Fiction - All This on a Postcard

What they say about the prairies is true.

From the window of seat sixteen I can see nothing but a smooth and endless sheet of snow stretching out luminously in the moonlight. It's hard to believe a place could be so flat, so taken up with nothing. I have to assume there's wheat under all that snow. Wheat and oil.

As far as I can tell this is Alberta, but not the Alberta of rugged foothills and white cowboy hats. This is the part that would have been Saskatchewan had the cartographers moved the little dotted line over an inch or so. All I can remember about Alberta is wheat and no sales tax, on account of the oil, and since I can't remember anything about Saskatchewan I'll just say this is Alberta and be done with it.

You'd hate it here, you and your aversion to snow. You wouldn't like this bus, either, this twenty-year old belching buffalo of a Greyhound with its orange-yellow upholstery and lingering aroma of stale cigarettes. No, you're the smart one. Or should I say the rich one. You took a plane to Vancouver and avoided all these fly-over provinces, these vast, agrarian plains that might as well be a foreign country to Torontonians like us. Or like me, I should say. I keep forgetting that you're a Vancouverite now, a nicely settled newlywed living in semi-detached bliss outside of North Van. It's been almost two months, you'd think I'd be used to it by now.

The bus trundles along the undeviating straight line that is the TransCanada, its headlights stabbing into the darkness ahead of us. There isn't one interesting thing about this road, no bridges, no curves, certainly no hills. I could use something to look at, something to focus on. I've been fighting off carsickness - bus sickness? – since Swift Current and since sleeping in these seats requires the skill of a contortionist, I am wearily, irritably awake. You'd laugh your head off if you could see me now.

I switch on the personal reading light in the panel above me and rummage through my purse for the pens and postcards I bought at our last rest stop in Regina. I choose a card with a picture of three grain elevators silhouetted by the sinking sun, and begin to write.

Dear Blushing Bridegroom:

I should have told you I was coming, I know that now. I'm on the Greyhound from Toronto, passing through Alberta- I think it's Alberta- and by tomorrow night I'll be on your doorstep, and I'm sorry. I have half a mind to get off at the next town and head right back home. I should have called first, shouldn't I? I hope your new wife won't mind my staying for a few days, it's just that I have to see you-

What am I doing? I can't send you this. You've been my best friend for ten years, you'll know this doesn't sound like me.

I tear the card in half and pull out another one, this one sure to make you groan. It is completely white with the words "Regina in Winter" written jauntily in the top right corner. Someone made a lot of money for coming up with this.

Hey Buddy!

Long time no hear, eh, jerkface? What, you move to Vancouver and suddenly you forget everybody's address? If it weren't for your mother (who sends her love and wants to know if you took her Deluxe Scrabble with you-she wants it back) I wouldn't know if you were alive or dead.

Christ, this isn't right either. There's so much I have to say to you and none of it can be adequately expressed on a postcard. But now I'm beginning to think that I can't handle face to face either. What can I possibly say? How does one phrase such a thing? Should I prepare some sort of preamble, a gentle little segue to help me ease into it? Or should I just blurt it out the minute you open the door, your face frozen in a bewildered smile? God, just thinking about it makes me want to wretch.

I never could tell you anything, not really. What makes me think I'll be any good at it now? The thing is I faked it with you, my love. I pretended honesty, candour; I play-acted at frankness and truth. And while you, in friendship, were unfolding yourself, I was wilfully closing myself up, holding back the very thing I so desperately wanted to share. I couldn't tell you, I didn't dare. My great secret, my dirty little hope. I almost told you, once; the memory of that unused moment gnaws at me still. You, at my father's corn roast last fall, dancing around the bonfire with my sister's baby in your arms, twirling her higher and faster until she giggled and squealed with delight. Your silhouettes against the orange flames, the laughter of a child who has no other care in the world but for the man holding onto her as she whirls up into the air. I remember how well you looked, at play with a baby, and how my breath came easily that night, smoothed in its passage by contentment and genuine peace.

I imagined that baby belonging to you, and yes to me, that it was our little girl you were delighting as the dried wood snapped and cracked beneath the flames. During that lovely autumn night, with the sinking sun and the rhythm of the crickets' wings, our future was transformed into a Jane Austen novel in my head, a gentle, innocent sort of existence peopled with only the dearest to our hearts. You and I and our little ones, shielding ourselves from the world in a haven of love and happiness forever.

