Confessions on the 7:45

by Lisa Unger

  Funny how that worked. At the critical moment, she had to give the advice she needed herself. The student becomes the teacher. No doubt, Pop would be pleased.

  Anne glanced at the phone. The little dots pulsed, then disappeared. The girl, younger, greener, would do what she was told. She always had. So far.

  Anne looked at her watch, imbued with a bit of energy. If she hustled, she could just make it.

  THREE

  Selena

  As Selena was settling into her seat next to the other woman, the train just died on the track, emitting a defeated groan. The lights went dark, then came back up. She waited.

  Please, she thought.

  If the train left the station now, she could still make it home to see the boys before they were asleep. She glanced at her seatmate, who was staring out the window. All she could see was the curtain of her glossy black hair, the edge of her elegant profile. Did they know each other? she wondered again.

  Selena texted Graham, the cheating bastard:

  Train delayed!

  Ugh, he wrote back. Nanny gone. I’ll start bedtime. Boys waiting for you. Love you!

  She loved how he didn’t use Geneva’s name. Hadn’t she read something about that? Distancing. Like: I never had sexual relations with that woman.

  His text sounded repentant, didn’t it? It was the exclamation mark, a thing he rarely used. All editors hate the exclamation point; it’s a cheat. The dialogue should speak for itself. But, in texting, it communicated warmth, enthusiasm, brightness—something. If he’d resorted to it, he must feel like a monster. He was a monster.

  Love you, she texted back reluctantly. No exclamation point.

  But she did. Always had, all their years together. He made her laugh. He knew just how to rub her shoulders. He was strong; he handled the business of their lives, chopped firewood, did the landscaping. He had been, in many ways, a good husband. And she did love him. Odd. Because she also hated him with equal passion. That rumble inside. That volcanic mix of sadness, anger, love. Villages would be reduced to ash when it finally erupted.

  Selena looked out the window.

  Black.

  All she could see was the faint reflection of the other woman’s face in the glass. There were only a few other people in the car now. Many had gotten up and left to find alternative transport, she guessed. Selena could have moved to another seat, so that they each had a section to themselves. But was that rude?

  Her face.

  What was it?

  The other woman’s cheekbones were high and pronounced. Her dark eyes an abyss. There was a sensual shape to her mouth, something almost sweetly crooked. She was about to make polite conversation when the other woman spoke. A whisper, something Selena didn’t hear at first. When she later would look back on this first encounter, she tried to find reasons for what happened next.

  Maybe it was just one of those strange, deep connections that take you by surprise like falling in love. Or was it that delay, the darkened car, the powerlessness of waiting?

  Sometimes it just happened that way with women, an instant intimacy. Selena had experienced it a number of times. You just look at each other—and you know. The journey from girlhood to womanhood, the hopes and dreams they all share, how life rarely delivers, and, even if it does, how it’s never quite what you expected. There’s no glass slipper, no Prince Charming. That princess updo, it hurts after a while, your hair pulled too taut, the pins too sharp. The disappointments, the dawning of reality. And, yes, all the good things too—real love, true friendship, the birth of children. You just look into her eyes, and you know the path, the journey, all the hills and valleys, the cosmic joke of it.

  The other woman spoke again.

  “Did you ever do something you really regretted?”

  It was almost a whisper. Maybe she was just talking to herself—which Selena did all the time. Whole conversations in the shower.

  Who were you talking to? Oliver, her oldest, the curious one, wanted to know the other night.

  Myself, she told him.

  That’s weird.

  At least she could be sure someone was listening, engaged. Often, she had excellent advice for herself in the shower, as if there was a little therapist in her head, one who had all the answers.

  “Yes,” Selena said now. “Of course.”

