Train

Writer’s Cramp—November 5, 2013  You or your character are taking the subway home. The passenger next to you (who is a stranger) gets off at the stop before yours, and without saying a word, leaves an envelope with your name on it on his seat. Write the STORY or POEM from there.

Train

I couldn’t call him back to say he had left something behind in his hurry to get off the subway train. The action had been too deliberate. I had seen him pull the envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket, stand and place it on his seat. He tapped it twice as if to indicate that it needed to stay there. He stepped off the train without a backward glance. I watched him walk away until he was just another business suit amid a crowd of commuters. I looked around the train car to see if anyone else had witnessed his strange behavior. The teen slumped in the seat across from me was picking the black polish off his finger nails and bobbing his head to whatever music was being piped through his earphones. An elder lady reached down to pull her shopping bags closer to her. A middle aged man popped his newspaper after turning a page.

                I jumped when someone tapped my arm. A young woman stood in front of the seat the man had just vacated. She held the envelope in her hand as if to offer it to me. I started to raise my hand palm out to let her know, no it did not belong to me, when I saw it. My name was written in bold letters across the front of the envelope.  I noticed a tremble in my hand as I took it from her.

                “Thank you,” slipped off my lips.

                She took the seat next to me.

                “Why is the envelope outlined in black?” she asked.

                “It used to indicate a death notice in the old days,” I answered. The significance of my response struck me. But it made no sense. I cudgeled my brain to try and find one familiar thing about the man who had just gotten off the train but I knew he was a complete stranger.

                “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the girl said.

                Her words seeped into my bones. I wanted to fling the offending envelope away. Angry words echoed through my head, slammed doors, hateful-mean-cruel words to wound, a hastily packed bag. I was stroking the face of the envelope as the memories flooded back. Nights spent on the street, a determination to never look back and then a lifetime of unspeakable things; hunger, desperation, humiliation.

                I was all ready to tell the woman next to me it was a mistake. An envelope left by another commuter. It was pure coincidence that it carried my name, Jane Porter, a name from another time. I screwed up my courage and tore open the envelope. I unfolded the letter.

                “Janie,” it said at the top of the letter. My eyes filled with tears. It was like a soft caress that pet name from so long ago. I brushed my sleeve across my wet cheeks and read on. “I hired a private detective to find you. I instructed him to get this letter to you. We didn’t know it but your mother was sick when you left. Cancer. She fought hard hoping against hope that you would come home. Her last words were ‘tell Janie I’m so sorry and make sure she knows how much I love her. Tell her it doesn’t matter what she has done she will always be welcome home. Find her, oh please dear God, find her.’ There are train tickets and a credit card. Come home Janie. I need you. Love your Dad.”

                I looked in the envelope and found the tickets and the credit card. A shudder passed through me as I suppressed the desire to sob. It felt like a physical weight had been lifted from my shoulders. A small mewling sound interrupted my thoughts. I bent my head and brushed my lips against the tiny head nestled against my chest. I gently adjusted my son in the carrier harnessed to me.

                “We are going home little man. Yes, you and I are going home.”