Looped at the Airport

PART ONE

Last year, I lost the last immediate member of my family of three.

It was my mother, my person, and my best friend. I still cannot come to terms with how she departed this world. So, I won’t focus on the tragedy. Every day, I still feel like razor blades are shaving my heart away cell-by-cell.

After her death, I began taking the 747 bus from Lionel Groulx metro to the airport. I arrive at Trudeau International Airport around nine in the morning and head home around eight at night. I watch the passengers arrive and leave. I read a book. And have one meal per day. The restaurants at the airport charge steep rates, even if they are mostly selling junk food.

A friend offers me tickets to visit her in Toronto since I spend so much time at the airport in the first place. She is concerned I am having some sort of mental breakdown.

I board a flight to Toronto the following week with a bunch of business passengers. The check-in, the departure, the flight, and the landing all run smoothly. But when I land, I arrive back at the airport in Montreal.

I head to complain to the Canadian Premier Airlines counter.

“I boarded a flight to Toronto and landed back in Montreal,” I said, fuming and terrified. “What is going on?”

“It’s probably a glitch of some sort,” the counter woman said cheerfully. “We usually give you a free paid week in Boston for the inconvenience.”

“But I want to visit my friend.”

“You can try when you come back. We will refund the ticket for TO.”

I call my friend and tell her about this strange thing that has happened to me. She is happy that I will get to visit Boston; I have always wanted to. 

I sleep at the hotel next to the airport, and the next morning, after I have had my breakfast in the hotel’s lounge, I head to the airport.  

I board my flight, and everything goes smoothly until I land back in the Montreal airport. This time, I took pictures of the people on my flight in case it happened again.

Back in Montreal, I decide to go home to my cozy studio apartment and register my complaint with the airline online. Attempting to leave the airport, I could not open the door at the taxi stand. Security rushed to help me. As I tried to leave, a strong wind would push me back inside, despite it being a clear, sunny spring day without any gusty conditions.

I ended up sobbing uncontrollably at the closest seat to the doors, triggering the passengers coming and leaving to give me dirty looks. A woman, seated a couple of chairs away from me, decided to move as far away from me as possible.

Soon, a pretty blonde, a representative of the Premier Canadian Airlines, kneels in front of me.

“I see you are having a hard time. Could you follow me to the Private VIP Lounge at the airport?”

“Yes,” I murmur.

I walk behind her like a stray kitten following a kind human who wishes to help me.

In the lounge, there are a handful of people scattered. They are seated on the sofas, at the tables, and at the bar.

The pretty blonde hands me a menu once I have made myself comfortable at the bar. I rarely drink, but I have always felt less lonely sitting at a bar.

“Eating something might comfort you,” she says. “I think the airport has chosen you.”

I look up at her, and all I can say is, “I’d like the vegan burger plate and a ginger gin mocktail.”

 

PART TWO

After eating, I fell asleep on the sofa in the lounge.

“Don’t be alarmed, I’m a spiritual psychologist. I’m here to help you,” she says, gently tugging at my sleeve.

"Am I dead?"

"No, I’m Dr. Houseman,” she says. “I’m just here to offer my help.”

She hands me her card.

“When you are ready to explore why your soul has chosen to live at the airport, please call me. I’m a specialist in this domain. My office is in the airport.”

“For some reason, this is the only spot I feel safe at. I enjoy watching the planes take off.”

“Well, that’s a start.”

“I don’t feel like talking anymore.”

“That’s okay, you can work here at the lounge as a hostess. And sleep, where the air crew usually does. You’ll have your own room.”

I start my job the following day. I get to wear a fancy uniform, greet executives, and follow them to their seats. I also ask, from time to time, if they need help with anything. Usually, they mostly ask for directions to their flights. Or if I can run some errands while they wait. They mostly ask me to buy them gift items if they are non-business travellers.

Once my shift is over, I get to wander around the airport and buy books at the bookstore. I spend my free time reading. When I finish a book, I give it to one of the travellers. They find it to be a novelty to receive a book in the digital and AI age.

It has now been two years since I have been living and working at the airport. I think part of me doesn’t want to leave because I am always meeting new people and learning their stories.

I think I might be the archetype Dr. Carl Jung called the Wanderer, but with constraints, as I only leave the airport for 10 minutes to stand next to a door. It’s the only way I can get some fresh air. If I stay longer than 10 minutes, the door opens, and some mysterious force pulls me back inside.

 

PART THREE

Five years later, I’m fired by the Canadian Premier Airlines. They pick me up at my room in the morning, wait until I pack and escort me outside.

It’s a steaming hot day. After 10 minutes, I try to open the door, but I can not. I run from door to door to get back inside, but none of the doors open.

Panicky, I sit next to one of the doors with my one piece of luggage. Luckily, I am sitting under a glass awning. It starts to rain. And it rains for hours.

I decide it’s time for me to go on a hunger strike. I tape a video of my situation and upload it all over social media.

The journalists arrive and the paramedics.

But when the paramedics try to lift me, they can’t.

Then they try to feed me by force, but they can’t.

A crowd forms around me. The journalists ask the paramedics questions.

A woman offers me a smoothie, which I gulp down from hunger. For some unknown reason, I trust her. I usually don’t trust anyone. Paranoia, maybe.

They finally ask me why I don’t want to leave. I answer with the truth, “This is the only place in the world that I feel safe.”

“Why do you feel in danger?”

“I am a woman, and I am alone. I feel so small in this big world.”

“Would it help if we started a crowdfunding campaign for you to live in the hotel next to the airport?” a young man asks.

“Yes, I could live there.”

I finally get up and begin to move like I used to in the old days. The paramedics do not see a reason to stay.

Some of the journalists accompany me to the airport’s hotel. I have money to pay for the room for a year. I did not have any expenses at the airport except for buying books. This will be my new home for a while. I feel safe to be so close to the airport.

After I check in, the reporters who have been following my every move ask if I could follow them outside. But I can’t leave the hotel. I am now part of the hotel.

The next day, I turn on the news on the TV set. The story is about me. “It’s an unexplainable phenomenon that wherever Laura Leaf feels safe, she can’t leave,” the reporter states. They also mention that my crowdfunding campaign has already raised $10,000 started by a good Samaritan who wants to remain anonymous.

I go back to sleep.

I wake up hours later to the sounds of the planes arriving and taking off.

One day, I hope to be able to get on a plane again. My mother used to give me the window seat when we travelled. I loved being in the clouds above the world with her.