The Train

Maeve awoke with a start on a rickety, lurching train, rattling through non-descript countryside. She had no personal items, no ticket, and no memory of how she got on this train or where it was going. The light in the car was indistinct and almost hazy. Peering over the green vinyl seat in front of her, Maeve noticed that the car was practically empty, with only one other passenger sitting preternaturally still gazing out the window. The woman seemed familiar, her chestnut hair, the slope of her shoulders, but Maeve couldn’t place her. Everything seemed out of place in this musty, moth-eaten old train.

Maeve scanned the car for any clues as to how she might have got here. There were no placards or maps, nothing to indicate the line or the operator. Looking around for a conductor but seeing no one, she realized that the train was remarkably empty save for herself and the woman at the front of the car. Maeve listened for an announcement from the engineer that might indicate an upcoming stop, but the train was eerily quiet other than the clacking and jostling of the machine itself. A feeling of disquiet crept over her as she realized this was a very peculiar train.

“Hello, Maeve.”

At that moment, the mysterious woman from the front of the car chose to speak. Maeve startled in her seat, staring wide-eyed at the woman she still did not know. She was elegantly dressed but not ostentatious, with the quiet confidence of a woman who owns her self-worth. Her hazel eyes were kind, with a hint of … pity or maybe sympathy. Maeve wasn’t sure. Suddenly, Maeve was acutely aware of her own dowdy appearance and lowered her head slightly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Maeve blinked and took a deep breath.

“It’s … it’s not your fault. I was deep in thought. Also, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I know you.”

“My name is Marie. You do know me, Maeve. You will remember before the end.”

Maeve arched her eyebrows slightly at this enigmatic statement but did not reply, choosing to change the subject instead. Hoping to sound competent and professional, Maeve asked about the train.

“Hello, Marie. Do you happen to know where we are or where we are going? I seem to have misplaced my purse, ID, and phone. I am utterly lost.”

“You are right where you are meant to be. You have no need for any of those things now. Come, we have the train to ourselves.”

Utterly bewildered, Maeve was unsure whether to trust Marie, who was now walking out towards what appeared to be the dining car. She spoke in inscrutable gibberish like a complete nutter. But then, she had a gentle aura about her, certainly seemed to know Maeve, and didn’t look crazy. With no one else on this train, Maeve had no other options. Cautiously, she followed Marie to a window-side table in the dining car.

“Please, have a seat. You must be starving. I will see if I can rustle up some dinner for us.”

Marie whistled two high pitched notes, and a porter appeared seemingly instantaneously at their table. Despite herself, Maeve gaped at the sight of him before quickly covering her mouth as if in a yawn. Marie smiled gently at her but otherwise pretended not to notice the faux pas.

“You’ll let me order, won’t you? I know their menu by heart.”

“Yes, of course,” said Maeve, flummoxed. “I’m fairly flexible.”

“We’ll both have the coq au vin with hericots verts, baguettes of course, and your best Bordeaux, please. Thank you.”

The porter nodded, bowed, and disappeared into what Maeve assumed was a kitchen to place the orders. Coq au vin? Hericots verts? Baguettes? Bordeaux? Maeve remembered the phrases from French class but had never actually eaten French food. Marie was a more worldly woman that Maeve could ever be.

“Why am I here, Marie? How could you possibly know me? It seems as if we have nothing in common whatsoever.”

Marie threw back her head and laughed, a deep, full-throated laugh unconstrained by social mores.

“Maeve, we share everything. I am you.”

The train car began to spin. Maeve felt sweaty and lightheaded. She could hear Marie calling to her as the room went black.

###

A savory aroma filled the air when Maeve awakened. Marie knelt beside her, dabbing her face with a damp cloth.

“Oh Maeve. You were never supposed to find out. Not this way. I’m sorry for dropping that on you before you were ready. I should have at least let you eat first.”

Everything came rushing back—the train, the French food, Marie’s declaration—Maeve felt a little ill again.

“You are starting to look green again. Let’s get some food in you. Quickly. I think you will really enjoy the chicken. We can talk some more after we eat.”

