Tunnel Vision

A set of hazel irises dipped in milk admire me from outside the window. They belong to a face with towering cheekbones and full lips, the edges of which curl upwards like cherry stems. Bangs of brown hair dance atop a polished forehead to the rhythm of the speeding train. It is the most beautiful face I have ever seen, my own. We’ve been contemplating each other now for as long as I can remember. And before that? There is no before. A semi-circle of light invades the horizon and the face drips into the ocean.

A voice divorced from its body crackles from all directions. “Good morning folks! We here at x hope you had a good night’s sleep. The current local time is x. We will be reaching our next stop, beautiful x in approximately x.”

I peel my eyes from the window and look around. A thin aisle of carpet runs vertically up the length of the compartment, barely interrupting the lines of cheap vinyl seats. About half of the them are facing forwards while the other half face backwards. I’m in one of the former. Alone in my row, I can only make out a few of the other passengers. A cacophony of snores lets me know there are likely several more. A sulfuric smell, like that of freshly uncovered hard-boiled eggs, is coming from either a) the AC jets overhead b) the corpulent man-child a dozen feet away with the Grateful Dead t-shirt clinging to the top half of his ballooning beer belly, just north of his hairy navel or c) a combination of the two. A sharp pain in my lower back alerts me to the fact that my knees are untenably close to my chest and, judging by the acuteness of the sensation, likely have been for some time. I push a button on my armrest and the seat reclines.

“Ow!” It’s child's voice. My child. I know this instinctively in the way that only a mother can. I jolt the seat back to its full upright position and wriggle around to face him, kneeling backwards in my seat, careful not to crimp my sundress which is blue with daffodils. Naked knees rub against the cheap cushion.

“Sorry baby, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I forgot you were back there.” He’s a mostly beautiful boy with a symetrical face and full lips but chubbier than what other people would consider “cute”. His black hair and brown eyes are further reminders that he is unlike me in many ways. He’s dressed impeccably in a linen shirt with indigo trousers and penny loafers. I must’ve picked out his outfit.

“Mama can we get off now? You said…”

The request irritates me for some reason but I can’t quite put my finger on why.

“Soon, I promise! But this isn’t our stop. Not yet.”

“But when? You said…”

Eyelids around the compartment rise to locate the source of the commotion.

“Sh… Don’t make a scene. Tell you what, why don’t we see if we can make the rest of the trip more comfortable. I bet you we can at least find some better seats. Would you like that? Hm?”

The boy looks at me warily. Why the hesitation? After all, surely we don’t belong in this section. For starters, we’re exponentially better dressed than the other patrons, Mr. Grateful Dead being your average sartorial sample. So what is it? The boy tugs down on his shirt to keep it from rising above his trousers. Maybe he doesn't feel like he deserves better.

“Okay,” He says slowly, breaking up the syllables. “But only if you promise we can get off the train soon.”

I hook my pinky and offer it to him.

“Promise.”

We lock pinkies and the boy smiles toothlessly for second before reclaiming his composure. Still, I’ve won him over for the time being. He trusts me. He loves me. The knowlege fills me up inside.

I waddle, the seats are too close together for anything more graceful, over to the center aisle and take our luggage out of the overhead compartment. I set a Louis Vuitton duffel bag and a Power Rangers backpack on the floor. It’s not difficult to surmise whose is whose. Possibly resentful of our pedigree, everyone in the compartment is in a rush not to offer their help. No matter, we’ll soon be rid of this place.

“Son would you be a gentleman and take your Mama’s bag? My back is killing me.”

The patrons are still in a hurry. So is my boy.

“Don’t be selfish son, after all, I’m doing this for you. All I’m asking for is this one little favor but if you can’t even do that… if only your father were here.”

