A Train To Chicago

Harry

20.12.2013

Are you gonna make it home for Christmas? S xx

Sophie hates surprises, so there's no point in me telling her that I can't make it home then popping out of a strategically wrapped present on Christmas morning (-and most probably knocking over the Christmas tree or something stupid knowing me..)
I hope so xxx
I replied, biting my lip as I placed down my rather overused iPhone 4 onto the rather dated 1970s wooden bed-side table in my rented flat. You're thirty years old Harry! Get a fecking house!

After moving from a small town called Dundrum in Northern Ireland to Los Angeles in hope of pursuing my career in writing, my one best seller from 2006 'The Distance' sort of... flopped.
In total I made €13,000 from that five year investment. I felt that I was on top of the world- I had conquered the key of writing.
I was basically J.K Rowling. By the age of thirty I'd be in a palace, living the Californian life with a golden tan and a beautiful wife and possibly kids of potential Etonian education.

Here I am at thirty. Living off the remainder of 2006- renting a flat on the outskirts of the city.
I should have stayed in Ireland. I don't belong here.
I've never felt that I had belonged in California- or America altogether. Well... that's a bit of a lie. I had a honeymoon period.
At the age of 24, in 2007, I moved here. I felt so free- I was out of university, I had finally escaped my family. No more intense catholic masses every Sunday morning, no more dishes to do, no more baking, no more being told off for drifting off into my own world.
I felt that in moving to California I would be in a constant state of.. 'mind.' My happy place, the place I drifted off to.
And for a few months it was; the sunshine, the richness, the blue skies, the buttons undone of my white linen shirts, the girlfriends, the tan (well... more faded sunburn). But most importantly- the inspiration.
The ideas for different stories; novels, for dramas and plays just kept swarming in.
But money was my only issue.
Money.. and... company- I guess.
Back home in Dundrum I loved being alone- here.. I'm always alone... but I'm lonely.
I think I miss the clatter of my mother doing the dishes in the kitchen. I miss looking out my window every morning to see the distant Mourne Mountains sweeping down onto the Irish Sea.
I guess I just miss my home from time to time.

Seven years out here have taken their toll. I have only been back to Northern Ireland once in all those years- that was when my dad died.

It's been three years since my dad died- and all the bliss and joy of California has seeped deep into the sea. All that's left is the loneliness and the occasional gush of grief and undeniable guilt of leaving my family for a dream that I'll never conquer.

My mother never approved of 'The Distance', my debut novel. It was a gothic tale set in the 1920s, a bewildered lady lost her beloved husband in his sleep- she insisted that he was murdered. Her hysteric state of mind drove her into insanity to the point of which she could visualise him in real life and insisted that he was still alive- resulting in her digging up his grave to try and prove her point.
I have to admit I don't like the novel much either- I guess some psychologist may interpret that I, Harry Arnoll, the author, was going through a phase of denial or grief, which, in retrospect, I think I was. My girlfriend, Sophie, had left me due to me drinking and smoking far too heavily in my university years.
Two years ago Sophie and I got back together again- we met by chance in Los Angeles while I was walking on the beach.
I remember how my world turned around the instant she called my name and my face lifted from the sand straight to her eyes.. her smile.
We kissed then and there- after not speaking for nearly five years, it just felt right. She had learnt about the success of my book and wondered how I was.
Everything in my life is so much better with her in it. She is the only person in this world that I feel understands me. I feel the most like myself when I'm around her.
Suddenly the lonely nights in my 70s flat by the box television weren't so lonely. And the huge city felt alive again.
I, for a few weeks, felt like I was at home. The Pacific Ocean was the Irish Sea. This flat was my tiny cottage in Dundrum- or, in fact, the tiny bedroom I had in my student halls in Belfast where we shared our first kiss.
Sophie visited me for a few weeks every few months. She was an actress in New York- all I wanted was for her to move to Hollywood- or at least a place where I could see her daily.

Today was the day I would get the train all the way across the United States to New York, I'd meet Sophie there, then together we'd fly home to Ireland and move in together back to Dundrum for Christmas.

I had packed up my suitcases and was wheeling them for the final time outside of the stingy flat I'd just stopped renting after seven long years.
I was coming home.

Across the streets, the long stretch of sand deep into the horizon. I'd never see this place again until I was so much older.
I arrived at the train station and took a seat on one of the metal benches by a large clock.
14:50
Ten minutes to go.
I slipped my hand into the pocket of my khaki green jacket and looked at the engagement ring I had bought Sophie. Gazing into the diamond embedded in the centre, just longing to see her, and to make her my wife.
She was the one.