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her mind wasn’t on the music.
    We can’t ever really know anyone else, can we
, she began
.
    Depends what you mean by
know
.
    What life is really like for them, what they really think. It’s impossible. We’re all locked inside ourselves.
    You mean
you
are, Clare.
    Maybe. But I think it goes for everyone. We can imagine somebody else’s life, but we’ll never know for sure if we’re right.
    Yeah, well as far as that goes, who’s to say we know ourselves any better? Who the hell is Clare Fraser?
    Sometimes I think I know. When I’m back here, it’s obvious. The question seems pointless.
    The plane dipped gently, and the seatbelt sign chimed.
    What made you think of this anyway?
    I was thinking about my parents. What they were like when they were younger ...

    Their sex life you mean.
    Emma. It’s not that. It’s nothing to do with that.
    Oh, come on. You’re dying to know if—
    No, never mind. We’re about to land.

    THE PEOPLE SURROUNDING CLARE and her mother in the arrivals hall had waiting faces—necks craning, eyes searching. The greeters hovered in heavy coats and clumpy boots, dripping dirty puddles of melted snow on the linoleum floor. The passengers streamed endlessly through the sliding security doors and around the luggage carousel, underdressed, burdened with parcels, a little dazed. Like camera flashes, faces lit up as searched-for parties or pieces of luggage were spotted, and gradually a uniform wave of satisfaction swept through the crowd. Beyond their superficial uniformity, however, the people in the crowd were, as always, unreadable, their circumstances unknowable. Even the most banal of exchanges with any one of them would involve infinite risks: a smile could be tactless; a comment about the weather could trigger terrible memories. How could one tell? Sensibly averting her eyes from these strangers’ faces, Clare watched the assembly-line progress of suitcases rumbling from the chute and sliding into place on the carousel. In her head, the conversation with Emma competed with the hurried, desperate voice of Gilles Vigneault.
    Go on, ask her
.
    I’ll ask her in the car.
    You’re such a chicken.
    Dans la blanche cérémonie, où la neige au vent se marie; Dans ce pays de poudrerie, mon père a fait bâtir maison.
    I just got here.
    You’ve only been gone three weeks. And it’s just your mother. What are you worried about?
    I’m not worried. But it
is my mother. We don’t talk about that stuff.
    Et je m’en vais être fidèle, à sa manière, à son modèle.
    Don’t talk about it then. Just get a yes or a no.
    I’ll ask her, Emma. When the time’s right.

    You promise?
    Mon pays ce n’est pas un pays, c’est l’hiver ...
    She reached in front of her mother for her suitcase and hauled it awkwardly onto the luggage trolley. As they made their way out through the mob, she kept her eyes down. The conversation in her head drivelled on, a secret necessity, until they exited into the vast, frozen airport parking lot, where at last she relaxed her grip on the trolley and allowed herself to look around. Like her fellow passengers, she was underdressed—jeans, T-shirt, running shoes, rain jacket—but at home.
    â€œIt’s a pity Easter’s so early this year,” her mother said. “It hardly seems the season for it.”
    â€œMmm. You’re right.”
    â€œDid you have a good flight, pet?”
    â€œIt was fine.”
    â€œWas the food all right?”
    â€œNot too bad.”
    â€œWas there a movie?”
    â€œYeah. I didn’t watch it.”
    She’d fallen asleep listening to
Traditions Québecoises
on the headphones. Leaning against the window she’d dreamed of a solitary man on a snowy plain. It could have been Gilles Vigneault—the man in the dream was singing—but he was wearing her father’s overcoat. His grey