The Hall of Mothers

Hell is not a place, but a series of missed chances.

Paths not taken.

Mistakes that cut too deep.

Hell is regret so sharp it burrows into your marrow until your bones are hollow and aching.

I can tell you, because I’m there.

I don’t have a ticket stub, but I do have a death certificate.

It’s framed in cheap plastic and hanging on the cheap wall above the cheap plastic bench seat. Hell is tacky. But the train speeds on. It’s fast, and it never stops.

My small compartment is somehow humid and dry at the same time. Recycled air. So stale it sticks in my throat. I thought thirty-three was too young to die. I was wrong.

My skin has been slicked with sweat since I’ve been here, but it’s still cracking. The tips of my fingers are raw, and my toes are bloody.

You might be wondering how I got here. Me too.

I’ll tell you what I know. So maybe you can escape the same fate.

I wake up to a rocking motion.

Disoriented, like being pulled in an undertow and not knowing which way is up or down. I gasp, my hands clawing at my throat until I suck down a lungful of air.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light, the smell hits me. Musty carpet and cigarette smoke.

Did we have a trip planned, and I don't remember it?

I push open a tattered, dingy curtain to look out the window and blink slowly when the scene hits me.

I’m looking at me. In my own living room.

My hair is shorter. My older daughter, playing on the floor, is only three, so this had to be around five years ago.

Slowly, the sound filters in. A cartoon is on the background. I’m on my computer. I remember this period of life. I was a freelance writer constantly pitching articles, refreshing my email, just trying to make some extra cash. I hear Ella’s voice, and it crushes me. I think I just saw her…yesterday? I can’t remember. But I miss her with the beauty of a dying star.

“Momma,” she says in the window. “Momma, play with me.”

“In a few minutes. I can’t right now.”

“Momma, please.” It sounds like peas.

“I said, I can’t,” I snap. “In a little bit.”

The me in the window can’t see it because my eyes are glued to my computer. But the me on the train sees Ella’s eyes. The way they shudder. Her little lips pulling in as she goes back to stacking blocks by herself.

Why didn’t I put my phone away?

The train lurches.

I grab the ratty curtain and slide it shut, but the fabric tears off the cheap metal rings.

The scene in the window changes.

My husband is slumped over the kitchen counter, exhaustion lining his eyes. The smell wafts through the window. He’d just made cookies with Ella.

“I’m doing this for us,” I hear myself say. “So that we’ll have some extra money.”

“I’d rather have less money and more time with you,” he says, but I’m not listening, my eyes already darting back to my computer.

“Celine. If we spend all our time working for a better life without focusing on us, we won’t have a relationship worth having by the time that actually happens.”

“Just give me twenty minutes,” I say. My words are so sharp I feel them slice across my wrist in the train car. I look down. There’s no blood.

I’m shaking now. I let him down.

Scene after scene plays out in the window.

My second daughter as a newborn, crying in her crib as I try to get the house clean.

Why did I care? Didn’t I know how fast that baby stage would pass?

My best friend calling, and I hit ignore so I can keep scheduling posts for social media. When I finally call her back, the toddler has pooped on the floor, Ella is asking for a snack, and a calendar alert pops up with a deadline reminder. I can see the anxiety etched in the lines around my eyes, feel the ghost of anxiety clenching my chest in the train car.

“Are you doing okay?” my best friend asks.

“Great!” I lie. Why did I lie? She wouldn’t have judged me. I watch as I hang up the call with trembling fingers and tears leak out.

The train keeps speeding on, and my eyes go hazy as I watch these moments play out. All the opportunities missed, all the work I focused on when life kept trying to get in the way. Why didn’t I let it? Life is supposed to get in the way. When did I let my priorities shift? I sob into my hands, wishing I could hold those baby cheeks in my palms again. Wishing I could go back, put my computer away, and play with my nine-year-old. Kiss my husband. Hug my best friend and tell her the truth. That I was struggling. That I put money over memories.

A ding plays over the intercom, followed by static. I look up, startled, and see a piece of paper framed on the wall. I peer closer. A death certificate with my name on it.

“Welcome to our newest passenger, Misty Fahed,” a tinny voice says over the intercom. “The Hall of Mothers invites you to sit back, relax, and enjoy your journey into Hell. It's going to be a long ride.”

I thought thirty-three was too young to die. But hell has taught me that I was already dying a little bit each day. I just didn’t take the time to value the moments ticking away. I told myself the same lie every night. “Tomorrow, I’ll do better.” But I never did. Now, this is all I have. A window to my every regret. I don’t know how I died, or even how long I've been gone. And it doesn’t really matter.

I push to my feet on unsteady legs, suddenly desperate for someone to talk to. I try the rusted handle, expecting it to be locked, but it opens easily, albeit with a creak that echoes in the empty chamber of my heart. I peer down the narrow, dim hallway. The Hall of Mothers is impossibly long, wending out of my sightline. Door after door of Mothers looking on the regrets of their life, all of us wishing we would have known better. Done better. Longing for the do-over we'll never get. We don't have a chance, but you do.

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