Page 9 of Broken Blood Ties

As I shuffle onto the train, I chance another glance up and catch a polished man in all black coming down the steps against the sea of people walking up from the subway station.

Unfortunately, all the seats are taken. Fumbling with my boots, I adjust my full hands to grip the bar in the center of the train. Honestly, I’m surprised I can hold on at all. There are days when you have no choice but to rely on the bodies around you to stay steady. I guess today isn’t one of those days.

The body odor from a long Friday causes my nose to wrinkle, and the man with a goatee next to me lets out a breath full of garlic that makes my stomach sour.

I ride the line until I’m able to transfer to the commuter rail.

Snow falls, and my ankles are already buried in the sludge on the clearly unsalted platform. I wait another fifteen minutes for the train. Once I’m on, I make my way to my seat, checking once again over my shoulder. They’re tense and my muscles are burning.

Sighing, I slouch into the stiff fabric seat just as the train moves. I settle in for the ride, pulling out my lesson plans for the next two weeks. I say lesson plan loosely. They’re preschoolers after all, and I often push back against the board with how much they push these young kids when they should be doing kid things. Not worried about excelling and stressing under the pressures of these overzealous adults.

Snowflakes splash against the moving train window, melting almost instantly and streaking across my field of vision. My temple kisses the icy window, and it’s a welcome relief from the sweat pooling down my back.

I’ve come so far from the girl I was—selfish and splintered. I dragged myself to Boston those many years ago and I’ve been working hard ever since to be someone; to thrive in my own way.

I cringe at my failure to thrive while watching the city get smaller behind me.

I must fall asleep because I’m jolted awake with the squeaking of the train gliding to a stop. Drool leaks from the corner of my mouth, and I swipe at it with the back of my jacket sleeve. The brown puffy coat comes away with some of the last of my makeup for the day, and I shake my head.

Gathering my bag and boots, I maneuver through the aisle and exit to the platform, then groan at the two flights of stairs I need to climb.

I don’t own a car. It wasn’t a priority when I first moved to Boston. My focus was on the basics—food, water, and shelter. Even after I found my studio apartment and secured jobs, there was never enough left over to save for one. Only now, this past year at Ardenbrook, have I been able to stash some money.

Luckily, my studio apartment is two blocks from the commuter rail, and I saunter in that direction, pressing quickly along the sidewalk to avoid being alone on the streets in the dark.

This isn’t a bad area. In fact, it’s generally quiet. Most of the buildings are small businesses. Like the one I live above.

A family-owned diner is next door with the best pancakes in life. While I don’t get to treat myself often, they’re out-of-this-world good. An antique shop is across the street, and a lawyer’s and insurance office down the street as well. It’s not a residential area.

Fate seemed to intervene the day I found my studio apartment above the music shop. There was no way I could continue paying the weekly rental price where I was in downtown Boston. After gaining more confidence with public transportation, I knew expanding my search to outside the city was my best option.

I looked for simple areas near the commuter rails, and the blue line—at the time I was cleaning toilets for a high-rise office building with ten other janitors. It worked out that when I moved jobs to Ardenbrook, I could still use the station close by.

Pausing in front of The Music Academy—I know, original—I lift the flap to the old black letter box that houses my mail. Any mail coming to the academy slides through the door’s adorable brass mail slot.

That’s another thing that drew me to this place when I saw it advertised online. Besides the quiet location, I loved the look of the building. It’s red brick all the way up both floors with a black awning stretching over the front of the shop. Above is a private balcony that’s solely mine and Deuce’s.

The owners of The Music Academy are a brother and sister who inherited the shop from their grandparents. While the sister, Grace, doesn’t work at the shop, her brother, Doug, does. He teaches students ages five and up Tuesday through Thursday. It being Friday, I’ve never been happier to have the peace and quiet on the extended weekends. Since most of his students are coming to practices after school, he has lessons late into the evening on the days he’s here.

I don’t mind. The students always come eager to learn and leave with smiles on their faces. Often I sneak to the balcony to catch the students filling in their parents on what they learned as they’re picked up from their lessons.

With the sun setting, and the temperature dropping, I dig into my purse for my keys and open the separate entrance that leads upstairs to my studio. Shutting and relocking the door, I turn and go up the steps. They are old gouged-out wooden risers that creak with each step, and when I finally make it up the top, I fiddle with the other five keys on my key ring to open the door.

I start with the first deadbolt, then work my way through the others. Each click gets me closer to my pajamas, Deuce, and SpaghettiOs. A sacrilege, I know.

Finally, I plow into the fully furnished studio immediately turning to re-bolt the doors.One, two, three, four, five.I count each one as it turns and clacks closed. Dropping my boots and the bag off my shoulder, I step back.

I worry my lip between my teeth as I examine the locks.

Move, I tell myself.

But I can’t. The pit in my stomach grows until I step forward again. I undo each lock and relock them two times before the release in my chest allows me to step back and away. It’s the same each time I come home. The passing years in Boston don’t matter; it’s always the same.

“Deuce, I’m home,” I say, pulling my coat off. With a quick flick, I toss the coat on the couch while stepping out of my flats.

“Deuce,” I say again. His cute meow sounds several times from the kitchen, and I watch his gray blur bounce from the counter to the round table by the window. Green-slitted eyes land on me.

He was a stray cat getting into the music shop trash that sits in the alleyway beside it. It took me four days of discreetly watching the dumpster and leaving food out to successfully grab him. When I took him to the vet, they scanned for a microchip, but he didn’t have one. The vet estimated he was about three years old.

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