THIRTY-TWO
IT WOULD HAVE BEEN ABSURD for me to deny it any longer: I wouldn’t make Toronto and neither did I have time to return to Moose Factory. A gush of amniotic fluid woke me before the train pulled into Cochrane. I wouldn’t say that I was surprised by this as much as I felt foolish for my attempts all through the pregnancy and even as I was packing medicinal supplies to deny what was so plainly about to happen. My fugitive days were over. I had been caught. For the first time in months I glimpsed the evasive and deluded woman I’d become. I was overwhelmed with a desire to apologize and beg forgiveness and explain. No more than five minutes passed between contractions.
The train smelled of stale sweat and smoked cigarettes and loneliness. I sat catching my breath and wondering how I
