Last Stop

I'm startled awake by tapping at the window. I lift my head from the bench, the abrasive upholstery leaving a sore spot on my cheek. For a moment, I see nothing but darkness.

"We'll come around for your ticket in a moment," a woman says. Her voice is muffled by the glass.

Squinting to focus, I begin to make out the latched wooden door to the hall, and the second blue bench across from me. A woman—her hair pulled into a tight bun—pushes the cart down the hall. To my right, red curtains sway back and forth over the window. The bench rocks beneath me. The room smells faintly of mildew.

I feel a pulsing pain behind my eyes. As soon as I push myself upright, the room starts to spin. I grip the cushion and swallow the nauseous feeling that's beginning to rise in my throat. My gaze falls on the landscape that passes outside the window; the train careens through a mountain range, and the vibrant greens and blues of the river blur together. I shut my eyes. My head pangs again, as if I've pressed a clothes iron against my forehead. Taking slow, deliberate breaths, I try to piece together my situation. I am on a train. I can feel my heart pounding, but the sound is drowned out by the steady clanging of the tracks beneath me. I don't remember getting on the train. I have no idea where it's going.

I let my chin fall heavy to my chest. For the first time, I notice my clothes. I'm wearing an unfamiliar yellow sweater—the itchy polyester irritates my skin—and a plaid skirt. I realize that the choking feeling at my throat is a scarf tied tightly around my neck. I lift my arms, which feel heavy as lead, and pull at the thin fabric. My first attempt is too weak, and the scarf slips through my fingers. With a frustrated cry, I yank again. This time, it comes free. I have to lean back on the seat to catch my breath.

I survey the room again, looking for any kind of indication as to how I arrived here. It's empty, except for a purse resting against the wall on the far side of the bench, and a plaid blanket that must have fallen to the floor. I reach for the purse and snag it on my fingertips, dragging the brown leather across the seat toward me. When I finally wrench the zipper open, several items spill onto the seat: a paper card, a tube of lipstick, a powder compact, a lacy square of fabric, a few loose dollar bills, and a matchbook.

These things don't belong to me. Another passenger must have left them behind. I look through the window on the door where the woman with the cart passed by. There's another sleeper room like this one across the hall, but the curtains are pulled shut.

I focus my eyes on the contents of the purse in front of me. I flip over the paper card and hold it a few inches from my face until the blurred lines sort themselves into a pattern of letters I recognize. The identification card trembles in my fingers. Next to the name "Nancy Green" is a photo of a woman with a blonde bob, arched brows, and a deliberate frown. I don't recognize this woman. I wonder where my purse and my things have gone. I've got to find my ticket before the woman comes around again. I try to picture it, searching for the destination, along with my own ID, which I presume I'll need once I get off.

The hairs prick up on the back of my neck. I can't picture the card. No matter how frantically I sort through the jumbled images in my mind, I can't picture the photograph or the name that should be there. What is my name? It's not just this purse, these clothes, or this train that's unfamiliar. My trembling fingers reach my chin and up toward my cheeks. I don't know who I am.

How is it even possible that a person can't remember their name? It's ridiculous. It has to be. Once I see myself, it will all come back to me and I'll come out of this hazy state.

I reach for the compact. My clumsy movement knocks the other contents of the purse to the floor, and they roll toward the door of the sleeper room with the tilt of the train. Damn! It's as if I'm pulling at strings attached to my arms; they move crudely, imprecisely. I flick my thumb at the latch until it opens, sending a puff of powder into the air.

I wipe powder from the clouded mirror with my sleeve. In the clear spot left behind, a woman looks back at me. Her face is puffy, almost swollen, and her skin is a pasty white with a sheen of purple showing through. I'm frightened by her eyes; they're dark and wide with fear. Yellow hair hangs stiffly around her face. The mirror distorts her image, and she seems to bulge toward me as if bursting out of the glass. She looks just like Nancy Green in the ID photo. Only I've never heard that name before, and I've never seen this pale, bloated face.

I snap the compact shut. "No!"

I gasp at the hoarse, strained voice that comes through my throat. Jumping to my feet too quickly, my vision goes out again. I lean against the wall for support, trying to catch my breath. Something's wrong with me, very wrong. And it doesn't end at the spinning scenery in front of my eyes or the sickly churning in my stomach. Some part of me, who I am, is missing.

I think I'm going to be sick. I fall forward, catching myself on the sliding door that leads to the hall. I slide my fingers into the handle and pull. The door scrapes along its track until the gap is wide enough for me to slip through.

