Back The Passengers Save as PDF
Chapters (45)
  1. COVER PAGE
  2. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  3. DEDICATION
  4. CHAPTER 1
  5. CHAPTER 2
  6. CHAPTER 3
  7. CHAPTER 4
  8. CHAPTER 5
  9. CHAPTER 6
  10. CHAPTER 7
  11. CHAPTER 8
  12. CHAPTER 9
  13. CHAPTER 10
  14. CHAPTER 11
  15. CHAPTER 12
  16. CHAPTER 13
  17. CHAPTER 14
  18. CHAPTER 15
  19. CHAPTER 16
  20. CHAPTER 17
  21. CHAPTER 18
  22. CHAPTER 19
  23. CHAPTER 20
  24. CHAPTER 21
  25. CHAPTER 22
  26. CHAPTER 23
  27. CHAPTER 24
  28. CHAPTER 25
  29. CHAPTER 26
  30. CHAPTER 27
  31. CHAPTER 28
  32. CHAPTER 29
  33. CHAPTER 30
  34. CHAPTER 31
  35. CHAPTER 32
  36. CHAPTER 33
  37. CHAPTER 34
  38. CHAPTER 35
  39. CHAPTER 36
  40. CHAPTER 37
  41. CHAPTER 38
  42. CHAPTER 39
  43. CHAPTER 40
  44. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  45. FURTHER READING

It’s weird hearing about Grandma’s desire, but she has never minced words. She has always talked about bodies as though they aren’t a big deal—because of her work, perhaps, because it is a part of everyday life. She talks about sex like she talks about shopping, with no filter. She was the one who told me how babies are made, while we watched a litter of kittens being born in her clinic, and she was the one who told me about menstruation and bought me my first packages of Kotex and Tampax. The boxes gathered dust in the bathroom cabinet for years. On the track and field team we bragged about not having our periods. It was a badge of honour. It meant we could be more like the boys. When my period finally came, when I was seventeen, Grandma didn’t try to console me. She bought me a heating pad for the cramps. She told me not to lie around feeling sorry for myself too long. In any case, my periods never stuck around, and I was pleased when they disappeared again.

I can see, now, how it would have been for Grandma and Roy, and part of me longs for that clarity—that straightforward need. To desire someone without being caught up in what they think of me, of my body, not to always be on the outside looking in.

I’m so busy thinking about how others see me that I forget to see them. When Ash touches me I wonder what he thinks of what he’s touching. Am I too flabby? Can he see the dimples on the backs of my thighs? I am so distracted by these questions I forget to touch him back. Only if I’ve had enough to drink or taken something else can I shut the thoughts down. Two glasses of wine or two Percocet and the inhibition disappears—only to return as regret later.

The last time Ash and I had sex sober was the morning I left, before we drove to San Diego to pick up Grandma. He came into the shower and I shivered beneath a stream of hot. I was going away; I couldn’t say no. I focused on a spot of mould in the grout of the tiles. My ass spread, widened against the glass partition. I gritted my teeth, chin on his shoulder, hoping he would finish soon.