My mother had not been well. My father had left us when I was an infant and my mom couldn’t hold down a job. She couldn’t remember to pay bills or buy groceries. We were constantly getting kicked out of apartments because she couldn’t remember to turn off the bathtub water or the gas on the stove. I tried to help, but each year as she grew more confused it became harder for her to even have me around. She knew I was there, but I’m pretty sure it only made her feel trapped.
There had been state workers and cops who had worried about my welfare, but in the end they had other cases to concern themselves with and I was always able to stay out of their control.
The last few months had been the worst for my mother. She had gone to the doctor just last week to get some new pills. It was now painfully obvious those pills had not worked.
I watched the casket disappear below the horizon. Once it was out of sight, a short dark man in overalls and carrying a shovel appeared out of nowhere. I watched as he dug the shovel into a nearby pile of dirt. The shovel sliced into the soil and then the man tossed the large lumps of earth down into the hole. The mourners slowly drifted off to mourn someplace less wet.
“It was a lovely service,” Mr. Claude said soothingly, placing his left hand on my shoulder. “Very nice indeed.”
I looked over at the man sitting next to me in the backseat of the car. Mr. Claude was a thin man with ruddy skin and unnaturally black hair. He wore a gold tie and a black suit that was as faded as the life that had just been honored. Mr. Claude was my mother’s lawyer. I had never understood why she needed a lawyer in the first place, but she said it was because of her family. I had only met him twice before and now I was forced to share one of the worst moments of my life with him.
“There was nothing lovely about it,” I argued.
“Well, the flowers were beautiful,” he sniffed.
“Flowers?” I said incredulously. “Who are you?”
Mr. Claude’s face reddened a bit and he straightened his already straight tie. The rain became even heavier, making it impossible for there to be a truly awkward silence. Eventually Mr. Claude spoke again.
“Beck, this may not be the best time, but I suppose there is no best time for what must be said.”
I stared at Mr. Claude and wished he would disappear. It didn’t work.
“Your mother was financially strapped at the time of her death,” he said as though it were some great surprise.
You mean us moving to a poor neighborhood and me having to go to a crummy school and get free lunch wasn’t just her trying to be humble? That’s what I wanted to say. Instead I sarcastically said, “Really?”
Mr. Claude sniffed.
“Fortunately for you, she comes from money.”
The words made no sense to me. I pictured a large pile of money giving birth to her.
“What?” I asked.
“Her family was wealthy.”
“Rich?”
“I suppose.”
“And they’re sending money?” I asked hopefully.
I had been spending the last few days sleeping at my neighbor’s house. Mrs. Welch was a kind old woman who had befriended us the second we moved in. When she heard my mother passed away, she instantly insisted I stay with her until they could figure out where I would be best placed.
Best placed.
I loved whenever I heard someone say that—like I was a puzzle piece or a vase that people simply needed to find a spot for.
“They are not sending money,” Mr. Claude said. “But she has a brother. He’s sent for you.”
He said it so casually I thought he might be joking. So I laughed.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” he insisted. “I’m quite serious. You are lucky to have someplace to go. If not for your uncle, you would be put into foster care until adopted. And I must say, Beck, the chance for adoption at your age is not stellar.”
“I’m an orphan? What about my dad? He’s got to be somewhere.”
“We’ve made every attempt to find your father,” Mr. Claude said with authority. “But there’s no trace or clue as to where he is. It seems your mother has had no contact with him since he left. Nobody has.”
“So I’m being sent away?”
“What did you expect?” he said dryly. “You’ve got no parents here.”
It took everything I had in me to stop my eyes from dripping. I hadn’t cried yet and I was in no mood to do so now. I let the anger I felt hold back the tears. I was tempted to get out of the car and just run away.
“Wait,” I remembered. “You said my mom’s brother is rich?”
“Your Uncle Aeron is very well off,” Mr. Claude said. “I’ve seen pictures of his estate and it is quite astounding.”
“Did you bring the pictures?” I asked greedily.
“No, no,” Mr. Claude waved. “It didn’t seem appropriate.”
“Of course not,” I muttered. “Why show me where I’m going?”
“Listen, Beck, you’d do well to work on your manners,” Mr. Claude said boldly. “I’m certain your uncle will not tolerate such sharpness.”
“I’ll try to be dull,” I said. “So where am I going?”
“Kingsplot is a couple of days travel from here, but there’s a single-rail line that goes all the way” he said. “Your uncle has graciously sent a train ticket for you.”
“How nice of him,” I said bitterly. “I can’t just get on a train and go live with someone I’ve never met.”
“It’s either that or be put into a home here with someone you’re not related to,” he pointed out.
The rain on the roof simmered. It went from boisterous to beckoning, sounding like a soft whisper from Mother Nature herself. Most of the dirt that had been sitting next to my mother’s grave was gone. I hated how I felt. I hated the dark inside of me that wanted nothing more than to break a window with my fist, or light something on fire, or . . .
Mr. Claude tapped on the glass dividing us from the driver. “To the train station,” he ordered.