But where was the boy’s father? Had he somehow managed to get off the train? Another, train headed in the opposite direction, whizzes by thrusting the speed of our own into sharp relief. I feel light-headed and part of me wants to abandon the project of moving altogether. The train disappears and is replaced by a sun rising over the coast. I take the duffel bag and march up the aisle. Fingers wrestle control of the LV’s straps from mine. Atta boy. He does love me. I plant a wet kiss him on his little nose before carrying on. At the end of the compartment, I’m faced with a windowless metal door. I press on a plastic button at waist level that commands me to “push”. The door slides open with a self-satisfied whoosh. I step inside an accordion-like room with a small bridge that connects me to another metal door, whose twin I just traversed. The air is colder here than it was in the compartment and so I hurry to push my way beyond the second door. Another grandiose whoosh and I’m in. The echo of tiny feet follow suit.

Eyes dart towards us, find their mark and are quickly retrieved. Taken with my beauty, most come back for seconds.

“Sh! Can you do that a little more gently son? These people are trying to get some shut-eye.”

Mouths widen in approval. The compartment is made up of two large windows that circle up from the glass floor and are joined at the top by a long silver beam that doubles as a compartment for storing luggage. The sun floods the room but fails to illuminate any dust particles floating in the air. How can anyone manage to rest in here? Tables separate rows of chairs that are squaring off. An attractive blonde man is sitting next to his daughter and facing us. From behind Buddy Holly type glasses, blue eyes travel, from me to my son who insists on carrying the duffel bag.

“Son, thank you but you really don’t have to carry that bag for me anymore. I know you’re strong but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

My boy looks confused. Blondie looks embarrassed. Serves him right for judging me. I bend down to pick up the bag but Blondie picks it up instead.

“Here. Let me help you.”

Finally a gentleman.

“Thank you.” I gesture for my son to take the seat closest to the window, opposite the girl, and I glide down opposite Blondie’s empty seat.

“Are these seats taken?”

“Please.” He extends a ceremonial palm in the direction of the seats and stores my LV in the overhead compartment. He’s dressed in a tweed jacket with elbow patches and has the erudite air of a college professor or a classical musician.

“What are you drawing?” I ask the girl scribbling with a fisted crayon on an innocent sheet of paper. She is beautiful like her Dad with sandy hair in a braid and eyes the color of the ocean outside the window. Blondie sits back down. Instead of answering, the girl buries her face behind her dad’s back.

“She’s a little shy,” says Blondie, stating the obvious. He fishes her out from behind him and says, “The nice lady asked you a question: what are you drawing?”

The girl looks at me tentatively then buries her face again. Blondie offers me an I-don’t-know-what-to-tell-you shrug. His fingers spider across the table. I won’t let this little girl get the best of me. I reach over to grab my son’s Power Rangers backpack. He’s still wearing it although he’s sitting down. Maybe there’s a toy or something in there I can use to win her over. Eyes light up when she sees the backpack.

“You like Power Rangers? My son loves them! Who’s your favorite?”

She bites her lower lip and looks up at her dad.

Blondie repeats the question. The girl’s eyes go back to me for a second before settling on the table. What does she have against me? I’m beginning to seriously dislike her.

“Blue,” she mutters breathlessly.

“Blue!? That’s your favorite one too, right son?”

He’s been mute this whole time. Seriously, sometimes it’s hard to remember he’s even here. There’s such a thing as being too shy.

“I like blue,” He makes a choking sound as he swallows the words. “But I think my favorite one is yellow actually.” Typical. He just loves to contradict me in public. First the thing with the duffel bag and now this.

“I like yellow too! That’s actually my number two favorite one.”

The little girl makes a V with her index and middle finger. She’s speaking directly to my son now although I was the one to initiate the conversation. A little unfair to be honest.

“Do you want to color with me?” She asks the boy who gives me an inquiring look.

“What are you looking at me for? Go ahead.”

I have a brief vision of a grand wedding and little blonde babies. Fingers inch towards a book resting on the table.

“How do you like it?” I ask, raising my eyebrows at the tome.

“It’s great but so far but I’ve only been able to read it in short bursts.” He must be talking about his daughter. She must be a lot to deal with. The little girl, absorbed in her own little fantasy world is oblivious to the slight.

