Canary by Duane Swierczynski Read Free Book Online

agonizing twilight moment. What’s more bizarre is that he slept through the landing, too. Only the final
bing
of the overhead seat belt indicator roused him from slumber.
    Then again, this is what happens when you drink a little too much at an airport bar and then basically pour yourself into your window seat.
    The tear started the way it usually does.
Used to;
he doesn’t do this anymore, it’s just an aberration, he tells himself. He had one beer to calm his nerves, maybe help him sleep on the flight even though he knows he never sleeps on flights. Second beer in, he’s primed up for one Jack on the rocks, just one, you know, to calm his nerves on the flight, even though he’s never been a nervous flier. One Jack becomes three and Kevin knows that’s enough, more than enough, but one more and maybe he really could sleep on the plane, because tomorrow’s Thanksgiving and there’ll be so much to do, so much he can’t even keep it all straight in his head. But the bartender, a blonde with purple streaks and some hard living on her face, was his buddy by now and poured him a double, no extra charge. And then it was a rush to grab his bag and settle up and dart to the men’s room for an epic piss and wash his face and look in the mirror to see Old Kev staring back at him. Hey, where you been, poser?
    What worries Kevin is the utter lack of hangover, which means he’s still drunk this morning. He turns on his phone and texts Sarie. She texts back a nanosecond later, from the cell phone lot. Rock-solid dependable as always, his daughter. “Strong like bull,” he used to joke in a grunting voice when she was younger, and it remains true. He’s relieved as hell she agreed to pick him up this morning. Two trains all the way to the Northeast on Thanksgiving morning would be depressing. Kevin doesn’t drive, not since he lost his license in high school in the worst way you could lose it. Even though he was allowed to drive again, he refused. Kevin never wanted to be back in that kind of situation ever again. Laura always drove. Then Sarie took over. Kevin is the eternal passenger.
    Kevin makes a detour into a terminal men’s room to splash some cold water on his face and check on the condition of his eyes. They don’t call it a red-eye for nothing, but there’s plane red-eye and still-drunk-and-unfocused red-eye. Sarie and Marty know the difference. The cold water feels good on his skin, and the busy thrum of holiday travelers all around him is somehow reassuring. Life resumes. You’re going to be okay.
    As long as you maintain The Fiction, Mr. Holland.
    The Fiction is the defense mechanism he came up with over the summer. He knows it won’t work forever, but that doesn’t matter; it’s working okay now. A blend of his own counseling training and his imagination, The Fiction is a state of mind designed to help him deal with the awful new realities of his life one day at a time. Yeah, same basic thing he’s been telling his patients for years. Don’t think about never having a drink again for the rest of your life—that’s too much weight to carry. Just avoid taking a drink today. Don’t think about how you’ll never lose yourself in that high; just avoid sticking the needle in your arm today.
    The Fiction is: Don’t think about the fact that Laura is gone forever. That you’re never going to feel her fingertips running up and down your forearm, because she knows it relaxes you—she knows all the places that relax you. You’re never going to kiss someone whose lips taste like a blend of cinnamon and strawberries. That the intangible, wonderful, fragile, beautiful, difficult thing you shared can never be replicated, and was gone for good. That is too much for anyone to bear.
    So: She’s only gone
today.
    According to The Fiction, Laura Gutierrez Holland is merely in Guadalajara taking care of her mother after hip surgery. She’ll be gone a few weeks, maybe a little more. She doesn’t call or email