Twenty-four hours later Isabel is sitting on a train.
Why is my heart beating so goddamned fast? I’ve been taking the train for as long as I can remember. This is a piece of cake: there’s no room for error, really. I’m in, I’m out. So why do I feel faint?
“This is the 2:10 train to Grand Central. The 2:10 to Grand Central.” The conductor’s loud voice is a vise tightening on her stomach walls.
Jesus. Maybe I’m not ready after all. This is happening so fast.
“Going all the way in?” The conductor is standing in the aisle clicking his hole punch impatiently.
“Excuse me?” Isabel tears her head away from the station that is rapidly shrinking in the distance.
“Going to Grand Central, miss?”
“Oh. Yes.”
“That’s $5.75.”
Isabel fumbles for her wallet and feels confused searching through the bills.
Should I give him a twenty or a ten? Maybe I’ll need change once I get into the city. I do have exact change but maybe I should hold on to the smaller bills.
“Miss? That’s $5.75 please.”
Isabel nervously hands him the twenty.
“You got anything smaller?” The conductor is annoyed at having to change the bill.
“No. Sorry,” Isabel lies.
He sighs and hands her back the change and moves on to the next passenger. Isabel realizes she has been holding her breath. She exhales.
Calm down. Calm down.
Forty minutes later the voice booms through the cars: “Grand Central Station. This is Grand Central Station, folks. Last stop.” Isabel tightens her grip on her purse straps, which have remained on her shoulder for the entire ride.
“Grand Central Station.” The voice is echoing in her brain as she follows the crowd of people up the platform into the main terminal. Once there Isabel stops and looks around as if she is seeing the monumental structure for the first time.
I look like a tourist from Iowa wandering through Times Square. All that’s missing is that ugly coin purse thing that straps around my waist. Has there always been an echo in here? I never noticed it before.
Isabel inches through the bustling station toward the door she is most accustomed to using. At the Vanderbilt Avenue exit taxis wait for commuters, and at this hour in the afternoon there is a long line of hungry drivers.
I have plenty of time. I don’t know why I took such an early train. Maybe I should save money and take the subway. A cab would be ridiculously expensive. I’ve got time.
She checks her watch for the sixth time.
Right now they’re in afternoon group, she thinks as she goes back in to the station and follows the signs for the subway. She has not taken into account that she is unfamiliar with this particular subway line. Her confusion is magnified.
Calm down. Calm down.
The subway map, with its colorful maze of lines, blurs together.
Jesus. I don’t know where I am. Where am I on this map? Okay, calm down. I can do this. I take the subway all the time.
The deafening sound of an approaching train drowns out Isabel’s thinking. Passengers pushing through the turnstiles and running past her to jump on board make her head hurt. A sense of urgency surges through her. She steps onto the train.
“Excuse me, sir? Is this the four or six northbound?”
The man looks the other way and pretends not to hear her. Isabel’s panic increases as the doors shut and the train picks up speed.
“Excuse me, is this the four or the six northbound?” she asks a well-dressed woman.
“What? No. This is the six express downtown. The next stop is Police Plaza.” The woman sounds indignant.
She thinks I’m a mental patient. She knows I’m staying at a mental hospital. Oh, God, I’ve got to get off this train. Stop! Stop the train!
Isabel’s frantic eyes search the map bolted to the door of the subway car.
Jesus, how do I get out of here?
The train lurches back and forth as it snakes through the underground canals. Isabel hangs on to the strap above her, but with each jarring motion her arm pulls out of her shoulder socket. Instead she grips the greasy bar in front of her.
Focus. Focus. Once I get downtown what line am I going to take?
“Next stop, City Hall. City Hall next stop.” But the announcement is warbled and all Isabel can pick up are the words stop and hall.
The train slows as it pulls along the dimly lit platform. City Hall signs are emblazoned every few feet along the way.
When the doors open Isabel gets off the train and feels herself jostled by the other passengers hurrying to get off before the doors close and the train heads across to Brooklyn.
For a few moments, Isabel stands completely still, clinging to her purse.
What do I do?
The platform empty, she follows signs for the exit. Her footsteps echo as she carefully makes her way through the darkened tunnels to the turnstiles. The smell of urine and cigarettes increases her sense of frightened isolation.
Nearing the end of the tunnel Isabel sees sunlight streaming down a dirty staircase. She breaks into a run.
The sun makes her bare arms tingle after the dampness of the underground corridor. She hails a cab and gratefully climbs inside.
“Central Park West and Ninety-sixth, please.”
“It’s so good to see you, Isabel!” Mona presses her hands together in a prayer position and beams at her patient.
Isabel takes one step into her therapist’s office and bursts out crying.
Mona guides Isabel toward the couch. Silently, she strokes Isabel’s back and waits for her to speak.
“I can’t do it” is all Isabel can squeak in between breaths. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“Okay, first take a few deep breaths,” Mona says. “Deep breath. Good. That’s good. Now. Can you tell me what happened?”
The words come tumbling out. “I got so turned around. I got lost. Everything’s so crazy here. I used to love this city. I knew my way around backward and forward. I’ve forgotten everything. I don’t belong here anymore. I shouldn’t have come.”
“I can imagine how scary this must have been for you. Keep in mind, you’ve been at Three Breezes for about a month. That is quite a different, very controlled environment. New York can be overwhelming to anyone, Isabel.”
Isabel’s heart slows down with each deep breath. Mona’s voice soothes her.
I’m okay. I’m okay.
“The bottom line is, you made it!”
“So now it’s a triumph simply to arrive at my destination?” she sniffs.
“Yes. For today, for what you’ve been through these past few weeks—it’s a triumph.” Mona motions to the Kleenex, which Isabel dutifully uses.
“Do you want to talk about Three Breezes?”
Isabel vehemently shakes her head as she blows her nose.
“Well, we have to start somewhere—so I wonder, have you been able to think about the Alex question? Why you’ve stayed with him?”
They had worked on it nearly every session for months before Three Breezes as if it were a riddle: why—how—does someone stay with someone who hurts her?
Isabel looks up from the balled-up Kleenex in her hand. She remembers her mother’s words: you have to love yourself, Isabel. Suddenly it is clear.
“Because I hated myself…” She trails off for a moment and then begins again. “I didn’t hate myself because I stayed with him. I stayed with him because I hated myself. How could I have expected anyone to treat me well when I wasn’t treating myself well?”
Isabel let the words wrap around her like a fluffy hotel robe. For a brief flash she sees her life as an outsider would see it.
“That’s it.” Isabel hears a rushing sound in her ears. “I figured it out. It’s so simple.”
“It’s a beginning, that’s for certain,” Mona smiles. “The big question is do you still hate yourself?”
She looks Mona straight in the eye. “No. I don’t believe I do.”
The sound of a breakthrough.