“I just finished reading it myself! I’ve read everything by x. It’s so penetrating and insightful. Those books have taught me so much about human nature and how to really grow as a person. Empathy is so important, don’t you think? I just can’t wrap my mind around how a person can go around the world feeling absolutely nothing for others. Unfortunately, nowadays everyone is so self-absorbed. It’s so refreshing to see a family like yours. I can tell you and your daughter share a very strong connection.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you to say. I’ll say the same about you and your boy. He’s a sweet kid, you can see it in the way he’s getting along with my girl.”

Blondie nods to the pair who are still drawing and discussing the pros and cons of different Power Rangers. My heart fills up like a balloon. I’m a great mom.

“Tickets please,” a voice booms from the aisle. Blondie pulls out his phone and the conductor scans his ticket. He peels off an orange sticker and sticks it to the side of Blondie’s seat.

“Thank you sir, you’re all set.”

The conductor hovers expectantly over me for a moment before clearing his throat when all of a sudden everything goes black in the compartment. We’ve entered a tunnel. I feel light-headed again and would like nothing better than to focus on my son’s painting.

“Tickets please.”

“Hi!” I say cheerfully. More flies with honey and whatnot. “Just one moment, my internet connection seems to be a bit slow and I can’t seem to be able to pull them up right now.” I look down at my phone and see only the first of the wi-fi waves flashing. It’s not a lie, my connection IS unstable.

He stares me down with eyes like shotgun barrels.

“I see. Yeah that can happen sometimes when we pass this tunnel. If you’d be kind enough to give me your names I can just go ahead and check you in using our system.”

He brandishes his tablet. Drat. What’s my name? What’s my son’s name? I can’t remember but surely we belong here and not in the other compartment. I hear the walls of the tunnel scrape against the windows like nails on a chalkboard.

“You don’t know who I am?” I ask with all the indignation I can muster. The man shrinks as the tunnel widens slightly. He screws up his face in concentration, vacillating.

“I’m sorry but I have to be certain. I apologize for the inconvenience. How about I circle back after I’ve checked the other passengers in? We’ll have crossed the tunnel by then.”

The conductor disappears behind us. The sound of giggling from a few rows back convinces me that I must be the butt of some joke. The envious will never miss out on a chance to deflate the people who possess what they covet: beauty, elegance, charisma… the list goes on.

How long is this tunnel? We've been here for what feels like hours now. Blondie’s nose has been glued to his book for a while now, reading by the light of a single Edison bulb dangling from the ceiling. The kids are engrossed in their painting. Depicted amateurishly on the page is a round figure with short, dark hair and brown eyes holding the hand of another, bigger and rounder figure, with the same short dark hair and brown eyes. Both figures are waving with their free hand at a woman looking out the window of a speeding train. Cobwebs of shattered glass adorn the windows of the train as it grinds against the walls of the tunnel.

I'm assaulted by the same dizzines from before, only this time it's worse. I close my eyes to shield me from the vertigo but when I open them, I’m no longer in the same compartment. I’m perched atop a velvet throne. A cocktail dress, glittering like the chandelier overhead, hangs seductively over my svelte body. This must be most be the most exclusive part of the train, reserved only for VIPs. Celebreties donning red-carpet attire congregate around lace tablecloths draped over tables resting on persian rugs. The room fizzles like the inside of a bottle of Moet & Chandon. The smell of champagne and accomplishment fills the air. This is where I belong.

The first few notes of the D flat Major section of Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu Op. 66 wash over me. I turn around and see Blondie, clad in a sleek tuxedo and bow tie, hair slicked back except for a renegade strand of yellow hair dangling metronome-like over his forehead to the rhythm of the piece he’s performing on a Bosendorfer grand piano with an open lid. The way the walls of the compartment seem to bottleneck at the edges supports my theory that this compartment is physically wider than the previous two. And beyond this compartment, who knows?

A young couple, man and woman, a few feet away from me sip champagne from flutes with metal vines growing at the base of the glasses. In their hands, the glasses look expensive. The woman extends her non-glass-holding arm in front of her as far as it will reach while resting her head on the man’s shoulder for a selfie. She retracts her arm, bends her neck towards the phone and looks dissatisfied.

“Would you like me to take a picture of the two of you?” The woman hesitates and I pick up strange vibe from her. She doesn't like me. Blondie fumbles a note.

