A boxcar approached, moonlight pushing through its open center. In that instant I realized I didn't want to fix my relationship with Sam. I didn't want to save the life I had created of others expectations. I didn't want to save any of it. The only thing worth saving was myself.
Run away, Miriam.
The open boxcar trudged past. My heart raced toward it without me.
Dammit, Miriam. Run!
I sprinted for the boxcar. The chickadee tweeted and tumbled off my shoulder. The train trundled at the speed of a brisk walk and I gained quickly, boots crackling as they pounded the snow and gravel. Porch lights and a crisp, night sky greeted me from the other side of the boxcar's open doors. The entrance came to my chest. The chickadee zipped above my head, screeching something unintelligible against the train's clacking. I grabbed the floor with both hands, keeping pace with the train, then hoisted my body and nearly killed myself.
I had imagined it would be like hoisting myself out of a swimming pool, forgetting to consider the lack of buoyancy. I hung off the box car, stomach pressed against the door's track, my stiff arms too weak to pull myself inside. I rocked my legs to seesaw onto the floor. My elbows buckled. I clenched the door's track and two fingernails snapped back in a flash of white pain. My heels dragged in the gravel. Streetlights glinted off the massive steel wheel chomping toward my right foot. I pumped my knees like pistons, taking large sideway steps like an awkward puppet. I regained my pace and hoisted myself, this time swinging my legs over my butt and dragging myself across the floorboards like a scorpion, stomach muscles strained and burning. I collapsed against the floor, panting, and suckling fingertips tasting of blood and grime. The train's rattling chattered my teeth against the tender flesh.
I stood and stumbled to the doorway, and clenched the freezing metal frame. Wind bit the sweat on my brow. Passing porch lights glinted off the clanging wheels beneath me. If I had let go of the train when I had fallen, the wheel would have sucked me onto the tracks and ripped off my leg.
But the panic about almost becoming an amputee vanished as I whizzed through the sleeping neighborhood. I giggled nervously, then grinned and pumped my fists into the air. "Whooohooo!" Hopping a train would label me as irrational or impulsive or stupid or insane. But no one could ever judge me as the meek, predictable wife again. A sharp laugh escaped me. No matter the outcome of my actions, I had at least broken that stigma forever.
The chickadee zipped into the boxcar and landed on my shoulder. "I did it!" I said, clapping my hands. "I hopped a train! I hopped a train!"
"Wonderful," the chickadee grumbled. "Did you consider how you'd hop off?"
"No. I just did it. It was instinct."
"It was impulse, not instinct," the chickadee snapped. "Mixing those up will kill you."
"You urged me to leave," I said.
"I meant with your guide," the chickadee said. My eyebrows pinched. In all the drama I had forgotten that option. "They are coming to Ohio to meet you. At least they were. I have no idea how they will find you in ... well ... wherever you end up."
I peered down. The dark, rolling ground was impossible to discern. Are we still passing gravel? Dirt? Pavement? Weeds? The train's trundle seemed faster from this angle and more menacing as well. The wheels growled their metallic ka-chunk-ka-chunk-ka-chunk, eager to snatch me if I jumped and landed an inch in the wrong direction. I rubbed my shin on the back of my calf and shuddered.
"We won't go far," I said, reassuring myself more than reassuring the chickadee. "The train's moving slow. It's probably pulling into its destination now."
I clenched the doorframe and waited to jump to still ground. And waited. And waited. The wind grew stronger, baying in my ears. I buttoned the front of my overcoat and nestled my head into the collar. Winter numbed my nose and ears. Shrill, metallic screeches made my fillings hum and swell. The ka-chunk-ka-chunk-ka-chunk quickened into a chunk-chunk-chunk. My fingers numbed against the door's metal. Up ahead the whistle howled, then the clanging of train-crossing bells.
The chickadee pressed against my neck to hide from the wind. "The train is not slowing, Miriam."
