There wasn’t a night she didn’t cry herself to sleep or wake up sobbing.
At first everyone was around her, being supportive, and then as the days dwindled by so did the people who called or stopped by.
Abby was alone.
She had promised she’d come get Carl’s things but she just couldn’t face that.
It was her day to die.
She had gagged on the pills and couldn’t pull the trigger.
But the blade was there now. Right there on her wrist.
One cut, that was all it would take and no one would be around to save her. Hell, no one would find her for days.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her brown hair was messy and short. She had tried to put on makeup before going into town to buy the razor blade, but the tears smeared it.
Abby thought she looked old, old and worn out. Her heartache was apparent on her face and it showed in new lines and dark circles.
She thought of her husband, her baby and her heartbreak.
Just as the blade cut and the first drop of blood appeared, Abby folded, broke down sobbing and dropped the blade.
Again, she couldn’t do it.
She hated herself for it.
‘I’m such an asshole,’ Ben thought. Sitting in the driver’s seat, his eyes went from his own reflection in the rearview mirror to the Starbucks’ entrance. He glanced at the time and then back at his reflection again.
He pulled a grey hair, not that it would do any good, but that particular one was wiry and stood up straight.
A huff, another look at the time and he muttered out loud, “I’m an asshole. Sometime today, Lana.”
He shifted his eyes to the Starbucks again and sat straight up when the passenger door opened.
Lana extended the drink carrier to Ben and then slid inside.
“We’re going to miss the train,” he said.
“We’re not going to miss the train,” she replied. “There was a line in there. I swear it went out the door. Why are all these people out and about this time of day? I got you a latte to enjoy on the train.”
“I didn’t want one.”
With a slight shake of her head and roll of her eyes Lana said, “Whatever.”
“Whatever? Unbelievable.” Ben backed from the spot. He tried not to get irritated; he didn’t have to stop when she asked. But that irritation grew again when he looked over and watched her sip her latte so prim and proper so she wouldn’t mess up her lipstick which matched her perfectly manicured nails. She sat in the car as if she were some sort of high class princess. Her business suit skirt was perfectly pressed, her shoes shiny and her hair pulled back so tightly it gave her a pseudo face lift.
They weren’t going to miss the train, not by a long shot, but Ben liked to play it as if they were cutting it close. He huffed at every stop sign and sighed when they caught a traffic light.
“You know, I could have driven to the station myself,” Lana said.
“You should have.”
“I would have.” She paused to sip her coffee. “But you asked. In fact, I believe you insisted, because you didn’t want me using the gas in your other car. Not my car, mind you. Your car.” She waved her hand in a dismissive manner.
“I paid for that car.”
“I don’t know where you think my salary has been going. Funny how the cars are yours and the house is half yours. I must own the utilities.”
“Enough.”
“You started it.”
“No, you started it when you asked to stop at Starbucks.”
“You didn’t have to stop.”
“Yeah, I know.” Ben grunted. “I’m an asshole.”
“Yes, Ben, yes, you are. And don’t worry; I’ll make other arrangements to get to the train until my apartment is done.”
“Good.”
Lana said no more. She turned her body more toward the window, gazing out, sipping her coffee.
Ben kept glancing over at her, not saying anything or wanting to. They had said enough in their twenty-three years of marriage and Ben was glad it was only a matter of days until they were finally apart from one another.
He hoped, as they rode to the station, that she was right and it was indeed the last train they’d ever take together.
His name wasn’t really Foster, it was James Mason. But Foster was the nickname that he acquired from his peers because he was constantly being shuffled from one foster home to another.
Of course his latest set of foster parents refused to call him that. His foster mother number eight said, “No, no, it’s so ugly.”
Okay sure.
He had been in and out of foster homes since he was three. The state told him his biological mother was a prostitute with an addiction, but Foster knew she was a crack whore. He knew it because he lived with her several times.
Each time he held high hopes of staying with his mother in Queens. But those hopes diminished each time she was arrested.
The latest stint kept her in county and, by Foster’s count, she was now out.
He was sixteen now, old enough to make his own decisions and he wanted to be the one to help his mother.
But no, the state kept moving him about.
The latest set of foster parents was the final straw. They not only moved him out of New York City, they moved him out of the state. How was that possible? He had been moved to a tiny cottage style house in Connecticut with these latest foster parents— working father, stay at home mother, bible studies and republican parties.
No.
Not him.
Foster homes kept him from being stereotyped as the typical oppressed black youth, actually, Foster considered him culturally diversified. He had stayed with white families, Hispanic, Greek, Jewish. But the Lawrence’s… they were too much of a cultural shock for Foster.
So he booked.
They weren’t mean; they were just weird.
1950’s sitcom weird.
When Mr. Lawrence stated he was on vacation and that he and Foster were going to do some fishing in a boat, then head down to work on Mayor Noon’s Campaign, Foster said enough.
He went on line, checked the prison status of his mother, saw she was released, and took off before Mr. Lawrence could pack the car for fishing.
He left a note of thanks, filled his backpack with snacks in case he had to live on the street and headed to the train station on foot.
He arrived before most of the commuters, and just in case the Lawrence’s woke up and went out to search for him, Foster stayed hidden in the shadows.
Harry was already on the train as it neared Hartford station. He had boarded in Windsor and was one of the first on board. He got a good window seat in the second car and sat there. His hands rested upon his gift for Leo which rested in his lap. He looked only briefly out the window and then closed his eyes again, never seeing those who stood on the platform waiting on the Number 141.
And they were there.
All of them were there.
Ben, Lana, Abby, TJ and Tyler all waited on the 141.
They weren’t standing together; other commuters separated them.
They never saw each other.
Certainly Abby never saw Foster sneak up to the platform when the train brakes squealed out loudly. He squeezed in and stood next to her.
TJ and Tyler joked around. They spoke about the things they would do at the office. They were happy and bubbly, unlike the other zombie-like morning commuters who seemed to be going through the motions of their day.
TJ and Tyler were a contrast to Ben and Lana who didn’t even speak. In fact, they didn’t even look at each other.
Ben did take that latte though.
Abby clutched her purse to her chest, mouth on the edge of it to stop herself from crying. Occasionally she’d pull her sleeve down to cover the small bandage from her self-inflicted wrist wound. Embarrassed by it, as if it screamed out, ‘Look at this. Look at what I have done to myself!’