Chapter Five Excerpt From "Hard Things & Humour", by Leah Marguerite

I write this to you. Please enjoy this excerpt from Chapter Five of "Hard Things & Humour".

Today we leave back to Canada. We eat breakfast with Gord and Sandy and jealously listen to their plans for the remainder of their trip. We pack up all our belongings, treasures we found at the market or the beaches, and the children, and pile in the rental van. Melancholy settles over us, coupled with the nervousness of the trip ahead, and we wave goodbye to Sandy and head toward the Aeroporto. I stare out the dusty window at the lush green scenery and try to commit every bush, stream, and grove of trees to memory. Once we get to the airport and park, I have a nervous cigarette outside while Joe throws me exasperated glares, he hates my smoking. I hug Gord’s generous frame lingeringly, missing him already. I drink in the image of him hugging and whispering to the girls as he promises to see them soon.

We shuffle into line with our suitcases and stroller and Izzy in tow. It moves quickly, and we’re soon in the next line for security. This part always makes me nervous, like I’m some criminal on the run. Like I have a balloon of cocaine up my bum. I most definitely am not, and do not. I feel the same if I’m pulled over by the police when I’m driving. I panickily search my entire soul for some condemnable indiscretion, until the friendly officer realizes I’m no threat and lets me go with a warning to slow down. I don’t know why I feel so unnecessarily guilty, it must be my catholic ancestors’ blood running through my veins. I take my shoes off and put them in the bin on the conveyor belt, pick Nova up out of the stroller, and wait to be called through the x-ray machine. I always imagine the stone-faced guard viewing the screen can see too much. Do they see my underwear? Or straight through to my vagina? Finally, it’s over and they didn’t find the kilo of cocaine they were looking for hidden in the stroller, so they let us pass.

Now we wait. We always get here so early in case the lines are too long, or so as not to miss an early flight, but the wait inside is the hardest with the kids. Izzy is already at it, “When are we gonna get on the plane mom?” Not yet, I tell her, we have a wait. I give Nova a cracker. It's one of those rice ones that turn to glue when saliva hits them, and she proceeds to get it stuck all over herself and the stroller. I try and distract Izzy by strolling through the airport shops. The glass shelves are lined with Mexican souvenirs priced three times higher than they were at the streetside vendors or markets. Strategically lit from inside the cabinets to entice the tourists that still have pesos in their pockets, and who regret not buying that beaded gecko from the guy on the beach while they had the chance. I am a seasoned snowbird, and I don't buy anything except gum and a magazine. We circle back to where Joe is sitting near our gate on the hard plastic chairs. In desperation for a moment alone, I ask if he can take them on a walk. He reluctantly complies, and I sit and people watch, and try not to look as anxious as I consistently feel.

I observe the young couples, the single jet setters, and the old married people. They are all heading back home, wherever that may be. Sunburns and sand-speckled corn rows make a pattern of the shifting crowd. They have sat for the braids upon the beach, convinced by young Latina women speaking little English, carrying photo albums showing their work. Sharp-toothed combs pull out their gringo hair as the Mexican women part and weave earnestly for their income, the touristas immediately regretting their decision. The threat of headlice transferred between clients suddenly crosses their minds, but by then it’s too late. When it’s all finished, braids slicked to their heads like woven grass, the travellers feel as though they have now somehow truly experienced Mexico. But I know the locals chuckle to themselves when they see them walking around, bright red grid lines where their virgin scalps have been exposed to the Mexican sun. Silly turistas.

I’ve always been a nervous flyer, so I think of other musings to calm myself before I’m catapulted into the air and my stomach drops out of my ass. I used to thoroughly enjoy a Gravol before getting onto a plane, which made it bearable. On one such drugged flight, I woke up with my face inches from the face of the man sitting in the seat next to me. I screamed bloody murder. Then I realized he was scootched as far over as he could be, trying to avoid my limp head from using him as a pillow. His shoulder was soaked with my drool, and I had shrieked like he was molesting me. I was so embarrassed for harassing this poor, meek man with my drool and self-righteous hollering. But all I could do was mumble an apology as my head lolled to the window side and I was out again. Those were the days. Now I keep it together for the kids. I can’t let them smell my fear, and I stay alert so I can care for them. It’s sort of a blessing. Children are a convenient way to distract us from our struggles.

We hear the boarding call and shuffle into line once again. Families with children get to board first. Which seems great, until you realize it means there’s that much more time squeezed into the tiny airplane seat with a baby on your lap, waiting. I already changed Nova, and I plan to give her a bottle as the plane ascends so that her tiny ears don’t fill with pressure. The hope is that we don’t subject the other passengers to four hours of her pain-filled wails. Izzy is a bit easier because I can give her gum to help, which I strategically time to the taxiing of the airplane for both her and myself. I pop a piece of sticky Chiclet into my mouth. They tend to melt from the heat and humidity, sold to us by the hordes of adorable Mexican children on the beach for a few pesos. Later we see them at the arcade pumping the coins into the video games. The plane has finally filled up and we start down the runway. I put another melted Chiclet into my mouth, quietly grip the armrests, and practice deep breathing as I fight off a panic attack. The plane lifts into the air, my stomach left back on the runway somewhere, and we’re off. The bottle doesn’t help Nova’s ears as I had hoped, and she cries for the majority of the plane ride. I see the couples without kids, and the ones too old to remember what having a baby is like, shooting dirty glances in our direction. I try everything I can to calm her. I send back apologetic looks, but what I really want to say is “Why don’t you give it a fucking try? I’m doing my best here!”

As the flight progresses, I can feel my skin pucker and snap with dryness. I can almost see the sunburn on my arms, and the tan beneath it, splitting itself off to shed completely like a snake. This is what will happen when it’s exposed to the deep cold of home, and barely a trace of that incredible sun will remain on my skin. Eventually, we land on home soil, or home snow, which might be a more accurate description. We wait in more security lines, then nervously stand around the luggage carousel half expecting our luggage to have opted to remain in Mexico. Then there’s always the thought that it will slip by before you can elbow your way to the front to grab it, and you’ll be there another eon waiting for it to come back around. The bags appear on the conveyor belt, and we manhandle them off. We head outside into the blustering cold and find the shuttle to the parking lot that our frozen vehicle is in. It’s so cold that Mexico seems like a dream now. We find our frigid car and start thawing it out while I buckle and strap the kids into it, and we set off for the hour-plus drive home.

Leah Marguerite