The five o'clock

The train was late. Again.

Great.

Dolores sat, facing away from the platform. It hadn’t moved, though it was promised to depart at five. And it was now 5:30. Well, 5:28, to be exact.

Twenty-eight minutes late.

Bag in hand – or rather bags, plural – Dolores failed at resting comfortable on the five o’clock train heading west through Roxbough, up across the riverbank. Though she had planned on getting home early to avoid the traffic, also called the horrifying-claustrophobia-of-sweat-infused-strangers-smooshed-together-against-their-will train, here she was. Thankfully, this nice young boy, the one in the school uniform standing near the sliding doors looking pointlessly nonchalant, had been gallant enough to offer her his seat. Dolores had felt a pinch, a slight stab at her ego nevertheless, as this was the official sign she had become old. At least, old enough to be given a seat on the train...

The bags crushed her thighs and, with it, her spirit (though not her back anymore, so that was something) while two strangers to her side compressed her shoulders like she were one of the ice cream sandwiches stuffed in the colourful box protruding from her thin plastic pouches. She wasn’t one – an ice cream sandwich, that is. Obviously.

Breathe. Calm.

The groceries weighed a bulldozer, even sitting, but at least Dolores had made decent muscles in the last few weeks, especially considering the poor state of her shape, and her weakened stamina. That’s what happened after a bed-ridden pregnancy, queued by a surprise C-section, and a precocious return to work. The body can’t keep up. Neither can the mind, if Dolores stopped to think about it, which she didn’t dare to do.

It hadn’t stop David from asking her to buy the supper’s, and for that matter the whole week’s, ingredients on her way back from work. Oh no, sir! With a pout Dolores didn’t try to hide (wasn’t it just anonymous, I-will-never-see-you-again faces around anyway?), she skimmed through the text David had sent her an hour earlier. Dolores sighed, heaviness upon her that came from more than the hefty groceries.

Doesn’t know what to buy for diner. Anything edible, Dolores had wanted to shout at her cellphone. But she hadn’t, because social norms would have deemed it disgraceful. Better she tells him what to buy. It’ll be easier. Well, not for her, no.

Instead, Dolores had abdicated, deciding to go to the market herself. She had no idea either what to cook up for supper today: She had barely had the time to concoct a meeting strategy for the firm’s biggest client, which was due sooner than she authorized herself to admit. But hey! She had managed just fine, hadn’t she? She had survived the dreaded food-packed corridors of the fluorescent, headache-inducing lights defining the Food’s In. Not surprisingly, there was very little that could go wrong at the market, unless David had planned on buying capers and dill turnip for supper. Dolores winced at the heel of the thought. Knowing David, she wouldn’t have been shocked if he had, maybe just to prove how mediocre of a choice he was when it came to shopping. And cleaning. And helping the kids with homework. And with bedtime. And driving them to school.

Her mother had warned her, as mothers do about everything. And Dolores defended David, as daughters do. Up to the very minute before walking down the aisle (not the one in the Food’s In of course, the other one), but her mother had reiterated often that gaining a husband is like having another child. A particularly young one at that.

But wasn’t it a bit exaggerated? Wasn’t it just that her mother had infantilized and driven her own husband into never helping? Her mother was the definition of control freak after all, a distasteful trait Dolores was shamed to admit she had inherited. Dolores couldn’t’ help it: Never had she been as obsessive and shrill. Whether it was her mother or the effects of growing up, whatever that meant nowadays, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that David was the complete opposite. Or so he insisted.

That was David’s excuse for his profound incapacity of taking care of himself, and much less others. The first year they had dated, Dolores had found his charming childlike gait and his lost puppy eyes to be his main attractive feature. She was glad to be the one to help him, as she believed he would help her. And though David was a year older, which he seldom let Dolores forget, David had kept these characteristic quirks, which had become less than endearing after their first child, and even less after their second.

But David is just like that, her mother-in-law had reassured many times over the years. Dolores reckoned that, sure, he was. It didn’t change the fact that every Tuesday, Dolores had to ask him to take out the trash while she was doing the laundry, his included, after having cooked supper, done the dishes, helped the kids get ready for bed and done their lunchbox for the next day. At times, it would slip Dolores’ mind (understandably) to remind David to take out the bins, after which he would justify his forgetfulness by hers.

Dolores sighed again.

Through the scratched glass of the unclean windows of the moving train, she glanced at the scenery swishing by as the train dashed forward on the screeching rails. She furrowed her brows, just a little, concerned that she didn’t recognize the route home. Her little trip at the grocery store had obliged her to find alternate detour, and Dolores had never had to take the G line. She wasn’t worried it would bring her home – she was almost worried it would actually – but it bothered her to have to wait, with no usual tell signs of the remaining distance left before arriving at her station.

But she would soon be home.

Oh, oh. Not another.

As if the steel fist of an MMA fighter had grabbed her heart from the inside, Dolores sensed her breath draw staggered. Her head spun, although ever so lightly, but it was the ice-cold compressing ache on her chest that worried her most. Every time, she wondered if her heart was giving out, pounding at a ridiculously arrhythmic pace, like it would stop at any given second.

