saw a familiar figure. To my right. A man in a blue shirt, trudging down the subrail stairs, face buried in a newspaper.
Dad.
My heart jumped. I spun to face him.
Then he put the paper down. And my eyes locked with those of an ashen-faced, annoyed stranger.
Again.
How many times had this happened? A hundred?
And each time as painful as the last.
I felt pressure behind my eyelids.
Tears.
I was not going to cry. I’d vowed not to. For six long months I had kept it in.
The crowd on the platform thickened. I could hear a distant rumbling. I leaned over the edge and saw two pinpoints of light approaching in the tunnel darkness.
The train screeched into the station. The cars were already packed. Everyone behind us began to shove as the door opened.
A sudden memory. I’m running to catch the train with Dad. I’m five years old. Dad races ahead and reaches the car door first. He turns to face me, holding out his arms and legs in an X-shape. The door begins to close on him and I scream. I scream because I think he is going to die …
Stop.
I had to stop thinking.
Heather and Clarence squeezed in first. Max and I made it just as the door slid closed on our backs.
Heather could barely reach the handrail above her head. Next to her a sweaty bearded guy was holding a newspaper in her face.
The man next to me must have had slugs with garlic for lunch. The odor was knocking me out.
As the train picked up speed, I turned away. Now I was facing the door. I stared blankly through the window, trying to hold my breath. I felt sick.
Then the train stopped.
Cold. In the tunnel.
The overhead fluorescents blinked off. Instantly the car was pitch-black. Muffled groans rose all around me.
Claustrophobia.
I felt icy cold. I couldn’t see the bodies around me but I heard them. Breathing loud, like handsaws. Breathing-machines. Closing in on me…
Where were we?
Between the Booker and Deerfield Street stops.
Granite Street.
I remembered. The old, abandoned station. It was here, somewhere. We used to watch for it when we were kids. The long platform lit by three bare lightbulbs. The grimy tiles spelling out “Granite.” The yellowed, graffiti-covered walls. The floor with a carpet of dust.
Look for it.
Yes. Keep my mind off the claus
off the
Lights.
Lights?
Outside the window.
The platform, the walls, the floor. Gleaming. Like a movie set.
Yes. They filmed down here. Often.
But they couldn’t have set it up so fast.
I rubbed my eyes. I blinked.
Claustrophobia. Panic. Visions.
Still there.
Ads cried out from the walls. Movies I’d never heard of. Odd names. Phrases that made no sense, like “us open.”
People, too. Dozens. Dressed in funny clothes. Not ugly, just…off. The colors, the cut of the pants, the lengths of the skirts.
Off.
On the walls, a mosaic of purple tiles spelled out the name of the station.
86 TH STREET.
No. “Granite.” It was Granite Street.
The people on the platform were moving now. Toward the middle door of the car. Kids squealed, looking into
The car.
In the car, it was pitch-black. I felt bodies, I heard the breathing. But I saw no one. Despite the brightness outside the window.
How?
None of the station’s light was penetrating inside. As if it were being absorbed and reflected at the same time.
I opened my mouth to say something— anything.
Then, a sudden whoosh. To my right.
The middle door of the car slid open. Through it poured
Light?
It was more than bright, somehow. Loud light. Solid.
A box of light.
Now I could see the passengers around me. I looked for the shock in their faces. The recognition that I wasn’t alone.
But all I saw was boredom. Annoyance. As if nothing had happened.
From among them, a man jostled into the light. A familiar man. I’d seen him on the train before, one of those thin, droopy people who always seem sad and afraid.
He clutched a small sky-blue business card. He cringed in the glare. But he was grinning.
The people on the
Dad.
My heart jumped. I spun to face him.
Then he put the paper down. And my eyes locked with those of an ashen-faced, annoyed stranger.
Again.
How many times had this happened? A hundred?
And each time as painful as the last.
I felt pressure behind my eyelids.
Tears.
I was not going to cry. I’d vowed not to. For six long months I had kept it in.
The crowd on the platform thickened. I could hear a distant rumbling. I leaned over the edge and saw two pinpoints of light approaching in the tunnel darkness.
The train screeched into the station. The cars were already packed. Everyone behind us began to shove as the door opened.
A sudden memory. I’m running to catch the train with Dad. I’m five years old. Dad races ahead and reaches the car door first. He turns to face me, holding out his arms and legs in an X-shape. The door begins to close on him and I scream. I scream because I think he is going to die …
Stop.
I had to stop thinking.
Heather and Clarence squeezed in first. Max and I made it just as the door slid closed on our backs.
Heather could barely reach the handrail above her head. Next to her a sweaty bearded guy was holding a newspaper in her face.
The man next to me must have had slugs with garlic for lunch. The odor was knocking me out.
As the train picked up speed, I turned away. Now I was facing the door. I stared blankly through the window, trying to hold my breath. I felt sick.
Then the train stopped.
Cold. In the tunnel.
The overhead fluorescents blinked off. Instantly the car was pitch-black. Muffled groans rose all around me.
Claustrophobia.
I felt icy cold. I couldn’t see the bodies around me but I heard them. Breathing loud, like handsaws. Breathing-machines. Closing in on me…
Where were we?
Between the Booker and Deerfield Street stops.
Granite Street.
I remembered. The old, abandoned station. It was here, somewhere. We used to watch for it when we were kids. The long platform lit by three bare lightbulbs. The grimy tiles spelling out “Granite.” The yellowed, graffiti-covered walls. The floor with a carpet of dust.
Look for it.
Yes. Keep my mind off the claus
off the
Lights.
Lights?
Outside the window.
The platform, the walls, the floor. Gleaming. Like a movie set.
Yes. They filmed down here. Often.
But they couldn’t have set it up so fast.
I rubbed my eyes. I blinked.
Claustrophobia. Panic. Visions.
Still there.
Ads cried out from the walls. Movies I’d never heard of. Odd names. Phrases that made no sense, like “us open.”
People, too. Dozens. Dressed in funny clothes. Not ugly, just…off. The colors, the cut of the pants, the lengths of the skirts.
Off.
On the walls, a mosaic of purple tiles spelled out the name of the station.
86 TH STREET.
No. “Granite.” It was Granite Street.
The people on the platform were moving now. Toward the middle door of the car. Kids squealed, looking into
The car.
In the car, it was pitch-black. I felt bodies, I heard the breathing. But I saw no one. Despite the brightness outside the window.
How?
None of the station’s light was penetrating inside. As if it were being absorbed and reflected at the same time.
I opened my mouth to say something— anything.
Then, a sudden whoosh. To my right.
The middle door of the car slid open. Through it poured
Light?
It was more than bright, somehow. Loud light. Solid.
A box of light.
Now I could see the passengers around me. I looked for the shock in their faces. The recognition that I wasn’t alone.
But all I saw was boredom. Annoyance. As if nothing had happened.
From among them, a man jostled into the light. A familiar man. I’d seen him on the train before, one of those thin, droopy people who always seem sad and afraid.
He clutched a small sky-blue business card. He cringed in the glare. But he was grinning.
The people on the
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