The boxcar rocked and rattled. The red crossing lights throbbed off the walls, then disappeared. Clanging, screeching, metal wheels on metal tracks, rattling metal walls. My ears rung, the racket near deafening. I crouched in an empty corner, shoving my hands in my armpits, and tucked my chin to my chest. Wind swirled inside the boxcar, throwing the floor's dirt and grime into a windstorm. The chickadee hid inside the back of my collar as my hair whipped my bare cheeks. The train traveled at a clip now. My skin broke out in goosebumps beneath my coat's sleeves. I coughed and sneezed and shielded my eyes as the filth pounded my face like needles.
I staggered to the boxcar's sliding door, hacking. The train's jostling dropped me twice to my knees before I reached the swing-handle on the outside edge of the door. I yanked on it—freezing metal burning my hands—and struggled to slide the door closed with a triumphant clack. The windstorm lessened. I leaned against the door, panting, grateful for a shield from the cold. Until I realized there was no inside latch. I pushed on the door but it refused to slide. The open door across from me wobbled and clanged in its track. My muscles tensed. One violent bump would close it, trapping me inside without food or water, and no knowledge of when I'd be found.
In the far corner were three pallets stacked with plastic, woven bags—the boxcar's sole freight. I tore open the cellophane wrapping and heaved a fifty-pound bag off the top, unable to read the contents in the dark. I dragged it to the far end of the open door. The jostling train slammed me into the doorframe. My foot slipped outside; the wind flapped my pajama pants against my leg; my cranberry coattails flailed. I clenched the doorframe until my heart steadied, then carefully pushed the bag's end onto the door's track. Fifty-pounds was too light to weigh down my paranoia, however. I heaved another bag onto the first one, forming a T. Then decided to add another. I slid the door to the stacked bags, closing off most of the wind, and propping it open to prevent accidental entrapment.
I sunk to the floor in the corner, my back against the freight. The train jumped and rattled; the floorboards jarred my rear and spine. I tried kneeling to protect myself from bruising, but the position made my knees ache. I climbed on top of the freight and laid on my stomach, protecting my face with my arms. The relief was minimal.
My fingertips throbbed. I gnawed at the broken nails, biting them to the quicks, and hoped the cargo I laid on wasn't toxic. The chickadee nestled against my nape. Soon the adrenaline rush which had numbed my anguish over Sam faded. My thoughts slunk right back to him like a mongrel eager to lick the fingers of the hand who beat it. When did he meet his lover, I wondered? Where did he meet him? How often? Was it ever in our bed? My imagination conjured up movie-quality images, which turned my entrails into water. I almost smelled the lingering cigarette smoke, the salty musk of sex, Sam's cool deodorant. Sheets on the floor, my husband on his back with his eyes rolled back, his lover's tongue wetting his—
I gritted my teeth and shoved the thoughts aside.
"How far do freight trains travel?" I asked the chickadee.
"What?"
"How far do freight trains travel?" I shouted.
"Depends on the train," the chickadee shouted in my ear. "We might be heading to Canada for all I know."
Canada? And me without a passport. I swallowed hard, and bit off the rest of my nails.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hours passed. I did not sleep. The train ride was freezing and jarring and miserable. As a child I had often daydreamed about hopping trains, imagining myself as an adventurous explorer in search of new wonders. Romanticized notions, I now realized. I cowered on the freight like a scared runaway, and the only thing I wondered was if it would be dehydration, starvation, exposure, or the train itself that killed me.
Gray sunlight pushed through the gap in the boxcar door, bringing no warmth. The oxidation stains on the locked door resembled mel
ting faces, their eyes oozing, with mouths stretched and screaming. I crouched on the bags propping open the door, watching a world revealed to few. No roads. No houses. Just miles of snow covered fields, a blue haze of hills in the distance, a snaking train racing for the curve of horizon. The air seemed sterile and hollow, with whiffs of frozen snot and icy metal. The lethal scents of a savage winter. Pale yellow light stained the gray sky like an aging bruise and winked off the silver heart dangling from my wrist. The frigid wind chafed my cheeks, tangled my hair, made my nose run. It might have felt cleansing if my hands weren't caked in soot and grime, or if the polar bears on my pajama-pants didn't resemble grizzlies skiing at midnight. The scratch in my throat was worrying.
"We don't have any water," I said. We didn't have any food, either, but my stomach was thankfully still satisfied from yesterday's Christmas feast.
