DECEMBER 4

The doctor said if I try to do something while I'm on the train it won't be so bad--the anxiety that is. I'm on the train now, and I don't know if this is helping. Dr. Winters said I should keep this journal. She also said I should try to do something on the train, like reading or knitting, because it is worse on the train. So, I'm writing in my journal. I don't think that it's helping. This girl with a big fat ass just sat next to me, and we're going over the bridge. Oh my god, the girl with the big fat ass can see what I'm writing. I think I should stop now. She must know she has a big ass. I can hardly fit in my seat because she's taking up half.

We're almost over the bridge. If I can keep writing until we're in the station, I'll be fine. The bridge is really the worst part of the ride. I usually have to close my eyes. But when I close my eyes, all I see is the mass of steel and concrete under the bridge giving way to gravity. All I can think about is what the dirty water of the river will feel like as it enters my lungs, squeezing out the last remaining molecules of fresh air, the bacteria and raw sewage that floats and sinks in the Charles invading my body. Then as my body rots, ducks and other water fowl and the three-eyed fish that live in the river will eat my floating flesh as it falls from my bones.

The girl with the big ass has moved her seat. We're pulling into Charles. I still have six stops to go before my station but I think that this is enough for one day.

DECEMBER 11

I'm waiting for the train now at Wollaston, writing in shorthand. That way no one can read what I'm writing. I'm in one of those clear plastic shelters. The cold digs into my fingers as I write. There's a man in here with me. He's wearing a leather coat and smells like cigarettes. He must have a cold because he keeps sniffing and spitting out the door. His spit is turning into tiny ice packs on the cement platform. I have to keep scribbling on the side of the page so that the ink won't freeze in my pen. I can hear the hum of the approaching train. I'm afraid to leave the plastic shelter, though. Spit could hit me. The oncoming train could hit me. I could fall off the platform and be fried by the third rail. The train is getting closer, and I can feel my heart beating against my wool coat.

Mother bought me this coat. It's nice, but not warm enough today. The train is pulling into the station. The high-pitched squeal of the brakes seems to bounce around in my skull. That's what it feels like since Mother's gone, like my head is empty. When a thought comes into my head, it is usually about her, and that makes me cry.

The train forces the wind into the shelter. Another layer of cold hits my face. The spitting man gets up to board the hissing train. I make sure that I get on a different car.

I've found a seat. This is one of the gray trains that look like a bullet inside and out. The floor looks something like the cover of my notebook, black and white and squiggly. The rest of the car is gray. I sit in the corner. It's one of those single seats. I'll be alone for the rest of the ride. I'll read my book today. It's one of those romance books. There's a picture of a girl running away from a castle on the cover. I wonder what it's like to run away.

DECEMBER 18

My doctor's name is Polly Winters. She's a psychiatrist. I don't think that her name sounds very encouraging, though. Polly Winters, many winters, endless winter, no chance of renewal, no hope. I think she should have it changed. She probably won't though. My brother Jim told me to go see her. I work for Jim. He's a roofer and I run his office. We don't get many clients in the office, but he said that it wasn't good when the person who answered the phone was crying all the time. He said that people would think that the roofs he built would leak with all that weeping. So I took some time off, and I'm trying to get some help.

Dr. Winters told me to put some personal information into my journal. She said that little things that were bothering me, like the train and the crying, wouldn't go away until I faced the big things. She doesn't say much. For $80 an hour I thought she'd say more, but she wants me to talk most of the time. I can't ask her any questions either. She always answers with "What do you think?" or "That's up to you, Donna."

She drinks a lot of tea. Lemon, I think. That's a diuretic. I wonder why she never has to pee during our 50-minute session. I know I would.

Dr. Winters asked me to move my appointment from three to four. I got out of her office at five and now the train is really crowded with commuters. The train screams louder with more people on it, like it takes more effort to go down the track. The standing people rock back and forth as the train winds around the curved steel of the track. At least I have a seat. I know that I'd fall if I had to stand. I can feel 20,000 volts moving into the train from the third rail. The current comes through the floor and into my feet. Even though my feet are big, I can't trust them under the influence of the electric ions. I'm glad I don't have to stand today.