Bullshit.

It didn't happen like that at all. Had life been anything like a Jane Austen novel, your heart wouldn't have been vacant and vulnerable like it was that night; it would have belonged to me. And I certainly wouldn't be on the Greyhound to Vancouver to find you, now.

What would you have done if I'd chosen that moment to tell you? How would you have reacted if I'd suddenly kissed you as we walked down the lane towards your car? It was just the two of us, I could have done it. And I could have blamed it on my father's home made beer had my advances proved unwelcome. Sorry about last night, bud, but you know what Dad's brew does to me.

Maybe I should have done it, maybe I should have abandoned all sense and shown you the darker side of my friendship, the frustrated, yearning, sexual side of me you'd never seen. Should I have pushed you up against one of the dying maples and clawed at your clothes? You probably would have pushed me away then, and I would have passed out from the embarrassment, and from that point on it would have become an unmentionable incident, a moment of weakness, a memory we just never visit. Maybe that would have been better.

But I had already lost you then, and I knew it. I strolled quietly down the lane with you, hoping, praying, that my skin was somehow more luminous in the moonlight, my eyes somehow more alluring, or that the years of trust and affection between us would be enough to triumph over your desire for something willowy and beautiful and aloof. Wishing that tonight you would suddenly turn to me with love in your eyes and tell me you could no longer conceal your heart.

But as the leaves crunched beneath our feet I stole secret glances at you and found you lost in thought, gazing at the ground six inches ahead of you as you walked. The expression on your face was unmistakable. You had met her. We had both met her, my sister's friend from work. The woman whose cool eyes swept right past you at first, the woman who married you two months ago and wore a mini-skirt to her own wedding. The woman who can't give blood because she doesn't weigh enough. Your wife, your frail and shimmering lily of a wife.

Oh, but it was a beautiful wedding, that I'll give you. You released doves, for God's sake, real live doves. Hundreds of them, doves that shit all over my car. I bet I know whose idea that was. And you invited my mother for me, too - how perfectly sweet of you to remember that I wouldn't have anyone else to bring - who scrutinized your shining bride as she floated down the aisle without the nuisance of a dress to slow her down. Mother, sensing my mounting irritability in the over-heated church, leaned heavily into me and whispered so that everyone could hear, "Nice little ass if you like that sort of thing but those hips wouldn't pass a golf ball let alone a kid."

A bump in the road sends a shudder through the bus and we skid a little as the driver recovers. There are only six people on this bus besides me, and four heads rise up groggily at the disturbance. A couple of shadowy heads glance around and peer out the windows before finally settling back down to sleep.

These people are smart, they've all brought large, fluffy pillows and warm blankets, and snuggle down in them comfortably despite the cramped conditions. I wish I'd thought to bring a pillow. The closest thing I have is a purse or this bulky knapsack, stuffed to the limit with everything I'll need for my stay. Great for travelling light but utterly useless as a headrest.

So I take out another postcard - this one of a grinning Mountie in maple leaf boxer shorts- and begin again.

Hello There!

How was your honeymoon? I must admit I was surprised when your mother told me you were headed to Colorado. Colorado in November, no less. According to the Weather Channel, Vail was hit pretty hard this year, snow-wise-

Whose idea was Vail, anyway? You hate snow, and have done for as long as I've known you. In fact, I look forward to the first snowfall each year just for the pleasure I get from hearing the sluice of profanity that leaves your lips. Every year, without fail, you curse the Snow Gods and vow to relocate somewhere arid and hot, to a place whose very name sounds windswept and dry: Taos or Tumbleweed or Phoenix, Arizona. I never imagined you'd think of Vail in November, or Vancouver for good. But then maybe it wasn't your idea.

-so I hope you found enough diversion indoors-

Well now that's cheeky. I actually think twice before scratching it out.

-and don't worry...while you were hip deep in slush I was enjoying the relative sauna of one of Toronto's mildest winters yet. I hope you didn't give me a second thought...

I clench my fist around the pen and cover every inch of the card with stroke after stroke of blue venom. Then I punch holes in it, holes that form little constellations where the address should go. When I flip it over I see that I have inadvertently put out the Mountie's eyes. Should I send it to you like this?

Jesus, look at me. Pretending to be normal, acting as if everything is like it always was. That's what you wanted, right? For everything to stay the same? How am I doing so far, bud, chasing after you like this in a beat up old Greyhound bus?

