The Rescue!

by Anna Keats

  All over my white chemise are deep crimson stains.

  “Shit…,” I say, running my index finger through it, in open horror. But, at least, it is dried. And I can’t feel anything that might be bleeding. Then again, I didn’t know that my ankle was hanging on by a thread, either.

  The ambulance man peers closer, pressing his firm, rigid fingers against my exposed springy flesh. Tensing up, I close my eyes, expecting to be in sudden and epic pain. But the only thing I feel is cold.

  “I’m sorry about this ma’am…,” he says, as I think, not as much as I am, pal. “But I need to check…”

  For a wondrous moment, I catch myself thinking about what it would be like having his strong hands caress me. I mean him, brown eyes, with his strong no-nonsense fingers running freely, up and down across my torso and over into the pit of my stomach.

  “H’m,” says the man, his furry mustache coming so close it almost tickles my chest. This is so not an experience I wish to be having.

  “Well, it all seems fine…,” he says, but in a voice which suggests everything is very far from fine. He pulls his radio close to him and is about to speak into it, when he stops and looks over to me, a confused look on his chunky face.

  “Sorry ma’am…, what was the name again…?”

  I open my mouth to speak. Then close it again, blankly, like a fish. I look at him, tracing the outline of his thickset face with my index finger, in the almost dried pool of sticky blood, congealing next to me on the cold, hard platform.

  Then, gazing into the face of the boy next to me I lean over and say.

  “I have absolutely no idea…”

  Chapter 3

  “Aurelia…? Is it really you?”

  I shouted and waved across the strewn platform, at Sunset Tracks.

  It is many years since I have wandered down this station. I don’t know exactly what it was that drove me to stop here, en-route to Maine, perhaps it was old times sakes. It was crazy really; there isn’t really anything to pull me back to this place.

  And Aurelia is the last connection I had of it, all those ten years ago. That, and she got lost in the midst of a crazy decade, in which I ran away, made a fortune, got married, gambled, lost, divorced, and then became engaged to the same woman I was divorcing (it’s complicated).

  This all signaled a swift exit from the state of Vermont and back over to here, my old stomping ground. It was the memory of things past, and simpler times which sparked a curiosity within me, to come and see if things had changed. They hadn’t.

  As soon as I pull into the parking lot at Sunset Tracks, I can feel the familiar creep of yesterday tingle through my spine. It is hard to put a finger on it; bittersweet and frivolous at the same time. It might have been fall, in one of the coldest states in the country, but I imagined the skies blue, as it seemed they had always been when I lived here, for that single amazing year.

  It is thoughts of this place and, being honest with myself, of her that drove me back here. I don’t know why. The last thing that I had heard was that she had moved away and no-one seemed to exactly know where she’d gone.

  The last contact I had had with her was a Christmas card, sent about eight years ago. In all truth, I was struggling to even remember what she looked like properly. Crazy as it may seem, I didn’t even have a clear picture to go by, just the image in my head, of this amazing girl, with golden blonde hair, swaying down around her waist - my only point of reference since the sole photo I have was out of focus and badly worn.

  And then I looked, and there she was! …Just staring back at me, from across the platform. But the blank look she wore soon warned me that something was wrong.

  “Aurelia!” I holler. From across the tracks, she looks straight through me; as if I’m not there.

  Then, a train shoots by, blanking her out completely in a hail of noise and dust. As I wait for it to pass, I wonder if I am mistaken if it’s really her, or just someone else who looks like her.

  But it surely isn’t. There she is, large as life and twice as beautiful; wavy blonde hair hanging down around her waist, with those distinctive kiss curls at the side, framing her perfect hexagonal face. Her light blue eyes shine reflectively from wide, inset eyes. And her flowing white dress complements it all, immaculately. For a moment or two, I am blown away, gawping like an imbecile at this sheer perfection.

  Then I give a gasp. All over the flawless white dress is a deep crimson stain. In fact, looking closely, it seems as if there are actual drips coming down from it.

  She looks at me for a moment, as if unsurely and I am about to wave, when she stumbles, suddenly, lurching forwards and immediately collapses onto the rails.

  It’s only pure chance that there’s no train coming. But I don’t want to wait around. With heart-pumping I dart straight out, leaping onto the tracks.

  Gingerly, I pick my way across, carefully avoiding the live rail. By some lucky miracle, she has managed to steer clear of it.

  But when I try and lift her clear, I hit a snag. There is something preventing me; I look and find that her ankle is caught, right beneath the rail. Tugging it hard makes no difference, it’s stuck fast.

  An old lady suddenly appears at my side, from where I don’t know. She is completely submerged from head to toe in the color gray.

  “Pull her!” she urges. It’s all I can do not to use some choice words at such sterling advice.

  “I have been!” I snap. Then, I smooth it over, because this really isn’t the time or the place.

  Carried on the thin arctic air is a low rumbling noise. With total horror, I realize it’s a train approaching. Although it’s still a good way off, some of them come down here damned quick and don’t stop.

  My thoughts are coming so fast and so hard, I can’t really remember what happens next or who says what.

