Montréal, Katrine
Canada
The taxi dropped me off in front of the airport amidst a clatter of slamming doors and mechanical farewells. After settling with the driver, I headed into the terminal. The crowd was a human tide, a chaos of trajectories that I navigated with a hurried pace, seeking to vanish into the mass.
Once the formalities were complete, after that long ritual walk to the foot of the aircraft, I finally came to a halt.
I let out a long sigh as I turned around. A part of me—undoubtedly the most irrational part—expected someone to burst forth and hold me back. But the tarmac was void of any ties. I could leave in peace.
As I slowly climbed the jet bridge, following the patient rhythm of an elderly lady in front of me, a hum rose from the ground. A voice. My name, carried by the wind. I spun around, my heart suddenly racing, and my shock was absolute when I spotted Cody at the far end of the security zone, waving his arms with desperate energy.
— I'll wait for you! he screamed, as agents tried to curb his momentum.
An involuntary smile tugged at my lips. That boy possessed the rare gift of breaking down my defenses, even at the moment of the great departure. I would have loved to shout back that I'd return, to offer him that glimmer of hope, but my ethics forbade me from building bridges on lies.I turned away without a word and stepped into the plane.
I made my way back to economy class, that noisy microcosm where energies collide. Reaching my row, I saw that a woman was already occupying my seat. I raised my eyebrows.
— Excuse me...
She turned toward me, eyes wide. She had a porcelain face dusted with freckles, framed by red curls that gave her the look of a fragile doll. She scrambled into the neighboring seat.
— E-excuse me! I-I wanted to sit by the window, b-but... she stammered.
I nodded, signaling that it was fine, and stowed my bag. Once settled, I felt her blue eyes scrutinizing me from the side. I pretended not to notice, staring at the landscape that would soon tilt away. Around us, it was the usual chaos: crying children, the grumbles of impatient passengers, overwhelmed flight attendants.Then, silence fell abruptly with the captain's voice.
The plane began to move, leaving behind eight years of a life. Settled by the window, I watched the clouds form a cottony barrier between my past and this future I couldn't yet quite visualize.
My fingers dipped into my pocket and met two opposing textures: the smooth coldness of the pearl and the chalky grain of Mr. Rogers' seashell.
I pulled them out and placed them on the tray table in front of me. The contrast was striking. The shell was a pure gift, a symbol of protection offered by a lonely soul. But this pearl... this black thread...
The more I stared at it, the more the air in the cabin seemed to thin. It wasn't just a piece of jewelry. It was an anchor. A face illuminated by sunlight suddenly struck me—a remnant of memory I had forgotten. I couldn't discern the person's features, but it seemed to be a child.
Who was it?
The plane took off. At the precise moment the engines roared, I felt a hand clamp onto my left forearm. My neighbor was livid, her forehead beading with sweat despite the coolness of the cabin. I sighed, not out of annoyance, but out of a sort of protective reflex. I placed my palm on the back of her clenched hand and began to gently massage her knuckles.
— Focus on the massage, I whispered, in a voice I wanted to ground in reality. Don't think about anything else.
She complied, her breathing syncing with mine. The plane left the ground. Once stability was regained, I returned to my initial position. She didn't let go of my arm, but a small "thank you" escaped her lips. I put on my "circumstance smile"—the one that reassures without overcommitting.
—You're welcome.
—Are you from Canada? she asked after a silence, clearly looking for a social anchor point.
— No, I was born and raised in the United States. I've been here for eight years.
— Why are you going back? To see your family?
I stared out the window. The answer came without detour, blunt.
— My family is dead.
A leaden silence settled in. Usually, death is the best way to close a conversation, it creates a malaise that makes people retreat. But this redhead didn't seem to operate by the usual codes.
— So, will you be living in your parents' house? she persisted.
— No. At a hotel.
She tilted her head, trying to catch my gaze. I turned toward her, letting her read the weariness and determination on my face.
— Living alone in a hotel... that's kind of risky for a woman in the States, isn't it? she whispered, her brow furrowed.
— It's all I have, I replied with a shrug. I have enough to last two months—time to find a job and a roof.
Her fingers began tapping the armrest, a sign of intense reflection. Then, she blurted out the unthinkable:
— You could come crash at my place.
I nearly choked. I stared at her, searching for any trace of a joke or a passing madness.
— Are you serious? We've known each other for an hour! I could be anyone... a criminal, a trafficker. It's pure recklessness.
She bit her lip, weighing my words, but her gaze remained strangely calm.
— I don't know why, but I have a gift for reading people. I trust you, she whispered.
I shook my head. It was always the same. People saw in me a shoulder, a refuge, a "good person," without suspecting the complexities I hid behind my restraint. She was disarmingly naive.
— If you say so...
During the rest of the flight, she turned out to be a real chatterbox. Her name was Arabelle, she worked as a receptionist at a law firm in Brooklyn and was returning from a visit to her brother in Montreal.
She lived in her parents' old home, a large house she shared with successive roommates, each more disappointing than the last. New York real estate was brutal, and she was always looking for decent people to fill the rooms.
She was particularly incensed by her last roomie—now her neighbor—whose faults she listed with a verve that made me chuckle despite myself.
— I swear, if that jerk dies, I'm gonna laugh! she fumed with a pout.
— You're exaggerating, Arabelle.
She was refreshing. Her total transparency contrasted with my constant need to analyze and filter. When the landing announcement sounded, she grabbed my hand again. I resumed the soothing pressure of my thumb on her thin skin until the wheels touched the runway.
Once the plane came to a halt, as the line of passengers stretched into the aisle, I noticed Arabelle wasn't moving. She was twisting her fingers, a curly lock of hair falling across her forehead.
— What is it? I asked.
She looked up at me, a mix of hope and fear in her eyes.
— My offer from before... are you still interested?
I took a few seconds to probe my intuition. The risk was there, but the opportunity for an immediate anchor in Brooklyn was too rational to ignore. And then, there was something about her that resonated with my need for sincerity.
— Alright, I finally said. But we're going to have a serious talk about the rent.
A huge smile lit up her porcelain face. I was in New York, yet my journey was only just beginning.