The Evening Train | Christopher R.A. Adams
“Mr. Ross is silent.” He had been like that since he came into hospice care; Helen claimed he didn’t even chew or cough. I thought she was being mean. Still, that was the only care instruction on his sheet: “Mr. Ross is silent,” and I hadn’t visited his room yet. Those four words repeated in my head as I approached his door with his dinner: sweaty, bland meat, bleached mashed potatoes, and a pre-opened pudding cup rumbling on a cart with a dozen siblings.
I knocked softly and waited for an answer. (I am not sure why; he was silent—he wouldn’t have said a word.)
“Hurry, Helen! I don’t have all day.” I froze, but Mr. Ross came to the door to thaw me.
“Oh, you’re not Helen,” he apologized with a slightly bowed head. “Still! Come be quick, please.” He opened the door wide enough for the whole cart, but I only took the tray with his name.
The room was stark white. The only reprieve was a TV, which the patient had left off, and two cheap photography prints: one was of a beach that no one who entered that room ever got to see in person, and the other was of a forest infested with lumberjacks. His bed was tidy, and the rolling tray beside it held his keys, wallet, and wintergreen mints. Only dust had touched these items in the three weeks the patient had been here.
“You can keep that,” he pointed at the tray, “I don’t have time for that. Thank you.” He waved his hands, casting the tray away with a spell, and turned towards the visitor’s chair where an ancient leather case yawned.
“You need to eat, Mr. Ross,” I insisted as he fiddled with the items in his case: four pairs of pants, the same number of shirts and briefs, a bag of toiletries, a knife from ‘Nam, and a photo album. “No, no. I have a train to catch. And for that price, there better be a meal.”
I decided to investigate, so I could update his care comments: “They don’t allow knives on public transport.”
He shrugged and put a Walkman in the case. “Maybe… it’s all new to me, so I’ll take anything I might need.” He locked the case, then turned with a saggy smile and nudged his glasses up.
“Where’s the train going?” Was this an old memory shoving its way to the surface?
Another shrug. “I’m not sure. It’s going west, that I know. But I hope spring is nice there; if not, I’ll come back here in March whether they like it or not.” He paused. “I never liked trains.”
“Where’s here?” I asked, ready for another mental note. He gave me an are-you-stupid look and pointed down. When I looked up from where he pointed, he was wiping his cheeks and apologized. “The train has me stressed.”
Mr. Ross turned away and began carefully verifying every photo in the album he kept in the suitcase. On the cover was an old woman with a gap in her teeth. “Who’s that?” I asked.
“That’s my Suzy, my sunflower. She’s out West. I’m going to meet her there.” As he flipped through, I caught glimpses of trees, flowers, and birds: not a single human except Suzy the sunflower.
“Why those pictures? Why no family or friends?”
“They’re all out west now; I suppose I fell behind. I’ll see them with my eyes, so I don’t need photos anymore. But I don’t know if they have trees out that way. Or if they’re green and dance in the spring breeze? Or if they are full of life? Do the birds nest in them, and the critters call their bark their home? I’m bringing the photos just in case they’re different, so I can remember what a lively tree is like.”
I was still trying to assemble every detail for my notes later when he looked at my tray. “You’re very good at talking; you’ve got me distracted. My train will be leaving at any time, and my family is expecting me. Please leave the meal if you must, and I will go.” He zipped his case
and hung his glasses on his collar. I was hesitant. I didn’t need another escaped patient. But he waved at the tray again, and I decided to go along with it.
As I turned, he took up his case and entered his bed, shoes and all. He called out to my back, “Close the door too, it’ll be here any time.” I agreed. I put the tray down, pulled the door’s whistling hinges shut, and the wheels of my cart trollied on to the next patient.
about the author:
Christopher R.A. Adams is a non-binary writer based in Nebraska. They hold a BA in English and Professional Writing, and their nonfiction has been nominated for the Dean Joseph H. Cash Award for Excellence in Writing. This is their first published piece.