Letters and Photographs

“Oi! Miss?” Someone is nudging me awake. Funny. I don’t remember falling asleep. “Miss? I’m sorry to wake you, but I need to see your ticket please.”

“What? What ticket?” I say groggily “Where am I?”

“Where are you?” The voice laughs. “Wot? You ‘it your ‘ead or somfink’?” The voice has such a thick cockney accent that I’m struggling to make it out.

“You ‘it your ‘ead or somfink’?” I mock. I’ve always been grumpy when I’m just waking up and whoever this Londoner is, he’s pushing all the right buttons to send me right over the edge. I manage to crack one eye open to get a peek at whoever the voice is coming from. He’s a lanky git, tall and slender with greasy black hair swept straight back and thin spectacles resting on a small, sharp nose. When I see what he’s wearing – an old, brown suit complete with waistcoat and jacket, I’m even more confused. If he was smiling before, he’s not now.

“Look, Miss, just ‘and me your ticket, I’ll ‘and you your access pass and I’ll be on me way.” He says.

“I don’t have any ticket. Why would I need a ticket? Where am I?” I say.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss, right, but don’t you recognize it? Yer’re on the ‘ogwarts express!” He laughs again, this time hard enough that he actually slaps his knee. “The ‘ogwarts…,” when he sees I’m not amused he changes his tone, “Yeah, well, right, I guess it weren’t right that funny were it? Any road, so 'ow about I give you a moment to gaffer yourself. I’ve got more tickets to collect and then I’ll just pop back in we’ll give ‘er anuvver go, yeah?” He says, and before I can ask him anything else he slips out of the room and slides the door shut behind him.

“I’ll give you a moment to gaffer yourself…” I mock again. Just what the hell is going on? As the grogginess of sleep wears off, I begin to become more aware of my surroundings. I can tell by the rumbling and rhythmic clacking of the tracks beneath me that I am indeed on a train. I’m in a private cabin that is rocking gently back and forth and were I not so confused and slightly terrified, I would have no trouble drifting back into a deep slumber. I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes so I can get a better view. My cabin is old and weathered. Scarred finish covers bright oak planks that make up both the floor and the bench on which I am sitting. Above me is what appears to be a luggage rack and there is a window to my right but I can’t see what’s outside—it’s too dark and there is a short, thick curtain blocking the view. The room smells old. It’s a musty, woody scent that reminds me of the old wooden roller coasters I used to ride when I was a kid.

How did I get here? I can’t remember. I have no recollection whatsoever of getting on this train and no clue where I’m going and the thought of it sends a cold shiver down my spine. I can feel the panic beginning to well up in my chest. It’s a familiar feeling. I’ve always struggled with anxiety and depression. I’ve been to counseling and medication helps to take the edge off, but this is different. This time there is reason to panic. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know where I am going and soon that cockney idiot is going to be back asking for my ticket again, which I don’t have. Or do I? I stand up and begin to rummage through my pants pockets. It doesn’t take long. Women’s jeans aren’t known for deep pockets, but its just as I suspected. No ticket. I turn around and look at where I had been sitting hoping to find my purse, but it seems to be missing as well. More reason to panic. I never go anywhere without my purse. Ever. My phone, my wallet and most importantly, my asthma inhaler are all in that purse. I have to find it.

My British friend will be back any second now and I don’t want to think what will happen if I don’t have a ticket. I search the closet that is across the cabin from my bench. It’s not there. Will they stop the train and make me get out? I stand on the seat and I manage to get just high enough to see inside the luggage rack, but it’s not there either. Will the police be waiting at the next stop to arrest me for stowing away? I look under my seat, hoping against hope that it will be there, but it isn’t.

My panic level is high now. A monstrous shadow tapping at the window to my mind, threatening to shatter the glass and eat me alive. I have to do something, but I can’t think. I can hear my therapist’s voice in my mind. “When you feel that panic coming on, follow the rule of threes.” He says. “Breathe in for three seconds, hold it for three seconds, breathe out for three seconds, hold it for three seconds…”

I sit back on the bench, relax my body as well as I can and begin to count. It takes several cycles, but eventually I begin to feel the anxiety retreating. A few more cycles and I’m able to think again but try as I might, I still can’t remember how I got here. All I can do is wait. Maybe I’ll be able to convince the ticket boy to give me some more time. I wait for what seems like forever, but he never shows. Must be a lot of tickets to collect. I wait a little longer, but it seems like the more I wait, the more anxious I get. I need to find something to occupy my mind.

