. . .

Going back

The train is late. Not that I expect any different. It's just typical of the way things are going for me. It shows up eventually. I go to my seat and shove my baggage on the rack above. If the rack breaks, I'll get fifty pounds of luggage on my head, but I'm expecting it, so it won't happen.

The view is nice enough. I've seen it before, of course. Windswept plains, fields, the occasional horse or cow. I spend the first hour of the trip staring out the window. I've got nothing else to do. If I could read on trains without having to vomit I guess I'd study, but I can't. The guy in the seat next to me is a businessman. He's busy reading something thick with a Grisham cover, and he looks like he's not the type to want conversation with a college girl. When the view gets old, I try to get some sleep.

I do manage to get some sleep, but it makes me miss my stop. That's during the one time that the train nazis don't check tickets, so I'm an hour past home before I wake. I have to pay out a surprisingly large piece of my remaining cash to catch a train going back. I finally get back to the right station about three hours late without having eaten. It is just a short walk from the station to my dad's place, so at least I can make that without too much trouble. He's not there when I show, so I pull the key out from under the flowerpot. I've told him that with just the one flowerpot even the dumbest thieves will be able to guess that it's there, but he hasn't been robbed yet, so he thinks all thieves are lowgrade morons. I go in, plop my stuff down in the spare bedroom, and raid his fridge while watching old Popeye cartoons.

He shows up about two hours later. He's got a blond girl that's no more than five years older than me on his arm, and he's drunk. Both things are typical. I still remember... fondly the time I caught him and my best friend in bed together. He's home, though. The only one I've got now, now that mom thinks I'm a drug dealer. Yay me. I can't even explain, because she hangs up as soon as she realizes who's talking.

"Sammy! You're early!"

"I'm late, dad."

"Have you met Carla?"

"No, and I don't need to meet her now, since I'll never see her again after tonight."

Carla glares at me. I think she thinks that my dad isn't just using her to get laid, that there's some deep commitment and emotional bullshit there. My dad's real good at faking that. That's why I never blamed Alice for their, um, encounter. We did kinda drift apart after that, but it wasn't my fault.

"Don't be like that, honey. Lemme just get you settled in. Carla, would you hold on for just a minute?"

"I got it, dad. Have fun."

He glares at me as well, and turns without a word to lead Carla off to his bedroom.

I head back to the guest bedroom. He hasn't changed. I don't know why I'd thought he might. I close the door, collapse on the bed, and put a pillow over my head to avoid hearing the noises that will start coming from his room in a few minutes.

There are tearstains on my pillow the next morning.

Home, sweet home.