Chapter 5: Chicago
Ray waits weeks to tell me he’s sending me to live with Aunt Mona in Chicago, and I know why. This allows less time for me to react. Even though I know the news is coming, I’m hurt when he tells me. I fight with him over the decision, but he’s already made up his mind, and there’s no changing it now. He doesn’t want me.
“Look, you love Chicago—you love Aunt Mona. Honestly, Sera, it’ll be more of a treat than you deserve after being grounded so many times this year.” His eyes plead with me to agree.
His statement is true. This, I don’t argue.
Even with my heartache, I’m not completely put off by the thought of living with Aunt Mona. I’ve spent time with her in the past. And, as Mom’s older sister, she’s the closest thing I have to knowing my mom. Ray claims they’re nothing alike, and I wonder about the truth of that statement. Mona doesn’t bear any resemblance to me. But how different can she really be? They are—were sisters.
Although I don’t show Ray, the thought of getting to know her better raises my spirits. In my mind, I resolve to soak up every moment with her, just as if she were my own mother. Sadly, I find myself reaching for anything that will let me hang on to my mom. I tell myself this is normal. I need someone to hang on to, even if that person is gone.
For Ray, I pretend to be overwrought with anxiety—but just for fun. It seems an appropriate farewell gift for him. He believes I have “teen angst.” I’m happy to oblige. The new arguments I create give me more face time with him. And extra time is better than no time.
•
The day after New Year’s, I pack one suitcase. It contains all my warmest clothes. Still, they won’t be warm enough for Chicago’s Siberian winter.
We drive west on the Dolphin Turnpike toward Miami International Airport. I recline my seat, stare out the window, and focus on the perfect cerulean-blue sky. In my mind, I say my farewells, but not to the city. I didn’t live here long enough to grow attached, but I do enjoy the weather. The beaming sun, the palm trees—I relish them for now. I’m committing these images to my memory for later when I’m freezing in Chicago. Soon enough, I know I’ll need them.
At the airport, Ray checks me in at the reservation counter. He gives me an awkward pat on the back and kisses me on the forehead. Even though I crave his affections, they don’t feel right when I receive them. They feel forced.
“Try to be on your best behavior, Sera. I really would appreciate it. I don’t want Mona to think I’m a complete failure at keeping you under control.” He gives a weak smile.
I think he’s happy to get rid of me. Now, nothing will distract him from Maddi. “I’ll make sure she knows you’re the best dad in the whole world.” My smile is overly bright, and my face scrunches with emphasis.
He cringes at my facetious comment.
“Really, Dad, you’re the best. I’ll be on my best behavior.” I look down at the floor, guilty. This is the last thing I can offer him, my last shot at redemption in his eyes. I want him to ask me to stay, but I know he won’t.
“All right, then.” The smile on his face makes it seem as though he appreciates the gesture, but it still isn’t enough. “Go jump in the security line. Call me when you get to Mona’s. Have a good trip.” He nods, then pushes back on his heels and turns to walk away.
•
Three nauseating hours of flying later, I arrive at Midway Airport. I’m not sure if I feel sick because I hate flying or because I’m leaving Ray. Either way, I’m depressed.
When I finally make my way to baggage claim, the conveyer belt never spits out my sticker-covered luggage. The empty carousel makes several rotations as I watch in horror.
Sadly, my only possessions now are the clothes on my back. My cell phone, winter coat, clothing, the boy’s photograph, and Eliza’s bracelet and photo are lost in travel limbo. My nose burns, threatening tears for the last few items. I hold my fingers to the bridge between my eyes and squeeze them away.
With the waterworks pushed back, I become angry with myself. What a stupid thing for me to do, leaving the bracelet and photographs in my suitcase! What was I thinking? Annoyed, I pinch my lips together.
I spend an hour with the airline’s baggage recovery. The snarky woman behind the counter informs me that my bag’s whereabouts are unknown. In the end, I walk away seething and head off for my next connection.
After a long, freezing walk to the L train, a single seat remains in the last car. I wedge myself into it. I lean away from the large woman next to me and push myself against the fingerprint-covered plastic wall on my left.
The train takes off, wheels screeching below us.
With the train doors directly across from me, freezing cascades of air assault me at every stop when commuters enter and exit. I shiver, shoving my bare hands farther up into my long-sleeve cardigan, wishing for my winter coat. My teeth chatter.
