This Train Is Being Held

by Ismée Williams

  I undo my towel, shaking my hair loose. My smile is tight. “I’m fine,” I tell her. I jam my hair into a bun. I pack my old tights and leotard into my bag, pausing when my fingers glance off a square of paper. I pull it to the mouth of my backpack. I unwrap it just enough to see Alex’s handwriting.

  Chrissy’s staring at my back. I can feel it.

  The locker room is clearing out. There’s nobody else talking.

  “Come on. We’re going to be late,” I tell her without bothering to turn around.

  “You’re making me nervous.” Her voice sounds disant. “Kevin says I should talk to your parents.”

  No. I crush the poem in my fist. I shove it to the bottom of the bag. I make my smile bigger, brighter. “You don’t have to worry. I would tell you if I needed help.”

  Chrissy scans my face. “I wish I believed you.” She walks out. I reach for my lip balm. My hand comes back out with Alex’s poem. His words jump out at me through my tears, words I’ve read a hundred times.

  DREAMING

  You sit on a bench

  as the first batter approaches,

  y te lo juro,

  my chest becomes feathers

  quivering

  before you.

  My grip tightens and I remind myself,

  my fingers know the firm curve

  of this ball stitched with red,

  the white skin of it soft

  and smelling of earth

  and grass stains

  and sweat.

  From my hand, this ball takes flight,

  soaring toward fate,

  aiming for the worn pocket of a mitt,

  slipping past swinging wood,

  hopefully.

  The ball comes back,

  thrown high in the air.

  I catch it

  but sink down to cradle

  You,

  Your foot,

  the firm, soft curve of it,

  the part of you that gives you flight

  as you soar toward fate

  across a stage of lights.

  I grip this ball reverently,

  tenderly.

  This ball I do not want to let go

  though your head tipped back in the grass,

  laughing, begs me to.

  I read it three times before I cinch my backpack closed. I’ll tell Chrissy I’ll go to her place. I’ll agree to a Halloween costume. I’ll do whatever it takes, always.

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 7

  ISA

  Snowflakes drift into the rose-colored halos of the street lamps below. They settle onto the dingy sidewalks and disappear. It’s supposed to snow for less than an hour. There won’t be much accumulation. I imagine being outside, letting the snow land on my face and my upturned palms, watching the flakes fade to nothing as if they were never there.

  “Isabelle?”

  I look away from the window. Dr. Patel, our family therapist, watches me. His face, as always, is kind and expectant. Dad is watching me too—only, he looks worried.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I was wondering if you would feel comfortable sharing with us how your mood’s been this past week?”

  Dad scratches at the stubble of his beard. Mom is looking at Merrit, who’s staring into his lap, into the void left by his phone, which is on Dr. Patel’s desk. Mom reaches out and presses her hand to Merrit’s knee, an attempt to stop his constant jiggling. He only jiggles his leg harder, until her fingers slide off. Dad takes up Mom’s hand, but his eyes stay on me.

  “Fine,” I tell them. I want to look out the window, at the snow.

  Dr. Patel moves his head. It’s not quite a nod. It’s just something he does to show he’s heard me. “How has it been taking the subway with your brother? I know that was a source of concern for you in the past.”

  “Also fine.” Merrit’s been so mellow these past few months. It’s hard to imagine he did the things he did. I glance at my brother. He’s still not looking at me.

  “What has it been like taking on so much responsibility?”

  “It’s no problem at all.” If I didn’t bring Merrit with me, Mom and Dad wouldn’t be able to meet with their own psychologist for couple’s therapy the hour before ours. No one thought leaving Merrit alone was a good idea.

  “Everyone appreciates the effort you’re making for the family, Isabelle,” Dad says.

  I give him my own not-quite-nod to let him know I heard him. Dr. Patel asks Merrit the same question about mood he asked me. I can’t help myself. I turn to look at the snow. It’s my only chance to see it. By the time we go back outside it will all have melted. It will be as if it never happened.

  •••

  Merrit and I take the subway home alone. Dad and Mom have gone out to dinner, just the two of them. We wait for the train in silence. I search the platform, half worried, half hoping to see the strings of a black hoodie or the tips of Adidas or Converse. I don’t need to worry. There’s hardly anyone on the platform.