I stand at the window and draw back the curtain. I’m not sure what I expected to see, but it wasn’t this. Instead of lush forest or a nice view of a rolling field or perhaps even a large body of water, all I see is thousands of white blurs racing by on a pitch-black landscape. It’s like I am in space and we are at warp speed. I reach up, touch the glass and immediately draw my hand away. It’s freezing. Beyond freezing. It’s cold enough that I have to check my palm to see if I have been burned. I haven’t been, but I don’t think it would take long if I held my hand to the glass. I exhale gently on the pane and immediately the moisture from my breath condenses into a frosty, fractal mosaic. I listen and now that I’m closer to the window, I can hear the wind howling by—a melancholic undertone to the rhythm of the tracks. The thought of being thrown off the train because I don’t have a ticket seems even more daunting now. Normally I don’t mind the cold. Growing up in Wisconsin, frequent winter storms like this are no stranger to me, but there’s no way the thin, long-sleeved t-shirt I’m wearing would be enough to keep me warm in this kind of weather.

There’s a knock at the door. I take a deep breath. It’s time to face the music. I turn and say, “Come in.” but the door doesn’t open. Instead, something small and rectangular slides under the crack and comes to rest a few feet from where I’m standing. It’s nothing fancy. Just a square of off-white construction paper folded into a makeshift envelope. I pick it up and my name is written in neat, cursive script on the front. “Abigail Maartin”.

I carefully unfold the paper. Inside is an old photograph, yellowed with age. In it, a young woman is standing, arms outspread behind a group of school children. Everyone is smiling. Well, almost everyone. One or two of the kids refuse to pose for the picture and another, a smallish red-haired boy, is looking curiously at something on his fingertip. As I look more closely from face to face, I realize that I know these children. I look to the teacher and I know what I’m going to see before I see it. It’s me. Standing behind my fourth-grade class on the first day of school last fall. I turn the photo over to find a small note written in flowing cursive that I recognize as my teacher’s aid’s handwriting.

Dear Mrs. Maartin,

We miss you! None of us wanted you to go, but the principal, Mr. Springer, said you had to move. Thank you for everything you’ve taught us. Our new teacher, Mrs. Cupper is really nice. She gives us extra time for recess if we are good and sometimes she brings us homemade cookies just like you did! Johnny likes to give her a hard time, but she knows how to make him behave. She’s a really fun teacher, but not as fun as you. You were the best. Here’s a picture of our class to remember us by. Hopefully we will see you again someday.

Love, Your Fourth-Grade Class

Below, signed in every color of the rainbow are two dozen names sprawled in sloppy crayon letters. I can’t stop a tear from coming to my eye as I read each name. I love teaching. It’s my passion. Each child is so special to me, even the difficult ones like Johnny. The heartwarming letter doesn’t make me feel any better though. I don’t remember resigning. I would never resign. I love it too much. How many people are lucky enough to do what they love and get paid for it? I’ve dealt with severe depression as long as I can remember, and teaching is the only thing that keeps me going. I’m more confused than ever.

I take a few more moments to reminisce before carefully putting the photo back into the envelope and tucking it into my back pocket. I wish I had my purse. I don’t want the photo to get creased, but I don’t want to leave it behind either. I need to figure out what’s going on and I can’t do that if I stay in this room.

Cautiously, I ease the door to my cabin open and peak my head out. My cabin is nearest to the front of the car. I look to my left but there is nothing but the door to the next car. Across from me is another cabin labeled “E2”. The corridor is dimly lit. A worn red carpet stretches down the aisle to my right and I count six cabins on either side. At the far end the door from the next car down opens and the ticket boy struts through as though he is having the best day of his life.

“Oi, there! Miss? Did you find yer ticket then?” he says.

I panic and rush to the door on my left. My heart begins to race and the shadow monster is back at the window to my mind. He’s no longer tapping, this time he’s pounding with both fists.

“Miss? You can’t go through there! Miss?!”

I fumble for a latch of some kind but I can’t find one. The door is completely smooth like an elevator door. There is a dark grey pad on the right side that reminds me of the ones at my school, the ones that require a security badge to open. My heart sinks into my stomach.