She had had her first panic attack after coming out of the hospital, following the birth of their youngest. David had stood there with open arms, powerless and lost, and Dolores had called the ambulance herself only to be told it was nothing. At least, physical. One year had gone, and other attacks had materialized at the worst of times. Important presentation? Why not! In the middle of the night? You betcha! So, on top of it all, Dolores had gone to a therapist. But it was nice. Her therapist always proposed a cup of tea. It was quiet.

Unlike this irritating junk of a train.

Her ears buzzed, and her cheeks became flushed with heat. Dolores knew she just had to let it pass, let it run its course, but it was easier said than done. It always is. The train rocked, shouting a drumming double beats every three seconds along its whining shriek upon the iron rails. Across the growing crowd, a smell wafted over her, one of wet clothes and staleness that was invading more and more the train compartment, which was small enough to hold twenty people, but of course welcomed thirty at the moment.

With a forced polite smile that was intended to hide her queasiness, Dolores spun around to crack open the cart window, hoping it would alleviate the mounting nausea. She caught the latches with both hands as she nearly beheaded the man to her right. He would survive her all but gentle shove, but Dolores felt she wouldn’t her seething panic.

Dolores froze as she peered out the window she desperately wanted to open.

Stifling a sob, her sight clasped upon a field, shambling along the train, unconcerned by any worry or fault with the world. The B train heading home had never trailed anywhere else than across the riverbank that lay in the limits of the city, her city. Yet this five o’clock train of line G curved a small indent outside the walls of civilization, and skirted a large field of wild flowers embraced by blotches of thick pine forests Dolores was quite accustomed to - the pines, not the flowers.

It was what she wished her own dreams to be.

Facing her, poppies and daisies exploded in blissful colours, twinkling like stars amongst a plump, luscious bed of grass. The blades of leaves lunged to the skies unequaled, protecting the growths in their shades and dewy cusps. Across them, sprinkles of crimson and gold danced before her in shining waves made by the wind, circling and billowing in gusts down the carpet of buds ornamenting the hollow birthed into existence.

Dolores’s jaw fell, lips widely parted in her awe. When had flowers bloomed? Time had done nothing to weather this field. Dolores wiped a prickling tear in the corner of her stare. Such striking view could only be frozen in time, untouched by the making of humans. In that instant, Dolores believed it was the single space of true nature to have survived the city’s cruel attempts at complete domination. She peeked around, and discovered with bewilderment that other passengers seemed unfazed by the otherworldly sight of the hollow. Couldn’t they see what she saw? Why wouldn’t they look up from their phones? Was she alone to witness this passing wonder?

In a whiff, a cool breeze entered the cart window, of which Dolores had forced opened. Ignoring the puzzled looks and befuddled murmurs, Dolores kneeled while facing the back of her seat, sliding the window down as far as it would let her. The scent drowned her in its sweetness and moisture, carried by the wind of the waning spring. Though the rushing wind deafened her to the subtle sounds of nature, Dolores caught the chimes of cricket resound joyfully in the fading heat

When had it become summer?

All worries melted in the five o’clock heat. With a chuckled of disbelief, Dolores sensed her heart slow, and her throat relax. Panic had no place in the presence of such beauty. Only slight drops glimmered on the corner of her eyes, hymn to the wordless awe she was experiencing. She had even forgotten about the groceries, which had flooded the floor in cans and boxes, freed of their plastic bounds. Forgotten about making supper. And stretch marks. And spinning. And work. And David.

Forgotten about a life so filled with pressure and angst it made her heart leap out her chest at every turn.

It was breath-taking. Literally.

Dolores remembered to inhale, which she did greedily, her lungs filling up with fresh, untouched air gifted with pollen and serendipity.

Now, her heart was still.

How could this isle of beauty be minutes from her house? How could she have never known it rested so near? Dolores was the blind regaining sight, the freezing finding warmth, the unloved blessed with compassion. With the next breath in, Dolores was at peace. She hadn’t been for years. Oh sweet friend, how I’ve missed you. As she continued to stare, she couldn’t help but think no therapy had relieved her as much as these blooming, glowing sprouts of summer’s eve.

No more excuses.

Drooping on her seat, sitting on her heels, Dolores snatched her cellphone buried in one of her pockets. Without care, she flung away a stray can of bean nested near her knee, and it barrelled down to the end of the cart with a clank. She took no notice that the train had emptied.

Her fingers didn’t tremble when she dialed his number. No anger, no doubt. Just peace. She stayed transfixed upon the field of swaying ruby and gold.

The dial rang twice.

“David? Yeah. I’m almost home.”

Dolores paused, detailing the wondrous field beaming of surreal bliss. David begun to tell her about his big score at work today, and the funny thing Steve had recounted after the reunion. A hissing signal streamed from the intercom, announcing she had halted at the final station.

“Honey,” Dolores abruptly said over his jabbering, cutting short his work story (oh, he would get over it). She paused again, making sure David listened before she spoke.

Yes. Some things stay frozen in time until spring comes and wanes, leaving place for the warmth of summer. Dolores understood now. She wasn't afraid anymore.

She had never been so certain of anything as she said, “David... When I get home, we need to talk.”