  Oh, there were so many things, stretching back as far as childhood. She regretted not inviting Marty Jasper to her fifth-grade birthday party; Marty was an odd kid, not always nice, and everyone avoided her. They weren’t friends, but Selena should have invited her to be kind. She regretted losing her virginity on a dare, then losing her best friend because of it. There were some one-night stands in college that were risky, almost dangerous. She had regrets (lots) about her ex-boyfriend Will, the one everyone thought she would marry. She should have tried harder to breastfeed; now her kids were finicky eaters because of that probably. Or maybe not. Who knew? There were other things. She could fill a book with her lists of regrets.

  “I’m sleeping with my boss,” said the other woman.

  “Oh,” said Selena, surprised but somehow not. “That one.”

  Just last year her good friend Leona had slept with her boss—both of them married; what a mess.

  “If I break up with him,” the other woman went on, “I think it could get very ugly. He wants to leave his wife for me.”

  “Oh,” said Selena, leaning in. She felt a kind of salacious glee, a delightful escape from her own drama.

  “His wife owns the company,” she said. “Where we both work.”

  “Hmm,” said Selena, nodding. She wasn’t sure what else to say. It happened sometimes, didn’t it? You just needed to confess? It was all too much to hold in; you couldn’t tell the people closest to you for a million reasons. That’s why people spilled their guts to the bartender, the hairdresser, right?

  Sometimes a stranger was the safest place in your life.

  The other woman turned to look at her in the dim of the broken-down car. She lifted a hand to her mouth, her eyes going wide.

  “I’m sorry!” she said. “Why did I just tell you that?”

  “Obviously,” said Selena, feeling motherly and knowing, “you needed to talk.”

  Selena knew how that felt. She hadn’t told a single soul about Graham. Not her mother, not her sister, not Beth. It was a stone in her gut, an acidic ache in her throat. What a relief it would be to release it. But how could she tell anyone? Her marriage—Graham and Selena—it was the fairy tale, the love-at-first-sight, happily-ever-after. It was the envy of—everyone. Now, they were just like everyone else—pitifully flawed, broken—possibly beyond repair.

  The train sat, and Selena felt the crush of despair, the dark outside deepening, the stillness of the train expanding.

  “I’m Martha,” said the other woman, offering her hand.

  “Selena,” she said, taking it. Martha’s hand was cool, delicate, but her grip firm.

  Martha started rifling through her bag, retrieving two minibar-sized bottles of vodka. She handed one to Selena, who took it with a smile. It reminded her of her best friend and boss, Beth, who hoarded mini-bottles of everything—booze, shampoo, moisturizer, hand sanitizer, mouthwash. She’d load up at hotels, stashing the take in her suitcase, her tote. Chances were if you needed anything, needle and thread, a comb, mouthwash, lotion, Beth had it somewhere in the giant bag she hauled with her everywhere.

  Martha cracked open the tiny bottle and, after a moment of hesitation, Selena did the same.

  “To making a shitty day a little better,” said Martha. They clinked bottles, Selena looking out for a conductor. You weren’t supposed to drink on the train, were you? She felt the little tingle of glee she always felt when she was breaking a rule.

  “Cheers,” she said.

  The vodka was warm, a slick down
her throat, heat on her cheeks. Another sip and she felt a welcome lightness. The train stayed still and dark. Some of the other passengers were talking quietly on their phones. The man across from them was sleeping, his head resting on his rolled-up jacket.

  Selena felt her phone ring in her pocket and fished it out. FaceTime.

  “I have to get this,” she said. Martha nodded, reached for the bottle, and Selena handed it to her to hold.

  She answered the call to see her boys crowding to get both their faces on the screen. She lowered the volume, rose and walked to the space between the bathrooms.

  “Mom,” said Oliver. “Where are you?”

  “I’m stuck on the train, buddy,” she said, voice low. “So sorry. Did you guys read a story?”

  “Dad read The Boy with Too Many Toys,” he said.

  “Again,” chimed in Stephen.