“Miss?” the ticket boy says and places a bony hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t you touch me!” I say and try to shake his hand off.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss. Weren’t trying to give you no start.”

I turn to face him. “Let me through this door!” I say sternly.

“’Fraid I can’t do that, Miss. Only passengers what have a ticket can go from car to car.”

“I don’t have a ticket.” I say. “I looked everywhere.”

“Then you’ll just have to stay in your cabin, Miss. Sorry, thems the rules.”

I brush past him as rudely as I can and step back through the door to my cabin. “So I’m just a prisoner then, stuck in this room until we stop?”

“A prisoner?” the ticket boy says and begins to laugh. “A prisoner? You’re no prisoner, Miss. We’ll get this sorted, don’t you worry. ‘Ows about I toddle off and ‘ave a little chat with the conductor, yeah? He’ll know what to do.”

“Are you going to kick me off at the next stop?” I expect him to laugh at me again but instead he just looks at me with an expression that is at once sad and a bit confused. “You are, aren’t you?” I can’t stop my emotions from getting the better of me and my eyes begin to well with tears.

“There, there. Not to worry, Miss. The conductor is as reasonable a fellow as ever I’ve met.”

“Where am I? What is this train? Where am I headed?”

“Not rightly my place to say, Miss. Sorry.” And just like that his jovial spirit is back. “Right then. You just wait right ‘ere. No wanderin’ off, now. I’ll be back in a jiff.” He turns to leave. “Oh, right, almost forgot.” He says and rummages through his coat pocket. “This is for you.” He says and hands me a white envelope. “Right. Cheers, then.” He says and then he is gone.

I stand there for a moment staring at the envelope. It’s much different than the one that came sliding under the door. This one has a manufactured look to it, like the kind a birthday card might come in. Written in neat block, all cap letters is my name with a simple, hand drawn rose next to it. I recognize the handwriting immediately. It belongs to my husband, Liam.

I crumple onto the bench and hold it to my chest. If only he were here with me, maybe all of this would make sense. He has a way of doing that. It’s why I married him. He’s my rock, the stillness to my storm. He’s the one person who can pull me out of the darkest places, a beacon of light in the blackness of depression. I open the envelope, careful not to tear the flap. Inside is an ornate, velvety black card decorated with shining red swirls and looping letters that read, “To The Love Of My Life”.

Inside the card is another old photograph. It’s a photo from our wedding so many years ago. We are striding, hand in hand down the aisle after we had said our “I do’s”. The chapel is full of people and those closest to the aisle are tossing rice in the air over our heads. He’s laughing and looking at me and I’m covering my veiled head with my free hand. As I look at it, I’m once again overwhelmed with emotion and I have to wipe my eyes before I can read the rest of the card.

Abby,

This was the happiest day of my life. I never would have dreamed I’d find someone like you to share my life with. I guess no good thing can last forever. I miss you, Abby. When we said, “I do” I thought we would be together for at least the next fifty years. We worked so well together. It wasn’t always easy, I know that, but I couldn’t have been happier. Why did you have to go? Why did you have to leave me? My life is empty without you in it. I just don’t understand. Wherever you are, I want you to know that I still love you. I’ll always love you. Forever.

Yours until the end of time,

Liam

I let the card fall from my shaking hands. Liam, my rock, my heart, my soul, thinks that I have left him? It’s more than I can process and I can’t stop the wave of grief that swallows me whole. I burry my head in my hands and sob until I have no more breath. Just when I think I’m going to pass out from lack of oxygen, the sobs let up just enough to let me gasp in a lung full of air before forcing it out of me again. I’m sure the passengers in the neighboring cabins can hear me, but I don’t care. The sense of loss I’m feeling right now is rivaled only by my profound confusion.

I would never leave Liam. Never. Even if I had to give up teaching and move to Antarctica to be with him, I would. I’ve never been loved by anyone the way he loves me. Did he cheat? Is that why I left? Did I cheat? Never! There’s no one else I would rather be with. So why am I on this train? Where am I going? I have to know. There have to be answers somewhere on this train. I just need to find them.

I don’t know how long it takes for my determination to conquer my grief, but eventually I pull myself together and wipe my face on my shirt. I will find out what’s going on. I have to get back to where I belong. I gather up the picture and the card, carefully fit them back into the envelope and shove them into my back pocket with the letter from my class. No way I’m leaving it behind.