The chickadee clambered out from inside my collar, yanking and pecking my hair to free its feet from the knots. "I will check the rooftop for fresh snow."
The landscape streaked past us. We had to be going around 50MPH, more than fast enough to whisk away a chickadee. "No. The risk is too dangerous," I said. "And you are the only friend I got."
Small piles of snow lined the closed door, melty around the edges. The snow was gray, but clean enough as long as I scraped off the top. Unfortunately, the soot and grime on my hands leeched into the snow the moment I touched it. I licked the outside; grime coated my tongue, roughening my mouth as if I had licked a chalkboard. I repressed a cough and resisted the urge to spit. I needed water, and this snow might melt long before the train reached its destination. I've already sucked in a pound and a half of grime. What's a few more mouthfuls? I took another bite, gagged, and involuntarily spat.
Maybe it'll be easier if I stop using my hands, I thought, and knelt on all fours to bite the snow like a dog. The train's jostling slammed me into the ice, ramming my nose against the floorboards. I cupped my face in my wet hands, nose throbbing; the liquid grime stung my eyes. The train jostled and sent me sprawling face-first into the ice, jabbing my nose again. I shoved my anger down into my inner tar, my body shaking, my lips pressed tight. It was like trying to cap a volcano. I thrashed my fists against the metal walls and screamed out my pain and grief, competing with the train's roar like two feuding beasts. No wonder my husband hates me. No wonder he switched sexual tastes. I am pathetic and useless and disgusting. I cried and wailed, cursed and yelled, wept and swore off men forever. And once I was hoarse and sore and exhausted from self-loathing, I trembled inside a rattling boxcar, all alone and lost in the world with a chickadee on my shoulder.
Hours passed. I shivered. I cried. I did not sleep. The boxcar reeked of ammonia from where I had urinated in the corner. I perched on top of the freight to avoid the yellow stream cutting lines in the floorboard's filth. In the daylight I read the bags' gray, block letters. Soda Ash. I had no idea what soda ash was, but it didn't sound toxic. One relief.
A loud metallic screech drilled into my fillings around early afternoon. Several minutes later the train seemed to hiccup, its roar softening. I leapt off the cargo and stumbled to the open door. Sure enough, the world slowed. It took nearly thirty minutes, but the train finally stopped.
I jumped off the boxcar, falling to one knee in the blessedly clean snow. I scrubbed my hands until my skin burned and a gray puddle pitted the snow beside my feet. I shoved handfuls into my mouth, squeezing my eyes tight to the brain-freeze, making my molar's cavity scream. The train tracks steamed beneath the wheels. I huddled close to the heat to defrost myself. The chickadee popped out of my collar and flitted onto my wrist, ruffling its feathers against the warmth. The train hissed and creaked, its engine hidden beyond the railway's bend. I had expected to be dumped in a train yard or a depot or at least in a city somewhere. Instead, I stood stranded in the middle of God-Knew-Where, with fifteen acre fields stretching along both sides of the tracks, and nothing but woods and sky beyond.
"Maybe the engineer will help us," I said.
The chickadee fluffed its rear to the wheel's warmth. "Won't you get in trouble for hopping the train?"
My brow furrowed. I didn't know the answer. If the chickadee was right, then I had only Sam to call if I was nabbed and hauled to jail. I refused to allow him that pleasure. He would deem my plight as karma for abandoning him, despite his affair. He will never let me ask for help, I realized. He will make me grovel.
"Maybe we're near a town," the chickadee suggested. "Wait here. I'll scout the area."
The chickadee flew up and over the train. I crouched and waited beside the wheel as the heat slowly died. I scanned the length of the tracks, watching for guards or crew curious about my presence. An hour passed. Up ahead the train whistle howled. Wheels screeched, the boxcars jostled. The sky remained overcast and birdless. Clacking. Screeching. Train whistle howling. Should I climb back into the boxcar? It had to lead to people eventually. Without the chickadee, however, I'd still be lost.
The steel wheels rolled. I watched the train trundle past me—potentially my only means of escape—and disappear beyond the bend in the horizon.