  Graham was not the preferred story time parent. He didn’t read with the requisite enthusiasm, only read one book, which he chose, no negotiation. Whereas Selena was in there for an hour, letting each boy pick a book, then often lying on the floor a while as they drifted off. Sometimes she fell asleep in there, too, and Graham had to retrieve her.

  “I’ll come in and give you guys a kiss as soon as I get home,” she said. “I hope it won’t be much longer.”

  She looked around again for a sign of the conductor, or someone to ask. But there was no one. What was the fucking hold up?

  Stephen, blond, two front teeth missing, started talking about how a boy in school cut his own bangs with scissors and had to go home he was crying so hard. Oliver hadn’t liked his snack, and could he have raisins tomorrow. Finally, Graham cut in.

  “Okay, guys,” he said. “Time for bed.”

  He took the phone as the boys protested, then yelled in unison: “Love you, Mom!”

  “Love you, boys!” she said. “Be home soon.”

  “What about me?” said Graham. Now it was his face on the phone. Dark eyes, stubble, his crooked nose (broken in a football game, never healed quite right), hair tousled. That smile, devilish, rakish. “Do you love me?”

  “I do,” she said, trying to sound light. “You know I do.”

  She tried to block out the image of Geneva on top of him, but it came unbidden. It was, in fact, on an ugly loop in her brain, a television on in another room, a song she heard through the wall. There was an unpleasant squeeze on her heart. He must have seen it on her face.

  He frowned. “What is it?”

  “I should go,” she said.

  “Okay,” he answered, rubbing his eyes, then looking back at her. “Keep me posted.”

  He was oblivious, no idea what she’d witnessed. And what was more, if she hadn’t seen it, there was nothing in his demeanor that would suggest anything off. He was exactly as he always was—tone, expression, body language. What did that mean? That it was nothing to him; that he’d forgotten all about it? Or that he was such an accomplished liar and cheater that he was able to bury any feeling of guilt or regret. For a moment, on the screen, he looked like a stranger.

  “Graham.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If there’s laundry in the washing machine, will you put it in the dryer?”

  He rolled his eyes like it was the most gargantuan task in the world. “Yeah. Okay.”

  She ended the call without another word, his face freezing on the screen, then disappearing into nothing.

  Selena returned to her seat, sitting heavily, and Martha handed her back her little bottle. She took another big swig.

  “Sounds like you have a nice family,” said Martha. She lifted a palm. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

  “I’m very lucky,” said Selena.

  Because that’s what you were supposed to say, right? We’re so blessed. I’m filled with gratitude.

  It was true; she did think that most days. Until she moved the nanny cam.

  Her mother had warned Selena—carefully, gently, as was her way—after the Vegas incident: He’ll do it again, honey. Cheaters keep cheating.

  But Selena hadn’t listened. Graham was nothing like her father, she reasoned, who’d had affair after affair. Her mother, Cora, had stayed in the marriage, enduring, she said, for the sake of Selena and her sister, Marisol.

  But that was her parents. Selena’s situation with Graham was different; the first incident wasn’t an affair—exactly. They’d had therapy. It was just—not the same. That’s what she’d told herself then, anyway.

  “So, what are you going to do?” asked Selena, eager for the distraction from her own life. “About your boss.”

  Martha shrugged, shifted back so that they could see each other better, weren’t just sitting side by side staring at the back of the seat in front of them. Her eyes—heavily lashed, lightly shadowed, almost almond-shaped—were searing, hypnotic.

  “Don’t you ever just wish your problems would take care of themselves?” Martha said with a sigh.

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” asked Selena. She glanced at her bottle to find that it was almost empty. That had gone down fast. She felt looser, her shoulders less tense.

  “Like maybe he’d just lose interest in me, you know?” she said. “Meet someone else.”

  Something about the words hit Selena the wrong way, and she felt all the sadness she’d tamped down rise up. When the tears came, she couldn’t stop them. The nanny, of all people! What a cliché!