“Train station?” I asked with panic.
“I told you they’ve sent tickets.”
“Today? I’m leaving today?”
“Well, you’ve got no place to stay,” he pointed out. “Even your neighbor has run out of compassion for you. I guess she didn’t enjoy you putting her wig on that stray dog.”
“It was a joke,” I defended.
“It was the final straw.”
“I can’t just leave,” I argued, feeling like I needed to be where my mother was buried. She was all I had. “Don’t make me leave her.”
“You’ll feel better once you’re traveling,” Mr. Claude said. “I promise.”
“What about my stuff?” I asked, wondering how he could promise me how I’d feel.
“The few things you had are packed and waiting at the station,” he said. “As your mother wished.”
“She knew she was going to die now?”
“She knew it was inevitable.” He sniffed again. “She also knew it would be best to make it as easy for you as possible.”
“What about my plant?”
“What plant?” Mr. Claude scoffed.
The plant in question was a large-leafed fern I had raised from a tiny seedling. It had meant a ton to me during the last month. It was the one living thing that responded to me and was better off because I was around.
“My plant,” I argued. “Mrs. Welch has it.”
“I’m sure she’ll take good care of it,” Mr. Claude said callously. “Move on, driver.”
“But—”
“It’s a plant,” Mr. Claude said soothingly. “The world is full of plants.”
I felt angry. The world wasn’t full of my plants. My world at the moment wasn’t full of anything but pain. I had loved my mother and now the only person who had ever had any patience or love for me was gone and I was being forced to move away.
The driver put the car into gear and pulled slowly away from the g
raveside.
I don’t care what you say; I had every right to cry.
Chapter 3
Nowhere Fast
I threw my backpack onto the red cloth seat and plopped down next to it. The backpack and an old suitcase in the storage cart made up my entire entourage. I owned surprisingly little in my life besides the black shirt and jeans I was currently wearing.
An old man and a young girl sat across from me in the train compartment. From the way they sat, it was obvious that they didn’t know one another. The old man was nose deep into a magazine. He had a half-bald head and a full beard. The girl was at least my age and looked both bored and bothered that I was what she would be staring at for the next little while.
“It could be worse,” I tried, smiling a half smile at her.
The girl looked at me as if she were unsure of what language I was speaking.
“I mean I could be some deranged fat guy who smelled.”
It took a moment, but like waiting for a stubborn sunrise, her smile eventually appeared across the bottom of her face. She was the prettiest girl I had seen in a long time.
“I’m Beck,” I said.
“Kate,” she replied coolly.
“Hi, Kate.”
She sort of waved.
“How far are you going?” I asked.
“The end of the line,” she answered.
“Kingsplot?”
Kate nodded.
“Me too,” I said much too excitedly to come off sounding cool.
Her sunrise smile faded but that didn’t stop me from staring. She was beautiful in a farmer’s daughter, spelling-bee champion kind of way. She had long red hair that was partially held back by a thin black headband. Her skin was as white as my knuckles had been the second before I fell from the vent. She wore a plaid skirt and long white knee-high socks. Her white shirt was mostly covered by a thick black sweater. She looked caught between styles, as if she had been preppy but was slowly switching to hippie. Her eyes watched the scenery outside.
“It’s far,” she added. “Very far.”
“I’m going to live there,” I said cleverly.
“That’s great,” she replied, not bothering to turn and look at me.
I missed her smile.
“I have no idea what it’s like there,” I said, hoping she did.
“I’m sure you’ll get to know it.”
“So, that’s your home?”
“Yes,” she said flatly.
The train jerked forward, grunting and hissing. I didn’t like the movement. I felt like I was abandoning my mom and the little bit of life I had lived here.
The half-bald man in our compartment set his magazine down and rubbed the point where his nose met his eyebrows. He looked tired and concerned about having to travel in the company of two teenagers.
I watched the landscape speed up outside. In a few minutes the world was washing by in a stream of color and stretching images. I thought about the last time I had seen my mother alive. It had been the morning of the bee incident. I had complained to her that I needed some money and she had slurred something about how everyone wants more than they have. I tried to move the words around in my head to make it seem as if she had said something less profound and more personal.
“So, it’s a nice place?” I asked Kate. “Kingsplot?”
Kate looked at me and then over to the old guy. She appeared confused by the fact that I was still talking to her. I suddenly wished I was a fat deranged man that smelled just to get back at her.
“All right,” I said strongly. “I guess I’ll just talk to myself from now on.”
Kate yawned and the old man pulled his coat up over his head and pushed his body back into the seat.
“This is my first train ride,” I said, mostly to myself.
“My father doesn’t trust planes,” she said shortly. “He has no problem sending his daughter to visit a bunch of unknown relatives in a big city, but he’s concerned about me flying home.”
I stared at her for a moment and then said, “My father left when I was about one.”
Kate shrugged and yawned again.
A man in a blue uniform wearing a cap two sizes too big for his head stepped into our compartment.
“Are we all in the right spots?” he asked as if we were babies in numbered cribs.
