The Ghosts Outside the Train.

Amber watched the water wriggling indecisively along the glass, swallowing more water as it traveled backward with the force of the wind outside. It was erratic like a wagging tail or a zig-zag. Not quite as erratic as herself, she mused as she pried her eyes away from the water and instead looked through the glass to see the landscape gently touched by the morning sun.

The grassy hills almost shone gold as the sun touched the fine layer of water that covered the world, including the train she rode that barreled through the country-side. Squinting her eyes, Amber watched the hills as the train glided around them as steady as a hammock.

It had been twenty years since she had laid eyes on those hills, yet they were unchanged.

They were the covered in the same lush green that every child imagined rolling through, sure as the sun that it would be a soft, cushiony ride that would fulfill them to until their final days. Yet, Amber no longer imagined rolling down the hills. She no longer imagined any joy in careless, adventurous behavior. She knew the grass was wet and the ground was hard, and she didn’t care to pick herself up from the bottom of the hill and climb up to the top. Not anymore.

“Would you like anything from the snack cart, ma’am?”

Amber turned her head slowly, her response already on her lips when she made eye-contact with him.

The man was in his late fifties, dark grey hair combed tidily under his navy-blue hat. His uniform was impeccably straight, like it had been ironed mere seconds ago, and his smile. Did he recognize her from twenty years ago?

She recognized him.

“Ah-” Amber finally choked out a sound as her eyes sought the closest eligible food item. “Yes, please. Can I have a strawberry tart?”

He reached a white-gloved hand into his cart and offered the tart in exchange for her card. He tapped her card and passed it back with a nod of his head. “Have a great morning, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” Amber mustered a small smile and he proceeded to the next filled chair.

A young mother with a baby sat across the wide aisle, three seats down from Amber. Amber had watched them the previous day before she had finally pulled a sleep mask over her eyes and attempted to rest despite the twisting in her heart and the snake rolling around in her stomach.

The baby was a placid babe with the face of a cherub and ringlets of bright red hair. He cooed and giggled as his mother tickled his feet and read him picture books before sleeping soundly through the night, much to the entire cabin’s relief.

The mother looked worn. Amber knew the bags under her eyes, could remember that feeling. Even when her energy was spent, and she could have curled up and slept for months, there was always new energy fueled by warmth and constant disbelief that such a child had emerged from her womb that drove her. She could recognize that fuel in the mother.

A dull ache filled her chest as she watched the red-headed cherub. He was reaching out with chubby fingers to attract his mother’s attention as she bought breakfast from the snack cart.

The gentleman handed back her card and rested a hand gently on the child’s head as he wished them a good morning and moved on.

Amber had to pry her eyes away as the snake jolted in her stomach. She remembered the kindness from strangers, people on the street stopping to appreciate the innate joy of babies. Their innocence shone like beacons that attracted the admiration of everyone.

She blinked away tears and returned to the window. The hill was receding as the town came into view.

It was her home. It was the town she grew up in. She had ridden those streets on her bike, snuck ice cream on the way home after school with the loose change from her lunch money and he had been there with her.

They had been happy then. They had been in love. Innocent, premature love.

There was a small jolt as the train began slowing. The train brakes began squealing like ghosts whispering outside. Like the ghosts Amber was running away from once again. The difference between the ghosts now and the ghosts she had run from twenty years ago was, back then, she was naive. Amber didn’t know real loss back then. She didn’t know that some ghosts are just figments of the mind.

Speakers overhead announced their upcoming arrival and Amber stood, readying herself to collect the single bag which contained all her possessions and exit the train. She couldn’t help herself from sneaking a final glance at the red-headed cherub. He was watching her too, with eyes too big for his head that sparkled in wonder.

Amber didn’t feel the tears leaking down her face until they were dripping soundlessly from her chin. She faced away from the beautiful baby boy and instead focused on the ground as she wiped her tears with her sleeve.

Even as she forced herself to focus on the gum stuck to the floor and the scuffs from years of passengers on the train, begin and ending their journeys in seats identical to hers through the eight carriages, she couldn’t get the image or the words from her mind: my son had the same look in his eyes.

The image of her own beautiful baby boy, with molten brown eyes and chaotic blonde hair, consumed her.

Amber didn’t see where she was walking as she exited the train. She barely remembered lifting her hand to hail a taxi once she’d made it away from the train station. The ghosts she had been avoiding had been waiting outside the train for her to disembark. She hadn’t escaped them, she had just carried them into another town, another place. But their tether remained in her heart, and she couldn’t cut them off. She didn’t know how to cut them out of her chest.

In the back of the taxi, she barely contained her devastation as she handed over the address on a small card. The memories of her boy, her son, were flooding in again. The brightness in his eyes, the gurgle he made when he was happy, the chubby first that always reached for her, even when he had been in her ex-husband’s arms.

It had all ended. The bright memories dissolved into misery as soon as he became sick. It progressed too quickly from sickness to fear, to death, and then to the break-down of her marriage.

When she was outside the small lime-green painted house she let out a small sob of relief. She was relieved again when the taxi driver asked nothing of her tear-stricken face and her shaking hand as she passed over the money.

She opened the door with her possessions already slung over her back and walked the few steps up to the front door. It was sheer willpower that had moved her across the country via train. That willpower was depleted now, the weight of her anguish left her exhausted from every facet of her being.

Did she have it in herself to knock on the door of this house?

It had been twenty years since she had seen this house. Twenty years since she had seen the owner of the house. Then, she had been running away from the figments of her imagination. She had run away from the fear of being stuck in this house forever.

Amber raised her hand. She hit the door with her knuckles once. Then twice. She held her breath, knowing that if no-one was home, she would leave and likely never try again.

She began to turn away just as the door handle rattled.

Amber locked eyes with the surprised woman in the doorway, feeling the hope she didn’t realize she had been holding onto relax inside of her.

“Hi, mum,” Amber said and knew that she was safe. She was at home. And maybe in her mum’s embrace, she could heal.