There's this bald guy standing right in front of me, his legs wide apart like John Wayne. His hair is cropped real close to his head and he's not wearing a hat. He's got one of those puffy jackets, unzipped. He's reaching up to hold onto the rail. The corner of his jacket sways closer to my face with the rhythm of the train. He's wearing this tie. It has little brown dogs on a blue background. Each little dog has a bone in its mouth. The guy's crotch is right in my face. I don't want to look, but it is right there. He's not exposing himself, but his hardness shows through his cotton slacks, and he's reading the Wall Street Journal. I can't imagine that anything in the Wall Street Journal would make someone aroused. The man with the dog tie moves to another part of the car.

Next week is Christmas. I don't have an appointment for the next two weeks, but Dr. Winters said to call if I needed to talk.

JANUARY 9

For Christmas I cooked a big turkey for Jim and Buddy. Buddy works for Jim and doesn't have a family. He's a little slow. I think that it's because Jim makes him work with all the chemicals, like the adhesive for rubber roofs. Jim says Buddy was born that way. Buddy's a good guy, though. He bought me some perfume, Windsong, something he found at the drugstore. Janey, Jim's lady friend, usually spends holidays with us, but she went home to her folks down in Pennsylvania. I don't know why.

I made it through all of Christmas day without an outburst. Jim calls them outbursts. I even took back the things that Jim and I had bought for Mother. That was hard. A spark just came out of the wheels. I always think that we've hit a rodent or something on the track when that happens.

JANUARY 16

I have been sleeping between 18 and 20 hours a day. It feels good to sleep. When I'm not sleeping, I walk by the ocean. The beach down the street from my house usually smells of low tide. I like the stiffness of the winter sand beneath my feet. I like the waves, the way they push into the beach. They push into me, push away the sadness. I think for a minute there could be something else. But I know that I am stuck with this feeling. It flows through me like wheels on a track, fluorescent light grinding through a dark tunnel. It spreads from the center, balling into a lump that sticks in my throat. The more I try to hold it back, the worse the pain becomes. It's not really pain, though. Pain would be easy to take. You stub your toe--everyone knows what that's about. This is something untouchable.

I'm crying. We're pulling into Park Street now, and both the doors will open soon. I am vulnerable when that happens. Something bad can come from any direction. I blow my nose. I'll pretend that I have a cold, then no one will know. There's a young girl standing right next to me, her Walkman blaring against the syncopation of the train. I can't make out the words of the song. The anger is the only thing that comes across. Not even the undeniable rhythm of the music shows in her eyes. She looks alien in her silver ski jacket. She notices me.

JANUARY 23

Dr. Winters had a big zit on her nose today. She wanted me to talk to her about the kind of things I did with my father. I told her that I really didn't remember doing anything with my father. He usually would do things with Jim. He taught Jim the business. At first he didn't want me to go to secretarial college. I remember that, but then he decided that it would be good, that I could work in the office. I learned accounting.

I told her all these things, looking at the floor, trying to avoid her neon pimple. She has a lovely Oriental carpet. It has a geometric design. One of our customers told us that they were more expensive than the floral kind. Buddy spilled some roof tar on their carpet. I couldn't believe it when they told me that the carpet was almost as expensive as the roof. I told her that and she said I was trying to avoid my real feelings.

Dr. Winters is also trying to grow a narcissus. It won't grow properly; too much of the bulb is sticking out of the pot, and it can't get enough light in that room. I was afraid to tell her though. She told me I was being evasive, but I just really couldn't look at her face.

I'm sitting at the front end of the last car. I realized that if I sit at the end of the train, I won't have as far to walk to exit the station when I get off. I can see into the next compartment of the train. It floats, going round in a strangely gentle bounce as the train pounds through the darkness. The windows create a smoky screened-in quality, making the next car appear like something in a movie. It isn't real.

I'm alone and I can see a woman sitting in the next car. She is alone. She's right in the middle of the car, empty seats on either side of her. She looks like she's writing something. She's wearing the same kind of coat as me, wool, double breasted, except that it's red. Her coat is red and her hair is blonde. I push myself further into the corner. I don't think that she sees me. I watch my reflection in the glass, hoping it will disappear. I hope she doesn't notice me noticing her.

It is more difficult to watch the woman in the next car now because we are out of the tunnel, riding above ground. She's still there, still writing, what I don't know. We fly past the ugly three-decker houses with frowning crooked porches. The gray trees streak thorny past the windows that once held my reflection.

