I Almost Forgot About You (36 page)

“Yes, I know that.”

Gabby: “They're called lesbians. I might want to be a lesbian when I grow up.”

“That's nice. I know quite a few very nice lesbians.”

Gabby: “You do? Where are they?”

“You'll meet them one day. So tell me, how do you two feel about your dad being gay?”

Scarlett: “I wish he could bring his boyfriend home to live with us, and then we could all be a happy family again.”

“That might not work so well.”

Scarlett: “I have a boyfriend.”

Gabby: “No you don't! So what. I have a girlfriend. Winnie.”

Scarlett: “I have two boyfriends. Fu and Hugo.”

“Fu?” I ask.

Scarlett: “He's Chinese. Hugo is black. But Mom told us race doesn't matter, so I'm not supposed to be telling you that Fu is Chinese and Hugo is black, even though they are.”

Gabby: “And Winnie is mixed-race.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

This is both heartbreaking and touching.

Gabby: “Because she told me. She said, ‘I'm mixed-race.' And I told her I'm black-black.”

“So how are you guys enjoying little Dove here these days?”

Of course I'm obviously trying to lighten things up. A little. Or a lot.

Gabby: “I'm trying to like her.”

Scarlett: “She can't do anything except drink from Mom's boobs and poop and cry.”

Gabby: “She's also boring. Look at her.”

Scarlett: “I'll be glad when she can talk so she'll have something to say.”

“Well, do you help your mom with Dove sometimes, like big girls do?”

“Absolutely!” they say simultaneously.

“What is it you do?”

Scarlett: “We let her watch cartoons on our iPads. She likes it, and it makes her stop crying.”

Gabby: “And we ask her questions we already know the answers to, because we're smart, you know.”

“You don't have to tell me.”

Gabby: “What can we do for fun now, Granny?”

Scarlett: “Yes, because we're boring.”

Me: “How would you guys like to sleep over and go to the zoo tomorrow?”

Gabby: “Can we sleep with you?”

Me: “Absolutely!”

They both applaud, and Dove wakes up.

Gabby: “What about her?”

Scarlett: “She does not like real animals.”

Me: “Well, maybe she can sleep in the guest room with your mom.”

Gabby: “She only likes sleeping in her bed at our house.”

Scarlett: “That's true.”

Me: “Well, she's sleeping now.”

Gabby: “It's because she knows it's only a nap.”

They win.

My train leaves in two hours. At 9:39 p.m. Of course Wanda insists on driving me to the station, which is here in downtown Oakland and butts right up to the harbor in Jack London Square. It's amazing how you can catch a train next to sailboats and yachts parked in their berths. Wanda and I have our farewell dinner at Kincaid's.

“Well, I hope it's everything you hoped it would be. You couldn't pay me to ride on a damn train by myself for ten hours, let alone twenty-three.”

“It's because you don't know what to do with silence.”

“Embroider. Anyway, whatever month you get to Toronto, give Stanley a hug and a fist bump, since high-fiving is passé. And please don't blow it, Georgia.”

“Bye,” I say, and we hug, and I leave her in front of the kiosk.

“Be in touch whenever you have service! It'll probably be a blessing to be disconnected.”

“Okay,” I say, and start pulling my two bags toward the station.

But of course she has more to say, and she yells it.

“And remember, don't talk to strangers!”

I just wave a hand in the air.

When I get inside the station, it hits me that I'm finally going to get on this train. But the Coast Starlight isn't your everyday train. It's famous. The scenery along the Coast Starlight's route, widely regarded as one of the most spectacular of all train routes, is unsurpassed. I can't wait to see those dramatic snow-covered peaks, the lush forests and fertile valleys and long stretches of the Pacific Ocean, which will provide a stunning backdrop for my journey. (I stole this from their website.)

I could probably sit in this station all day and just read. Or people-watch. The walls are all paned glass. Modern. The ceilings are so high that the curved steel arches make it feel and look like an airplane hangar. Metal-encased and thick-ribbed lights hang from long cables, and right in the middle of the dark-tiled floor are rows of black seating, much nicer than what you see at the airport.

