Page 34 of On the Way to Christmas
And while Elodie carries on, traipsing down a long path of vinegar substitutes I may be able to wrangle from the dining car once aboard, I become aware of the travelers bustling by, all hugging their black purses and briefcases against their black winter coats, no doubt heading for a cup of coffee before driving themselves straight into the madness of New York City during Christmas. I am aware of how their gait slows as they pass me and my ensemble, and how their gazes drag. At least two follow with a sweep of the concrete floor around me, looking no doubt for some sort of hat or box detailing where to leave tips for the entertainer should she jump into performance.
Well. This is what I get for being early.
I must’ve sighed again, because the next moment Elodie is talking in my ear.
“You really should try to get some sleep when you’re onthe train, Willow. You’re not doing yourself any favorsgoing, going, goingthe past three days. I’m afraid if I let you off the phone, you’ll nod off and fall onto the tracks.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve arrived two hours early for a train you don’t even want to be on.”
“I took a nap yesterday.” I ignore the urge to yawn. “And anyway, I just couldn’t stand another minute staring at my ceiling. I needed to do something. I needed togo.”
Which is true. Whereas I’ve always been jittery before flying out to Mom’s, now I felt it more than ever. The day Jonas broke up with me, I just sort of stood there in a daze—wherevertherehappened to be. Well, and crying. Pretty much dehydrating myself as a constant leaky faucet. But yesterday morning, day two of my new life single, I woke up with a start, and my legs itched to jump up and go. As though my body was trying to compensate for the fact that my mind had become stuck in quicksand, and it had decided overnight it was going to handle all the movement from now on.
So, I got busy.
Shampooed every piece of fabric in the apartment.
Washed every towel and sheet we had.
Went on a grocery shopping spree and bought fifty-six lemons, then proceeded to make lemon meringue pie for every resident in our building.
Ate half a lemon meringue pie.
Spent way too long in front of a pet store, considering buying a cat.
Decided the cat was a bad idea before traveling, and instead decided it’d be brilliant to learn how to crochet for the train ride.
Watched a dozen videos on how to crochet for the train ride, went to the yarn store and bought supplies, realized it didn’t really make much sense to give up two hundred dollars for the privilege of spending one hundred hours learning to crochet a subpar sweater when I could just pop down to Reminiscence consignment with a twenty-dollar bill, and hauled everything back to the store.
Packed.
Ate the other half of the lemon meringue pie.
Dressed to the nines in an explosion of Christmas cheer.
And now, here I am.
Ready for my two-week-long train ride across the country on The Christmas Express. And the only thing truly different about the reality of this moment versus what I’d dreamed it would look like all year is that, instead of holding one golden ticket to hand to some cheery conductor at precisely 7:12 a.m., I’m holding two. One for me. One for my boyfriend of seven years who met a waitress on the corner of 55th and 10th precisely three-and-a-half days ago and decided he was instantly in love. I don’t know how, given the depth of their conversation couldn’t have gone much further than, “Do you want your eggs sunny side up or scrambled?” but there it is.
So now, instead of traveling on the yuletide getaway I’d been dreaming about since I first clipped out the magazine ad about it four years ago, Jonas is driving down to the mountainsof West Virginia, where his new love,Be-cky, and her family will share a holiday meal. While those in my family who haven’t heard the news continue to run bets on where Jonas was going to propose (would it be under the tree Christmas morning? Or something terribly romantic on the train beforehand?), I get the joy of preparing how to convincingly converse with a flippant smile. “Actually,and this is no big deal whatsoever,we broke up after all. Yes, even though he bought the train tickets. No, Aunt Elda, I don’t know what we should do with all the extra artichoke dip for the engagement party. I suppose, eat it.”
As for me, I’m spending two weeks on a trip marketed byTimeandLeisureas, “The Most Romantic Getaway of the Season.” WhatParadecalls, “The Most Nostalgic Christmas Vacation You’ll Ever Experience.” Two weeks on a train full of doe-eyed couples—alone.
Because that’s what you get when you have a nonrefundable ticket, a need to get home for Christmas, and a life on a tight budget. You get to be surrounded by couples mooning over heart-shaped marshmallows in their cocoa and ardently kissing under mistletoe. You get to be in purgatory.
“Well, at least you looked very nice this morning,” Elodie says. “Frankly, I’m a bit surprised you decided to dress up.”
“I’m trying to make up for the death I feel on the inside,” I reply, raising my voice to be heard as another train slides up to the platform.
Elodie’s right though. Aside from the dried tear streaks down both cheeks, I’m a far cry more pulled together today.Instead of the bird’s nest held together by grease and desperation that has accompanied me the past three days, my chestnut curls bounced buoyantly as I walked through town—as if they have tired of my emotional turmoil and have chosen to persist despite me. And I took extra pains with my mascara and liner this morning, which, at least before the great rat sighting, made my typically pale-green eyes sing in chorus with the blinking green bulbs of my Christmas sweater. And then, of course, there is the outfit: the cheery tree sweater, followed by a black corduroy skirt, black tights, and elf slippers.
“And I decided,” I continue, “if I have to break the rules by going alone, I might as well follow the recommended dress code on the welcome packet.”
“You didn’t break the rules,” Elodie counters. “Nobody is going to think that.”
There’s a long pause. I’m not going to argue with her. I know she’s right. Still, I can’t help feeling a bit guilty for being the train’s unintentional third wheel.