JANUARY 30

She's here again, the woman with the red coat. We share the same car this time. She sits in the middle against a silver pole. I flatten myself into the corner, sure that she can't see me. My gray coat blends into the color of the walls, black hair blends into darkness of the hole we're blasting through. There are five other people in our car, and three of them sit between us. Last time she got off the train at North Quincy. She writes in a big spiral notebook, glancing up occasionally. I'm sure she hasn't noticed me. My notebook is much smaller than hers and I have a copy of Life magazine hiding my notebook. I'm careful not to write when she looks up. I pretend to read Life. A big picture of Julia Roberts is on the cover. I hide behind Julia Roberts's enormous mouth.

The sunlight invades the train as we climb out of the tunnel and onto the bridge. January sun is so deceptive. Its brightness turns the sky marble blue, but it fails to give all the warmth it promises. It even helps the river to create the illusion of cleanliness, mimicking the sky's cerulean face. My breath grows shallow as the natural light from outside collides with the artificial train lighting.

The girl in the red coat has her eyes closed, her fist wrapped around her pen, holding her Bic like a scepter. She holds her breath. The girl's eyes start to open as we slowly enter the station. The train exhales as it stops, and the doors open, letting the cold rush into the car. More people enter our part of the train. It's getting a little crowded, but I'm sitting on the end of the row. Only one person can sit next to me.

Julia Roberts has three houses in California, each with a swimming pool. I've never been to California.

FEBRUARY 6

I find myself writing on the way home. I think that it's because I know where I'm going. At least I know what's going to happen for an hour after I get off the train. When I leave, I have a whole week ahead of me to fill with something. I think a lot about the girl in the red coat. I don't see her here today. I got on the third-to-last car, where she was last time, but I don't think that she's here today.

She got off the train last time at North Quincy Station. The train stopped and she folded her notebook, stuffed her pen in the spiral, and got up to leave. I continued to hide behind Life. It wasn't my magazine. I had found it in the seat next to mine.

My eye wandered past the magazine's oily images to watch the girl leave. Her coat seemed a bit too big. Her shoes were big and clunky, the way the kids wear them today. She doesn't seem like a kid, though. Her back straight, she walked down the hard cement platform. Her breath visible, she moved with purpose and leapt up the stairs two at a time out of sight.

I haven't told anyone about the girl yet, not even Dr. Winters. I'd never tell Jim. Jim doesn't want to hear about the things that I care about. Mother was always interested. That's what I miss the most, talking. I could tell her things. Dr. Winters tries to give the impression that she understands, but she just sits in her blue wingback chair. Her eyes narrow sometimes. She probably thinks that she looks compassionate when she furrows her dark eyebrows together. She thinks that I should try to get out of the house more. She suggested that I try to get a job outside the business. That way I could make more friends. I always had friends in school. Something happened when I started working for Jim. Something changed in me. I wanted to work in a big office building in town, be an executive's secretary. It's too late.

We're over the bridge now. Today the water looks green, sickly. Rain hits the windows so hard I can hear the drops splat over the racket of the wheels on the steel. My leg is shaking so hard that I can hardly write. It wasn't that bad last week.

FEBRUARY 13

I'm waiting for the train at North Quincy. The girl with the red coat was on the train today. I had to watch her and couldn't write on the train. She wrote a lot. I was on the end of the row of seats, next to the door. She sat in the middle, next to the pole. Her attention was so fixed on her notebook that she didn't notice me or anything else around her.

I couldn't see what she was writing, but her notebook is red. It matches her coat, the same exact color. It's a Mead notebook, 150 ruled pages. Her pen is black and fits into the wire that binds the notebook's pages.

She stopped again at the bridge, held her pen out the same way, eyes closed. Then she went back to her notebook. I thought about talking to her, asking her what she was writing so intently. Other people were sitting in the seats between us until we got to Andrew. A great big black woman with braids and shells in her hair got off, and there was nothing between us. I had a romance novel and pretended to read it as I watched her write.

She writes with her left hand, pen straight up in the air, pressing hard into the page. Pushing the pen, her slim fingers would only stop to push the thin wisps of hair that occasionally escaped from behind her ear. It was sunny today and the red setting sun turned her skin gold. Sometimes she'd bite down on her lower lip, chewing it, reddening the skin around it.

I wanted to get closer to her so I could know what she smells like. I think she smells like vanilla, either that or lilacs. I knew she was getting off at North Quincy. Before I knew what I was doing I put my book away and started getting ready to get off. The metallic voice announced, "Next stop: North Quincy Station." The doors opened and I was out of the train ahead of her. I started walking down the platform towards the stairs, not sure of what I was about to do. I started up the stairs and I could hear her behind me, bounding up the stairs two at a time. I turned and looked at her face. I was speaking; I could hear my voice. I said, "Excuse me, but do you have the time?"