I shouldn't have gone to your stag, I know that now with a certainty you can't even begin to fathom. I laughed when your brother invited me, told him the last thing your rowdy friends needed was a woman around. Oh come on, he'd scoffed, it'll be fun. Besides, you're not a woman. You're his best friend.

I went because I thought he was wrong, at least about the woman part. I imagined the room growing quiet as I walked in, I pictured sheepish glances and awkward silences, and naughty little boys having to tone down the festivities out of deference to me. Mostly I hoped you'd see me differently in a room full of men where, for once, there'd be no other women for comparison.

Except the stripper. I forgot that they'd hired you a stripper. I didn't know what to do with myself, standing there stupidly as the luscious little number danced topless around your brother's living room, engaging the eyes of every man there. When she handed you the can of whipped cream and told you to make her into a sundae, I knew I'd seen enough.

So I took refuge in the basement, sat banging my heels on your brother's Maytag as the stripper teased and tempted you upstairs. Half an hour passed, maybe more. Laughter and wolf whistles and the thumping bass of Milli Vanilli from the stripper's boom box floated down the stairs to me as I idly read the pre-treatment instructions on a box of Tide.

Later, when I heard drunken feet stumbling down the stairs I reached over and switched off the overhead light in case it was your brother or that idiot friend of yours from the office. Somehow I thought the darkness might render me invisible. I never thought they'd send you, the guest of honour, to fetch more beer from the fridge beside the washer but there you were, collar loosened, hair tousled, drunk.

You squinted at me in the darkness, came towards me with warm, beery breath and asked what I was doing down here all alone. I chose to hear something sensual, something seductive in your voice, and so I kissed you. I grabbed your lipstick-stained collar and pulled you to me, just as I had wanted to do that crisp September night.

Maybe you thought I was the stripper. Or your fiancée. Or maybe you weren't thinking at all. Whatever the reason, your lips welcomed mine and we sank, inelegantly, to the cold cement floor. It was quick and sharp and silent; you didn't even take your shirt off. Or mine.

I never imagined it would be like that. I never understood until that moment that the rapture and the bliss was a myth. But I don't blame you. You didn't know. I remember your shoulder hitting my chin and that you never looked at me, not once. And just when the pain became too much you shuddered, silently, and fell still. You fell asleep is what you did. So after a moment I rolled you off me and watched you curl up into a pile of dirty laundry, where I think you spent the night cushioned by bed sheets and smelly old socks. You had the luxury of drifting into oblivion, of enjoying your amnesia. I didn't, I don't. I bled that night, and I haven't bled since.

I'll never know how much of it you remember. I know you came to me the next day, looking ashen, looking sick, mumbling through your headache that you were sorry, that you were mortified - you used the word mortified- and was that...what? Blood? On the floor? You wanted to know if you'd forced me, and the tears spilled down your cheeks like you were three years old. I took you in my arms and comforted you, assured you of your blamelessness, promised you it had been my fault. At least I could be truthful about that. I was drunk too, I lied. I forgot I had my period, that was all. Embarrassing yes, but no harm done.

Your relief was visible. I could actually see the guilt rise from your shoulders and evaporate, leaving behind an awkward sort of sheepishness. So we can just forget about it, right? Pretend it never happened? We can't let this ruin our friendship. Sitting there, round-eyed and pale, you seemed so eager for release, so anxious for absolution that I had to give it to you. Of course we can forget it. Don't give it a second thought.

Streetlights in the distance announce the outskirts of a new town, and some of my grogginess clears. The promise of civilization after so many miles of darkness is comforting. There will be a break here, a ten- or twenty-minute leg stretcher while the bus picks up parcels heading west, or maybe even passengers. I'll be able to buy a coffee and if I'm lucky a little tube of Tylenol to ease the ache creeping into the small of my back. These simple little indulgences are what make the trip bearable-especially the coffee. I have four kinds of speciality coffee at home but not one of them tastes as good as three a.m. snack bar coffee from a little paper cup.

The driver tells us this is Medicine Hat as he pulls into the small town and moves down its silent streets to the "station"-an all-night cafeteria with a Greyhound sign above the door. Ahead of me, three other passengers untangle themselves stiffly from their warm cocoons and create acrobatic silhouettes as they stand in the aisle and creak their necks and backs into place. Pressure bursts from the air brakes as the bus comes to a stop, and those in front of me shuffle sleepily towards the door. As I make my way down the aisle the others sleep on, unaware of, or uninspired by, this latest stop.