  Merrit’s face carries a blank stare that probably mirrors my own, like he’s trying not to let any emotion in or out. The train comes, sparing me from thoughts of Alex and Merrit and Chrissy’s words asking me if I’ve talked to my brother about that day. She’d said it as if she were talking to the old Isa, the one who was close to her brother, who knew her brother better than anyone except maybe himself. I don’t know if that’s true anymore. I don’t know why he did what he did, whether he meant it or not. That frightens me the most.

  Our shoulders bump, Merrit’s and mine, as the train rockets us back toward Ninety-Sixth. I turn to Merrit, desperation making me bold. “What really happened that day Dad found you? The day he had to call an ambulance?”

  Merrit sinks back against the bench, arms crossed in front of him. He stares at his gangly legs, bouncing again with nervous energy. His wary glance shifts to me. “What do you want to know?”

  I want to know if he meant to take those pills, if he meant to leave us, and to shout at him asking what was so horrible that it was worth doing that to Mom and Dad and me. I want to know what he remembers from the weeks that followed, being hooked up to machines in intensive care, unable to even pee on his own. I want him to tell me if it was terrible enough to make him never do it again. Mostly, I want to know if he blames me like I blame myself. I want to know that he wouldn’t have done it if I had been home.

  Instead I ask, “Why?”

  His eyes dart back to me. His fingers dance over his thighs, playing twin imaginary keyboards. “I don’t know,” he says.

  It’s too much, not knowing.

  He licks his lips when I start to cry. He throws himself back against the seat once and then again. He shoves his hands beneath him. The drumming comes out in his feet. “I—” He looks into his lap. He shakes his hair so it falls next to his face, so he doesn’t have to see me. “You know I don’t mind staying up all night, working on my apps or hanging with other gamers online. It’s like when I was first with Samantha, like I’m on top of the world. Nothing can touch me. Nothing matters, not even getting kicked out of college. Or being twenty and living with my parents. But I know I’m weird when I’m myself. I know it’s hard to put up with me.” He lets out a huff. “So I took the medicines the doctor gave me. I took more when he said it wasn’t working fast enough. But then, all of a sudden, it was too much. They were pulling me down like water dragging toward a drain.” He nods his head. “I tried to fix it. I took a few different pills. And I went into Mom’s room and took some of hers. I didn’t want to feel sad. But I didn’t mean for any of the other stuff to happen.”

  Merrit’s teeth worry at his bottom lip. I wipe my face with my sleeve, then reach for his hand. The pull of sadness terrifies me too. Only, my brother is smart. He’s been called a genius since he was four. He knows about side effects and drug interactions. If I can find it on the internet, it’s already downloaded to the mainframe of his mind. There’s no way he didn’t know what he was doin
g, that the mix he took was dangerous.

  I squeeze Merrit’s hand. I press it to my cheek and lean on him. He puts his arm around me. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. I start crying again. I never needed to ask him. I already knew the answer. I was just afraid he would tell me the truth.

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 22

  ALEX

  I squint through slanted rays of sun. Men with hands shoved deep in their pockets walk beside women wearing fur-trimmed hats. Woolen scarves cover mouths. Some people carry children on their shoulders. Others push strollers with miniature faces that peek from blankets. Wind blows and people in blue jumpers holler and grab ropes to tie down cartoon characters. Next to me the foot of a purple dragon comes loose. The creature rolls as if it means to go on its back. If upright, it’d be taller than the twelve-story building behind it.

  I’ve never done this before. I’ve only ever seen the parade balloons on the screen of our TV while cutting green olives and onions for Mami’s special stuffing. But Haeres has off the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I figured it would be cool to watch the setup.

  My phone beeps.

  I’m by Pikachu.

  I turn, searching. Coming, I text back.

  A lady knocks into me as I type. She was backing up, trying to get a picture of the Poppin’ Fresh, the Pillsbury Doughboy.

  “Sorry,” I tell her, even though I wasn’t the one moving.

