I dodge the hoards of well-heeled travelers clogging O’Hare and make my way towards the Blue line. Things are a bit calmer here – the majority of people who fly back into Chicago immediately after Christmas have cars to drive home in or the money for cabs. I lean against a concrete pillar to wait for the L.
My phone is still disturbingly absent of any word from Johnny. Perhaps he’s preparing some romantic return, I think, and allow myself to get lost in fantasies of roses and candles, Johnny’s hands rubbing scented oils over my body and claiming me as his own. I will walk in the door and he’ll be there waiting, ready to press me against the wall and kiss away all memories of the disaster that this trip turned into. His dark eyes will stare into mine, that one lock of hair falling over his forehead in that floppy way that always makes me want to laugh and wrap it around my finger. He’ll remind me that I ran to something worthwhile, not just away.
The sharp hiss of the train settling by the platform pulls me from my reverie. I wrestle my bag on board and tap my card, then head for one of the window seats near the middle. They must have cleaned the carriages for Christmas, I think, settling in with my bag in the aisle seat. There isn’t as much grime as normal. I double check my transfer stop, then lean back and watch the city roll by.
Who knows what Johnny’s up to, really, I think. In all likelihood, he’s left his phone somewhere and it died while he searched for it. Or didn’t search, knowing him. I sigh. In a story, this would be the scene where some mysterious stranger comes up and gives me advice. I glance up and down the bus. The other passengers are scattered like raisins in bread, never quite enough and none near me, each immersed in their own thoughts, cell phones, or internal music. My life is not a story. Just as well.
I try not to think for the rest of the ride. Instead I stare out the newly cleaned window, watching the wind whip leaves and scraps of paper up and down the sidewalk. Occasionally a gust buffets the train. Half an hour later I’ve made my transfer, and am emerging from the 87th street station. I pull my jacket tightly around me, hoist my bag up on my shoulder, and set out to work up a sweat walking the four blocks to our building. I skirt past the homeless man on the corner, holding out his hand in vain hope that I might have something for him. Then, on second thought, I pause and yank the sweater from my family out of my suitcase. It may be purple, but it’s certainly warmer than the ragged jean jacket he’s wearing now, and I’d rather not deal with the memories associated with it.
The bulb in the building entry is burned out again, so I feel my way to the stairs and climb up the three flights to our place. I open the door, and my first thought is that it smells empty. Johnny’s phone is lying on the table, red light flashing. “23 missed calls from Sabrina,” the little bubble says. The ringer is off. I sigh.
A quick glance through the kitchen shows empty cupboards and a single bowl caked with something red in the sink. I make a face and run water into it, dislodging a lone piece of spaghetti. Then I open the door to the bedroom.
Johnny is lying across the foot of the bed, with another guy I don’t recognize a few feet away at the head. Three more people sit against the walls, and all heads turn to stare at me standing in the door.
“Sabrina! I thought you weren’t back until Tuesday,” Johnny says, sitting up.
“What the hell is this?”
“They’re people like us.”
“What?”
Johnny gets off the bed and comes over to me, his eyes wide and appealing. “They can disappear too!”
I don’t know what I was expecting to hear, but that was not it. “Why the fuck are they here?”
“We were testing it out, you know, just to see-”
“It isn’t something to test!” I snap. “And after all the shit I’ve gone through on this trip, is it too much to ask that I could just come home and relax?”
“What happened?”
“I tried to fucking tell you what happened, but you wouldn’t answer your fucking phone!” I want to shove him against the bed and watch him flip over backwards. Instead I turn back out to the living room and sink onto the sofa with my forehead in my hands. Now what?
Johnny’s feet appear beside me. “Sabrina, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” His hands smooth over my shoulders, and I lean into the touch even though I don’t want to.
“I can’t do this right now Johnny. I just can’t. I’m tired and frustrated and angry and I just can’t deal with four strange people in our bedroom, whether they’re like us or not. Please?” I hear footsteps and the door opens and closes. Johnny stays beside me and keeps his arms around me until I relax enough to tell him about my trip.
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