Page 27 of Pieces of Ash

I open my eyes with a soft groan, wondering who’s shaking my shoulder. Leaning my head away from the window, I turn to the older woman sitting beside me.

“Hmm?”

“We’re stopped in Westport. Isn’t this your stop?”

I whip my head to look out the window at the train platform.

“Yes!” I drop my knees from the seat in front of me, and Tig’s journal falls to the floor with a smack. I lean down, scrambling to grab it, and shove it into my backpack.

“You better hurry, honey. The train will be leaving in a second.”

“Thank you,” I say, hefting the pack onto my back and standing up.

The older woman sidesteps into the aisle, and I follow her, turning to grab my small suitcase from the overhead shelf.

“Good luck, honey,” she says with a comforting smile.

“Thanks.”

I rush down the aisle to the door, blocked by a conductor who’s approaching from the other direction. He grins at me. “Losing you here, princess?”

I look over his shoulder at the door. “Yes.”

He clicks his tongue. “Shame. You were nice to look at.”

I have heard versions of this sentiment, from the syrupy sweet to the retch-inducing crass, since I was a little girl, so I let it roll off my back.

“Thanks. Can I…?”

His eyes get mean for a second, like I did something wrong, like I didn’t hold up my end of a bargain I never agreed to. “Sure.” He leans halfway out of the aisle but still blocks it enough that I will have to slide my body against his to reach the door.

I clench my jaw, sucking in my breath so I will touch him as little as possible.

“Bitch,” he mutters softly as my face slides by his.

Inside, I feel the ugly word like a punch and blink in surprise, but otherwise I don’t register any emotion. I stare at the floor as I walk the few steps to the sliding door and step out onto the platform just as the warning bell rings. I keep my back to the train as it whooshes by, finally leaving me in quiet darkness.

Father Joseph researched my route for me, and I know that the ferry terminal in Essex is a twenty-minute ride north. The last ferry to Charlotte, Vermont, leaves at nine thirty p.m., so I don’t have much time. I find a pay phone and dial the memorized number for a cab company. They tell me they’ll have someone there to pick me up in two minutes, so I sit down on a bench and wait. Reaching inside my backpack, I find the Mets baseball cap smuggled into my backpack by Father Joseph, twist my hair into a bun, and stuff it into the hat as I smush it on my head.

The parking lot is dark and empty, and I gulp nervously, hoping I’m safe here for a few minutes.

Safe.

Safe.

The word, the most coveted I know, brings sharp and painful tears to my eyes.Will I ever know what it feels like to be safe?For most of my tumultuous life, safety has been a distant and unattainable dream.

When I lived with my grandparents, I felt their scorn.

When I lived with Tig, I felt her indifference.

When I lived with Mosier, I felt his malevolence.

When I lived with Father Joseph, I felt his impermanence.

And now…

My grandparents are gone.