By Melissa R. Mendelson
Today said good-bye as its warm light flooded the compartment, settling on her knees. The glass window reflected both hope and sadness, yesterday felt far away, but tomorrow was even further. Her fingertips lingered along the metal frame, shaking with each vibration, and her hand fell toward the speaker near her legs, more vibrations. Her gaze shifted over to the peaceful scenery passing by, settling on a green shrub defying the barren land surrounding it.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was the train conductor, and he reminded her of that Tom Hanks character from an animated movie. But his mouth opening and closing was more of a Nutcracker, repeating one word over and over again. “Ticket,” and he held his hand out to her. He waited with almost an air of annoyance as she reached inside her pocketbook and handed him the ticket, and he clipped the edge of it, handed it back, and walked over to the next seat.
She smiled to herself as if she were watching a wind-up doll, but her smile faded as she touched her head. She was still not used to the boyish cut, but it was time for the long hair to go. She was fooling herself to think the gray strands would go with it, and she missed curling pieces of hair around her finger. But it was a bad habit, one that needed to be broken, and she rested her hands in her lap, turning back toward the window.
A hand brushed across her shoulder. It was an older woman gesturing toward the empty seat next to her, and before she could answer her, the older woman sat down. She was hoping that nobody would do that especially with the wall in front of her. Closed spaces did not bother her, but they bothered other people. This older woman didn’t care, brushing a hand against her arm and giving her a smile, and she forced a smile back.
Sure, you could sit there, she thought, but the older woman didn’t just sit there. She talked, her mouth moving at a rapid pace. Her hands in motion along with her arms, legs, and even her feet. She reminded her of a ballerina, graceful but disorienting. She spun, twirled, almost flipped, and her words spiraled out. “Close.” “Home.” “Who?” The older woman froze in mid-swing and licked her lips, staring at her, waiting for an answer.
“I don’t understand.” Her voice rattled and shook, almost as if it were the train screeching, and the older woman jumped with surprise.
A moment later, the older woman got up from her seat and stormed away.
She watched the older woman give her a look, a look that she was all too familiar with, and she stared out the window. Her fingers traced along the metal frame, rattling with each vibration. Her hand fell back down toward the speaker near her legs, and she smiled. It felt familiar, and someone touched her shoulder.
“I swear if someone does that one more time, I’m going to hit them,” she thought.
She was surprised to see a young woman sitting next to her. She was almost as tall as her, but not quite. And she was signing to her.
“My cousin does the same thing when I play music,” she signed. “He rests his hand on the speaker, so he could feel it. The vibrations. He loves music.” The young woman watched her reach down and rub her foot. “Do you want my shoes?”
“No,” she signed. “Thank you.”
“Those high heels can’t be at all comfortable, especially just sitting here in them.”
“Actually, they are.” She pulled at her elaborate, brightly colored, knee-length coat, then smoothed out her skirt.
“You’re all dressed up. Are you going to an event?” The young woman signed.
“No. Well, I hope not. I’m on my way to see my brother. He has cancer and is not doing well,” she signed.
“I’m sorry.” The young woman almost patted her on the arm but then signed, “It’s none of my business. I should not have asked. I hope he’s okay.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m Mary.”
“Samantha.”
Mary smiled at her. “Are you close with your brother?”
She smiled back but then played with a gold band on her finger. “No,” she signed. “We haven’t communicated in a long time. Thirty years.”
“Thirty years?” Mary watched her play with the gold band. “I’m sorry. Am I sitting in your husband’s seat? I could move.”
“No,” she signed. “He’s not with me.”
“What happened?” Mary shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m prying again.”
“It’s okay. It’s been some time since I’ve communicated with someone.” She lowered her hands and looked out the window. She glanced at Mary and signed, “He left.”
“Just like that? I’m sorry.”
She twirled the gold band around her finger. She folded her hands together but then unfolded them, signing, “I woke up one morning, and he was gone.”
“I’m sorry.” Mary smiled at her. “Did you love him?”