I showed him my ticket and he looked at the others.
“Don’t open the window,” he insisted. “The windows along this entire section have not worked properly ever since the train derailed a month ago. The entire frame has twisted just a bit.”
I couldn’t think of a single reason why he should be telling us that.
“So windows closed,” he continued. “And if you need assistance there will be an attendant one car down.”
“Are there any vacancies on the train?” the older man asked.
“I believe we have one empty seat two cars up.”
The man gathered his stuff as quickly as he could and scurried from the compartment as fast as a rat abandoning a sinking ship.
“Have a pleasant trip,” the uniformed man said to us.
“I can’t see how we couldn’t,” I answered sarcastically.
The attendant’s smile looked forced. Kate simply yawned again.
I had never been on a train before and the clack of the wheels as they sped forward was oddly intoxicating. Each mile we traveled my eyelids became increasingly heavy. I tried to fight it, but sleep was smothering me. I said a couple of clever things to Kate and she replied in unkind.
I shifted my backpack and stretched out on the empty seat next to me. I pushed my head up against the small pillow the train company had provided. There was a musty smell in the cabin that made it seem even more uncomfortable than it was. I breathed slowly and could smell a trace of smoke. I would have opened my eyes to investigate it, but my mind was sick of being awake. I had not slept well ever since my mom had died. My body felt like it was in the mood to make up for lost time. I fell asleep instantly.
When I woke up, Kate was staring at me. Despite my open eyes my body still felt like it was asleep.
“Did I snore?” I asked sleepily.
“And drooled,” she said disgusted.
I wiped at my mouth and moved to sit up. My head weighed a hundred pounds. I shifted and my head fell back down against the seat. I tried to blink the sleep and pain out through my eye sockets.
“I don’t feel so great,” I said.
“Maybe that’s why you slept so long,” Kate suggested.
“How long?”
“Twelve hours.”
“What?” I said in shock, sitting up. My head wobbled like a large melon with an off-balance center. “Whoa.”
“You slept for about twelve hours,” Kate said again. “You slept through five stops, dinner, and unless you get up and move it you’ll miss breakfast. They stop serving it at nine-thirty.”
“I can’t believe it.”
My stomach growled out loud.
“Maybe your stomach will convince you.”
“Where are we now?” I asked, looking out the window.
“About two hours from Kingsplot.”
The scenery was green all over. Tall trees grew along the tracks and stretched their branches over the train creating a tunnel of foliage and making the cabin dark for the time of day. Through the breaks in the trees I could see a dull blue lake and mountains taller than the window would allow me to take in. I might have found the view interesting, but my mind was quick to remind me that being on the train at all was the result of my loss.
I felt depressed and sick.
Kate closed her eyes and leaned back. I hoped she would fall asleep and begin to drool. I lifted my backpack up off the floor and onto the empty seat next to me. I unzipped the main compartment and pulled out a thin book. It was a worn journal that my mother had written in sporadically over the last few years of her life. I had read most of it while waiting for the train but none of it made sense and holding i
t depressed me even more.
There was a small picture pretending to be a bookmark on page twenty-seven. It was a picture of my mother when she was young and happy. In the picture she was pretty and looked like a walking beam of light. There was a man with her. I assumed he was my father. He looked smart, and in love with my mom. I hated him for leaving us.
I pulled out another picture of my mother from my backpack. It had been taken a month before she died. She looked like a different person than the young girl in the other photo. Her dirty blonde hair was tied back with a green felt tie and rogue strands of hair were twisting and wriggling in all directions. Her cheeks were permanently red and she was straining to smile. She was wearing a blue robe over a white T-shirt and sweatpants. Her feet were bare and her toenails were speckled with chipped red nail polish.
I missed her.
In the history of mothers there had certainly been better, but in fairness to history there had most certainly been worse.
The train began to pull and jerk upward.
“We’re going up?” I asked.
Kate kept her eyes closed and any response to herself. I stood up as the train continued to pull forward and upward. I steadied myself by holding onto the plastic strap hanging from the wall. I could see the trees through the window beginning to slant at a slight angle as the train slowly climbed a mountain path.
“I’m going out,” I announced. “Do you want anything?”
I took her silence as a no.
The train’s hallway was empty. The red paisley carpet looked busy and out of fashion. I walked down the corridor looking for a bathroom. The cabin next to mine was vacant as were the next two. I used the bathroom at the end of the car and then pushed through the doors leading to the dining car. The tables were empty. A wrinkled and scrawny man stood behind a bar wiping the counter down.
“Am I too late for breakfast?”
He nodded toward a basket of muffins at the end of the bar.
“Anything else?”
He repeated his nod.
I grabbed a muffin and took a big bite. I could taste cold, bitter blueberries.
“Umm,” I said. “Where is everyone?”
He kept wiping down the counter, acting as if I hadn’t asked him anything. I decided since he wouldn’t answer me that I would go looking for myself. I moved through the dining car and into a section of sleeper compartments. The train lurched forward with hard, jarring motions.