Superbloom

There are too many people on this train. I’d hoped to rack up enough variables to deter a crowd: weekday, early season, a decrepit train line with no destination other than the landscape outside the window. And yet, as the train pulls away from the station, every seat sways with bodies. The tracks drop to the desert floor.

Elbows pulled tight to my sides, I scan for a safe seat and size up the crowd. It’s mostly retirees, locals killing time, or state park passholders seeking the season of the superbloom. It isn’t ideal, but it eases some of my anxiety. Retirees have lived to an advanced age. Even though they have plenty of active years left, it wouldn’t raise suspicion to lose one should the worst happen.

I’m always careful not to touch anyone, but that's more difficult when I travel with precious cargo. My shirtsleeves are long, holes cut into the cuff to let a gloved thumb poke through. I’m holding her wrist so loosely it barely qualifies as a grip. She’s unabashed by the crowd, eyes glued to the window, though she probably can’t see above the seats. Still, she wanted to see the flowers, and the enthusiasm of a five-year-old is limited only by her height.

The last empty bench is in the very back by the train car bathroom. It’s an ideal situation for me: people won’t linger and my girl can have a window seat. Now all we have to do is navigate the aisle without risking contact. It’s no easy feat. Crew socked ankles loll in our path, not to mention the oversized daypacks and excess flesh spilling from technical polos.

“Excuse me,” I say. I may be a danger to society by my existence alone, but at least I have manners.

No one hears me. They’re absorbed in their guidebooks or diligently capturing the spectacle of nature on their phones.

“C’mon, Daddy,” my daughter says. She tugs my sleeve carefully; she knows the consequences after the unfortunate incident with the hamster last year.

Arms thrown wide, her fingers brush each seat, petting the worn velvet nap. Like magic, with each step she takes, heads turn. Distracted stares melt to indulgent smiles. Coos and babytalk follow us down the aisle.

My girl, my miracle, simply smiles and nods to her audience.

We inch along, a queen and her attendant. A superhero and her sidekick. A tutu-wearing kindergartener with her hapless and slightly awestruck father. She slides into the bench seat. I perch beside her, palms on my knees.

“Daddy,” she whines. “This seat stinks.”

I nod. It’s still early in the trip, so the bathroom smells strongly of bleach. This, I can do something about.

I slip my hand from my sleeve, peel off a glove, and press my palm flat against the wall behind our seats. After a few seconds, the chemical smell dissipates. It smells like the rest of the train, which is not exactly fresh given the number of bodies in the desert. It’s a small improvement.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice muffled. She's pressing her nose against the window.

It’s rare that my talents please anyone. For reasons unbeknownst to me, when I touch things, they stop. This includes just about anything: electronics, motor vehicles, appliances, and unfortunately, when I’m not careful, hearts.

My doctor says it has something to do with the electrical impulses in my brain. A mystic says I have an excess of negative ions in my aura. My mother tells me I’m just plain unlucky. I’m a destroyer.

Like anything observable but undiagnosable, I’ve learned to live with it. Gloves, long sleeves, self-isolation when possible and extreme respect for personal space when not. It's more than common decency, it’s mercy.

On the other hand, conceiving my daughter is evidence that impossible is merely a suggestion. Somedays, I think it was selfish and unwise. But today is not one of those days, and anyway, it cannot be undone.

The desert rolls by. Though it is technically wildflower season and the route promises optimal viewing, the plains look like I’ve been running around completely exposed. There’s absolutely nothing growing. For once, the nothingness isn’t on me; that’s a function of an unseasonably dry winter and climate change.

“I see one!” my daughter crows. I squint and spy clumps of orange in the distance. Golden poppies, difficult to see through the thick blanket of marine layer tipping over the mountains. The ocean is ninety miles away, but this place feels like a different planet.

“That might be it for today, sweetheart,” I say.

“You can’t stop the clouds?”

I close my eyes in consideration, preparing to placate her. Can anybody truly touch a cloud? She tolerates a lot with a parent like me, disappointment chief among them. One patch of wildflowers is a small consolation, and it’s all I have to offer. In a few weeks during the peak bloom, this trip will be too risky.

I shake my head. To my surprise, she beams.

“That’s okay, Daddy. I’ll do it.”

Before I know it, her clumsy fingers unlatch the window. Her hand is outside, upturned to the sun.

My panic-fueled parenting instincts kick in. I barely remember to pull my sleeves back down.

Before I can yank her away from the window, a burst of color catches my eye. Pockets of orange, purple, and yellow spring up alongside the tracks. I hear the gasps further up the train, and the car shifts again as passengers cross the aisle to get a better look.

My daughter smiles serenely, summoning the blooms in our wake.

She’s never done this before. I’ve watched her anxiously since birth, checking all her toys and worrying myself sick over the inevitable call from the school regarding an “incident” with a classmate. Seeking and dreading the evidence of her inheritance.

She might be the only thing I’ve created, not destroyed.

My face feels tight; unfamiliar. My hand seeks my cheek, then pauses.

I’m smiling too, and I’m not going to stop.