Deliverance

I knew it must be a different train car than the one I had taken so many years ago, but to me it looked the same. Same red carpet, browned and depressed from years of shoes and grime. I remember once being charmed by its disheveled state. Back then I had an innate respect for expired beauty. Now it just looks old and reeks of piss.

I could've sworn even the bellhop was the same, some disinterested blonde with fingernails stained orange from a persistent habit of smoking. But surely that was just my mind playing tricks on me, assigning familiarity where there was none. I think her nametag read April or maybe it was June. It had been a long ten hours and her face was the only I’d seen since boarding in Hartford. It was nearing dawn already.

To my surprise, I had quickly found sleep in the early hours of the trip. With the heavy velvety curtains closed I had the whole section to myself, and the vibrations of the train’s movement atop its tracks had lulled me right to sleep. I was expecting to arrive red eyed and weary, so I was quite pleased with myself; I was never one to rest much during travel. My mother used to call me Civettina—little owl—because on our trips to New York I would never sleep a wink, even though we went most every weekend. I'd press my forehead on the cold trembling glass as she slept and try to memorize the route, as if I'd have to find my own way home.

But this time it wasn't excitement that I suspected would force me awake. In the preceding weeks I had anticipated a severe bout of anxiety, and a journey of nervous perspiration to match an unsettled gut. But in fact I felt nothing. Resolute even. But still, not quite excited. Far from it indeed.

I straightened in my chair and unpacked my things on the miniature pull out table, laying out the contents of my purse—lipstick, sherry, compact, cigarettes, matches, medication, coin purse, and of course, the package; a lump of newspaper tied in a delicate bow of twine. I wondered when we'd arrive. The fleeting views of rusting farm equipment and open fields had begun to look sickeningly familiar. I closed my eyes. I tried to think of Mother. Of her soft papery hands that always smelled of lavender hand cream. I imagined her dragging her thumbs over my brow like she used to when I couldn't fall asleep. But soon I was thinking of home, and other things— terrible things. I reminded myself what it was I was here to do, retrieving a single tablet from its orange bottle and washing it down with the sherry. We were getting close.

Eight years ago I was accepted to Middlebury College. I remember thinking this must be the greatest day of my life, and then inadvertently disturbing myself because what would I do—if this was indeed the best day of my life—with the rest of my days?

“Dear Elena, it is our pleasure to inform you of your admission to Middlebury College. You will help to shape our community even as you are shaped by it; not only in the next four years, but long after.” I sat in my room for hours staring at the letter of acceptance, reading its loopy words over and over again until they turned evil and all I could do was lay on my carpet in a slimy puddle of snotty drool and tears. It was there Mother found me, curled around the letter, sobbing. She picked up the paper and read it, joy and astonishment flashing on her face before she looked back down at me with a knowing smile. I voiced my concerns. Mother assured me it may only be the best day yet; an honorable distinction.

“Besides,” she had added, “if this is your idea of a great day, then, baby, you have bigger problems.” She said this with an optimistic chuckle that reminded me I was so upset over nothing. And then she sat and watched me slowly unfurl as my wet hiccupping slowed and my breathing steadied, all the while stroking the tear soaked hairs nearest my ear. She always knew what to say when my mind was after me.

Now I couldn't help but judge that girl. That pathetic little girl who would practically sprint from the bus to the mailbox, muttering a selfish prayer under her breath before peering into the cold metal box expectantly. How silly she was. She had worked so hard, a truth so ironic it could only really be appreciated in hindsight. After two weeks of anxious monitoring, the mailbox finally proved fruitful. On one plain Tuesday afternoon, sweaty and breathless from the run, she opened the hatch and there it was—a stiff blue envelope, bent to fit the confined space. She had no idea how naive she was. How quickly her life would crumble.

How dangerous it is, I thought, to answer the desperate prayers of a little girl.

The train screeched as it slowed. Mechanical scraping and the low howl of the whistle announced our arrival, snapping me to attention. I quickly placed my displayed belongings back in my purse, tucking the package away neatly in its own pocket before folding up the table. The discomfort of anticipation tossed my stomach back and forth, sending forth hot waves of panic that were followed by chilling rebuttals of reassurance. I am prepared. I am capable. He will pay. The train came to a full stop.

The summer air smelt just as it had; damp and earthy like concrete after it rains. In the station people hurried and jostled about, navigating the cement world of grand arches and rails. I was alone as I was my first time. But this time was different. This time I saw the world in much a different hue. Before, I remember how the sun had painted the floors yellow and illuminated all the cigarette smoke and dust so that it looked something like magic. But today was cloudy; mature. Time to focus. Today I was only meeting with an old friend, at an old diner, to speak of old news. That was all. I was ready.

