The next coupleof hours are a mess of restless fidgeting. Scrolling through texts I’ve read hundreds of times. Opening a book, staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes and promptly giving up. Buying a sad excuse for a turkey sandwich from the café car that tastes like it’s been aging under a heat lamp since the Bush administration. I could only force one bite before throwing it in the trash. I even debate buying a tiny, overpriced bottle of wine, but decide against it because I’d need at least four of them to feel any sort of buzz.
I spend a solid forty-five minutes people-watching: an older gentleman in a corduroy jacket, muttering over a crossword he can’t seem to figure out; a teenage girl with chipped nail polish sobbing into her phone; two women in slick-back buns and athleisure talking too loudly about their latest juice cleanse and hot pilates instructor, and of course, the old lady in a purple wool cardigan looking up from her knitting project every couple minutes to glare at me. We didn’t get off on the right foot, and she’s proven she can hold a grudge.
The normal chaos of strangers’ lives distracts me enough to keep me from spiraling, though.
I don’t cry.
I don’t bolt for the emergency exit and throw myself onto the tracks.
I don’t text my brothers, “Just kidding, I’m staying in New York forever. Even if it kills me, literally”, even though I think about it at least thirteen more times, but who's counting?
So… in my book, that’s a win.
Around hour seven, the sky melts into a buttery, late-afternoon glow. Everything looks softer and blurred around the edges, like the universe slapped a vintage filter over the world. It’s annoyingly pretty. Snapping a picture of the sunset with my phone, I make a mental note to paint it later.
I count passing light poles.89.
I replay arguments from 2012.
I mentally draft snarky comebacks for conversations I’ll never have.
I make a running list of reasons why going back to Windhaven is a horrible idea, and then try to convince myself that reason #1 (You left for a reason, you idiot) doesn’t outweigh reason #23 (Your trauma has taken residence here).
The train begins to slow and I realize that we’re approaching our destination. The conductor’s cheerful voice crackles over the intercom, announcing our arrival.
Windhaven, Vermont.
I jolt out of my seat and stand frozen for a moment, gripping the headrest in front of me as passengers shuffle past, eager to deboard, while I contemplate whether or not to sit back down and let the train take me anywhere else. The old lady gives me one last nasty look before walking past.
My heart is pounding in my chest and my vision starts to slightly blur at the corners.
You cannot pass out right now, Emiliana.
Taking in a deep breath, I reach up and grab my duffle bag from the overhead rack, swinging it over my shoulder, the weight of it pulling me slightly off balance. I make my way through the train and onto the platform. The fresh air hits my face. It is cool, sharp and woodsy. It smells like pine, dirt, and maybe a whisper of woodsmoke drifting from someone’s early bonfire. The air is cleaner here compared to that of the city. I breathe it in deeply, hoping it will calm the anxiety bubbling in my chest.
The station is more worn down and aged than the last time I was here ten years ago. The wooden benches under the covered platform are on their last legs and the weathered sign reading “Welcome to Windhaven. Growing Together Since 1834.” painted in bold gold letters is now sun faded. Somehow, the ever-present clusters of hydrangeas continue to bloom stubbornly—the only sign of life in a sea of things dying or broken, myself included.
Being at this station is like stepping back in time to one of the top five worst days of my life.
Home sweet hellhole.
“Emma?”
The familiar voice pulls me out of my thoughts and I turn around to see my brother, Leo, standing a few feet away. He looks older than I remember. There are a few more wrinkles around his eyes and his beard is a little scruffier now than it was a year ago. With every year that passes working in the sun, his skin turns a deeper shade of brown. His dark hair curls slightly at the ends under a black cowboy hat, more salt and pepper peaking out around the edges of his temples. His T-shirt, jacket and jeans are covered in sawdust and other unknown substances, most likely having come directly from building a porch or wrangling up the cows, or both.
“Hi, Bear,” I greet, forcing a smile.
Leo closes the distance between us in two strides and pullsme into a tight hug. I let myself relax into the comfort of his embrace. He’s solid and reliable, and for a brief second, I feel like a little girl again, seeking refuge in my big brother’s bear hugs—the reason behind the nickname I gave him when I was five that I still use to this day.
“It’s good to see you.” He pulls back, studying my face with a concerned expression.
The last time I saw Leo was when he brought Mia, his daughter and my one-and-only niece, to New York to meet me for the first time. It was only a couple months after she was born.
That was a year ago.
So much has changed since then. The signs of wear from the past year are present on his face. I wonder if he notices them on mine, too, as his eyes analyze me. He’s probably searching for any physical signs of my impending doom. As if you could see “I’m in heart failure” written on my forehead. Unfortunately, I still look the same on the outside, barring the dark circles under my eyes from the anxiety-induced insomnia I also suffer from these days.
“How was the trip?”