I know I can’t leave this car without a pass of some kind. My only chance to get through that locked door is to get one of those passes, one way or the other. I cautiously slide the door to my cabin open and look to my right. There are eleven other cabins in this car. Maybe one of them is occupied. Maybe I can convince someone to let me borrow their pass.

I cross to the cabin door in front of me and knock. No one answers. I consider knocking again, but I change my mind. Instead, I carefully slide the door open just a crack and peer inside. I see someone sitting on the bench, leaning against the wall with a small pillow in the crook of his neck. As gently as I can, I ease the door open and step inside.

As soon as I step into the room, I see it. There, not two inches from the man’s hand is an opalescent card. That has to be it. That has to be the access pass I’m looking for. My heart is racing. I hold my breath because I’m sure that just the sound of my breathing will wake the man. What am I thinking?! I almost turn around and run back to my cabin. Almost, but I have to have that pass. On tiptoes I sneak over to the bench. I slowly extend my hand toward the pass, certain that at any moment the man is going to reach out and grab my wrist. I almost have it. My fingers are mere inches away. The man snorts in his sleep at the exact moment the train enters a sharp curve. I panic, lose my footing and fall face first into his lap.

“Ooomph!” the man startles. I pull myself to my feet. “And who might you be?” He asks.

I’m frozen in place. I’ve been caught. Even if I run to my room now, what’s to stop him from following me?

“Don’t be afraid.” The man says and the smile on his face seems genuine. “My name’s Peter. What’s yours?”

“A-A-Abby.” I say.

“Well Abby, its nice to meet you.” We look at each other awkwardly for a moment before he continues. “Look, Abby, I don’t want to be rude but, is there something I can help you with?”

I can’t find the words. I’m positively mortified. All I can do is glance down at the shining card on the bench next to him. He follows my gaze.

“My pass?” He says and reaches for it. It’s now or never. I have two options: I can let him pick up the pass and lose it forever or I can take it myself and make a run for it. The man looks old. I’m still in decent shape. Surely, I can make it to the door before he can catch me. I lurch forward, grab the pass and bolt for the next car.

I don’t know if the man is following but I’m not going to give him the chance to catch up. I slide the pass over the reader. The instant the door opens, I’m hit with a gust of icy winter air that takes my breath away. I don’t waste any time in the frigid gangway and before I know it, I’m in the next car. It’s not at all what I expected. Nothing on this train ever is. Instead of another passenger car, I find myself in what seems to be a lounge of some sort. On the left side are long, curved benches that seem to be designed to encourage conversation. The seats are lush, velvet maybe, and dimpled periodically with ornate gold buttons. To my right is a long wet bar running the length of the car.

“Ah, and what can I get started for you this fine evening, Miss?” The sound of his voice startles me and I jump. I was so busy trying to make sense of what I was seeing that I didn’t even notice the gentleman behind the bar. “Sorry about that,” He says, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s okay.” I say. “I’ll just take a glass of water, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s all? Are you sure?”

“Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced my purse. I can’t afford to pay for anything else. Sorry.”

The man chuckles to himself, though not in an impolite way. “Not to worry, Miss. This train is all inclusive. Anything you like, it’s on the house.”

“Well in that case,” I say and take a seat on a padded stool in front of the bar. “I’ll just take a ginger ale.”

“Ginger ale it is.” He says and deftly produces a tumbler full of ice and an unopened, long necked bottle. He cracks it open and with the grace of a professional bartender, pours the amber liquid into my glass. “There you are. Enjoy.” He says.

I take a sip and shiver with delight. It’s cold and crisp and sharp. It’s the best I’ve ever tasted.

“Say, you wouldn’t happen to be Mrs. Maartin, would you?”

I stop mid swallow and nearly drop my drink.

“Abigail Maartin?” He asks.

“How do you know my name?”

The barkeep just smiles knowingly. “This is for you.” He says and hands me a neatly folded square of lined paper. I don’t even need to open it to know who it’s from.

“Jess?” I whisper. I know it has to be from her. We started folding notes like this way back in high school. Before cell phones, this was the only way to send to text message. I haven’t seen Jess in years, but we still talk to each other almost every day. I unfold the paper and a wallet sized picture, one cut from a strip of photos from an old photo booth in the mall, falls out onto the counter. In it we are both making ridiculous faces at each other, unhindered by the worries of adult life.