I had not expected the restaurant to be so crowded. All around me families chattered and ate, waitresses scrambled from table to table with kettles of coffee and trays of food. It was never like this when I used to eat here, and although it was lively it looked much sadder than I had remembered. I had quite a taste for colored glasses then. The table was sticky, the air cloyingly sweet. Water stains spread across the ceiling; the checkered floor warped and peeling.

“Elena? Is that you?”

A shrill, obnoxiously caucasian voice squeaked at me from behind. She sounded nothing like I remember. I stood up and turned around to greet her.

“Nancy Armstein. Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?” She pulled me in for a hug.

“Gosh you look—wow, you look all grown up! I haven't seen you since—well I'm not even sure when I saw you last. It's been years!”

“Seven. It's been seven years.” I said flatly.

“Seven!” she gasped. “Gosh time really flies. People always say that, don't they—but it's true! My, how've you been? I don't even know where to start!” She squealed and sat down, taking off her coat and tossing it into the corner of the booth. She was covered in freckles. I always liked her freckles. She always liked my olive skin.

She was married now, to some lawyer from Florida. Three kids, all boys. She spoke of them with forced affection, but her unfulfillment was obvious. If she were someone else, I might've pitied her.

“Well enough about me,” she finally forced herself to say, “how've you been? I know things must've been hard after—well after everything that happened. Are you still in Hartford with your mother? How is Christine?”

“She's doing great. She's actually been painting a lot lately." Mother died last fall; lung cancer. But I wasn't about to tell Nancy that.

“So listen, Nancy, there's actually something I was hoping to talk to you about.” She looked at me expectantly, excitedly, like she used to before I would divulge some juicy tidbit for her to spread. “It's about…well it's actually about everything that happened before I left Middlebury. There's something I wanted to ask you.” Her face changed immediately. She looked like she was trying very hard to look sensitive but I could tell she was scared.

“About…” She trailed off. She couldn't even say it. “Sure Elena. What's going on?” I could feel myself getting angry. My knee was bouncing furiously. I urged it to stop.

“Well, it's about the video.” She froze. Her lips tightened and suddenly she couldn't look me in the face. She laughed nervously and sipped her drink a few too many times.

“The video! Gosh I haven't thought about that in years! We were so wild then—just…just crazy..” She was lying. I would bet she thought about it most everyday. Even someone as shallow as Nancy knew the truest rights from wrongs.

“Wild. Yup. Just…crazy. Listen—I know you still have it, Nancy, the video.” She looked startled. I could tell how badly she wanted to leave. She wasn't going to be able to giggle her way through this one. “I need it.”

“Why would you—well honestly, babe, I'm not even sure I'd know where to find it. It was so long ago and-”

“You know where it is, Nancy.” Now she tried to look insulted.

“Elena, I really don't know. I mean, why would you even want that? I can't imagine that's something you'd want to see again-”

“I see it everyday.” She was silent. “ I know you have it.” She eyed me skeptically. She was so uncomfortable—it was delicious. “I also know you spend your Wednesday afternoons at the Steindbrooke Inn with a particularly dashing gentleman. You did always like them tall, dark and handsome.” She was petrified. I felt like an actress in a soap opera. We just stared at each other in silence for a few moments, her unsure what to say and me reveling in her terrified uncertainty. I didn't exactly believe in karma but this felt like something along those lines.

“How did you—what do you want?” she said seriously in a hushed, acerbic voice I had never heard from her.

“I want the tape. Today.”

She got the tape. Obviously. I waited for an hour while she went wherever it was she kept it stashed, chainsmoking on the metal bench outside the diner. She handed it to me wordlessly before quickly saying, “God bless you, Elena." Her idea of having the last word, I suppose. Then she drove off. I pocketed the tape and waved down a taxi.

“12th and Olive please.” It was a short drive to the hotel. I had considered staying at the Steindbrooke Inn; I am quite a fan of prophetic irony. But it really was a disgusting place and I needed quiet.

