Terminal Station

Charlotte had been lucky to get the seat she had, the one with the wide picture window overlooking the river. The leaves that had been orange and yellow and red last week were gone now, leaving just dead trees against a flat sky. But it was better than staring at the colorless tracks on the other side, scrub brush and cement reinforcements. And best of all, she didn’t have to share it with anyone. Not yet, anyway.
*
Daniel hadn’t thought about what he would do for luggage. He’d been in such a hurry to catch this train that he’d only grabbed a Gladstone bag; a change of clothes, a toothbrush, his shaving kit. A week’s worth of laundry was sitting in his trunk in the train station parking lot. When he landed, perhaps, he would ask his mother to overnight a few things. Or he’d find a mall, buy jeans and a few shorts, enough to get him through the week. He’d figure out something. He’d have to.

His phone rang. His fiancée, Lily. He let it go to voicemail.
*
Charlotte closed her eyes as the new passengers shuffled on. If she pretended to be asleep, common politeness dictated it would be rude to disturb her. . She had a long trip ahead of her. She was going to the coast. A much-needed vacation.

This is a sold-out train, the conductor said over the loudspeaker. Please remove all bags from your seats. I repeat, this is a sold-out train. Every seat will be needed.

The last man to get on the train wore a dark suit and oxblood loafers. His socks had bells on them. The whole outfit looked new. She’d opened her eyes too early. They’d connected for a minute. He smiled and sat next to her. She closed her eyes again. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
*
The porter called their car for dinner. Daniel hadn’t considered how hungry he’d get. He hoped they took cash; he had about $400 left from the ATM in the station. His ticket was for Chicago. He’d figure out the rest of the trip when he got there.

He wondered if Lily had had dinner yet. If she ate any of the swiss buttercream cupcakes on the cake stand in their kitchen. He would call her when he got to Chicago. There was no cell service in West Virginia. He couldn’t call her even if he wanted to.

The woman next to him opened her eyes. She’d been pretending to sleep since he got on. She had her purse tucked off to the side and a CVS bag stashed under her seat. There was an empty bottle of water and a chip packet in the sleeve of the seat in front of her.

“Shall we dine?” he offered.
*
Daniel introduced himself after they ordered their meals. He got a scotch, she got a glass of wine. They both ordered the steak. No sense in being sparse now.

“Do you take the train often?” she asked.

“First time in a long time,” he replied.

She remembered a song she loved in college, a pop song that felt like an old British poem. Shed no tears for dry, dead flowers, let them fall where they may. She’d written those lyrics on the front of her notebook, tracing her fingers over the lines as though she could absorb their beauty. Daniel looked like the professor from that class, a man whose casual compliments she also absorbed as love.

“What do you do?” He asked.

“I’m a writer,” she told him. “I’m headed to a retreat in Portland. You?”

“Traveling for business,” he said. “There’s a conference in Chicago this weekend, but I thought I’d make the trip more enjoyable. What do you write?”

“Novels,” she said. “Some short stories, a few poems if the urge hits.”

That part, at least, was true. Fake it until you make it, as her boss would say. A jacket and a smile could get you a lot of places. It got her here, after all.

“Anything I’ve read?” He asked.

“Probably not,” she said. “My novel is coming out next fall.”

“What’s it about?”

“I don’t want to spoil it.”

“Fair enough,” he said, smiling. “Will you at least tell me the title? So I can add it on Amazon?”

“It’s called Mechanical Girls,” she said. “Sort of a literary, dystopian, sci-fi epic, I guess. Anyway, I still have some work to do on it before I send it off to my editor.”

Their steaks arrived. “Not bad,” Daniel said as he took a bite. “For a train.”
*
Daniel drank from a mini bottle of scotch he’d found in his shaving kit. A party favor from a party he should have never attended. If Charlotte was awake, he would have offered her some. But she was asleep, for real this time, like she hadn’t slept in days. He could only get a few minutes at a time.

Hence the scotch.

He’d have to tell Lily sometime. He just had to figure out how to do it without hurting her. It wasn’t her. He was just a coward.