Marie eased Maeve back into her seat. She buttered a piece of baguette and shoved it into Maeve’s hand.

“Eat this. You’ll feel better.”

Obediently, Maeve ate. Marie handed her the glass of wine.

“Sip it. Bordeaux is wonderful for the stomach.”

Maeve took a sip and immediately felt warm and comfortable. Once Marie was certain that Maeve wouldn’t fall out of her chair again, she sat down as well, and the two women began to eat. To her surprise, Maeve found the coq au vin to be delicious. The chicken and mushrooms were smothered in a savory wine-based gravy that was simply scrumptious. The sharp freshness of the green beans, cooked French style, perfectly complemented the chicken, balancing the heavier gravy with a lighter vegetable. And the baguette was the “proper” way to sop up all the delicious gravy, or so Maeve learned. As for the Bordeaux, they finished the bottle. Of course.

“Marie,” Maeve asked tentatively over their last glasses of Bordeaux, “what did you mean when you said that you are me? How is that even possible?”

Marie weighed her words carefully, swirling the wine in her glass.

“Maeve, what’s your middle name?”

“Marie, but that’s just a coinci…”

“And what’s the color of your hair?”

“Chestnut brown.”

“Your eye color?

“Hazel,” Maeve was beginning to catch on. “This means nothing, Marie. It’s all circumstantial.”

Marie sighed.

“Maeve, we had a turtle when we were three years old. We named him Fish, because we couldn’t say the word turtle. Our mom thought that was hilarious, but she never told anyone. It was just a precious story that she kept to herself, except she would remind us of it every year on our birthday, up until the day she died.”

Maeve inhaled sharply. Marie continued.

“We have a rather large chicken pox scar on our left temple that we cover with bangs, because it makes us self-conscious.”

Maeve touched the scar reflexively.

“We wanted to get a tattoo of a lotus flower on our ankle when we turned 18, but our father said he would kick us out of the house if we did it. We got one anyway when we left home at age 22. You still hide it from dad.”

Maeve began to cry.

“How … how do you know all this? Are you some kind of stalker? A spy? I don’t understand …”

Maeve’s voice dissolved into choking sobs. Waiting for her to calm down and catch her breath, Marie slid her chair around the table and began caressing Maeve’s hair. Her touch felt oddly comforting, reminiscent of Maeve’s mother.

“Maeve, my dear, dear Maeve. I am not a stalker or a spy. I know these things, because I experienced them. With you.”

Taking Maeve’s hand, Marie pulled her hair aside.

“Feel it. My scar. It’s the same as yours.”

Maeve’s fingers traced the familiar scar with the rough edges. She knew it well, having rubbed it regularly when she felt anxious or depressed. That’s all she felt anymore, seemingly.

“Now, look here,” Marie said, pulling her pant leg up, “see my tattoo? It’s the same as yours. That crazy little lotus flower we found in an on-line picture and asked the tattoo parlor on Broad Street to create for us. Blue for serenity, on our ankle for grounding, a tattoo for independence, remember?”

Maeve laughed. She remembered. How brave she was back then—a fearless young woman elbowing her way into the world. That was before the world retaliated, slamming doors in her face, forcing her back into some place she never wanted to be. So, Maeve gave up, quit fighting, let herself go. Somewhere along the way, she misplaced herself.

“I’ve been in a fog for so long. Is that what this is all about?”

“Yes,” said Marie. “You have been off course for a while now, but all is not lost. Not yet.”

“There you go again, being all mystical.”

Marie laughed, “I can’t tell you everything.”

Maeve pretended to study the scenery flying by in a greenish brown blur. She still had no idea how she got here, on this train, in this moment. Closing her eyes, Maeve pushed herself to remember what happened immediately before she woke up on the train. Snatches of memory returned in flashes—an ambulance ride, a pill bottle, her husband’s concerned face, another unpleasant email. What had she done?

Maeve gasped, voice trembling, “Marie, why am I here?”

“Why do you think you are here, Maeve?”

