How to Save a Life Read Free

plains light up the night, and the train car is dim, so I have a good view of spiny trees and run-down farmhouses and empty fields. I try to imagine Denver. It has mountains, and a big football stadium, and a river running through parts of it, just like in Omaha. That’s all I know. Though I’m not a nervous kind of a person, when I think about getting to Denver, I feel sick. Because what if it’s all the same? My mother says you can lead a horse to water… and I forget how that saying ends, because she hardly ever finishes it.
    I have to remember what I’ve told Robin, so that I don’t get tense and mess it up when we meet. For example that I’m thirty-seven weeks pregnant, when the facts are different. Not that different. Close enough, I think. There a few other pieces of information that are more wishes than facts, plus one I don’t know myself.
    The man next to me stirs. “Did you say something?” he murmurs.
    “No.” At least I probably didn’t. Sometimes things come out and I don’t notice.
    “Oh. Dreaming, I guess.” He sits up straight; I smile and rub my belly, which is something I’ve learned calms people. They like to see a healthy pregnant young woman, and it doesn’t hurt if she’s pretty.
    Glad to have someone to talk to and glad it’s him, I ask where he’s going. This train started in Chicago and goes all the way to the California coast.
    “Salt Lake.” He pats at his hair, smoothing out the sleep ruffles. “My sister’s getting married. I don’t fly.”
    “Me neither.” And I only mean I’ve never been on a plane. “I’m getting off in Denver. Two more stops.”
    We talk softly so we don’t bother sleeping passengers.
    He should ask, “Business or pleasure?” and I would say, “Neither,” and I’d run my hand over my belly again, once, and then maybe with a look of concern he’d ask, “Where’s the father?” I’d glance away. Then I’d reply, “Afghanistan. He’s a soldier.” Because another thing I’ve learned is that’s one of the best answers you can give. People look at you like you’re a hero yourself.
    He doesn’t ask, though. Only shifts in his seat and opens up a magazine.
    So I ask him, “Are you married?”
    It’s a question to make conversation is all, but after I ask it, I know I should have thought of another type of a question. My mother says I have no social sense. She says I make people uncomfortable. And I want to say, Well, you make me uncomfortable when you tell me things like that, so maybe I got it from you . Actually, I never think of what to say to her until a few days later; by then it’s better to not bring it up.
    The man pauses the uncomfortable pause I’m used to before he says, “Yes.”
    “You’re not wearing a ring.”
    He holds out his hand, looks at it. “No. I never have. My wife doesn’t, either.”
    “Why not?” If I were married to someone like him, I would wear the ring.
    “We just don’t.” He shrugs and goes back to his magazine. When he flips the page, a sharp, spicy smell comes up from a cologne sample. “Whoa. Maybe I should rub some of this stuff on. Another eighteen hours to my next shower.”
    “I like the way men smell just naturally.” When he pretends not to hear, I realize that’s another thing that should stay in my head and not come out of my mouth. “What’s your name?” I ask. “I’m Mandy Madison.” Madison is actually my middle name, but I like the way the two names sound together without Kalinowski on the end.
    “Oh. Alex.”
    “Alex what?”
    He lifts his magazine. “I’m sorry, I really need to—”
    “You don’t have to tell me. I was only wondering if you were Indian. Like in Nebraska, we have Comanche, Arapaho, Pawnee….”
    “No. I’m a plain old Mexican American. Third generation.”
    I don’t know why he won’t just say his last name. “Really my last name is Kalinowski,” I offer. “It’s Polish. I don’t know what generation.”
    When he doesn’t reply,