had taken the short walk to the main house to get us some more water. I must have drifted off, but when I woke up, I was parched, and I decided to set out myself.
At the main house, I stood under a large rotating ceiling fan, slightly dazed, while Emi, the desk clerk, found my water. Michael was nowhere in sight. Heading back to our hut, I tripped over a stone and paused to watch a large green reptile scurry across the path. Then I heard a familiar rumbling, Michael’s laughter. I looked over to its source, a nearby hut belonging to one of the resort employees. For a moment I wondered if I was hallucinating. I took a few more steps, then I noticed the door of the hut, which had been ajar, was opening farther.
It was Michael. He hurried down the stairs, the bottle of water tucked under his arm. I stepped back behind the tree line, hidden, watching. His shirt was unbuttoned and slightly askew. I felt nauseous, out of sorts. You are not well, I told myself. And then, the door opened again, and this time, a Thai girl, one I recognized as a bus girl from the restaurant, stepped out. She was exquisite, with long dark hair and glistening skin. She peered outside the door hesitantly before hurrying down the steps, adjusting the knot on her sarong as she disappeared down the path.
When I made it back to the room, Michael was there.
“There you are,” he said, brow wrinkled with worry. “I wondered what happened to you.”
I put the water down on the bedside table. “I went for water.” I said quietly. “I got too thirsty.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long. I had to take a call rather suddenly. They let me take it in the office.” He was sincerity itself. How I wished I could have believed him. How I wanted to believe him.
“That’s funny, Emi didn’t mention anything when I was at the front desk,” I said, collapsing onto the bed.
“Well, you know how bad his English is.” He put his hands on my shoulders and began to massage. “You should rest. You’re in no condition to be running errands. I’m going to take care of everything.” He stroked my hair and I noticed the smell on his hands. Light, subtle, jasmine or honeysuckle. And the jealousy became a small flame, swirling inside me.
Back on the plane, I stare out at the formless sea of clouds and stars and think of the beautiful Thai girl. I feel that unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach, like my heart is slowly being sucked through my esophagus, soon to be airborne.
And then it hits me, in true epiphany style, right between the eyes. He had not even asked me to join him in LA. I had gotten so used to his invitations, I had missed this oversight altogether. He was meeting someone else.
I close my eyes, feeling as though the epiphany has somehow managed to scald the inside of my brain. And then it sinks in, the unpleasant acknowledgement that I am disappointed — disappointed that the end is in sight. All of my cynicism and level-headedness has not prevented my transformation. I have finally stepped into the role of Miss Vancouver. I had acted the part until I became the character, and I deplored what I had become.
I catch my reflection in the tiny window. A tanned patch of face, a nose, a chin, and an eye, vaguely contoured, surrounded by darkness.