Autumn
She balled her hands into fists and dug her nails deep into the palms of her hands. She repeated to herself that she could not cry. Mama did not like when she cried.
The knife blade, long and straight, caught a glint of sunlight and refracted the light. What did Mama want to do with the knife? How was it going to stop the train? She did not understand. She did not want to understand.
“Mama, I want to call Daddy,” she whispered.
“Shhhh,” Mama said, her face calm and relaxed now that she clutched a knife. A yawn spread her mouth wide and open. The darkness and pearl points of teeth. “I am so tired.” Mama said. “Let me rest.”
“Let’s go lie down, Mama. Let’s take a nap.” The blank expression on Mama’s face unnerved her.
“We will rest and never have to worry about the train again,” Mama said.
The words Mama spoke stilled her heart.
Mama moved the knife to one hand and with the other hand, reached out to her. “Come here.” Mama pulled her close and then placed the blade against the pillowed fat of her cheekbone. The ridge and edge forming an indented line. A line long as a road on a winter barren night.
Spring
The darkness surrounds me as I drive home. My lone pair of headlights are the only ones on the dirt road so far from everything. The feeling of safety has left with Will after he dropped me off at the parking lot and returned to the lab. Seeing the train has made my mind fragile, swirling with the reality of what this new truth means. The train is real. The train is real. Could I have been hearing a real distant train from the house? I’ve searched online for rail routes, but maybe there was an old track that was only used once in a while near the house as well? If so, then what did it mean? I wasn’t imagining things at home? The train could be real?
All that I thought I knew tilts off-kilter. As I drive, slowly navigating around the ruts and potholes left over in the road from the thaw of spring, I track the possibilities. What is inevitable? Predictable? And all the permutations in between. Do I dare hope? I place my hand over the bottle in my pocket. What was so certain is now fading into haze like the condensing fog before me. My headlights illuminate ghostly wisps of vapor on large swaths of brown fields, the snow finally almost gone. The last tentacles of winter releasing their grip.
Ahead of me, I see my house emerging from the patches of snow and field. Soon the forget-me-nots will come into bloom. As much as I complained to Dad about being in the middle of nowhere, I was looking forward to seeing the periwinkle clusters all around the house like the way it looked when we first visited a year ago. There was a melancholy sweetness to seeing their abundance, which Dad had taken for a sign. The flowers foretelling all that was to come, while I saw them as a reminder of all that had passed. Mom could still be out there. I might have a chance at not being an orphan. If I let myself search the way Dad did, could the risk pay off? My heart beats wildly. The gamble of learning the truth thrums through my veins. If hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, as Emily Dickenson believed, then maybe that explains this flutter in my body.
The house is dark as I draw closer. Not a single light. Not even a light on the porch above the front door. I always forget to turn it on before I leave in the mornings. For someone who is always considering genetic changes for the future, I definitely don’t know how to plan for the future in a single day. The bleakness of the house confronts me in a way I never realized before. There is no warm, welcoming feel. It stands there so lonely and still, a shadowy reminder of all that I have lost. Alone, wandering through the empty rooms, most of which have no furniture because it was always just Dad and me. A cloak of sadness like a black shawl curves over my shoulders, and I hunch forward in dread of the empty, lonely night. I have to remember the porch light tomorrow. Tomorrow, I marvel to myself. There is a tomorrow?
As I pull into the driveway, a dark form moves on the porch. My heart lurches in surprise and fear. I cover my face with my hands and count to five and then slowly lower them. A figure stands in the headlights of my car, staring at me through the windshield.
“Hannah?”
I quickly cut the engine, kill the lights, and open the door.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
It is hard to see her in the darkness. Remembering my box of food, I lean back into the car and pull it out along with the coffee.
“Did you eat? I have some dinner. We can share.” I chuckle. “Forget it, I don’t want my hand anywhere near your mouth when you’re eating. I’ll just have my coffee and some soup.”
Hannah nods, but still won’t speak.
I lead her into the house. A sudden freezing blast of wind blows the door in just as I open it. I realize once we step into the hallway that Hannah has never been over to my house before. Not even after my father died. I shut the door and turn on the lights. Hannah’s haggard face swims in front of mine. I am overwhelmed by a feeling of displacement for a second, and then the house revolves back into position. Focusing on keeping my balance, I head toward the kitchen to warm up the food.
“Come on,” I call. “It’s meat loaf.”
Hannah follows me, but then stops at the doorway of the kitchen. I wave