“Thank you, that would be great,” says the man after an awkward pause. He’s the better looking of the two with an aquiline nose that, while not exactly beautiful, gives him a distinguished air.

I take the picture, careful to frame it just right. I have a natural talent for taking good pictures, a good eye.

“Here, let me take it again, you had your eyes closed in this one.”

This one is worse than the last one but that's not my fault, the couple just looks uncomfortable.

“Come on guys, pretend you love each other!”

I capture their reaction on the last one. It’s the best of the three but their laughter looks forced.

I hand the phone to the woman, whose voice I’ve yet to hear and say, “Let me know how you like it! I can take more if you want.”

“I’m sure it’s great, thank you very much,” says the man. The woman looks at the picture but I can’t tell if she like it or not. She seems rather bland despite her fancy clothes. The man looks out the window at the milky fog and the wife whispers something in his ear. They won’t shut me out like this.

“You two are such a beautiful couple, where are you traveling to?” I fold my dress under me as I sit across the table from them.

“We’re going to x.”

Her voice is remarkably forgettable. No follow up questions or additional information is forthcoming. The man looks mildly embarrassed and opens his mouth to speak as the final chord of the Impromptu rings out. A burst of applause machine guns around the room drowning out his words.

“Absolutely lovely, no? I’m sorry. You were saying something before that?” I say.

“Oh nothing. I was just... We’re here on our honeymoon. Everything’s been lovely so far. Hasn’t it my love?”

Mrs. Bland smiles demurely at her husband. Blondie starts the same piece Da Capo but no one seems to notice. The ring on her fingers looks like it weighs more than she does. What an odd couple. I wonder what he sees in her. Who’s the one with the money? My monney's on the husband.

“Oh that’s so sweet! Well, cheers to the both of you.” I snap my fingers to summon a waiter but none comes forth. Notes chirp like black and white crickets. The train jerks violently. A bucket of ice holding a bottle of champagne nearly topples over.

“Everything is lovely but I must say the service is rather poor. Don’t you think?”

“They were passing around earlier with complimentary champagne, I think you missed it,” says the husband. The woman adds to the silence.

“Really? That’s odd, I feel like I’ve been here this whole time. After all, this IS my section. Where else would I be?”

Now it’s Mrs. Bland’s turn to speak. “Well you did miss it and actually you came in here just a few minutes ago from another compartment, placed your… bag under your seat.” She raises a penciled eyebrow at a Power Rangers backpack lying forgotten under my seat, jarringly out of place given the setting. “And asked us if we wanted our picture taken.”

The music is becoming more frenzied now. Blondie would benefit from a little more practice. The chandelier blinks for a split second.

“Well that’s just not true. I’ve been here this whole time. Maybe I ducked out to look for my son. He likes to play, explore, you know.”

Another musical interlude is counterpointed by a sharp turn from the train. Hwo's driving this thing?

“So, are you two planning on having kids soon? It’s such a blessing, kids that is. You just have no way of knowing what it’s like until you experience it for yourself. It’s like having your heart beating outside of your body. It’s made me grow so much as a person. Truly the greatest gift. This is my son…”

I look back to our seats to introduce my boy but all I see is an empty velvet throne. The Power Rangers backpack has disappeared without a trace. Blondie plays a major 3rd in his right hand while his left strikes a minor chord and the combination clangs dissonantly. Bubbles burst over Persian rugs as the apple-like smell of spilled champagne makes me gag. A conductor’s hat looms large on the horizon over a sea of dark hair. The train speeds up. Eyes like black holes suck me in as a mouth moves underneath.

“Tickets please.”

The music stops. Abruptly. I open my mouth to answer and a braid of blonde hair spews out instead of words. The train corners one final time and the chandelier falls to the floor. Everything is dark now. And silent. I look out the window to see that night has fallen. The moon barely illuminates a face outside the window. Brown eyes sink into shrivelled circles of skin sloping down cheekbones towards bloodless lips. Black hair droops over a rough forehead. It’s an ugly face, my own. This cannot be my face. I won’t let it.