  “Oh, no,” said Martha, looking stricken. “What did I say?”

  “I’m sorry,” Selena managed, fishing tissues out of her bag and wiping at her eyes.

  “Tell me,” said Martha. “Since we’re playing true confessions.”

  And, without thinking it through, she did. She told this stranger on the train how she suspected that her husband was sleeping with the nanny, while she was working late to support their family. She omitted how she’d watched the video—TMI. Because wasn’t that too weird, that she’d watched? Twice. And still hadn’t done anything about it.

  “I’m sorry,” Selena said again when she was done. “Why did I just tell you that?”

  “Obviously,” said Martha with the same kind smile Selena had tried to offer her earlier, “you needed to tell someone.”

  Martha produced another little bottle of Grey Goose. Her manicure, bloodred, was perfect—her fingers slender and white, no rings. As Selena cracked the bottle open and took a sip, she noticed the other woman staring at her diamond engagement ring. (Women often did. It was huge.) It felt good to let it all out. She’d put the weight of it down for a while.

  “But you don’t know for sure?” asked Martha.

  Selena shook her head.

  “Do you have reason to doubt him?” she asked.

  “No,” said Selena. “It’s just a feeling.”

  “Well,” Martha lifted her little bottle and they clinked again. “I hope you’re wrong. And if you’re not, I hope he gets what he deserves.”

  She offered the final sentence with a devilish smile, but something inside Selena went a little cold. What did he deserve? What did anyone deserve?

  “Men,” said Martha when Selena stayed silent. “They’re so flawed, so broken, aren’t they? They’ve screwed up the whole world.”

  The other woman’s tone had gone dark, her eyes a bit distant. “All they do is create damage.”

  Selena felt the bizarre impulse to defend all men, even Graham. After all, she had two boys of her own. But it died in her throat. It was true, wasn’t it? In some sense—war, climate change, genocide, cults, pedophilia, rape, murder, most crime in general—men were responsible for a good portion of the world’s ills. They’d been running amok for millennia.

  “Don’t you ever just wish your problems would take care of themselves?” Martha asked again. “No effort on your part?”

  But problems didn�
�t solve themselves. And suddenly it occurred to Selena that Martha was the other woman, sleeping with someone’s husband. A woman who owned the company where Martha worked, who was probably as trusting of her husband and her employee as Selena had been. Earning a living, supporting her family, while her husband fucked the first pretty girl to come along.

  “How would your problem be solved?” asked Selena, dabbing at her eyes.

  “Today I was thinking it would be great if he just—died,” she said with a wicked smile. “Car accident, heart attack, random street crime. Then I could just keep my job, no one the wiser.”

  Martha laughed a little, a sweet, girlish sound, then took another delicate sip from her little bottle. She was just kidding, of course. Wasn’t she? Selena shifted away slightly, clutching her bag to her middle.

  “And I’d never be so stupid again,” Martha went on. “I wouldn’t be so afraid for my job that I’d submit to some predator’s advances.”

  Was that how Geneva felt? Selena wondered. Had Graham come on to her, and she’d submitted because she was afraid to lose her job? It definitely didn’t seem that way. But there were always layers, weren’t there? Graham was in a power position. Selena knew that Geneva did struggle to make ends meet, couldn’t afford not to work, even for a short time.

  The lights flickered and the train jerked forward. Selena felt a surge of hope. But then nothing.

  “There was a blockage on the track,” came the conductor’s voice, carrying over the speaker system. The man beside them jerked awake and looked around, confused, sat up and checked his phone. “It’s been cleared, and we should be on our way shortly. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

  The man gathered his case and walked to the other car.

  “And how would your problem be solved?” asked Martha. Her stare was intense, and Selena felt almost pinned by it.

  She tried for a wry smile.

  Single women, they just didn’t get it yet, all the complicated layers of a marriage, of a life with children, all the sacrifices and compromises you made daily so that everything worked.