The new silence was stark, yet ghost prints of the train's racket lingered in my ears. I hugged myself, scanning the fields, waiting. No footprints in the snow, no litter, no graffiti. It was much like my beloved mineshaft, except this place wasn't a secret. It was merely unwanted.
"Chick-a-dee-dee-dee."
"Oh thank God," I said, as the chickadee landed on my finger. "Did you find civilization?"
"No. But I found the next best thing. Follow me."
A dull burn shot through my stiff legs as I hurried through the snowy field, pushing myself to keep on the chickadee's tail. The bird swerved around the trees, leading me deep into the woods, and stopped eventually in front of a small, tight stand of white pines.
The chickadee landed on a low branch. "Here it is."
I crept closer and realized the stand had grown in front of the narrow entrance to an abandoned mine. And like my secret place back home, it blew a constant fifty-five degrees.
"Stay in there until I return with your guide," the chickadee said.
"You're leaving me out here alone?"
"You can't keep pace with me, and I still don't know where we are or how far away your guide is. Line the inside with pine boughs for bedding. The trees will block most of the wind."
"How long will you be gone?" I asked.
"However long it takes," the chickadee said.
The mine was narrow, too low to sit up in, but long enough to stretch out straight. Flat earth stretched back into the blackness, unlike my secret spot back home, which had a stark drop at the entrance. Worry gnawed on my nerves. But, honestly, if I had never hopped the train, I would want to run away to my mineshaft anyway. I rubbed my eye. Perhaps solitude was what I needed most right now, a chance to think, to grieve, to heal.
"What about darklings?" I asked.
"I doubt they will find you before I bring your guide. They are probably still tracking you to your in-laws."
I frowned. "That's not reassuring."
"Then I'll send a protector to watch over you and keep you safe. I will return soon," the chickadee said, then flew into the woods and disappeared.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The trees were naked and as easy to see past as empty cages. Yet all I found through the bars were more bars, a never ending prison cell creaking in the wind. I strained to hear any signs of civilization—car engines, human voices, mooing cattle. Nothing but a flock of blue jays chattering in the trees, and the occasional ploosh of snow tumbling off the branches.
I was supposed to be at Grandma Ingrid's, but instead spent an hour collecting pine boughs from the ground and low branches, constructing a thick bed of needles inside the mine's entrance. Did my in-laws leave without me? I wondered. Did Sam? I couldn't stop yawning. My muscles felt heavy and droopy, as if they had fallen asleep without me. I worried about freezing to death if I stopped movin
g, though, and I worried about collapsing from exhaustion if I stayed awake. I rubbed my eye. The mineshaft's air should be warm enough to protect me. I buried myself between the boughs, the pine scent stirring up memories of a miserable Christmas. I curled into the fetal position, padding my body with needled branches to trap my body-heat. Pitch stuck to my fingers, my coat, my hair, its tangy scent tickling my sinuses. The train still rattled inside my bones as I drifted off to sleep; images of Sam entangled with his lover flashed behind my lids.
I woke up choking on phlegm and tears. I coughed and hacked, shuddering my chest and blowing train grime out of my sinuses, its diesel reek overpowering the pine. Pitch ripped my hair as I crawled from the shelter. My joints creaked like rusted hinges. I shoved my cramping hands into my coat pockets and marched in place, desperate to warm my muscles.
The world was dark and the moon was low. I guessed it was around eight o'clock, though it was unlike any eight o'clock I had ever known. No whirr of a washing machine starting its spin cycle. No clink of dirty dishes in the sink. The woodland's quiet pressed into my ears with deafening nothingness, incessantly reminding me I was alone. I buried my face in the crook of my arm to warm my nose, the wool sleeve rough against raw skin. I yearned for a week ago—a mere week—when I knew which chores needed to be done, knew the shelves were stocked with food, knew the flick of a switch chased away the cold. I wanted my dead-end job to be my biggest frustration. I wished my biggest fear was accidentally igniting Sam's temper.
Sam.
By now he must have realized only my boots and hat and overcoat were missing, and all my personal belongings—my purse, my phone, my travel bag—were in the guest room as they had been before my life disintegrated. He must have assumed something terrible had happened to me. He was a cop, after all. He knew the world was capable of evil. He knew evil happened all the time.
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