She leapt up to the top step. Holding her notebook in her right hand, she dug under her sleeve and her wool mitten for her watch. "Four forty-seven," she said, slightly out of breath. Then she continued, bounding through the turnstile.

I remained on the stair, frozen. It wasn't until I heard the announcement for the inbound train that I could move.

FEBRUARY 20

She's here again, same car, same seat. She can't see me because there's a tall man wearing jeans standing in front of me. His knuckles say "FRED" in blue-green tattoo, "F" occupying his index finger. I'm sure she can't see me writing.

She's looking around more than she was last week. I wonder what she's looking for. Her skirt and dark hose make her big shoes more noticeable. She sits with her knees close together. I have to be careful so that she doesn't catch me writing. I don't know why it scares me to think that she might see me writing. I'm sure she can't read shorthand. Even if she came over here, saying, "Hey, didn't you ask me for the time last week at North Quincy Station? Who are you and what are you writing?" I could show her my shorthand. I'd tell her that I have an invisible receiver in my ear, and I'm taking minutes for a meeting that's happening in New York City right now.

The tall guy has decided to sit down. I'd better stop.

FEBRUARY 27

Last week I decided to follow her out of the station. I made sure I bought an extra token on my way in, so that I could get back on the train to go home. It was much easier to follow her, since I sat on the opposite side of the train. As soon as she turned around to face the door, she had her back to me. She got up before the train came to a complete stop, something I would never do. She walked very fast and jumped up the stairs the way she always does. At first I thought I wouldn't be able to keep up. Her speed worked to my advantage, though. She was just far enough away from me so that I could keep a low profile.

The rubbery floor of the subway station gave way to cement. There was a freshness in the air. Large planters held crocuses with purple and white petals. I followed her down Main Street, past the car dealership. I was sure to take note of the street signs and landmarks, so that I could find my way back to the station if I had to.

I realized that my usual walk was a meander compared to this girl's powerful stride. This was someone who was going somewhere. She was a woman with a red coat and a purpose in life. If I knew someone like her, everything about me would change too. You could tell she was just the kind of person who got things done. I'm sure she would encourage me and share my happiness about whatever success I would achieve. Achievements would flourish in the fertile soil of our friendship.

I wondered where she was going as we passed restaurants and shops. Maybe she was going to a dance class or a writers' group. She probably had a lot of smart friends who would talk about books and movies and world politics intelligently and with authority. Someone who walks so fast, whose feet hit the ground so inevitably, must be going someplace important.

We turned onto Fenno Street, past the high school track field. There weren't many businesses down there. Maybe she was going to see a friend. They would drink cappuccino or some kind of decaffeinated grain beverage together and discuss poetry. She might even say that she noticed another woman writing on the train. Then she'd tell her friend that this woman even had the same kind of coat, only hers was gray. She might even say that perhaps this woman with the gray coat is someone they'd like to have in their circle. Then they'd both laugh at how odd life is sometimes.

Then she turned into a path that led to a house with a wraparound porch. I crouched behind a short row of boxwood and heard her clunk up the stairs. The heavy door closed behind her, and she was in this white building with green shutters. A sign hung over the porch, light green with white painted letters, "Dr. George Wright Podiatrist." She's been going to a podiatrist all this time. She's wearing those big stupid shoes, running up and down stairs, pounding her feet into the sidewalk, and now she needs a podiatrist. Mother always stressed the importance of sensible shoes. She always warned about the danger of inappropriate footwear. The girl with the red coat is living proof that Mother was right about that.

Personally, I'm very disappointed that the girl does not know how to take care of her feet. I think that it shows her character is flawed at a very fundamental level. A person who is willing to subject her feet to painful bunions and ultimately their even more painful remedy, is simply no friend of mine.

MARCH 1

I told Dr. Winters about the girl with the red coat and her bad feet and how that must make her a bad person. We got into a huge argument. Dr. Winters said it would be easier for me to make friends if I were less judgmental. I asked her why if she drinks three cups of lemon tea in 50 minutes does she not have to pee. She said this wasn't about her, it was about me.

She gave me a prescription for something called Zoloft. I filled the prescription on the way to the train and swallowed down a pill dry. The train still bothers me, but I'm glad I'm not friends with the girl with the bad feet.

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