Chapter Twelve

I was lucky that Rachel didn't ask for an explanation. Unlike Rick, she never felt the need to prod into the unknown. Or maybe she just respected me enough to mind her own business. Regardless, I told her that I had stayed with an old friend the past few days, but she—this imaginary friend of mine was female, of course—had an unexpected family emergency to tend to, so, here I was. Rachel, being Rachel, just laughed it off and offered me some scotch. I fell asleep shortly thereafter.

Now the sun shone in an orange haze through my closed eyelids. As I had done for the past three mornings, I reflexively reached over for Carey—then awoke with a start. It was Thursday, my train would be leaving at ten to four, and I was in Rachel's apartment. It was already a quarter past noon and I didn't feel well-rested in the slightest. Rachel's couch wasn't exactly comfortable for sleeping. As my eyes adjusted to the harsh sunlight—it was a miracle I hadn't woken up sooner—I noticed a piece of paper on the coffee table in front of me.

Hey Sleepyhead,

I'll be at work till five, so I guess that means I won't see you. I hope you slept well. There's some cereal on the counter, or you can help yourself to anything in the refrigerator. There's a station at Christopher Street about a block away from here, so if you take the 1 uptown you should be at Penn Station in about ten minutes. Or you could always hail a cab, but the train would be cheaper. You have my work number, so call if you need me. I hope you have a safe trip home. I wish you could have stayed longer.

Love,

Rachel

I decided I would leave around three just to make sure I had enough time. I could no longer remember why I thought it would be such a good idea to take the train. I suppose, in the heat of the moment, I had romanticized the idea of Amtrak and traveling the old-fashioned way. Now I wished I could just beam myself back to Colorado in some kind of time warp. Nope, as usual, I had screwed myself over and wouldn't be back until Saturday. I even began to toy with the idea of renting a car, maybe a roomy but worn-in red convertible, a Mustang, and I could drive back to Hope Springs with the radio on and the wind whipping in my hair and spend every night in a dodgy old motel. Something crazy that I hadn't dreamed of doing since I was in my teens—but no, I had already paid for my train ticket home, so Amtrak it would be. Another dream deferred.

I picked up my bag and left. When I got to Penn Station, I walked briskly the main concourse, with my head down, and tried to blend in with the crowd. It wasn't too hard. I heard his band's music, but blocked it out, and kept walking, and didn't look, and soon it was gone. The train to Chicago was already boarding when I reached it, so I sat in the first empty seat I saw and that was the end of it. I was on my way home.

I preoccupied myself for a while. I took out a deck of cards—thank God I had the foresight to bring it—and played a few rounds of solitaire, a game in which I am unfortunately quite accomplished. Halfway through my sixth game, inspiration struck. I don't know what it was. I quickly withdrew my notebook and pen and began scribbling words, frantically and illegibly. It was almost as if I had no control over what I was doing—like the lyrics were being born from the depths of my unconscious mind. After some time—I don't know how long—five minutes, thirty minutes, an hour—I looked down and read back what I had written. I read it a few times over, crossed out some words here and there, and then murmured the lyrics aloud.

Drying up in conversation

You will be the one who cannot talk

All your insides fall to pieces

And you just sit there wishing you could still make love

They're the ones who'll hate you

When you think you've got the world all sussed out

They're the ones who'll spit at you

You will be the one screaming out

It was darker, edgier than anything I had written before. It was angrier. It was also the first time in a long time that I came up with lyrics so quickly. Usually I developed the melody first with a vague idea of the song's meaning, and the words came later. This was different. I hadn't felt so inspired since I embarked on my comeback tour almost seven years ago. I picked up my pen and kept going.

You'd kill yourself for recognition

You'd kill yourself to never, ever stop

You broke another mirror

You're turning into something you are not

We transferred in Chicago the next day, and I slept for a good portion of Friday for lack of better things to do. When I woke up, I looked out the window and the sun was just setting. I tried to imagine the colorful landscape and misty mountain air that would be waiting for me in the morning. I imagined my living room and my warm, cozy bed. I tried not to think of Carey, although I was still thinking about him by telling myself not to think about him. I tried to write more of the song, but just didn't feel inspired enough, so I played some more games of solitaire and read some of a mystery novel that I had inexplicably packed in my bag until I felt tired enough to fall asleep again.

At seven o'clock in the morning I was rudely awoken by the chipper voice of the train conductor. "We're right on schedule and we will be arriving in Denver in thirty minutes. This is the last call for breakfast in the dining car. It's a beautiful day today in the mile-high city! The current temperature is 67 degrees with no humidity. That's right. High and dry." Then he clicked off. I reached for my notebook—inspiration had struck again. I scribbled down some lines and then hurried to get dressed and brush my teeth; breakfast could wait till later. I looked out my window and watched as the mountains came into view. And soon there was Denver, of course, but it's hardly a city compared to Manhattan. When I stepped off the train and breathed the crisp refreshing air deep into my lungs, I knew I was home.

Don't leave me high

Don't leave me dry…