Train Ride

I know she can feel me looking at her. I try to suppress the shock that is contorting my face. She’s eight or ten people behind me in the line. I avert my eyes, barely, attempting to camouflage my snooping. Her greasy hair and splotchy pink skin burn in my peripheral. The oblivious baby on her hip. The royal blue spaghetti strap dress. Half-dress. I shiver.

She’s looking at me, it’s obvious. Disgust plastered on her face. Everyone is looking at me. Well, this is what he wanted. What he always wants. I’m used to the attention. A cool gust of wind shoots between my legs. I shiver.

Why is she wearing strappy heels at a carnival? On a January evening when the sun is threatening to disappear any minute now?

My husband gestures for me to move toward him. I shift Jacob over to my other side. He’s heavy, 15 months already. It’s a prison of sorts, motherhood. I definitely didn’t ask for this. I shake the thought and step toward my husband, who I didn’t ask for either. He doesn’t offer to take the baby, of course. I rub my sore, bony hip with my palm.

That poor baby. At least he’s wearing more clothes than his mom. A pang of guilt pulses in my chest. Why am I judging her like this? My daughter tugs at my jacket. “Mom, when will it be our turn?” I look at her, slightly annoyed that she’s pulled me away from my point of intrigue. “Soon,” I say. She hangs her head, unbelieving.

He pulls me in and kisses my forehead. He smells of cigarettes. Instinctively, I reach for my back pocket to check for a pack of smokes.  But pockets are nonexistent in this dress he picked for me. Good thing, I guess. I haven’t smoked in two years, since the day I found out I was pregnant. I smoked that day of course, from the disturbing shock of it all. But then, I quit. Except for two private, celebratory moments: the day after Jacob was born and one day six weeks ago when I bought today’s carnival tickets.  

I pretend to be enthralled by my daughter’s hair, brushing it with my fingers. But my gaze is pulled to the woman. She’s magnetic. Harsh cheekbones, strong chin, sinewy arms. But my guess is she’s stronger than she looks. I take in the man. Plump, balding, yellow skin. Warm in that checkered wool coat he has yet to offer his woman.

She’s still looking. I look right at her to intimidate, make her uncomfortable, force her to look away.

She catches my eyes. I hold my gaze a beat longer than I should, trying to communicate something to her. But what? That I see her? That I see her pain?

Her eyes flash with something before she looks away. Something more than pity. Empathy? Understanding? My stomach flips. Then, my husband squeezes my arm tight. Possessive. And rough, always too rough.

The line finally moves, and by a quick count of the seats, I can see we will be on the same train ride as the woman. My daughter and I take our seats first. My shoulders tense in anticipation of the woman walking right by me to sit behind us on the train. When she passes me, I keep my gaze down and fight the urge to graze her arms with my fingertips. It’s insane, this urge. I know it is. As if she would just stop. If only I could make her stop. I want to hear her story, from start to finish. Her feet click clack past me. There’s something in her stiletto, tucked under the sole of her foot. It looks like cash.  

I avoid looking at the woman as I pass her, tending to Jacob, asking if he’s excited to ride the train for the very first time. He babbles while I sit and shift him to my lap, settling into our seats three rows behind the nosy woman. My husband pulls me closer, inadvertently jamming the clip of his pocketknife into my bare outer thigh. I suck in a breath. I focus on the top of Jacob’s head, whose tiny, chunky body is warming my core.

As the train departs the faux station, a recorded narration begins, a booming voice sharing facts about the history of the carnival. I realize I won’t be able to overhear anything during the ride. No clues, no sense of how the woman is doing. Or the baby. What could happen, though? Too many pairs of eyes as witnesses. Menacing thoughts swirl as I try unsuccessfully to drown out the annoyingly chipper narrator. My daughter looks up at me and smiles. A lump suddenly and unexpectedly forms in my throat.

I feel trapped, and not just in this moment, in his forceful embrace. Always. Anger simmers inside me more lately. I used to numb it with alcohol. He doesn’t know I’ve quit drinking; I’m good at pretending. He thinks he couldn’t control me if I had my wits about me. And he’s right. If he only he knew how he’s being played. That my plan has been in motion for weeks.

I swallow my emotions and feign interest in the lights and sights all around me (as if I’ve never seen a Ferris wheel), but it’s only an excuse to turn my head. The woman is staring intently at something in the distance. I wonder—no, I crave to know what’s she’s thinking. Dark circles hover beneath her lower lashes like bruises. Or are they bruises? “Mom, can we get cotton candy after this?” My daughter’s voice startles me. “Yes, babe.” I force a smile and pat her hand. When I turn to look back, not even trying to hide it this time, the woman is looking right at me. I freeze.

You think I’m weak? You think I’m not in control? Just wait.

She tilts her head down ever so slightly and holds her gaze on me. Then, a confident, sinister smile creeps up one side of her mouth. My eyes widen and I face forward again. “Mom, the tunnel! Look!” My daughter tugs at my sleeve. “Yeah, babe, very cool. Get ready, it’s going to be dark.” She grabs my hand. I squeeze hers tight. We inch closer to the tunnel. The narrator drones on about how great everything is, how excited we should be, how old the tunnel is, an epic feat of engineering for the time it was built. I resist the urge to yell shut up. He’s distracting me. I’m trying to figure out what is wrong with this family. And what I can do to help. If I could just get her alone for two minutes…

We inch into the tunnel and slow to a complete stop. It’s pitch black, save for a red EXIT sign far in the distance. Kids squeal and giggle. Mine remains silent but squeezes my hand tighter. The narrator booms on and time seems to stand still. I count my breaths, which accelerate from the stress of not knowing when we will be free from this blackness, this excruciating ride…

A jolt. We’re moving again. Moments later we burst forth into freedom, the dusky sky above, the train station in sight just around the bend. I exhale. Then a scream. “Stop the train!” someone yells from behind me. “Stop the train!”

The recorded voice is cut off mid-sentence, then the train comes to a sudden halt. My daughter and I are thrown forward into the back of the seat in front of us. “Are you okay?” I ask her as I sit her back on the seat. “Yes.” Another scream. We both turn to look.

The man is there, head hung low, jaw slack. The woman and baby are gone.

Several adults jump from their seats to tend to the man. I can barely lift my daughter anymore, but adrenaline shoots through me as I jump out of my seat and pull her onto my hip in a split second. I run to the seat where the woman was, but I can’t get a good look through the half dozen bodies who beat me there. “There’s blood!” Someone yells. A few people jump back, clearing a space for me to see. Instinctively I cover my daughter’s eyes. If I were a better mother, I’d be a quarter mile away from here by now. But I must know.

Blood pools on the seat next to the man. It drips down onto the floor of the train, sprinkling dots of crimson onto a pair of perfectly upright stilettos. No cash in sight, I realize. His hand is clasped around something on his bulging hip. A brave young man unravels the man’s fingers. A knife.

He doesn’t appear to be breathing. Someone checks for a pulse. As a crowd descends on the train, I turn and take my daughter away. I walk briskly past the Ferris wheel, past the cotton candy vendors. She asks me questions about what happened, but her words meld together like molasses among the cacophony of carnival sounds. My arms burn with the weight of her, but I press on.

She’ll be on the fringes. Hiding in the dark. Becoming brand new. Then she will emerge unrecognizable. I know what I need to do. If questioned, I will protect her by forever denying the existence of a barefoot fugitive in a tiny blue dress. And it will be true. Because as of this moment, that woman no longer exists.