  She jumps when she sees me. Her hands go up like she’s surrendering and her eyes search for help. Another woman in a fur hat scurries over. They link arms and move into the crowd. I shake my head and follow the mass of people down Seventy-Seventh Street, keeping an eye out for Pikachu’s yellow belly and red cheeks.

  Bright orange cones divide Columbus. On the other side, people huddle and bob their knees to stay warm in a different line that traces the corner of a glass-walled Shake Shack. It’s so famous, not even the cold could keep them away. Smiling customers exit through windowed doors, gloved hands holding cups of thick custard. I think about grabbing us one. I’d have to jump the orange divider though.

  A cop leans against the wall. He scans the crowd. I watch as he picks out a face and follows it. I keep my hands in my pockets and I’m about to duck my head when a familiar girl with red curls comes out of the store. She scoops soft ice cream while talking. The guy behind her holds the door. He pushes his glasses onto his nose.

  There’s no way she should see me. Not with all the people around.

  I head toward the lemon-colored balloon. I pretend I don’t hear anyone shouting my name. Kiara is standing below an outstretched yellow paw. I kiss her cheek and ask her where Julissa’s at. She starts to tell me Julissa canceled when someone interrupts.

  “Alex.” Chrissy stands behind me. She must have run. I was walking pretty fast even with all the people. She had to climb over the plastic barrier. The nearby cop, a different one, isn’t even looking at her. On the opposite side of the street, Kevin stands with both their shakes.

  Kiara looks from Chrissy to me. “Who’s she?”

  “Can I talk to you?” Chrissy’s focus is only on me.

  I put a hand on Kiara’s shoulder. “‘Pérate,” I tell her. “What do you want?” I ask Chrissy.

  “Alone?” she asks. “It won’t take long.”

  I bend down to Kiara. “Dame un segundito. I’ll be right back.”

  Kiara’s hands are on her hips. She shakes her head as I follow Chrissy toward Spider-Man’s foot. She waits for me. Gracias a Dios, she doesn’t trail us.

  Chrissy walks us past Spider-Man. When we’re underneath the Diary of a Wimpy Kid’s diary she grabs my jacket. She spins me around.

  “You should call Isa.”

  I check her face to see if she’s joking. She’s not smiling or anything.

  The hot pulse of anger surprises me. “Isa and I, we’re not together.” I thump my chest.

  Two gray-haired ladies in matching puffers look at us. No, they look at me. A mom with a stroller steers a wide circle to pass. I unclench my hands.

  “I know,” Chrissy says. “But still, you need to talk to her.”

  This girl ’ta loca. “Why would I do that? So she can throw me away again?” I didn’t mean to shout. “So she can tell me I’m not good enough for her? Anyway, I’m with someone else. If you didn’t notice.” I jerk my head toward Pikachu.

  Chrissy bunches her painted lips. She scratches at her chin like I said something that confuses her. She better not think I’m dating a balloon.

  Her eyes narrow. “Wait, what do you mean, so she can throw you away? You didn’t break it off?”

  I give her a hard stare, the way Papi does when a player challenges his call.

  She stares back. She bunches her lips more. “Well, all I know is, the only time I ever saw her happy—really happy—was when the two of you were together.”

  “Yeah? That’s great. Thanks for your opinion. Maybe you should ask your friend what she really thinks of me though.”

  Chrissy shakes her head. “Listen, sometimes you don’t know a person’s whole story.” She swats at a curl. “Sometimes we keep secrets from the people we care about. Because we’re trying to protect them. Or protect ourselves.”

  I throw my hand up. A man and a woman duck out of the way. “What are you talking about?”

  Chrissy crosses her arms. Her ruby mouth smooths to a line. “Isa told me what you thought.” She shrugs a shoulder. “About me and Kevin. About me keeping stuff from him. We’re good now. Isa’s brother, Merrit, helped me out with that. But I should have told Kevin sooner. It would have saved us both a lot. You were right. It’s not good to keep secrets from someone you love.” She stares at me without looking away. Her words remind me of Mami’s. It reminds me of what happened between my parents. Why Papi stopped playing ball. How he had problems with drugs and lied about it to Mami. Until it cost him his career. His marriage. He was lucky it didn’t cost him his life. It’s why he’s so strict about it with us.

