Notre Dame d’Espace
My sister’s train was late. It was supposed to have arrived at Montreal’s Central Station at seven, and it was now twenty past. It was 1996, and no one had cellphones. All I had to go by was the information posted on the massive platform display hanging over the middle of the cavernous concourse, which declared that my sister’s train was À l’heure/ On Time.
My god, I was tired—a profound, deepin-the-bones exhaustion. My head ached. My eyes hurt. My limbs felt heavy. I leaned my forehead against the wall, the coolness of the polished granite soothing in the humid May evening. The station was quiet, and I could have fallen asleep right there.
I was reeling from the year I’d just finished at the University of Victoria: more than a full-time course load, long nights working on theatre productions, longer nights with my ...