“What did I do? Did I … Am I …”

“We’re not dead, yet. If that’s what you’re asking,” Marie reassured Maeve.

“Then what’s going on? I cannot make sense of any of this.”

“That’s life, Maeve. It’s often absurd but also enchanting and sometimes divine. We only get one, though. Best not to give up on it too soon.”

Maeve pondered Marie’s point for a long while. She remembered her husband’s face, how love etched deep lines in his brow when he looked down at her on the stretcher. His eyes were deep pits of panic as the EMT’s took her away. She was never actually alone. Maeve recalled as well that sometimes the fearless girl with the lotus tattoo still surfaced—in the car when her favorite song played on the radio, on a date with her husband, when the ocean breeze played with her hair. Maeve had simply chosen to hide her away.

“So, I have a choice,” Maeve said.

“Precisely. Circumstances happen. How you choose to respond is everything. Stop approaching life as a passive participant.”

“A passive participant? A pah…,” Maeve was angry now. “How was it passive when I chose to grab that pill bottle? Hmmm? I decided to end my pain.”

Marie struggled not to roll her eyes at Maeve.

“Cut the victim mentality, Maeve. As long as you keep approaching the world as if everything is happening to you, that’s all you will ever see, and all you will ever be. I repeat, circumstances happen. How you choose to respond is everything. Adapt, pivot, go with the flow, your choice. Just make it a positive choice that moves you forward. Removing yourself from life entirely is a retreat.”

Maeve drank the last of her Bordeaux and glared at Marie, who stared right back, unmoved by Maeve’s defiance. The porter appeared, again as if by magic, and offered Maeve some coffee and a dessert menu.

“She’ll have an espresso and the chocolate mousse.”

“How do you know what I want?” Maeve shouted, startling the porter.

“Maeve, no need to shout. What you really want is control.”

“You’re damn right, I do!” Slamming her glass down on the table, Maeve suddenly realized that she was gesticulating wildly. She sat down, embarrassed.

“I think I’d like some chocolate too.”

“That can be arranged, madame.” The porter nodded and disappeared again.

“What now, Marie?”

“Why, you choose, Maeve.”

“Choose what, Marie?”

“Have you not figured it out yet? I’m your future, or what your future could be if you choose to face your life and regain control of it.”

“How? How do I do that? Nothing is in my control. I’ve lost two jobs in five years. I feel exhausted and sad all the time. Don’t tell me to just change my attitude or my state of mind. That’s insulting.”

“Maeve, I’m not telling you anything of the sort. I’m just telling you to place one foot in front of the other. Make decisions. Get out of bed. Do something, anything you choose to do. In other words, choose to live. And make your choices as true to yourself as possible. In the end, the only person you report to is you.”

Finally, the source of Marie’s confidence became clear. Marie had the easy assurance of a woman who answers to only herself. Maeve desperately wanted to live with the same aplomb, to make her own decisions, to live her own life instead of having her life dictated to her.

“Porter,” Maeve called, “bring me that mousse. And a mocha latte.”

Marie threw her head back and laughed.

###

Maeve awoke with a start in a hospital bed in a darkened room. Medical machinery was beeping softly around her while her husband slept uncomfortably in the chair across the room. Maeve’s hair was sweaty and matted; obviously she had been in this bed awhile. IV lines, tubes, and sensors of various sorts ran everywhere. It was the middle of the night. Hovering over her bed was a nurse who looked remarkably like Marie.

“There you are,” whispered the night nurse. “We’ve been waiting for you. Your husband has been so worried. How are you feeling?”

“Hungry and in need of a shower,” said Maeve. “Do you have any chocolate mousse?”

The nurse threw back her head and laughed, accidentally waking Maeve’s husband.

“No mousse, but we do have chocolate pudding. And you can have a shower tomorrow, once your latest lab work comes back.”

The nurse drew some blood out of the IV line into laboratory tubes and labeled them with Maeve’s name.

“I’ll take that pudding now, please. I’m starving,” said Maeve with a smile, reaching her hand out to grasp her husband’s, ready to live.