LITMIR.BIZ

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Over the Atlantic Ocean – 11 September 2011

      Sophie leans over the armrest and squints through the greasy fingerprints streaking the aeroplane’s window. The late summer sky is vivid blue above the clouds drifting like wads of tissue over the inky water far below. The afternoon sun throws a sharp streak of light across her lap. Pulling down the shutter, she glances at her watch. Three forty-five. She could have done without the 4am dash to LaGuardia and the tedious layovers in Toronto and Halifax. Halifax airport, the most boring airport in the world. Not even a Starbucks. Almost eight bloody hours to Gander since she stepped on the plane in New York. Getting Jackie to book her on the milk run had to be Richard’s idea of a joke.

      Sophie rubs her temples. The aeroplane rattles with the excited chatter of “plane people” heading back to Newfoundland for a ten-year reunion. Ten years already since those thirty-eight international planes had been diverted to Newfoundland on 9/11. She is a plane person too. But she isn’t here for a reunion party. A party is the last thing on her mind.

      She squints as a face materialises in the murk of her mind’s eye. Will he still be in Tippy’s Tickle? No, no, no. It’s over, Sophie! It’s been ten years. Get a life, woman. She erases the face, like she’s wiping away a chalk image on a blackboard.

      She stuffs in her iPod earbuds and switches on her chill-out playlist, slumping back into the lumpy seat with a yawn. Her body feels so heavy, like she’s wrapped in a duvet. If only she could just do that – burrow under a duvet and block out the phone calls and the emails and the meetings, meetings, meetings. She swore her skin had looked grey this morning when she’d staggered into the bathroom at three-thirty, drenched in sweat. Bloody New York humidity. She had to do something about that fluorescent light, though. No woman over twenty-five, let alone a forty-eight-year-old, should have to deal with fluorescent light. It was the light of the devil.

      Still, this time the prize is worth it. Partner in Richard Niven’s architecture practice. Everything she’s ever wanted. Everything her late mother, Dottie, had always wanted for her. Success. Independence. Freedom. Queen of the hill. Top of the heap. New York. New York.

      Well done her. She’d held her nerve with Richard. Refused to back down. Just like her mother had taught her. Dottie would be so proud.

      She rubs her eyes. So why has she been feeling so bloody … empty? If only she didn’t feel like the air was constantly pressing her into the ground, like she was a lump of mozzarella having the water pressed out. If she could wake up for once without the empty-stomached anxiety that had been plaguing her for months. Everything was just so … just so nothing.

      She shakes her head impatiently and closes her eyes as Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’ wafts into her ears. She’s just tired. The break from the office will do her good.

      It’d been ten years since she’d stepped foot on The Rock. Stranded there for five days in the middle of nowhere after all the air traffic was grounded, while the world fell apart on 9/11. At least this time she was coming to Newfoundland voluntarily. Well, almost voluntarily. She never should have shown Richard the photos she’d taken in the outport village of Tippy’s Tickle back in September 2001. Of Ellie and Florie’s general store, of the whales spouting off the coast, of her aunt Ellie’s handsome Victorian merchant house, Kittiwake, standing like a colourful sentinel on the cliff above the village. On the same cliff where the consortium wanted to build the hotel.

      What would her mother have said about turfing Ellie off her property? Sophie grunts. That wasn’t hard. ‘Keep your eye on the prize, Sophie. Don’t let anyone keep you from fulfilling your potential, least of all your aunt. She squandered everything God gave her on a man. She made her bed, now she has to lie in it. You don’t owe Ellie anything.’

      She could hear her mother’s clipped English accent over Adele’s honeyed voice. ‘Do your best, Sophie. Get up early. Stay up late. Work those weekends and holidays. Show everyone that you’re somebody. Show them. Show them all. Don’t let anyone stand in your way or distract you. Don’t make my mistake, Sophie. Don’t regret the person you could have been.’

      Oh, she’d been a good student. She’d worked hard and now had everything she’d ever wanted – an imminent partnership at an international architectural firm in New York, a gorgeous rent-controlled apartment in Gramercy Park, a pension plan, designer clothes, money in the bank. No plants, pets, partners or children to distract her. It was better not to get too attached to living things. They only ended up leaving. Or dying. First her father, George, over twenty years ago of a heart attack as he inspected the Cherry Cobblers production line at Mcklintock’s, then Dottie back in 2000. Lung cancer. Cigarettes will get you every time.

      It was okay. She was okay. She didn’t need anyone.

      Sophie hadn’t even known her aunt Ellie existed until she’d opened an envelope addressed to The Parry Family one Christmas back in the late 70s. The card had a cartoon moose surrounded by tinsel-strewn Christmas trees on the front. Inside, in a fine, confident hand: To all of you at Christmas, from your loving sister and aunt, Ellie. She’d copied the address into the small green leather address book her father had given her for her fifteenth birthday. Then she’d placed the Christmas card beside the mahogany clock on the black marble mantelpiece, with the ones from her father’s colleagues at Mcklintock’s Chocolates, and the ones from the Women’s Institute and the Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital Auxiliary. It was gone the next day.

      Sophie shakes her head to jolt away the image that threatens to materialise again in the blackness behind her eyelids. She can’t let him into her head. His brown eyes, quizzical and teasing. Her mother had been right. Men only confuse you. Best to keep them at arm’s length. At least the ones who could matter. The ones like Sam.

      Maybe that’s why her mother had married George Parry. Because he never really mattered to her. She didn’t do much to hide that fact. Poor Daddy was a means to an end. A means for her mother to become top of the social elite of Norwich.

      George did everything he could to make Dottie happy. Join the Lions Club. Tick. Suck up to the owner of Mcklintock’s Chocolates. Tick. Become a patron of the Norwich Philharmonic Orchestra. Tick. Buy bigger, more expensive houses in better neighbourhoods as he worked his way up to managing director of Mcklintock’s. Tick. Tick. Tick. But her mother was never a happy woman. Sophie had grown up in Norwich in a beautiful house heavy with unspoken words. She’d escaped to university in London as soon as she turned eighteen, Frank Lloyd Wright’s The Natural House and a sketchbook under her arm. It’d been a relief. Like throwing off a thick wool coat in an overheated room. She’d never get married. Ever.

      Sophie opens her eyes and examines her hands, moving her fingers the way she’d been taught at the Sign Language Centre. ‘Hello, Becca. How are you?’ Becca must be eighteen now. Sophie didn’t really know what had prompted her to learn sign language, when she’d never intended to go back to Newfoundland. She’d been curious, she supposed. And it was something else to put on her CV. Chances were Becca and Sam didn’t even live in Tippy’s Tickle anymore. People move on. It will be better if they’ve moved on.

      Sophie loosens her seatbelt and rubs at the stiffness in her neck. She’d meant to keep in touch with her aunt. But after posting out the first couple of Christmas cards, bought in a hurry at Browne’s between client meetings, time just got away from her, even as Ellie’s annual Christmas and birthday cards, full of the chatty goings-on of Tippy’s Tickle, sat on Sophie’s mantelpiece like a reproach, until they’d end up in the ‘To Do’ pile on her desk, begging for a response that she’d never get around to writing.

      She’d thought of Sam often, at first, and an ache would form that would roll into a ball and sit in her stomach like an anchor. He’d left messages, which she hadn’t returned, even though her heart had buzzed with pleasure when she’d found his messages on her phone. She’d meant to call, to text at the very least. She’d stood in the kitchen of her apartment with her finger hovering over the numbers on her mobile phone at least a half dozen times. But, she hadn’t called him. Or

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