The Train To Nowhere

chapter 9 - letters and invitations

The next day I walked with Rosie to the abortion clinic and waited with her until her name was called.

"I couldn't tell my mum or dad even if I wanted to," she told me, as we sat on the pristine, plastic lilac chairs and Rosie peeled herself a clementine from the fruit bowl on the table. The citrus sweet smell instantly drifted to my nostrils as she popped a segment into her mouth and chewed. "They're almost always out somewhere. You know how it is."

I did. I'd always known Rosie's family were distant from her. Her Mum and Dad were quite well off but blew most of their money on their own holidays every half term. I remember going there several times when I was little and wondering why I barely ever saw her actual parents. I could empathise a little, since my father hadn't bothered to be present in my life, but at least I had one loving, caring, supportive parent. And a sister as well, however annoying Zara might be. But Rosie had no siblings, and the closest person she had in her life was her nanny called Vicky, a bubbly, Filipino-British woman with long black hair and unruly principles. Of course Rosie was old enough now to not need one, but she still dropped by faithfully every Friday afternoon til evening for a cup of tea and a chat with her, bringing some scones or something she baked herself. She was thoughtful and kind that way, and I'd met her many times before when I'd come round.

"At least you have Vicky," I replied at the thought.

"Yeah, she's one of the only good things in my life right now."

I took a little segment when she offered it to me, and put the bite-sized portion into my mouth. As I bit my teeth down on to it the sweet juice exploded satisfyingly over my tongue and when she offered me another one I happily accepted. The whole place had that mild scent in the air of carbolic soap and air freshener. There were magazines on the table for people to read, but Rosie didn't seem to care for one. She pulled out a dystopian novel from her bag titled 'If You Live, You Die' and parted the pages where her old, glow-in-the-dark bookmark was that I knew she'd had since Year Five. She carried on eating her clementine while she read, and I slouched, spreading my legs and trying to feel somewhat comfy on these bendy chairs. Maybe scanning the room would ease the boredom in the slightest.

Most of the women there looked from around mine and Rosie's age to even forty. There weren't any men that I could see. One older, middle-aged woman who clearly hadn't hit the menopause yet sat flicking through a Hello! magazine in the far corner with her hair scraped into a low bun and her nails painted an electric pink, startling on her aged skin. One of the teenage girls with curly hair in space buns was blowing a bubble the size of her face, and I watched intently, waiting for it to pop. The pastel pink bubble stayed there, covering her face, and the middle-aged woman seemed to notice this too because she glanced over at the girl and then shook her head, tutting disapprovingly as she turned her gaze back to that stupid, brainless mag. After a couple seconds the girl decided she'd have to pop it herself if she could see again and pushed her finger on to the translucent bubble. It made a satisfying pop! and fell back into her mouth. The girl licked the gum off her lips and then caught me looking at her. She winked with a cheeky grin on her face and I quickly looked away, feeling uncomfortable.

About five minutes of boredom and three bubbles later (since our brief eye contact the bubblegum girl had kept trying to catch my eye contact, which I didn't give to her) a nurse appeared in the waiting room.

"Rosabella Winters?" Rosie looked up quickly, then licked her finger to turn the page and place her bookmark in.

"That's me," she responded, and then stuffed her book back in her bag. She looked nervous and a bit on edge but I squeezed her hand and she smiled back gratefully.