  A small crowd gathers around us, albeit keeping to the confines of the platform edge. Our lady of perpetual gray, alone, dares to come down the tracks. She appears by my side, like a silent vision. Any other time, I would have jumped about a mile, but this time I am preoccupied. The woman glances at Aurelia and then leans over her gently.

  “I used to be a nurse,” she says, by way of explanation, pressing her hands over her chest. Quickly, she lifts beneath the loose white linen and glances beneath it. Swiftly, she replaces the material, satisfied.

  “It’s okay,” she mutters, before getting to her feet and beating a swift retreat.

  Although I don’t have the time to ask her about it, I am grateful that she did the upskirting, or whatever the hell it is called. It sure wouldn’t have looked good at me doing it.

  There are voices, shouting, from all sides. But with all the madness going on around me, I can’t hear them all. It seems as if all of them on the platform – and there’s quite a few assembled now – are yelling out at me.

  “The train’s coming…,” one of them says as if I don’t already know!

  “It’s not safe, you need to step off the rails now, sir,” comes a voice, it might be the station master or someone. I don’t know. All I know is that I turn around, face him, and say.

  “No sir, I ain’t going anywhere,” and I mean it.

  Whatever act of fate pulled me to be here today, it is clear now that it was meant for a reason. For the last decade, I have been aimlessly lurching from one fuck up to another, but right now I am actually where I should be; with the girl of my dreams back in my arms. It’s just a shame she has to be stuck to a railroad.

  I don’t know how long I pull away at her swollen and stricken foot before I realize it’s time to change tack. Maybe it’s the hoot hoot of the oncoming locomotive; certainly a motivator, but inspiration grabs me and feverishly I fumble about, fat fingers searching beneath her stained frock.

  “I’m sorry,” I say under my breath as I hunt with all my might for her panty girdle – or whatever the hell it is that she has under there. I mean, I don’t want to know, not like this anyway. And I know, when the guys hear
about this they’ll be like, I must be having the time of my life. But I am so not, I can assure you.

  There’s nothing remotely fun about trying to locate a woman’s undergarments in time not to be squashed to death by a speeding train. All I know is that I am panicking for all I am worth by the time I do finally do manage to slide off the goddam hosiery – friction gripping tight to her flesh all the way, but eventually, with it, off her shoe finally pops - like a cookie from a greased tray.

  From behind me, a spontaneous ripple of applause breaks out, with the folks of either side of me clapping and cheering. I don’t wait about to take a bow and lift her up, over my shoulder and get the hell out of there as fast as I can. Scooping her up, quickly, I lift her over to the other side, before setting her down as gently as I can do.

  “Aurelia!” I yell, desperately. “Open your eyes, look at me… It’s Adam…!” I don’t want to hurt her, but I can’t help shaking her about, lightly. All I want is for her to wake up.

  A cold droplet of rain lands squarely on her forehead, and on the top of my head. It’s icy in its wetness. I am hoping that it will rouse her. But there’s nothing.

  “Is she breathing?” the gray lady says.

  I lean over Aurelia’s pale head. Her chest is rising and falling regularly and she looks for all the world as if she just took a nap there, on the train platform.

  “What is the matter?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I mutter. “But you better call someone…” I say. I need to examine her properly. There isn’t any sign of head trauma, but the deep stain on her dress is the thing I am the most worried about.

  Zoom! Fast forward. The train arrives and so, later, does the ambulance, although it feels like it takes forever for that. There’s a triumvirate of fat faces, all peering down at her and I instantly feel bad, that she’s so on show, like a piece of meat.

  Then, she opens her eyes. And instead of being eternally fucking grateful, as she’s meant to, she eyes me with deep suspicion and says;

  “Take your hands off of me…”

  Or is that just what her eyes say? Because when she looks imperiously through those slate blue eyes, I am instantly riding a whole different train.

  The Aurelia I know is truly back in circulation

  But she doesn’t let me out of her sight once, despite what she may say and her hand squeezes mine tight all the way to Sunset Alley Hospital.

  Chapter 4

  “Adam?” I peer up from the rigid hospital bed that, for some crazy reason, I get the feeling I am tied to. “I don’t know anyone called Adam…”

  But the nurse with the warty hands has ducked out of eyeshot, and apparently, earshot as well. Before I can even raise my head to look for her, in he walks.

  “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to get reacquainted,” she remarks, with an odd smile, and walks off.

  I am too busy working out what this means to even think properly about the vision that is before me.

  Adam; the guy on the platform, the one who saved me. He certainly seems to know me, but when I see his toned face, the only feeling I get is one down there. And this is definitely not something that should be happening.

  Everything is hitting all at once; the room, the nurse, him, but on top of this there is another surprise… Myself! From the opposite wall, I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in the mirror across the room.

  Uncombed tresses of long, blonde curls bound crazily all around me. I’m wearing some sort of hospital gown; the stained white dress of yesterday having been mysteriously removed and, possibly, vaporized. Did I dream it?

  I am entranced, gazing upon my own reflection like Narcissus or someone. Squinting from the other wall, it is hard for me to make out whether or not I totally match my description; it’s really hard to judge your own age, even when you don’t recognize your own face. All I can say is that I am slender, female and blonde. After that, whatever lies beneath the checkered hospital gown must remain a mystery.