“I thought I did, but he’s gone.” She was surprised by Mary touching her hand, but she didn’t pull away. Then, she noticed her nails. They were manicured and painted red. A silver dot was on the pinky nail, and she looked down at her own hands. Her nails were chipped and pale. “I like your nails,” she signed.
“Thank you.” Mary pushed a long, reddish-brown strand of hair behind her shoulder.
“If only I didn’t cut my hair,” she thought and looked out the window.
Mary sat back in her seat but then touched her on the shoulder. She signed, “Are you looking forward to seeing your brother? I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
She shifted in her seat. She signed, “I thought I would never see him again.”
“What happened between you two?”
She turned toward the window, knowing that Mary was waiting for an answer. Why couldn’t she just leave her alone? She was an hour away, an hour that she could have used in silence, but even the quiet was starting to bother her. She looked at Mary and signed, “Like I said. It’s been thirty years.”
“Thirty years? You haven’t seen your brother for that long. You know what? I am prying. I’m sorry.”
She surprised Mary now by touching her hand. “Stop apologizing,” she signed. “I last saw him at my mother’s funeral.” She lowered her hands, held them in her lap, and folded her fingers together. She drew in a breath and said, “I had just turned twenty-six, and my mother died.” Her voice rattled like a soft vibration.
“I’m sorry,” Mary signed, but she didn’t give her that look like the older woman had done before. Instead, she laughed. “I keep apologizing. Don’t I?”
She laughed too but then grew serious. “My brother was glad that I was there for him at the funeral,” she signed. “His wife was glad too. She was there for me.” She felt her heart shudder and quickly turned away, and an image of her brother’s wife shined in the reflection of the glass window almost as if she were the one sitting beside her and not Mary.
Mary gently touched her on the shoulder. “You loved her,” she signed.
She looked surprised but nodded, wiping a tear away. “Yes,” she signed. “I shouldn’t have, but I did. She was just trying to comfort me, and I kissed her.”
Mary squeezed her shoulder and signed, “Did she kiss you back?”
She nodded and smiled. She signed, “She did, and my brother caught us. And that was it. Until now.”
“And your brother never contacted you after that?” Mary watched her shake her head.
“I got a letter from him, and he told me that I did not need to come. But I needed too. I need to see him, so I am. And I don’t expect forgiveness.” She lowered her hands into her lap, folded her fingers together, and looked at Mary. “He’s my brother.” Her voice did not shake or rattle or screech.
“Yes, he is, and I’m sure he loves you,” Mary said. “Did you get that?” She touched her lips, painting a soft shade of red on her fingers.
“Yes,” she signed. “Thank you.”
Mary looked out the window. “We’re getting closer to the station,” she signed. “Do you need help when we get off the train?”
“I’ll be okay, Mary. Thank you.”
“It was nice meeting you, Samantha.”
“Same.”
“Good luck with your brother,” Mary said and watched her nod, knowing she understood that. She reached over and squeezed her hand. Her hand lingered for a moment longer, and then she stepped back, waved good-bye and walked away.
It was time to let go of the past, say good-bye to yesterday, and confront today. Maybe, tomorrow, things would be different. Maybe, she and her brother could forgive each other, even if she wasn’t the one that was wrong, or maybe, she was. But at least, he could forgive her. He needed her, and she needed him. So much was now gone, and it was uncertain what was left. She wouldn’t waste any more time, and the sun disappeared, taking yesterday with it.
Bio: Melissa R. Mendelson is a Horror, Science-Fiction and Dystopian Author. She is also a Poet. She recently re-released her Sci-Fi Novel, Waken on Amazon and Amazon Kindle. She is also the author of a poetry collection called, This Will Remain With Us published by Wild Ink Publishing. She also has two short story collections “Better Off Here” and “Stories Written Along Covid Walls“, both of which can be purchased at Amazon, or found on our Bookstore page.
She can be found at her website HERE.
Melissa has several stories posted to The Yard. They can be found HERE.
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