By Anne Marie Segal
(1/27)
She was essentially invisible to
me at first.
She was determined.
We
were all waiting for a mid-morning commuter train, minding our own
business as they say.
I was working an internship in
the city. My new life as a professional. It was my second day. I was
ready for anything.
My mind wandered. I thought
about my future. College graduation was fast approaching. The real world
awaited me. A new beginning. The crux of adulthood. What was on the
horizon?
It was during the week. A Wednesday, I
think. The train was late.
A woman kept crossing the
street back and forth on the sidewalk, traversing the path of the train,
near the crossing gates. I hadn't noticed. Someone mentioned it
afterwards.
We heard the train horn first.
Loud. Then the brakes. Louder.
Our heads turned to
look. The woman was there. Facing the train. No longer walking back and
forth. Meeting it head on. Standing up straight, steeling herself.
Leaning forward.
We stood watching from the
platform, wanting to bolt, unable to move. We knew, without speaking,
without thinking, what was coming. She was not getting out of the way.
Not going anywhere but there. Planted. Firm. Ready.
We
fixated on the woman’s tiny, rigid body against the looming,
approaching train. The horn continued to sound. The crossing gate lights
blinked.
The brakes worked as expected,
but there was not enough room to stop. The train screeched and bumped
along. I thought it might pop off the track. A moment later, it stopped,
just a little short of its usual place.
There
was silence, and then suddenly noise. Everyone started talking.
“I
can't believe she did it.”
“What was she thinking?”
“Did
you see her
walking back and forth?”
“If only I had known!”
“Who
would have thought?”
“It all happened so fast. What could we have done?”
I
walked back into the station, sat down on a bench and slowly breathed. I
looked up at the walls, at the posted schedules and fares. My mind was
blank, unable to function, between images of the woman and the train.
I
stood up again and walked over toward the bathroom. A line of hollow
faces met my gaze. One mother held the hand of her child. I wanted, but
knew not to, ask, "She didn't see … did she?" The girl was sweetly
sucking on a lollypop. The mother quietly nodded as she stroked her
daughter’s hair. Her young life was not scarred by the image that forever would be seared on my brain.
I
walked back outside and sat on a bench there. I was the only one
sitting down. The train crew was walking over and around the tracks,
inspecting the damage. Police had come. People arrived to hear the news.
There was chatter, conjecture and speculation.
There's a body under that train. No longer a body. There are remnants of a
skull.
Who was she? She looked about 60 years old.
How do you live your life that long and then take it away? Was she sick?
Heartbroken? Crazy?
She must have been crazy, I
decided. That made it easier to comprehend.
What
about me? I could barely feel my hands, my arms, my legs. There's a
body under that train.
There are so many ways to take
your own life. Why such a public place? Did she need to make a
statement? Did she need an audience? Did she know we were there? Did she even know we were there?
Of
course she did. She knew. She wanted us to see, needed us to see. Not
me in particular, on my important day. All of us. Any of us. Witnesses.
Ten
minutes later, men pulled back the train back and started inspecting
the tracks. I felt a shortness of breath. I could not look.
Blood
rushed into my head, like it was pooling there. I fumbled for quarters
to buy a newspaper out of one of those boxes where you drop in the coins and pull down the door.
I
returned to my bench, in the middle of action, not seeing. I opened the
paper to a random page, in front of my face, not seeing the words.
I
checked my watch. It was 9:15. The train should have left at 9:02. I
pulled a train schedule out of my backpack and blurry-eyed tried to
focus on the numbers and letters that would tell me when the next train would arrive.
If I can just get on the next train. There would be another train,
wouldn't there? I wanted to get back to starting my life. I wanted to go
forward. I wanted to get out of there. At the same time, I wanted to
rewind, reverse. To unsee what I had seen.
In another
minute, they started the train up again and moved it forward, out of the
station. It still jerked and bumped from the something--the
person--caught in its wheels. They announced that in seven minutes another train would arrive.
I
rose, walked forward and looked down at the tracks. I had to look.
There was a compelling need to find some evidence, as if it would offer
an explanation.
There was nothing to see. She
was gone. It was over. Not forgotten, but done.
I
never found out the woman’s name. I never asked. She would remain as
anonymous to me as I was to her.
Shortly before
lunchtime, I arrived at the offices of my internship.
Someone
spotted me and asked what had happened to the wide-eyed young girl from
the day before. The one who felt like she had a new pair of shiny,
patent-leather shoes. Who couldn’t wait to get started.
“Still
as excited as yesterday?” he asked. “You look different somehow.”
I
forced a weak smile and said, “Yes. No. Well, my train was late.…”
People
gathered to hear the details and share the pain. Someone said I should
go home and rest. Another said I should stay.
“But
how can she concentrate?”
“She shouldn’t be alone.”
“No
one should have to see that.”
“I don’t know how I
would feel.”
“Hey everyone, look. Look at
me,” I said, waiting for the heads to turn. “All I wanted was to get
here. I’m here.”
