It was on a Tuesday morning, 17 days after Emily came back from her father's first hospital stretch that Marcus showed up to the train and found her sitting in his seat. Not across the aisle, not one row ahead, his seat, the window seat in the third car, the one he had been sitting in every morning for four years. He stood in the aisle, looking at her. She looked back at him, completely unruffled. "You're in my seat," he said.
"I know, Emily." "There's another seat right here." She patted the aisle seat beside her. "This one's actually slightly more comfortable." "I checked." "You checked. I have been riding this train for 8 months. I have done extensive research. He stood there for another two seconds long enough to make a point about the absurdity of this and then sat down in the aisle seat.
It was marginally more comfortable. He said nothing. She said nothing, but there was something underneath the nothing that was doing considerable work, something warm and tentative and real. And both of them could feel it. And neither of them was quite ready to name it.
That was the state of things when Marcus' phone rang at 7:12 a.m. He looked at the screen. Mrs. Patterson, he picked up immediately. What's wrong? Mrs. Patterson's voice was measured but tight. Marcus, honey, Amara fell at the house.
She was running and she went down on the front steps. I don't think anything's broken, but she's crying hard and there's a cut on her knee and she's asking for you. He was already standing. I'm on the train. I'll be there. and he calculated rapidly 45 minutes.
Can you I've got her. She's okay. She's okay. But she wants her daddy. Tell her I'm coming.
Tell her I'm coming right now. He hung up and looked at Emily who had heard enough to understand. Go, she said. I'm going. He was already moving toward the door.
She's okay. She's just Marcus. Her voice stopped him. He turned. She was looking at him with that direct clear gaze. the one that saw through the system and the walls and the maintenance man exterior to the actual man underneath.
She has the best dad, Emily said. Go. Something landed in his chest when she said it. Something small and solid and unfamiliar. Not quite relief.