The room was small but tasteful. The afternoon light flooded the sterile room, and it smelled of cleaner and stale smoke. There was a small tv in front of the bed, a minifridge, and a miniature bathroom with towels folded like sea shells. Atop was a tiny notecard that read “Welcome, Elena!” I emptied my pockets on the bureau before shedding my clothes and taking a long, cold shower. It had to be cold if I really wanted to feel clean. Then, still wrapped in the fluffy white towel, I retrieved the tape and pushed it into its designated slot. Static appeared on the screen. I took a deep breath before pressing play. I wasn't actually sure what I would do if she had given me a fake. But I couldn't imagine she would. I'm sure a part of her was glad to be rid of it. The static flickered before a shaky image flashed on screen. You could hear giggling and shushing from behind the camera. Finally, it focused. And there he was. And there she was right with him—that ignorant little girl. My chest tightened. Maybe I wasn't ready for this. Maybe I had no idea what I was doing here. Maybe I should just go home. I took another breath. I am prepared. I am capable. He will pay.

The tape continued. We were in my old dorm. Nancy was recording from outside, her camera pointed at the window through a mess of brambles and tree branches. At first it just showed us talking. Of course the video didn't pick up what was said, but I knew. I remembered. And then as suddenly as it started I was against the wall and he was kissing my neck, pawing at my dress and undoing his shirt with one hand. You could only really make out the back of my head and my arms, splayed out awkwardly, as if my hands were covered in something sticky and I was trying not to touch anything. The camera shook with laughter.

“Oh. My. God. I can't believe we're getting this.”

“God! What a fucking slut. Like, why doesn't she just study like the rest of us?” They were obviously drunk. It was st patricks day. “Shhh shh shut the fuck up. Shut up, they'll hear us.”

The video was nearly twenty minutes long. It got everything. Everything. The worst part was the end, right before he left. He kissed me on the forehead, before leaving without a word. I hated that he did that—even back then.

That night I slept soundly. I didn't even dream. When I woke up to the bright light of morning, it was already nearing noon, and my first thought wasn't of him, but of mother. Mother would never have allowed me to sleep so late.

Mother was already sick when I returned home at the start of my junior year. She knew not to ask questions. She just let me be, got me to eat and bathe, but otherwise was preoccupied with treatment and her fiance. It was for the better; mother was my best friend but she was very old fashioned. I'm not sure she would've understood, as complicated as it was. And I wasn't sure I knew how to explain. Those first few years back home felt like a bad dream that I refused to wake up from. I was addicted to wallowing in my own self pity, clinging to imaginings of what my life might be like if I had never gone to Middlebury. Now I was in Middlebury for the last time, instead of the first, yet the world suddenly felt even bigger than it had then.

I removed the newspaper package from my bag and unwrapped it on the bed. Inside was an old photo of me from school, an annotated essay I had written my freshman year, and a handwritten note signed, “love, ed.” It looked quite wholesome at first glance; like some romantic highschool girls memory box. I studied the photo. I loved that picture.

I remember getting it back from the school photographer and feeling quite bashful as he handed it to me. I was not accustomed to being photographed, and when I was, I rarely appreciated the outcome. But this photo was different. It was candid, from the side. My hair was so long then. He always liked my hair. I used it like my hair too. I was smiling; caught by the camera. I looked as fresh and youthful as I was, happy and plump, blushing and squinting from the smile and the sun. I realized in that moment that that might've been the last time anyone took my picture.

The essay was yellowed and crumpled from months of rereading. The annotations weren't annotations at all; they were scandalous little quips meant for my eyes only. At the top was a big red A right above his name: Professor Nash, European Anthropology 1b, Elena Russo. I wondered how many little girls he'd recycled those dirty words for. And then the letter. I knew it by memory. Without context it would easily be labeled a generic love note, filled with words of affection and cloyingly sweet compliments and yearnings. I never wrote to him, he only wrote to me. He'd leave the letters in a book or slip them into my pocket. He never grew out of this old fashioned idea of romance.

And now, to complete the collection, was the tape. It was all there—a morbid shrine of everything it had taken to destroy me, and everything it would take to put me back together. There was only one thing left to do.

I wrapped the contents of the package, placing the tape on top. On its face, in chunky blue marker, I had written: WATCH ALONE. He had children; there was no point stealing someone else’s youth from them, though I had considered it in darker moments.

Then I placed the newspaper parcel in a shoebox and addressed it to Mrs. Elizabeth Nash. She'd deliver what was coming for him, she'd have to do me that favor. Afterall, I was only here to deliver a package.

By now it would be moving—set down on a kitchen counter or carried carefully to a sofa, waiting to be opened. I wondered briefly, what it might look like to her. Once, I might have imagined it as something gentle—a gift. I know better now. Maybe she does too; maybe not. People do have a way of seeing beauty in the wrong things.