I felt the same way when I left for college. I sit down and wait. Listening to the announcements. How many minutes until boarding. Thirty. The train is on time. I look around. There are hundreds of people zigzagging through this place in slow motion. I've packed a fleece blanket and an ergonomic pillow, a hooded jacket and leather gloves just in case. I also broke down and bought a Kindle, only because I couldn't decide which books to bring. Ten minutes. For once I didn't overpack. I decided that once I'm in Canada, I'll just buy new when I need something clean. I've always wanted to do this—why not now? I want to know what it feels like to be unburdened for a week. I also want to celebrate how good I'm feeling and splurge a little and not worry about it. Of course I brought my personal items, and Wanda insisted I go to Neiman Marcus and not Victoria's Secret. I brought a pair of white silk pajamas and two items I haven't worn in years: negligees. But they're not just for Stan. They're for me. And I feel amazing in them.

When I finally hear the boarding announcement, I spring up and fall in line with about a hundred or more passengers who seem to know where we're going.

I bought a coach ticket because I don't need a bedroom on a train. It won't kill me to sleep sitting up. The passengers on the Superliners get extra privileges besides miniature sleeping quarters. They also get a little shower and free drinks and a lounge and movies. But all the windows on a train give you the same view.

A nice guy who looks like a hiker helps me up the step. He hands me my two bags and points to where I can drop them off. I put one of mine with the growing pile of seventies-looking suitcases, show my ticket to the conductor—a black woman with red cornrows. She tells me to hang a left, head up the stairs, and hold on to my ticket. I look for my row. I'm sitting next to a window. I pull out my blanket and pillow and toss them onto my seat and put my bag overhead. Doesn't look like I have a seatmate.

I say hello back to folks as they pass by. People appear to be friendly on trains. This car is filling up fast. A young couple seated across from me heave their backpacks overhead. Both are blond, and both have ponytails. They smell like the earth.

“How's it going?” he asks. “I'm Travis and this is Holly.”

“I'm fine. Thanks. Nice to meet you both. I'm Georgia.”

I suppose they qualify as strangers. They look European, but they're American.

“Where you headed?” Travis asks.

“Vancouver.”

“Which one?”

“British Columbia.”

“You a hiker?” Holly asks, but then when she notices my hot pink acrylic nails, she says, “I guess not!”

And here comes a big woman who has four thin braids falling from her temples with red, orange, and white plastic beads dangling on the end of each one. When they said to dress in layers, she listened. I can't identify what she has on, but it's multitiered and confusing. She's kicking five shopping bags down the aisle, drops her backpack on the seat next to mine, and says, “Hi, I'm Calico.”

“Hello, Calico,” I say with as straight a face as possible. “I'm Georgia.”

She chucks each of her bags up top, and I'm praying they don't touch mine. Then she pushes her backpack to the floor, pulls a tuna sandwich on white bread out of a white bag, and takes two big bites. She chews like she hasn't eaten in weeks.

WTF.

“How far you going?” she asks, and I don't look to see if she's still chewing, because I just can't.

“Seattle,” I say, low enough so my hiker neighbors don't hear.

“Me, too. Going to a funeral. You look like you might be ready to vacation.”

I nod.

“Where do you hail from?”

“Oakland.”

She finishes her sandwich. Then digs out two cartons of Yoo-hoo chocolate drink and a narrow package of tiny powdered doughnuts and polishes those off. And then she farts! I swear to God she does. And she doesn't say excuse me. But it's exactly what I say to her when she gets up to let me out, and I take my pillow and blanket and reach for my roll-aboard, and she says, “How long are you going to be gone?”

“I'm not sure. I'm going down to the observation car to look at the stars.”

“Enjoy,” she says, and moves into my seat.

I hear the conductor shout “All aboard!” loud enough to be heard a block away. When I walk into the observation car, the entire ceiling is slightly tinted curved glass that drops down to a wall of windows, which are directly in front of seats that swivel. Farther down are rows of built-in rectangular tables big enough for four. The soft blue cushions are like those you'd see in a nice diner. The dining car starts where these tables end. This is where I decide I'm going to live for the next twenty-three hours.

