The Train

 I was grateful at Angela’s insistent personality.  I didn’t ask her, but was glad she drove me to the train.  Another icy walk wasn’t something I wanted to do again, especially after the second vision of the woman in my room.  I felt okay telling Angela everything I was experiencing.  As I said, I don’t have friends, but right now she was the closest, even if only in proximity.  It felt better talking about it with someone other than the “objective” shrink or the “loving” parent.  I wanted some judgment, subjective disbelief, someone to say, ‘snap out of it.’  Who better than this bold, opinionated, young woman.

Her analytical mind flipped on, “If not the alcohol, then schizophrenia?”  Blunt perhaps, but not a judgment—even better.

I shook my head, but went over the list with her anyway; no emotional trauma or history of physical or sexual abuse, substance abuse has not been proved causal, although it is interesting.  “I’m not delusional.” I tell her.  “There was never enough to say, ‘yes, I’m schizo.’”

After an awkward moment of thoughtful silence, she asks if I want her to keep me company on the train.  I shake my head again.  “Yeah, I wouldn’t want it either.” She gets it.  “Call me when you get to your Mom’s, that’s not too much is it?”  She smiles at me.  “Don’t let them drive you crazy.” I tell her that I consider her a friend.  “Duh!” She fires back at me.

On the train, I’m tired but not sleepy.  I find an empty row and slide up next to the window.  It’s brighter inside the train and outside its nearly black except for the snow. So, seeing something out there did not worry me as much.  Still, I drowsed a bit listening to the conductor call out stops.  They seemed to be coming one after another so I must have slept some. “Jersey Avenue, New Brunswick, Edison.”  The lights flicker on and off as we hit the gaps in the third rail.  They never seem to upgrade these cars.  “Metuchen, Metro Park, Rahway.” Lights flicker. “East London, Stepney Green.”  The man’s voice changes; it’s rougher, in his throat, “Whitechapel!”   He seems to be speaking to me. “Whitechapel” I look outside. This is not my stop. 

The people on the platform are different.  The sun is just setting and there is no snow on the ground.  I can see my reflection in the window.  It’s that of a younger, fairer-looking, blond-haired woman.  It’s my face in that I know my expression, but the match is not perfect, the mouth is fuller, the eyes are wider and green.  I’m wearing what looks like a dress or a coat that buttons down the front, with thick stockings that come just above my knees.  The conductor shakes me or rather shoves me, “Your stop little miss.  This is Whitechapel.” His accent is cockney.  “You asked me to wake you. Well, you’re awake, so get off.”

I do as I’m told and make my way out into the fray of what I now see are 19^th century people pushing and shoving their way through the crowd.  An elaborate horse drawn carriage squeezes people aside with a thousand pounds of animal and a whip crack.  The man inside the cab is staring directly at me.  He smiles, and out of reflex I smile.  “Whore.”  I don’t hear the sound of the word but it comes to me without question.  It’s unmistakable, “Whore.”