The hall is narrow and empty, lit by dim fixtures on the ceiling. Light passes through the windows and flashes across the floor. I take a slow step forward, feeling the racing movement of the tracks through the soles of my feet.

Then, I hear the voice. "Are you listening to me?"

I turn too quickly. My shoulder slams into the wall on the far side of the hall, shooting pain through the socket and up my neck. I cry out. There's no one at the other end of the hall. My heart races. The grave, familiar voice is coming from inside.

With one hand pressed against the wall to my left and the other to my right, I can stand without falling. It takes painstaking care to lift each foot until I reach the end of the hall. I lean on the narrow door underneath the flickering restroom sign until it gives, then topple into the small room.

Steading myself on the plastic sink, I see with renewed clarity that the woman in the mirror is, indeed, the woman on the ID photo.

My name is Nancy Green, I think. I roll it over in my mind, imagining how the shape of each word would feel in my mouth. I realize I'm gripping the edges of the sink so tightly that my hands have turned white. I can't remember ever speaking the name "Nancy Green" before. As if stumbling into a dark room and feeling around with my fingertips, I search for some memory, any memory, of my life before I woke up moments ago. There is nothing in the darkness.

But there is something here, in the mirror. The fluorescent light above me reflects off of my hair with an artificial sheen. Sure enough, when I touch the hair around my right ear, it feels slick. Like plastic. A second, more forceful push, sends my hairline askew. Ears flooded with the clattering of the rail below, I grip the sink for balance. I suck in a breath. Then, with my other hand, I reach up and grab a handful of shiny, yellow hair. I pull.

The hair, all of it, falls to the carpeted floor. It lies limply, rocked back and forth by the movement of the train. A discarded wig on a dressing room floor. And now, I have to look back. I have to look at myself.

My vision seems to warp as I return to this strange, unfamiliar self. My dark hair has been shorn off unevenly, leaving prickly stubble on my scalp. A dark, swollen line runs around the circumference of my head, just above where my hairline should start. I reach with shaking fingers to touch it. That touch, barely grazing the surface, pries my mouth wide open with pain. I squeeze my eyes shut.



I see them: masked faces, eyes darting nervously. A bright light above me. I'm moving, being moved down a hallway. I want to cry out. Where are they taking me? They're speaking, but I can't hear them.

Then, I see an eye. It's colorful and hangs on a strand of beads. It sways from a rearview mirror. The car smells strongly of air freshener.



I vomit into the sink. The force of it reignites the pain behind my eyes, but my stomach finally feels less queasy. My panting breaths slow and return to normal. When the pain subsides, it's replaced by a flurry of panicked thoughts. Where am I? I'm on a train. How did I get here? I don't remember, but something has happened to me. I was in the hospital. What did they do to me? Oh God, what did they do to me? Why can't I remember?

Who am I? Again, I draw a blank.

Where am I going? I don't know, but this, I think, might be a question I can find the answer to.

I push open the drab curtain over the bathroom window. Outside, a mountain range looms in the distance. We're passing through rolling hills, populated only by the occasional patchwork field or abandoned shed. The train shows no sign of slowing. Who knows how far we are from the next stop? Think. I have to think.

I pick the wig up from the floor. I remember a woman's face, bent toward me through a car door. I think I knew her once. She was concerned, her hands preoccupied with fixing my hair. And there it is again: the beaded eye dangling below the rearview mirror.

I straighten the synthetic bob so that it covers the scar on my scalp. If I'm going to have any chance of getting off this train, I'm going to need to blend in.

When I enter the hall, I feel steadier on my feet. I can do this, I think, as long as I keep my wits about me and try not to catch anyone's attention. With a shiver, I wonder if whoever did this to me—sliced me open and stole my memories—is on the train with me.

I'm at the back of the sleeper car, and behind me is a door that leads from this car to the next. It's plastered with warning stickers: big orange triangles and a miniature train conductor shouting "WATCH YOUR STEP!"

I open the latch and pull until the door slides open. I'm hit with a gust of wind and the deafening sound of metal wheels spinning along the tracks. I look down. My toes hang off the edge of the platform, which is secured to the next train car with a single rattling bolt. I can actually see the train tracks underneath me, now. They move so quickly, it almost looks like they're standing still.

Careful. I step across the gap, feeling the air billow under my skirt. Then I'm safely across and pulling the next door open. This car is louder than the last, with rows of luggage shifting and slamming into each other. And then I see them: two attendants standing stiffly at the back of the car. They both wear official-looking hats embossed with gold and blue buttoned uniforms. Beyond them is a door with a window, and through it I can see that I've reached the end of the train. The tracks stretch out endlessly into the distance.