When I feel the wheels churn and screech against the steel tracks, and the train inches its way out of the station, I feel more excited than I did when Ma and Daddy took us to Disneyland for the first time.

After the boats finally disappear, I call my daughters, Ma, Wanda, Violet, Mercury, and Marina. I save Stan for last.

“The train has just left the station,” I tell them, and they applaud and offer their personal safety guidelines about what to do in case of an emergency, all of them except Stan.

“So your adventure begins,” he says.

“It does.”

“Enjoy every minute of it,” he says. “And call or text when you can or when you feel up to it. It's already tomorrow here. But not to worry. I also love travel photos, especially the ones that look airbrushed! Just let me know when you'll be arriving in Vancouver, and this way I'll know how many miles to go before I wake.”

“Will do.”

I wanted to tell him I wished he were sitting next to me.

But I just couldn't.

I miss him.

And I haven't missed anybody in years.

I put my pillow on top of the table, wrap my fleece blanket around my shoulders, and lay my head down. When I feel someone shaking me, I look up, and seated across from me are Calico and a scrawny-looking older woman with short, feathery hair I can see through, smiling at me. Or maybe not.

“I thought you were coming back. Anyway, this is my new friend, Collette. Collette, this is Georgia.”

“Hello, Collette.”

“Were you sleeping?” Collette asks.

“Yes. It's been a long day.”

“Tell me about it,” she says.

“So what is it you do for a living?” Calico asks.

“I'm an optometrist.”

“No shit.”

Even though I don't want to know, I feel obligated to ask. “What about you two?”

“I'm currently unemployed,” Calico says. “I'm disabled.”

“I'm a bebop singer,” Collette says.

“Really?”

“Yes. I've just discovered how much I love harmony, so I've been helping out a group in Eugene, which is where I will have to leave you ladies tomorrow afternoon.”

“That sounds exciting.”

I can tell these two have a lot in common. Collette's eyes are glassy.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

“I will be as soon as my meds kick in.”

“So what are you going to Seattle for?” Calico asks.

“To start a new life,” I say, just to see what
they'll
say.

“Well, we all could use one,” Calico says.

Collette just nods in agreement.

“Yes we do. But you know what, ladies? I'm really tired and need to close my eyes if you don't mind.”

“Then sleep away,” Calico says.

But they don't leave. And for the next three or four hours, they tell each other their life stories, which is like listening to every soap opera ever made rolled into one.

I feel the sun on my face, and my neck is killing me. I open one eye and see that the girls are gone.

We're in Oregon. Klamath Falls. The town's tiny brick station, though clearly pretty new, looks like something you'd see in a black-and-white movie. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and wash my face with my own products. I would like to change, but I wouldn't dream of undressing in this stainless-steel bathroom.

I have a roll and bitter coffee for breakfast. There is no cell-phone service, and I'm told there won't be for hours, but it doesn't matter. For the next seven, I won't stop looking out the window, because this is what I will see:

Rain.

Mount Shasta.

A snow-covered island surrounded by a blue lake.

Rain.

Tunnels.

Forests.

Mountains.

Canyons.

Beavers.

A red sun.

Twilight.

The last of which is precisely when I'm sitting in the dining car eager to order dinner and the train suddenly stops. Other folks seem as baffled as I do, and we're all wearing that look of anticipation, which is when we hear the announcement that there's been a gas-line break outside Portland. We're going to have to stay put until it's fixed. That it might be two, maybe three hours, but they'll keep us informed.

And here come my BFFs. The hostess asks if I would mind if they joined me, and I tell her not at all. I order a burger and fries and a salad made with iceberg lettuce. My girlfriends order the same, except Collette orders hers without the bun.

“So it looks like we're stranded, huh?” she says.

“I'm in no hurry,” Calico says.

“I thought you were going to a funeral.”

“Did I tell you that?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Then I am. Except it's probably my own.”

They both think this is funny.

I almost choke on my hamburger it's so dry, and I only eat half of it. The fries are hard and yellow, and I can see a puddle of dressing on the plate after I eat a few forkfuls of the wet lettuce. Collette is still futzing with her brown burger. Calico's plate is empty.

“Are you going to finish that burger?” she asks.

I look at it.

“No.”