The letter reads,

Abby,

Do you remember this day? We were seventeen and without a care in the world. You were telling me all about some boy you had a crush on and right after we took these pictures, we stopped at the pretzel shop and wouldn’t you know it? There he was. You blushed and hid behind me. I had to order for you because you were too shy to even tell him your name. Those were the best times. I miss those days. I wish life hadn’t taken us so far from each other. I wish I had been a better friend. Maybe then you wouldn’t have left the way you did. Why didn’t you call me? We could have talked it out. You didn’t have to go. I’m so sorry, Abby. I should have been there for you. I hope you can forgive me. I hope you are happy wherever you are going. Send me a note when you get there. Maybe we will find each other again someday.

Your BFF always,

Jess

I drop the letter onto the table. Something isn’t right. I can’t quite figure it out. It’s there, right at the edge of my mind, but it’s just out of reach.

Just then, the door at the far end of the bar slides open and in strolls the ticket boy. I snatch up the picture and the letter and stuff them into my front pocket. I have half a mind to turn and run, but what’s the use? Where am I going to go?

“I thought you might just sneak your way in ‘ere.” The ticket boy says. “That’s why I gave Jimmy here that last bit of post for you. Thanks for that.” He says to the bartender.

“Anytime.” Jimmy says.

“Right, then. The conductor will see you now, Miss. Follow me please.”

I take one last sip of ginger ale and follow obediently.

We pass through three more cars before we reach the engine room. The door slides open and I’m ushered into a cramped cabin with more knobs and switches than I can count. There are windows all around. Snow like streaking stars fly by and I feel like I’m in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon. Sitting in the lone seat is a kindly looking man in gray overalls and a striped shirt and hat. When he sees me, his lips curl into a warm smile below his perfectly groomed handlebar mustache.

“Abby!” He says as if we were old friends.

“I’m sorry.” I say and begin to cry.

“My dear, Abby.” He says and wraps his arms around me. I’m surprised by this show of affection, but I don’t pull away. “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

“How is everything going to be okay? I don’t know where I am! I don’t know where this train is going! What’s going on?”

“Haven’t you figured it out yet?”

I push away from him enough to look into his eyes. There is no malice in them, only kindness. I shake my head.

“Well then. I have one more letter for you. Here,” he says and hands me a single sheet of unfolded notebook paper. “Read this. It will tell you everything you need to know.” I look down at the sheet of paper and I’m shocked to see my own handwriting.

Dear Liam,

I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry, but I just can’t do this anymore. Everything is so hopeless. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of getting up every day and pretending that I’m okay. It’s just too much. You deserve so much better than me. You deserve someone who isn’t a total basket case, someone who can love you and support you. I’m tired. It’s time for me to say goodbye to this world. I hope you can understand.

Love, Abby

Now I remember. I remember all of it. I remember getting the pills out of the cabinet. I remember their bitter taste as I washed down every single one. I remember getting into the tub and waiting for the end to come. I remember it all.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” I say and look directly into the conductor’s eyes.

“Not quite.” He says.

“Not quite?”

“Your husband found you just in time. At this very moment you are on life support. The letters you have been reading are the thoughts of those closest to you.”

I look away, ashamed. How could I be so selfish? We stand there in silence for a long while before I can find any words. “So, what happens now?” I ask. I’m so sure that he’s going to scold me that I can’t meet his gaze.

“That’s entirely up to you.” The conductor says.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t have a ticket.” He guides my cheek with one finger until I’m looking into his eyes again.

“You see, Abby, everyone rides this train eventually. At the moment of their final breath, everyone gets a ticket. But sometimes, every now and again, someone manages to get on this train without one.”

“What does that even mean?” I say.

“It means that you aren’t meant for this particular trip. You’ve shown up early.” He smiles and places his hands on my shoulders the way a father might when he’s about to tell his child something very important. “What happens now is up to you. You can stay on this train, if you wish, and pass out of this world into the next. Or,” he says with a smile, “You can go back. You can wake up in that hospital room surrounded by the people who love you. You can make a new start. The choice is yours.”

~

“She’s waking up!” Liam says. It’s so good to hear his voice.

THE END

*Author’s note: Depression is real. It sucks the joy out of life and leaves only despair in its place. I know because I suffer from it myself. Don’t believe the lies. Death is not the answer. If you need help, don’t wait. Help is available. Please call the national suicide hotline, just dial 988.