Aban's Accension

Chapter 15: Exploration

Chapter 15: EXPLORATION

by Shireen Jeejeebhoy

Aban looks out her bedroom window the next morning and sees El meditating, standing up, arms flung out, neck stretched to the sky. She snatches up her wallet and stuffs it down her front pocket. Today her T-shirt proclaims “I can be Anything.” She runs down the two flights of stairs and out the front door, shutting it behind her. The morning sun barely cuts through the haze and barely fills the little front garden with light. She turns right and heads to the crosswalk. El had explained on her first day, when they were returning from the wedding, that it’s a place where pedestrians can cross busy roads and how to make the traffic stop. She follows his instructions, but cars don’t stop. Tentatively, she steps onto the road, and the car nearest her flies through the crosswalk, but the one behind brakes. She crosses safely to the other side and walks over to the bus stop. And waits.

And waits.

A bus roars up to the curb. The brakes squeal. She gets on and asks the driver how to pay. He gestures with his head; she doesn’t understand and asks again.

“Girl, can’t you read?” he growls at her.

“Um, sure.”

“Put the money in that box in front of you,” shouts a middle-aged woman from the back. Aban looks for the voice, past the yellow rails near her, past the boxed-up compartment behind the driver and a fat black platform, past a stroller filling the aisle, and down to the far end of the black-sided corridor. The woman nods. Aban fishes out her wallet, digs out loonies and toonies, is about to drop them all in when the woman shouts, "No, not that much, man." The woman trundles up to the front, sorts through the change in Aban's hand, takes out a few coins, and drops them in to the box. They clank into the bottom, the driver depresses a lever letting the coins disappear, and accelerates away from the curb. Aban is thrown against the black wall of metal behind the driver, but the woman has already expertly snagged back her seat. Aban staggers toward the seats, grabbing rails and poles to steady herself. She sucks in her nonexistent gut to squeeze past the stroller. A diaper bag sits on top of the platform next to the seat where a young woman holds onto the stroller. Passengers sit and watch her or read.

With a whoosh, she’s past the stroller. The bus brakes; Aban stumbles forward and lands in an empty seat. The passengers on either side of her seem oblivious. She wonders now if this was a good idea, going out into Toronto on her own. But she needs to be by herself. Last night’s dinner was so weird. Weird is a safe word, safer than voicing how she really felt, the emotions it stirred up. All those people; all those stories about Grandma; and El in the middle of it. Weirdest of all, no one was hungry when they left. They said they were stuffed. They said they had a good dinner. Weirder, no one left drunk, drunk on alcohol that is. But they sure were drunk on something.

All the passengers are getting off, and the driver is following them. She hurries off herself. She looks around and wonders which way to go. Then she realises that there is only one way, down. Down, down she goes and ends up on a platform. Whichever way this platform goes, she hopes it’s the right way.

El had given her maps at the end of the wedding. On their way home, when she was woozy and tired, he’d shown her the TTC and how to get downtown. She’d forgotten to bring her map. All she remembers is west. She looks around the platform for a sign. Suddenly the air blows her curls across her face; a silver train whooshes in, a sign on its front declaring Kipling. Was that west? She gets on anyway and sits down on a red fabric seat. It’s hard. The people’s faces on the train are hard. She looks around surreptitiously and sees some sleeping. She mimics them and tucks her head down, staring at her lap. Three chimes sound, a hiss of air escapes, and the doors zip together, hesitate, shut. A whine fills the air, a knock sounds as if the two cars are pulling apart, and the train pushes itself forward, pushing her into the seat back. She begins to fidget and, unable to help herself, looks up. She sees the same weary, hard people. She shifts her eyes to the right towards the window and watches as the black tunnel swallows the lighted train, hears the wheels click clack under her. The whine lowers in pitch as the whole train vibrates and smooths out into a constant forward motion.