Train Room

As I walk down the stairs so familiar to me, my innards coil around and around into tight springs. My lungs cry out as if I have denied them air for far too long. I grab at the loose railing… a reminder that he is gone… in order to wrestle down the feeling of dread eating at my insides.

I take a deep breath and think back to all of the other times I have rocketed down these stairs, filled to the exploding point with joy and anticipation. I had waited a year to get back into that room and now the wait was over. Kali and I don’t wait at the bottom of the stairs; we shoot around the sharp corner and into the train room. One of us hits the “duck under bridge” but we don’t wait to see it settle back into place. My fingers already foaming over the vast control panel, tapping little screws together, thrilled by their faint clicking sounds. Kali is behind me atop a tall stool starring intently at the miniature fisherman. We look up as grandpa stoops low under the bridge. He looks down at us and his lips pull his baggy skin all the way up to his ears.

“Where shall we travel today? Should we go all the way to Calgary, for a scenic tour around the Canadian Rockies, or up and around the double spiral tunnels?” he asks. However he already knows the answer, we want it all! He smiles again and tells us to pick our trains.

I pause before the door, resting my head against the wall, thinking of all the things I would rather do instead of rounding that corner (it is a long list). Once I round the corner there will be no more denying it. No more waiting for grandpa to heave himself from the great leather chair that seems to swallow him whole. No more laughing at the abundance of toast he makes and can’t persuade anyone to eat. No more…

I take one more deep breath and hold it down, so it won’t hitch in my throat on the way out. Then placing one foot in front of the other I round the corner.

I bend my head to avoid bashing it on the bridge, and then realize there is no bridge left to hit. There is just a small rubber duck pinned to the wall, hung by the neck, murdered like the rest of the room. The first thing that hits me is the smell; it smells like mold, must and death. It used to smell like the plaster, glue and metal used to construct the train room. As I stare in stunned silence, I realize I can’t call it that any more.

                Vancouver has been ripped to shreds, train tracks pulled off, all of the buildings have been removed, lighter patches disrupt the gravel where they used to sit. A few stray wood slivers lay abandoned in the middle of the town; they must have fallen out of the lumber house.

                I slowly pivoted to face the double spiral tunnels, sick to my stomach with the thought of the mutation of the glorious mountain. All of Calgary is missing, the train yard has disappeared; I wonder briefly, where the little fisherman has gone. I take a new, odd path straight across the room, instead of taking the normal path, to the left of Calgary.

The face of the mountain is gone; all that is left is a half-spiraled train track, sticking out of the wall like a wilted flower out of an old vase and a broken section of the hill on the right side. I again escape into my memories, not wanting to see the horrible murder of the mountain any longer.

                Kali and I rush over to Calgary’s train yard and start fighting over who is going to use what train. I want to use the shiny passenger train, and then I see she has found a shinier black train with about a thousand train cars in it. Just the thought of all of those cars turning around and round in the tunnels makes me giddy. I give her a shove sideways and claim that one as mine. Grandpa sits over by the control panel, waiting patiently for us to select our trains.

Once we have fought, bargained and thieved our way to the trains we want we rush over and grandpa carefully places our trains on the appropriate tracks. He stands behind our bouncing bodies and carefully points out and explains exactly what we need to. K, I got it I think, a "click click" here, flip that switch an few times and then figure out how to make all of the train whistles sound.

Kali and I reach out and start flipping switches, clicking the relays, and trying to make the whistle blow. Grandpa, ever so patient, reaches out and helps us to correct our mistakes. Then! The trains are off! Kali and I race around; halting at each red light with our trains, craning our necks up as far as possible and wishing we were taller, so we could see our trains better as they climb up the hills to the mountain.

As our trains reach the double spiral, mountain tunnel we both drop to the floor so fast you would think we were on fire. Then crawl forwards, ignoring the light scratches and burns being inflicted on our skin by the harsh carpet. We finally reach our destination and pop up just as our trains enter inside the mountain. We pivot around slowly, giggling with pure joy as it makes a half circle before exiting the inner mountain. Dropping to the floor and jumping up on the other side, we catch the tail end of the train as it enters into the mountain again. We drop and pop, watching it spiral its way out of the mountain.

All of that is gone though….

I slowly pivot around in place, deciding not to try and hide the truth any more, it is all gone, everything. The far right wall, where the extra trains once sat in near rows under the track that propelled the train to the bridge, is empty, there is nothing left at all, years of work and joy pulled away. I can feel the violent pulls used to remove all of the country side, tugging at my stomach, making me want to fold into a ball on the floor and disappear, travel back.

All of the trains that once stood proud and magnificent in the middle of the room were stuffed into boxes and tossed to the ground to be taken way. I drop to my knees in front of them and run my hand over the dust coated, abandoned trains. Knowing they are so much more than trains, but they will just be trains to the next person. I pause with my hand over a single black engine picking it up gingerly, cradling it to my chest, thinking that if I held it close enough it might take way the pain, it doesn’t.

“Hannah? Are you down there?” someone shouts, followed by the clomping of shoes traveling down the stairs.

I jump up, engine still in my hand, my eyes rising too meet those of the intruder, it is my cousin.

“Hey, we were going to go to the funeral home to make some last minute arrangements, do you want to come?” He asked.

“Sure” I breathe my reply. Mike comes over and places his arm around my shoulder before turning to go back upstairs.

I move to follow him, numb to my core, and realize I can’t, I can’t move, I can’t even comprehend the thought of moving, I can’t accept it, I can’t, it is not fair…

No, NO! I scream in my head. It is not fair, not fair at all, this should not have happened! He should not have died! They should not have been allowed to touch this room, what would he think if he could seen what has become of it! It is not fair, this is who is his… was... it was not theirs to murder, manipulate, destroy! Not theirs, not theirs, not theirs, not….The tears stream down my face, drip to my chest and roll under my shirt, leaving dark stains where there should be none. This room is his; there is no justice in what has been done here, none.

“Hannah, you coming?” calls Mike.

I make my feet move, make them take me away from this horror, this abomination. I move out the door, not bothering to bend down, not looking at the hung duck, not looking back. I walk up the stairs and round the corner.

There is no denial left for me, no more places left to hide from the truth, no more. I round the corner and ram right into the harsh truth. Grandpa, Dudley is gone, he is dead and they have taken the train room. Taken it so it can go with him, it was his, and he is gone, why should it stay.