The bus ride

Every afternoon, from Monday to Friday, I take the 3:45 PM bus to college. I swear, sometimes I don’t realize how I get to my class in the first place. There’s nothing wrong about the bus ride itself, it’s just so mundane that my brain refuses to register the 25 minutes I spend on the vehicle, most of the time banging my head against a window as I briefly doze off. 

But today is different. It’s because of the envelope I carry in my bag pack, well hidden between two textbooks. I haven’t opened it yet. I can’t allow myself to think about the information it contains that can change my life for good. I have a final exam, and I promised my mother I would sit for it as I had intended, and that only later, in the evening, we would open the envelope together at home, and find out.

In any case, the minutes from the moment I get out from the medical research facility with the closed envelope already in the bag pack until the second I reach the bus stop and wait for my ride, those minutes seem to stretch. I feel somehow my senses have enhanced: the colors seem brighter, the sounds seem louder, and even the air smells fresher. I hear the voices of people walking by, they all seem cheerful. A group of middle-school children is enjoying ice-creams while sitting on a bench in the park. A beautiful woman in her twenties seems in a rush, as she walks by and bumps into me, uttering a quick apology before getting into a cab. Her tone of voice seems the kindest one I’ve ever heard, and I have to fight the tears flooding my eyes.

I’m near the bus stop now, and I notice the shop windows have stuck discount signs because of the change of season, and I can’t help but imagine how happy someone will be wearing that cute new blouse with red little dots, or those comfortable jeans for sale. Will I ever get to wear some new clothes ever again? I almost choke when I think about the envelope once more. My mouth is dry, I stop by to buy a bottle of water and it slowly goes down my throat, a cold stream bringing new life to a dry, yellow meadow. I feel the cold liquid down my stomach now, and I shiver though it is spring, and the day is warm, and the sunrays are heating my neck and my shoulders.

“I can’t think about it now. I have been studying for weeks for this exam”, I mumble. I owe it to mom, to dad, and to my classmates, who are sure as nervous as I am, but for very different reasons. I haven’t told any of them about the medical exams, or about the fact that they were handing me the results on the very same afternoon that we have to sit for our big test. There’s nothing I can do now but to patiently wait for the bus, show my pass, sit on the usual spot by the window, and wait for the 25-minute ride to take me to college. And then, I’ll have to focus on my test and try to do my best, not knowing whether my grades will make any difference at all. But I’ll keep my promise: I don’t have to go through this alone, mom is waiting too. We are supposed to open the envelope together, to face whatever future we have to face together. And with dad too. He hasn’t said much, but I am aware that he is there for me as well.

The bus arrives right on time. I have never noticed what a great service this company provides. They are so efficient, so reliable. The car smells like it has just been clean, and the driver always smiles at every passenger. Why did I ever take this for granted? Why do I need to go through all of this to value a kind smile from a stranger? As usual, I get to sit down on my favorite spot. Sunlight comes through the window, and inside the bus it is comfortable, and warm, and the traffic lights turn to emerald green, and it’s good to know that I’ll be right in time for the test.

For once, I don’t feel sleepy. I spend 25 minutes of the ride taking a look at the other passengers. Most of them are dead serious, and I wonder what keeps them so worried. Perhaps they have bigger issues than me –but I doubt it today. Look at this man, so suited up, with such an expensive briefcase. Is he sad? Is he thinking about money? Did he just lose a job? I wish I could talk to him and tell him there are worse things in life. Like those things the envelope in my bag pack may be concealing. At least until this evening, when I get back home after sitting for the exam, and mom and I finally get to open it and read the results.

At the following stop, a young mother gets on the bus carrying a baby. It’s a cute little infant, no more than six, maybe seven months old. As they happen to sit by my side, I take a look at the child and smile at the young woman, who looks happy and proud as well as exhausted. She’s probably going through sleep deprivation and all, but you can tell how much she loves that little bundle of joy. I look at the baby and I make some mental calculations: “Luckily, this child may get to live way into the 22nd century. What about me? Will I even get to turn twenty-two?” The baby is staring at me and suddenly, a toothless smile brightens up her chubby face. I can’t keep it inside anymore. The young mother looks amazed as I start to weep in silence. She hands me a tissue and asks me if I’m ok. I can’t let myself answer. Not until this evening. I promised my mother we would find out together. The envelope feels as heavy as a bunch of bricks inside my bag pack. 

“It’s just that your child is so beautiful, that’s all”

That’s all.