The cold air snaps me awake as I step from the bus. I sling my knapsack over my shoulder and glance down the quiet, snow-covered main street of this little prairie outpost, which will likely come alive in a few hours' time. For now the darkened windows of the stereo stores and pizza places overlook a fresh mantle of snow, glistening a bluish and pristine white beneath the streetlights. It is beautiful in its simplicity, silent and perfect at this time of night when no one has to trudge through it or shovel it out of the way. If it weren't for the icy air whispering around my knees I could stand here all night, still.

I'm lured indoors by the aroma of fresh coffee, and pause at the rack of postcards just inside the door. I'll never mail these things, I realize. Why do I bother? I pass my fingers over one glossy image of some sort of giant steel tee-pee that I have to assume is a prominent landmark in this town. There are only six postcards in the rack- four of them boast different shots of the tee-pee.

I follow my fellow travellers into the restaurant, which is cozily decorated in the earthy pinks and browns of the American southwest. The tables even have little potted cacti on them. Even with all the snow outside, this desert motif seems oddly fitting, here in the starkest, most featureless place I've ever been. The girl behind the counter seems to have the perfect disposition for dealing with late night bus travellers; she rings through each order with a smile that conveys both sympathy and gentle derision. She laughs when I absently give her a quarter instead of a loonie for my coffee. They don't sell Tylenol but she gives me a couple from the bottle in her purse, and I swallow them gratefully with a gulp of hot coffee. Then I try to express adequate thanks with a scalded tongue.

I slide into a booth by the windows and watch the bus driver-the twelfth one since Thunder Bay and the second one named Murray - languidly loading packages into the underbelly of the bus. If this is Medicine Hat then Calgary can't be much farther now. Vancouver's only about a day from there, or so I'm told.

In spite of everything I can't wait to see you. I look forward to those first five minutes, to the smiles and the hugs and the surprise. The following five minutes, five hours, five days, will be difficult, I imagine, so I don't let my mind wander there. But those first five minutes will be great.

I notice it the way I usually do. One minute I'm sitting there, unconcerned with my body and the mechanics of life in general and the next minute it's just there. I should be used to the sensation by now-the same thing every month since I was twelve-but this time the shock of it, the sheer disbelief, freezes the coffee cup on the way to my lips.

No, it can't be. Not after all this time. I set the cup down and shift around in my seat as inconspicuously as possible. There's no mistaking it. As if on cue the first twinge of a cramp bites into me; now that I'm aware of it I suddenly realize why I've been feeling so heavy below the waist, so pinched and swollen.

My mind performs arithmetic at a speed that would have floored my math teachers; can it be that I was just late? Fifty-five days late? I glance around, half-wishing there was someone around to ask. Fifty-five days? I remember a particularly horrible week last year when I started a new job and had to put my dog to sleep and found out you were getting married; I missed a period that month but didn't think much of it at the time. So I know it happens. But fifty-five days?

I don't cry often, you know that. I don't get weepy over sad movies or love songs or Latter Day Saints commercials but as I sit here, with absolutely no reason to cry, the tears start puddling in my eyes and my throat tightens into a knot. Oh, you'd laugh to see me struggling against these rebellious tears. You'd applaud my composure, though, for only allowing two or three of them to spill down my cheeks. I'm ashamed that even that many escape. My face burns and I wipe away the evidence of my weakness with an angry hand.

The other passengers have started heading back but no one notices - or cares - that I'm supposed to be shuffling back to the bus with them. But I don't want to get up. Especially since I have no reason to. The tears overpower me and so I let them come, bitterly. I watch the bus rock gently as each passenger climbs aboard, and remind myself that no one knows I'm supposed to be in Vancouver tomorrow, and no one will care if I'm not. Including you.

And as my Greyhound pulls away I put my head down on the table, and wonder how I'm going to fit all this on a postcard.

I should have told you I was coming, I know that now. I'm on the Greyhound from Toronto, passing through Alberta- I think it's Alberta- and by tomorrow night I'll be on your doorstep, and I'm sorry. I have half a mind to get off at the next town and head right back home. I should have called first, shouldn't I? I hope your new wife won't mind my staying for a few days, it's just that I have to see you...