  “Hi, um, take no notice of her, obviously,” he says nervily. His eyes take on a cagey appearance as he stands there before me in the white room.

  As he speaks, I watch him shuffling his weight from one foot to the other, and then back again. “What she said was mad…,” he adds.

  I eye him sharply for the first time since arriving in the siphoned off private room in the hospital. He is wearing an unsure expression, which is in stark contrast to how he came across yesterday.

  “And what did she say?” I ask, pertinently. He blushes, a deep color of intense pink occupying his sculpted cheekbones.

  “I… um…”

  “Something about us being ‘lovebirds’. What on earth does that mean?”

  “It means that she talks more than she listens,” retorts Adam, finally, the defiant flash returning to his eyes.

  My eyes search the room. As I hone in on the finer detail of the space I am in, a few things become clearer. The first is these crisp Egyptian cotton sheets and the expensive-looking bouquets of flowers adorning every free surface – not just in this room, but extending down into the corridor – do not speak of a no-frills experience. In other words, although I may not know who I am, it seems as though somebody does, and is paying.

  No, I can’t recall much about my life before I stepped off that platform and fell on those tracks, but I feel sure I’ve never been inside a hospital like this before.

  However, this is not all. My eyes meet with Adam’s sunny light brown eyes, which are drawn together in an uncharacteristic frown. He has such beautiful eyes, the color of milky tea, lined thick black which give them a uniquely striking appeal.

  And his lashes, which I am still discovering, are heaped on top of them. They lend a darker tone than the rest of him suggests; for although he is blond, his eyelashes are the color of soot.

  “It means that she knows who I am,” I say, decisively leaning forward to watch him carefully as I say this. “And she’s not the only one, is she?” Ripples appear within his amber eyes; something seems to have resonated. Satisfied, I sit back, awaiting his reaction.

  “No,” he replies, simply. “She’s not. Look, I brought you something….”

  He switches about as if checking himself for something or other, patting down his jeans pockets and shaking the green puffer jacket that he had placed on me the previous day. It still has marks on it, from where it fell in puddles.

  …If it was the previous day. I am uncertain as to how long I have been lying here for.

  Unconsciously, my eyes are drawn to his hairline, scrutinizing for signs of his baseline color. Perhaps it is not natural, I think, contrasting his black lashes and darkened brows with the hair growing from his forehead. But the more I look, the less I can find any trace of darker roots. His hair seems to be a burnt gold throughout, fading to mousy at the base.

  Finally, he produces something from a zipped pocket. It’s a creased piece of paper, which he unfolds and pushes in front of me.

  “I thought it might help trigger something…”

  Curiously, I take the photograph, straightening it out from the center. It’s a photo, judging by the color of the film, taken a while ago. My eyes cut through the background throng of teens to focus in on a young couple, standing hand in hand, the girl staring up at the boy, eyeing him with pride. Instantly, I recognize the expression on her face; it’s ownership. She gazes on the youth as she is the queen bee and he’s her drone. Then, I do a double-take, pulling the photograph closer to my face I give a gasp.

  “Get me a mirror,” I command. And from out of nowhere the warty nurse reappears, producing a small diamante compact that must belong to her.

  I snatch it off her, bringing it close to my face and stare. The photo is hazy, it is true, but now at least I can see my own face in close up detail. My heart skips a beat as I look back down to the photo in my hands; It’s me. More precisely, it’s us.

  My face seems to be all the confirmation that he requires. Immediately, his cheeks glow with
an excited pink color and his eyebrows shoot upwards.

  “You remember! I knew you would!” he says, triumphant.

  “Whoa, just slow down there a minute. Remember what?” I say, handing the photograph back to him, perplexed. “Please, just say what you mean, because I don’t think I can play this game anymore…”

  Finally, I break; my hands over my face, shaking. I just want this to stop, whatever it is. Ever since yesterday it has been like trapped in someone else’s bad dream…

  Everyone around me is so certain of who I am, but I alone remain unconvinced. Although, it’s not like I can remember anything that might help disprove it. Now, finally, I am up against it; the first hard, concrete evidence that I am her; the shadowy Aurelia.

  “Well, the night of our prom… I….,” suddenly he is crestfallen, wearing a slightly hurt expression that sends a pound of guilt throbbing through me.

  Then his face changes, it smooths out and he presents a calm smile. The sort of look you give to an aged aunt, or to an invalid, in other words, to someone like me.

  “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… it’s not like…this is the most important thing right now,” he says, quickly folding it away and shoving it back into his pocket. “The thing that matters is you, Aurelia…”

  Aurelia. There it was again, that name, dancing all about me. …This person, this body, this life that she is meant to inhabit, suddenly coinciding with my own.

  But from the look of that photograph, there can be no doubt; I am her and she is me. It’s just that I don’t remember any of it, not the name, not the place, not Adam… not even my own face.

  “I… I don’t know who I am… and I’m scared…. Adam,” I gasp, heavy waves of sob overcoming me.

  From behind me, I feel his hand approaching, firm with reassurance. He murmurs something softly into my ear that might be, “that’s okay.”