He took off his jacket. He draped it over Charlotte’s shoulders. The scotch would keep him warm.
*
In her dreams, there were calls from her boss. Demands for work she didn’t have. Calls that didn’t come back, sources that gaslit her quotes, doctors and pharmacists and insurance reps who said there was nothing they could do. Her stomach hurt, acid churning until she snapped awake, convinced she was going to be sick. She hadn’t eaten in three days. The steak was a heavy first meal.

But there were no sources. No deadlines. Nothing but a dark train and Daniel’s jacket tucked over her. It smelled like sweat and champagne and expensive cologne. The scent grounded her, settled her. Daniel was snoring, softly, a nip-sized bottle of scotch slack between his fingers.

It was too dark to reach for her notebook. Besides, she didn’t want Daniel to see her blank pages. It was a fresh composition book, purchased at the Duane Reade near the train station. Fresh pack of pens too. Everything else was on her desk at home. She needed to start fresh. Everything else felt stale.
*
The buzzing of his phone jolted Daniel awake. There were a dozen messages, from his mother, his brother, Lily. There were voicemails he knew better than to listen to. There were alerts about thunderstorms and work emails and deliveries.

He would deal with them later.

The train wobbled as he stood. The dining car would open soon. He could get some coffee, wash up in the bathroom, restore a little color to his world. He had to call Lily soon. Had to explain what happened. She deserved that much.

There was a new message glaring from his screen when he got back to his seat. A Missing Persons alert. Claudia Pages, Guilderland, NY. Missing since last week. 5’4, green eyes, brown hair. No tattoos, a carpal tunnel scar on her right wrist.

The woman sleeping next to him.

It didn’t say why she was missing. Maybe she was a witness to a murder, maybe she was the murderer. Or maybe she had just run off, same as him, trying to escape a life that had gone gray and stale.

Another Missing Persons alert buzzed.

Daniel Rowen. Baltimore, Maryland.

He already knew what he looked like.
*

Charlotte opened her eyes and sat up. Daniel was holding his phone and staring at her. She had a slow quicksand feeling in her stomach. She should have never said anything.

“Who are you?” he finally asked.

“I told you, I’m Charlotte. That’s all you need to know.”

He held up the phone. She stared back at a press photo of herself, the same picture that ran with her Things To Do column every week. The column she took over without extra pay when the last girl had the good sense to quit. Who had been the one to call her in; her boss when she didn’t show, her father, or maybe his respite nurse? She’d timed her exit carefully to minimize the damage to him. It was more than he’d ever done for her.

“They’re looking for us,” he said. “Both of us.”

“Then that begs the question,” she replied. “Who are you?”

They let the questions hover like a stand-off, like a satellite. “I’m not going to a conference,” he finally said. “I was supposed to get married two days ago. It’s not that I don’t love her. I just…wanted to vanish. Come back eventually, but just…not be me for a few days.”

He was the lyrics of her song, brought to life by magic and semi-starlight. Two of them, spinning around the careless void of this train, of their lives. Time to let go. Time to let it all crash down. Time to confess.

“I’m not a novelist,” she admitted. “I’m a reporter. I’m taking care of my dad. And I just needed to…get away. From everything. I figured the only real way to do that was to just…vanish. Pretend I was someone else, and when it all catches up with me, pretend I wasn’t in my right mind. It’s easier than admitting I didn’t want to be there anymore. Fewer consequences. They can’t hold a crazy woman accountable.”

“The cops will be waiting for us,” he said. “When we reach Chicago.”

“Probably,” she agreed. “What do you say we get some breakfast and enjoy the rest of the trip?”
*
They ate. Bagels and coffee. She gave him back his jacket. She pointed out the cops waiting on the platform as the train slowed to the stop. He hovered nearby as she gave the police her fake name, watched her hand over an ID that both of them knew didn’t match. She chattered away like nothing was wrong. She knew what she was doing. She was keeping the cops from seeing him. He was a missing person too, after all.

Let her continue with her plan. Let her get safely away to rest for a bit. He hoped wherever she was headed was quiet. He hoped she published her book someday.

He took out his phone. He dialed his fiancée’s number. “I’m safe,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”