Tracing Smiles

Trista opens her mouth as wide as she can, blows warm air to fog up the train window, and traces smiles into the fog with the tip of her index finger. As the condensed air evaporates, the smiles are replaced with her reflection. She stares at the monochrome version of her face for a moment, and then she blows her hot breath once more to erase the frown. Fogging the window and drawing smiles, she repeats the cycle until her mother grabs her hand; they’ve reached this train’s destination. Trista uses her forearm to wipe the remnants of her window art and swipes her backpack from the floor before her mother whisks them from their seats.

Too old to have her mother holding her by the hand, too old to be wishing for happiness on a foggy window, too old to cry, she bites her lip and lets her mom lead her through the train station. The rumbling of an oncoming train hums through her body. The screech as the train halts in place, tingles in her spine and she twitches. Her mother doesn’t notice.

Trista let’s her backpack create a path in the dirt as her mother pulls her along. There are vending machines stocked with candy bars and chips. Her stomach speaks the words she cannot form from her mouth. Her mother turns towards the snacks without slowing. Salivating by the time they reach the glass case, Trista’s stomach growls. Her mother reaches into her pocket and pulls out a few crumpled dollar bills. Using the side of the vending machine, her mother straightens one of the bills, pulling it taut between both hands and rubbing it back and forth. Her mother inserts the dollar. “Crap,” her mother utters as the dollar springs back out. After the corners are straightened and the wrinkles are as smooth as her mother can possibly muster, her mother inserts it once more. They both exhale with triumph as the vending machine eats their dollar in exchange for a small bag of chips.

Trista collects the chips from the silver door at the bottom of the vending machine. She knows she should thank her mother. She knows she should offer her mother a chip. She knows she should be a better daughter, but she doesn’t want to, not now. She puts her backpack on her shoulders, the dust collected on her short trip from train to vending machine transferring to her coat, and she rips into the bag. Her mother walks ahead and Trista follows without taking her mother’s hand.

The train station is nearly empty, but her mother scans the faces of each stranger and swings her head side to side, eyes popping from their mascara-smeared eyelids as she searches for danger. An elderly man waiting on a bench with a brown dachshund catches her mother’s eye. “Don’t look at us!” Her mother yells at the man.

Trista drops her chip bag, even though there are crumbs to be licked, and reaches for her mother’s hand. Her mother flinches. Trista scans her mother’s face for clues, unsure what angers her mother about the man and his brown dog. “Mom, let’s go,” Trista says and tugs at her mother’s hand. Her mother allows the distraction and sets out on her path again. As her mother pulls her forward, Trista glances at the littered bag and her stomach gurgles.

Her mother mumbles too low to hear, and heads towards the window to purchase more tickets. To where, Trista is unsure. She wishes they were headed back home, but even she understands that isn’t really an option now. She is thankful there are no more strangers on the route to the window.

“Two tickets for whichever train leaves next.” Her mother says and hands the attendant the rest of the money she has in her wallet.

Tickets in hand, her mother turns and scans the station again. They make their way to the metal bench. “You should sleep,” her mother says.

“Okay,” she responds, placing her backpack down as a pillow. She knows she will not be able to sleep, but she closes her eyes and pretends. She fights the fatigue that threatens to pull her into a slumber. Awake she can fight off the thoughts; she can stifle the bang that rattles her brain; she can focus on the smells of the dust that fills her nostrils and not the metallic scent that stung her nostrils before they fled. She pretends to sleep until the screech of the train on the tracks allows her to open her eyes once more.

They board the train, and she settles next to the window, her mother on the aisle. When the train begins to accelerate her mother sighs, “You should sleep. I’m going to try, too.”

Trista nods her head, stuffs her backpack between the arm of the seat and the wall, and closes her eyes until her mother’s quiet snores fill the space between them. When Trista opens her eyes she watches her mother trying to understand how her mother can sleep after what happened. She doesn’t think she will ever sleep again.

When the man sits down in the seat across the aisle, Trista knows she should wake her mother. Her mother said he is not safe. She knows that a good daughter would do something, but she doesn’t, not now. The man waves at her, and she sees the dried blood on the cuff of his shirt. She sees the wince as he shifts in his seat to block their escape; his legs open wide in the aisle. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers. She wonders if he emphasizes the word ‘you,’ or if it is her imagination. “Your mother is not well.”

Trista fights the urge to nod in agreement. She is frozen. Her mother told her he’d say that. “But you’re not my father,” she repeats the words her mother had whispered to her even though she doesn’t think they are true; she cannot betray her mother.

The man’s eyes fill with tears, “I am your father,” he pleads.

“But mom said…” she starts. She looks at the man and then to her mother, and back to the man. “I know, but mom doesn’t understand.”

The door to the train car opens and another man walks in, waking her mother. Her mother’s eyes flash with terror.

“We’re here to help,” The badged man says.

“Don’t touch me!” Her mother yells, jumps from her seat, and starts to run, but the badged man is quick and his partner approaches from the other side of the train car.

“We’re here to help,” the badged man repeats. Her mother thrashes and cries for help as they restrain her.

Her father moves to sit in her mother’s seat. The wound in his abdomen is bandaged, the blood dried. He places his arm around her shoulders. “We’re going to get her help. It’s going to be okay,” he assures.

Trista shifts to face the window, opens her mouth as wide as she can, blows warm air to fog up the train window, and traces smiles into the fog with the tip of her index finger.