"Ma'am, you're not supposed to be back here," the older attendant says.

I turn away quickly, stumbling toward the door. I can't let him see my face. What if they're all a part of it? The woman with the cart, the attendants, the passengers... What did they do to me?



"Ma'am?"

My heels click on wet cobblestone. I shiver in the cool night air, street lamps lighting my way toward the alley.

"Ma'am, you left your coat behind!"

I turn and see them, the two officers on the steps outside of the bank entrance. I realize I'm clutching something tight to my chest. Papers, slid over a desk behind a golden grate. Papers I'm not supposed to have. Don't look back. Just keep walking.

Are you listening to me? The voice is sharper and more insistent this time.

Around the corner, I get into a light blue Lincoln. The door clicks shut, and that beaded eye sways back and forth under the rearview mirror. The woman turns back to me. Her eyes are circled with dark spots; she's stayed up late to meet me after my shift. She reaches out a hand and I pass her the papers. She glances over them.

"Is she a regular?" she asks.

I shake my head. "She wanted to open an account, but she had a few bounced checks on her husband's account. I doubt she'll come back."

"It's better that way."

I know her, I swear I do.

"It's going to take me a few weeks," she says.

"I don't have a few weeks, Rose."

Her name is Rose. My Rose.



And then I'm between the train cars again. I grab the wig before it's torn off by the wind. I think I'm beginning to understand what's happening. Bits and pieces of memories are coming back, but fragmented, as if through shattered glass. I shiver at the thought of the incision line on my forehead. Whatever they did to me there is the key to understanding why I'm here, now, on this train hurtling toward an unknown destination. And I've got to figure it out quickly. Before they find me again.

I make it through the sleeper car and get partway through coach before it hits me. Among a bouncing sea of heads—some reading newspapers, some lulled to the side—a little girl is eating a candy bar, and wipes her sticky fingers on the armrest of her seat. My stomach makes a gurgling sound that catches me by surprise. I'm hungry, ungodly hungry. I don't remember the last time I've eaten.

Luckily, the next car after coach is lined with dining booths against the windows. A dusty red carpet runs the length of the car. A waiter in all white sets coffee on the table in front of an elderly couple. They thank him, smiling. Ahead of them, a young man in a suit jacket sits alone, gazing out of the window. At the end of the car is a counter, where the tempting smell of fried food and coffee must be coming from. The cook, a balding man with a belly that hangs over his white, grease-stained apron, pushes two plates of toast and runny eggs across the counter. When I get closer, he gives me a nod.

"Have a seat and Maurice will come take your order."

I straighten up, trying to gather the poise I imagine I should have among the people eating here. "I'll take it to go, please."

He waits, looking at me as if I must be stupid. The silence lasts several seconds. "Well?" he asks, "What do you want?"

I have no idea, but my stomach feels so cavernous that anything will do. I glance at the breakfast plates he's just prepared. "Toast," I say. Toast seems like the safest option.

"Just toast?"

I nod.

"That'll be two sixty-five."

Damn. I left those dollar bills in the sleeper car. I'll have to try something else. "Can you charge it to my room?" I try to swallow the quiver in my voice.

"Oh, you're in a sleeper. Name?"

"Nancy Green."

He eyes me, and I wonder if I've given him the right answer. Then, he jots something down on the order pad in front of him. I take the toast in a napkin, the warm, slightly-burnt smell wafting up and causing my stomach to clench.



"You have to eat something."

I'm no longer in the dining car, but sitting on a couch in a room that smells like coffee and breakfast. Rose sits next to me, her hand resting on my thigh. Beaded curtains are pulled shut so that only lazy late-morning light can reach the glass-topped coffee table and wool carpet. Her place is modest, even though she can afford better. That wouldn't be wise, she's told me, because a single woman with unaccounted-for-income raises eyebrows.

"You're getting too thin," Rose says.

"My mother would be proud. I look like the girls in the magazines now."

Her lips are pressed tightly together. "You're not making this easy."

"How do you think I feel? Nothing about this is easy."

She looks defeated. Then, she says, "The papers are done. As long as no one looks too closely, which they won't, you'll cross into Canada before anyone notices you're missing."

"Will you meet me there?"

She doesn't answer.

"I don't want to go without you," I hear myself say.

She stands and paces over to the window. "Jesus, Elaine. I can't do this with you anymore! You want my help, then you change your mind. I'm putting my neck on the line, and now you want to jeopardize all of it?"

