For 25 years, my parents have lived together, out in the country, in a house 1.5 miles away from the railroad tracks. Victoria had lived there her whole life. We had to cross the tracks to get anywhere, practically: to school, to town, to friends' houses. Every day. It was a nuisance often, because about 1 out of every 7 times you crossed them, you'd have to wait on a train. Occasionally, you'd have to wait on a train that had stopped on the tracks, blocking the crossing. I know their house is 1.5 miles from the tracks, because I've tracked it for running purposes: a trail from my parents' house to the church nestled next to the railroad crossing. I realize now that I never once continued my run up to the train tracks. Never actually crossed them, on foot, though I believe I did maybe once or twice on bike. Rarely can I recall being near them without being in a car. They always gave me the spooks.
A boy who used to ride the bus with me, Patrick, was killed on those same tracks, at the crossing northeast of the one by our houses. It was near Christmas, and he was with his sister or sister-in-law and her three kids. It was icy, and I don't know quite how it happened, but their car got stuck on the tracks, and a train came. His sister made it out, along with one of her daughters. She told Patrick to get the two other kids from their car seats in the backseat. Of the three, none escaped before the train hit. That happened after we had graduated high school, but the effects of it were haunting for me. Patrick and I weren't close, we just knew each other and were friendly. He was a nice guy, and he'd always reminded me of a character with the same name in Louis Sachar's Wayside Stories collections.
I am almost positive I'd told Victoria about what happened to him. I often thought about it as I crossed those tracks. The newspaper wrote that he died a hero, which is true. I thought about his sister: what she must have gone through, what she must still be going through to this day.
When my sister said that Tori had stepped in front of a train, I knew what that meant, but I couldn't believe it. It didn't ring true. I told my husband we had to go to my parents' house and repeated, word for word, what Jessica had said to me. My husband started getting dressed, and I, frantic, wanted to rush him. Instead, I grabbed a shirt and a pair of jeans and tried to calm down. I wanted to panic and scream, but I concentrated on planning, on thinking rationally. A long sleeve shirt, here's some jeans. These shoes will go with it. I'll change out of my pajamas later.
We got into the car, I texted my boss to say I wasn't coming into work today, family emergency, and Jeff drove us out to my parents', a 25 minute drive. We didn't talk for almost all of the drive. Nearing the first turn to their house, I said, Jeff, I don't feel anything. And he asked me what I meant, and I said I feel numb. How do you feel? I asked. He said he didn't know, that he didn't know what to feel, that he didn't like his thoughts and asked me, what exactly it was that Victoria did. Was it like in Infinite Jest, he asked. I struggled to recall the plotline where characters would jump across a train and try not to get hit. The Wheelchair Assassins. No. I said slowly. No, I think it means she committed suicide. And he breathed out and said "Jesus." And as we rounded that first turn to my parents' house, we saw police lights at the railroad crossings. My heart started pounding. What I recall feeling most was scared. Scared to go any further. To learn any more.
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