Chapter 23: Gate Six, Again

It rained on Saturday, the way it had ten years ago.

I stood in the Great Hall of Union Station at eleven o'clock in a yellow raincoat I had kept in a box under my bed.

The coat was too small across the shoulders now. I had not cared.

Gate six was a plain wooden bench under a board of departure times.

I sat down on it and folded my hands.

The last time I had sat here I was twenty-six, and I had believed a man named Lane would come at noon to take me to dinner.

I had waited three hours.

Then a stranger in a clean coat had sat down next to me and bought me coffee.

I watched the people crossing the hall.

A woman dragged a child by the hand, and a man shouted into a phone.

An old porter pushed a cart, and he stopped when he saw me.

"Miss," he said. "You waiting on someone?"

"Yes."

"I've worked this hall thirty-four years. I remember a girl in a coat just like that."

I stared.

"She sat for a long time," he said. "I never forgot her face."

"That was me."

His face softened.

"Then I hope he's on his way."

"So do I."

He tipped his cap and went on.

I looked at the clock. It was eleven twenty.

I had told Dolores I would not cry.

I had told the mirror I would be fine either way.

My knee would not stop bouncing.

I had learned to choose for myself, and I had done it.

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