Just a few more stops.
I glance over my shoulder out the window. The city grows larger on the horizon. Gray fog wraps the building tops. To forget my gloomy surroundings, I close my eyes and meditate on thoughts of the Miami weather. Maybe I’ll feel warmer if I pretend hard enough.
Just as I’m about to relax on my imaginary beach, a grumbling, singsong noise disturbs my dream. I open my eyes to see a filthy bum charge through the adjoining car’s door. He stumbles and falls with a thud at my feet. Commuters glance over at the man, but they quickly avert their eyes.
The bum lies on his back and breathes heavily. He laughs as though he’s the only one here, and his throaty singing begins again. A pungent smell of alcohol and garbage permeate his stained clothing, tweaking my senses. I want to pinch my nose to block the stench, but that just seems rude.
The man rolls over and clumsily hauls his overweight body from the metal floor. That’s when his eyes meet mine. He coughs wretchedly in my direction. I recoil, covering my face, but he takes his time to look me over. The doors open behind him. Freezing air rushes in. Commuters exit swiftly. The bum steadies himself.
“Wanderin’ without yer coat, are ya?” he asks in an accent I can’t place. He laughs hoarsely and wipes his runny nose on his sleeve.
The bum turns away and mumbles something. It sounds like, “Looks jes’ like me.” I’m not sure if I hear him correctly through his snot-covered words because I’m positive we look nothing alike.
Thankfully, his interest in me is fleeting. This relieves me and I relax, leaning my head back against the glass. Through a sideways glance, I watch the bum move on. His large body fumbles by annoyed riders. He grabs the car’s poles for support when the train jolts. With unsure footing, he stumbles off into the next car. When he does, I swear I hear a strangely familiar voice say, “Hel-loo, Francis.”
The train jerks again, bringing me back to reality. I realize I’ve missed my station. “Ahh! Stupid old man,” I mumble. After a moment, I relax and remind myself that I can get out at the next station.
The train screams around a bend in the rail. I jump up early to stand at the doors. The train shudders to a halt. When the doors unfold, not only does the bitter cold hit me, but I also get an elbow-jab to the lip from someone who rushes past me from behind. The collision sends me flying through the doorway and onto the train platform’s floor. I look to see the direction I know they’ve gone, but only freshly embossed footprints trail away toward the stairs.
Shocked, I lie in freezing snow. When I roll over on my back, exiting commuters trudge around me. Not one person offers to help me up. I’m invisible to them too.
The train doors slam shut, and the car screeches away. Rolling onto my knees, I push myself from the freezing floor with my numb, bare hands.
Three symmetrical drops of blood fall to the snow. I reach for my lip and run my fingertip over a gash. “Perfect!” I growl to myself and wipe my bloody mouth with my cardigan cuff.
This might be my worst day—ever.
My journey continues through the slush-covered city streets
toward my next train connection. The relentless wind whips powdery snow through my hair and into my face, making my skin numb and my eyes dry and irritated.
Every so often, I dab my cuff to my lip, but the blood has stopped oozing. It’s probably a frozen scab by now.
Tired of my chattering teeth, I take a detour through the Marshall Fields building. Inside, tourists blissfully absorb all nine floors of shopping while I walk through, attempting to regain feeling in my body. I’m tempted to stop and shop, knowing it will improve my mood, but Mona will be worried if I don’t show up soon.
Reluctantly, I exit the department store onto State Street. After treading past commuters’ bundled shapes, I duck into the entrance for the underground L, being careful not to slip on the slushy stairs. Below the street’s surface, the temperature is just as cold, but at least the wind isn’t blowing.
Sterile tiles cover the station walls. Buzzing fluorescent lights, with their putrid glow, suck the color out of every passing face. Colors here are bleak and depressing, the complete opposite of Miami. It will take some getting used to.
I stop at a glass-encased map to find the correct train platform. When my bare finger slides along the red line route, a reflection in the glass catches my interest, so I turn to confront it.
A million shimmering flakes float from a nearby darkened hallway. At first, they roll gently into the cold air and then faster as the seconds pass. Each particle finds a spot, but not on the floor as I expect. I watch, fascinated by their mysterious beauty, as the molecules solidify into a solid framework—a shape. Now that I see what they form, I’m confused and scared.