  Kevin comes up behind Chrissy. He’s looking up at the black squiggle of Balloon Greg’s mouth. Kevin’s arms are wide, holding the two shakes. I shouldn’t be thinking anything funny right now. But Isa would say he looks like he’s offering Chrissy a taste test.

  “Hey,” he says to me.

  “Hey,” I say back. The cop must have let him climb over the orange cone divider too.

  Kevin leans down to look in Chrissy’s face. “Everything all right?”

  She nods. She bear-hugs him. Her hooded head burrows into his coat.

  Kevin lifts his arms higher so the ice cream doesn’t spill. He bends his knees to kiss her forehead.

  I never told Isa about my papi. I kept waiting for her to say something, to ask me about when Papi played on the team or why he stopped. Isa never did. She was only interested in me. In my ball playing. In my poems. In making me smile or laugh. I figured it was a gift, a sign that I didn’t have to tell her. Because what would she have thought of me, of my family, if I had?

  Chrissy peeks up at Kevin and the way he smiles down at her makes me think maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have said something to Isa. Sure, I know Isa was keeping things from me. But I guess I was too.

  Chrissy turns back to me. Her fingers dig at her eyes. “Just think about it, OK? You need to talk to her. And you’ve got to get her to talk to you. Please? Just try again?”

  I hold her gaze. I don’t say yes. I don’t say no.

  She walks away.

  “See ya.” Kevin lifts a shake in my direction.

  They’re under Spider-Man’s hand when Chrissy looks back. “You don’t honestly believe Isa thought you weren’t good enough for her, do you?” Her eyes look kind of teary, but she blinks and jams a spoon heaped with thick vanilla into her mouth. Kevin rubs her back and leads her away.

  What else was I supposed to think?

  Kiara’s waiting right where I left her. She’s watching Kevin and Chrissy stroll toward Columbus, eating their shakes.

  “Wait
a minute. ¿Es esa la chica que estaba en el tren en Halloween? The one who was kissing that guy?”

  I put my arm around her. “No.”

  I tell her I know Chrissy from school. She used to date one of the other players on the Haeres team. The lie bothers me only a little. I don’t want to talk about Isa. I want to forget everything Chrissy said.

  I pull Kiara down Eighty-First Street, toward the Wimpy Kid, Elf on the Shelf, and the snowman from Frozen. Kiara doesn’t ask anything more.

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 4

  ALEX

  The fountain is drained, empty. It was like that the first time I came here with Isa. When Bryan and Danny said those things about her, and she let me walk her to class anyway.

  It’s late. The winter sky is so dark it could be seven o’clock or ten o’clock or one A.M. The opera house lights are on. There’s no one inside except for a man with a bucket and a mop. He stops in front of a window, takes up a rag, and starts to clean. His hand passes in front of white letters that spell OTELLO against a background of black.

  The past few days, I played over what Chrissy said. About secrets and not being honest. I knew Isa was keeping stuff from me—her whole family for one. I hadn’t thought about what I was hiding from her. So here I am because, guess what? Isa still isn’t taking my calls. She’s not answering my messages either.

  Students come out the glass doors of the building next door. The girls all wear buns. The guys have short hair, except for one with a ponytail. I don’t see Isa. I don’t see Chrissy. And I’ve been here since five. This time, I’ll stay as long as it takes.

  I sit on the granite ledge. Cold seeps through my pants to the backs of my legs. My breath makes clouds as I wait.

  The janitor moves to the next window. And the next. He’s on the last one in the row when the doors to the Academy open. More girls with buns exit. None of them are Isa. They walk arm in arm as if on wildflowers they don’t want to crush.

  I pace a circle around the fountain, then sit back down. I don’t take out my notebook. I won’t risk missing her.

  I get up and walk to the windows. I put my hands on the glass and peer through, to see if any students are still inside. I checked the website before I came. Mondays there are no holiday performances. The dancers should be leaving after their classes. I tug on the door handle, but it’s locked. A keypad flashes red at me. I go back to the fountain just as the dance school doors swing wide. A man who could be my father heads straight for me. The opera house lights glint over a brass nameplate that looks like a badge. I know it isn’t one. But still, my heart knocks against me. I don’t move.