A Memoir by Jillian Schedneck

On a January night that hummed with cold, I waited alone at the empty platform, my fingers buried in my gloves, clutching at the last threads of warmth. I regretted leaving my friend’s rare party—the warm masala corn dip, her long-time boyfriend’s easy jokes, the trickle of old college dorm friends arriving with wine and gossip. More food was emerging from the tiny oven in her cramped apartment, already packed with people I’d once known. Both she and her boyfriend had urged me to stay. But I’d double-booked, and a guy I was seeing was waiting at a bar in Cambridge. It would still take me ages to get there.

I paced to get the feeling back in my toes. A tall stooped, middle-aged white man with a scruffy beard shuffled toward me in a slow, determined beeline.

“Heading into the city?” he said in a South Boston accent. “Got a date?”

“I have a shift at the office,” I lied. Improbable for a Saturday night, but not impossible.

He looked at me warily. “Ah,” he said. Then: “You seen Gone Baby Gone?”

The turn in conversation caught me off guard. The movie had come out recently, set in Boston.

“I’ve heard of it. Ben Affleck?”

He pointed finger guns at me. “Bingo!” He took his time to smile and look me over. “Ben directed. They filmed around Dorchester. I had a small part.”

“Really?”

“Don’t act so surprised!” He laced his fingers over his chest as if I’d wounded him. Then he told me about meeting Ben and acting on set. After they wrapped, Ben had promised to stay in touch but never returned his calls.

I empathized. It seemed we were both used to being forgotten. Ghosting had become a regular rhythm in my life. The friends I’d just left, we’d disappeared on each other after college, only now reuniting for one casual night, likely never again.

I used to think connections faded because people changed. Now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe this was just how adult life moved: quietly, without explanation. And the date I was heading to — the one I told myself had potential — he’d ghost me soon, I figured. Or maybe I’d ghost him.

The commuter rail finally pulled in, twenty minutes late. The man put out his hand. Before I could shift my fingers back through my glove, I extended my hand, offering my balled fist instead. He shook the fingerless cloth of my wool blend.

“Sorry,” I said. “I promise I’ve got fingers in here somewhere.”
The man gave me a slow smile. “A woman like you definitely has fingers.”

I laughed.

“Enjoy your date,” he said, chuckling. We parted on the train.

At the bar, I told the guy I was seeing about the actor from Dorchester. He didn’t believe the man’s story, seemed annoyed I’d even brought it up.

Weeks later, after we’d stopped seeing each other, I rented Gone Baby Gone, sure I’d see the commuter rail man. His story had been too specific to be fake. And there he was, one of the lowlifes the main character meets while tracking down the missing girl.

Fifteen years later, I found myself in another cold place, walking my daughter to school in the early mornings. When I drop her off, we shake hands with our fingers buried in our gloves.

“But I do have fingers!”

“A woman like you? Certainly!”

We laugh at our private joke, one we’ve repeated all winter, gloved hand swinging at her side.

I watch her go, remembering that platform long ago, and the way a passing moment can feel more solid than the people who were supposed to stick around.

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Jillian Schedneck has published a memoir with PanMacmillan. Her stories and essays have been published in a variety of journals, including Tahoma Literary Review, Brevity, Redivider and elsewhere. Her work has been chosen as a notable essay in the Best American Essays series and won a Solas Award for Best Travel Writing. She lives in Canberra, Australia, with her partner and two children. Her website is jillianschedneck.com.