She pushes one of the curtains aside and looks out. She turns back to me, her eyebrows cinched together under several lines of wrinkles. She's dressed in loose-fitting nightclothes, nothing like the pencil dress she wore to pick me up from the bank. Her hair is pulled into a bun, but frizzy strands have escaped her meticulous hands. I don't think she's ever been more beautiful than she is now.

"You're going to get on that train and start over, just like you've always planned. You won't have to worry anymore," she says. "You know that I can't be a part of that life, Elaine."

My name is Elaine. A piece falls into place, and now, I wish I'd never seen this moment. I wish I had forgotten Rose like I'd forgotten the rest of my life.



The glass shatters. The cook stares at me. "Ma'am?"

I've knocked a glass of water from the counter to the floor. Several sets of eyes have raised toward me: passengers in the dining car shaken out of their own dreamlike routines. The elderly woman sitting across from her husband glares, her cup of coffee raised halfway to her lips, furious at my interruption.

"Sorry," I mumble, and dart past the counter and through the door. I've already made too much of a scene. My toast is left forgotten on the counter.

The lounge car is cloudy with cigarette smoke. When I enter, heads above puffy leather lounge chairs pivot toward me, almost in eerie synchronization. A woman with a polka dot neck scarf turns away from her newspaper. Her eyes cut through the smoke. The gentleman next to her puffs on his pipe. They're all looking at me. Oh God, they're all looking at me.



"Elaine, are you listening to me?"

I see his wire-rim glasses through the smoke. He's seated behind his desk, which has a nameplate that reads "Dr. Gerald Fields."

"Sorry," I say. I'm seated in an uncomfortable leather chair across from him. "Yes, I'm listening."

"You understand the risks of this operation, correct?" He doesn't look me in the eyes. He's writing on a pad of paper in front of him, as if our conversation is completely uninteresting to him.

"I read the brochures."

"I know this might be difficult for you, Ms. Thompson," he says. "Have you informed your next of kin?"

I nod, but there's no one to inform. If Mother is still alive, asleep on a couch somewhere with a can of Lucky's Lager, I doubt she'll care that her only daughter has a brain tumor.

"Good," he says. He takes another puff from his pipe. He slides a sheet of paper toward me. It's covered with small text and blank spaces to fill in. "You need to fill in your insurance information here."

"I don't have health insurance," I say. I thought my job at the bank would cover the premiums, but after working there a month, I realized my rent ate up everything but groceries.

He looks up at me now. His face is smooth and expressionless, and his thick black mustache twitches. "Then I expect you've put away a sizable sum in savings, Ms. Thompson. We don't treat many uninsured patients in neurosurgery."

I'm about to shake my head, but think better of it. "Of course," I say. My head aches. Now that I know, I can't help picturing the apricot-sized mass pressing on some lobe or another, I can't remember the name. It makes it hard to think about other things, like how compared to all the investors and lawyers who come through the bank every day, my own savings account is exceptionally sparse. "How soon will I need to pay?"

I'm not sure he believes me, but he returns to writing on his notepad. "After the operation," he says. "In case of any complications. You need to sign here—" he indicates a blank at the bottom of the page "—to confirm your ability to pay for the expenses. Can you do that, Ms. Thompson?"

I hesitate. Then I sign my name above the line.



"Excuse me." A man with a suitcase shoves past me into the lounge car, giving me a look that reminds me of someone who's tasted a bad spot on an apple.

I keep moving forward until I reach the observation car. The wide windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling, displaying the striking landscape like a museum painting. Green hills flatten, peppered with buildings that cluster closer and closer together.

It's clear now, the past and the present, co-existing like trains passing on the tracks for a brief moment. Rose, wrapping me in blankets and pushing me through the fluorescent hospital halls in a wheelchair. It's a miracle that no one stopped us. In the back of her Lincoln, while that beaded eye swayed, she dressed me and straightened the blonde wig to disguise my condition. She spoke to me, looked back at me, but I couldn't hear her. With Nancy Green's papers shoved into my pocket, she helped me onto the train. Just like I had asked her to. No matter what, just like I said.

Now, I think I see her standing at the station, holding onto her hat as the train pulls away.

Far ahead, I can see the shape of a skyline, with towers that reach high into the clouds. This city, I realize, must be the place I intended to reach when I laid out this plan: all of it, before I knew the surgery that saved my life would wipe my memory clean. The train slows its chugging, then screeches to a stop. A few musical notes play through the loudspeaker, and then a fuzzy voice blares:

"Attention, passengers. We are arriving at our last stop in Vancouver, British Columbia. Please check under your seats for any personal belongings and exit the train in an orderly line. Thank you for riding with us."