美鐵188號列車幸存者

When I was 20， the man I was dating died. We were traveling together thousands of miles from home in a remote part of Southeast Asia， and one morning， he didnt wake up. His breathing was labored and intermittent. I attempted CPR and then got him to a doctor， his body hastily wrapped in a sheet and placed in the back of a truck. It was too late. His 22-year-old heart， for complicated reasons， had stopped beating.

That tragedy changed me in more ways than I can recount or understand even now， almost nine years later. But one of the starkest consequences was an enduring， painful fear that people I loved would die， disappear， evaporate. My fiance Corey knows this fear well. Throughout our sixyear relationship， he has patiently reassured me countless times that he is alive and safe. He has come home from a trip to the library， where he didnt have cellphone reception， to find me convinced he had died in a car accident. He once spent more time comforting me than the reverse during a trip to a D.C. emergency room for an allergic reaction that swelled his hands and face. Just last weekend， when he flew to Austin for a bachelor party， I texted him， “I get anxious when you fly without me.” He replied， “I know” — and after he arrived：“Landed.”

This is not a struggle I speak of often. Not because I am ashamed—in fact， I feel strongly that trauma is publicly discussed far too little—but because it is difficult to put into words. That feeling in my gut of helplessness and panic， which rises to my chest and then seizes my throat， can be assuaged only when I see or hear him.

It is a battle I have seen cast in an entirely new light since the Amtrak crash on Tuesday. I have now seen it in a mirror.

I was in the third car of Train 188. I regularly commute on the Northeast Regional corridor between Brooklyn， my home， and Washington， where my office is located. （I am an editor at Foreign Policy magazine.） The first two hours of the trip were smooth. I transcribed an interview and edited an article; I checked my to-do list for June 6， the day Corey and I are getting married. Somewhere in Maryland， a young man in a white Navy uniform boarded; when he asked to take the aisle seat to my right， he called me “maam.”

Just after Philadelphia， we picked up speed. Too much speed， it seemed. As we headed into a curve， it felt more like a careen. The train jolted. My seatmate， who had been dozing， reached out to brace himself. We jolted again. Then the entire car began to shake violently， as if struck by an earthquake.

People screamed as seats rattled and luggage fell. Suddenly， we were tipping to the side， maybe rolling—so much machine， and so many bodies， all tossed. Everything was black; I couldnt tell where I was， where anything was. I felt my body at once suspended in the air yet pressed by an unseen and enormous force into a seat， or maybe it was a wall. The train hit earth， and I tasted metal and dirt. I remember thinking， “When we come to a stop， will I be dead？”

When the car did stop moving， I was breathing. My limbs were functioning. My seatmate was gone; I never saw him again. I climbed over where he should have been and crouched on a luggage rack， yelling along with so many others that we had to find a way out. I was wearing a dress and my left shoe. I felt blood oozing from scrapes on my legs. After a few short minutes， a man hauled me up through a window someone had slid open. We stood on the top of the train—really its left side—surveying the surreal. People were stumbling away from the twisted， smoldering wreckage. My back， injured in the crash， ached worse with each passing second， and my heavy， bruised chest made it difficult to breathe. But I followed them. We all followed each other， holding hands or wrapping arms around shoulders. No one pushed， demanded extra attention. “We are so lucky，” said a young woman who would eventually support me as we walked away from the scene. “Do you know how lucky we are？”

I borrowed a cellphone to call Corey. “Our train derailed，”I said matter-of-factly as helicopter lights began to brush the ground around me. He was in the car driving south from New York in minutes. At the same time， I was put into the back of a police car and sped away from the scene with sirens blaring.

It would be four hours before I finally saw Corey， at Temple University Hospital. By that time， I had been X-rayed（my ribs were bruised， maybe slightly cracked in places） and had an EKG done. A nurse had given me socks， since I had only the one shoe. She was one in a string of strangers who had offered embraces， water， sweatshirts， kind words， whatever seemed needed. I tried to keep track of all of their names， telling myself I would write them all notes of thanks one day; but there were so many， it became impossible. When I was discharged， I held the arm of a security officer as I entered the holding area Temple had designated for family. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably， something they have continued to do for spurts of time since the accident. My fiance saw me but barely recognized me across the room—partially because he needs glasses， but also because my face was coated in dirt. When he hugged me， he said it was all okay. His usual， soothing reassurance.

But in his eyes and in his voice， I recognized something different. I saw myself. It was a reflection of the fear I live with， that I fight against. Later， after he helped me wash off the dirt and blood， my fiance told me that even after I called from the scene， he was worried that I would die. There would be internal bleeding. He would get to the hospital， but I would be gone. It was jarring to hear the speculative， alarming words I would usually be the one to say—the “what ifs，” we call them—coming from him.

Over the past few days， we have said so many times how fortunate we are. We have watched the news， seen the faces and names of the dead and felt a chill of horrible sadness. We have also smiled and kissed， held hands while sleeping， seeking to feel constantly comforted. But we have shared something else， too—the terror that only I once fathomed.

I saw it Thursday morning， after I went to my parents Philadelphia hotel room to take a bath， leaving Corey behind in our room to rest. When he eventually joined us， he entered， saw me sitting in a bathrobe and began to cry. “I cant be away from you for too long right now，” he said， leaning down to hug me.

The fear of loss， that someone can be snapped out of existence at any second， comes from the same deep， emotional well as love. Maybe it is loves dark twin. Its incredibly powerful—strong enough to poison your thinking to assume the worst will happen， in even the most mundane situations.

在我20歲時(shí)，我正在交往的男友去世了。我們一起外出游玩，到了離家很遠(yuǎn)的東南亞邊遠(yuǎn)地區(qū)，一天早上，他沒有醒來。他呼吸困難并且斷斷續(xù)續(xù)的。我對他實(shí)施心肺復(fù)蘇，然后給他找了一位醫(yī)生，他被匆忙地用被單裹著，放上一輛貨車尾箱里。但太遲了，出于某些復(fù)雜的原因，他22歲的心臟停止了跳動(dòng)。

那次悲劇給我?guī)砹撕芏喔淖?，直到現(xiàn)在，九年過去了，還有些是我說不出來的，或不能理解的。但其中一個(gè)最可怕的后果是我心中長久地埋下了一個(gè)痛苦的恐懼——我愛的人會(huì)死去、失蹤、消失。我未婚夫科里十分了解我的恐懼。在我們交往的六年里，他無數(shù)次耐心地?fù)嵛课摇钪⒑馨踩Ｋ?jīng)有一次去了圖書館，那里沒有手機(jī)信號，回來后發(fā)現(xiàn)我以為他發(fā)生車禍死了。有一次，他的雙手和臉因過敏而腫了，在去華盛頓特區(qū)急診室的路上，他反而花了更多的時(shí)間來安慰我。就在上周末，他要飛去奧斯汀市參加一個(gè)單身派對時(shí)，我發(fā)信息給他：“你沒跟我一起坐飛機(jī)讓我很擔(dān)心。”他回復(fù)：“我知道”——他到達(dá)后發(fā)來信息：“到達(dá)?！?/p>

我很少會(huì)說出心中這一恐懼。不是因?yàn)槲腋械叫呃ⅰ聦?shí)是，我強(qiáng)烈地感覺到精神創(chuàng)傷極少被公開討論——而是因?yàn)檫@很難用言語說清楚。肚子里的無助和恐慌上升到胸腔，然后緊抓著我的喉嚨，這種感覺只有在我看到他或聽到他的聲音時(shí)才得以緩解。

周二的美國鐵路撞車事故讓我看到這場斗爭的另一面?，F(xiàn)在，我可以從鏡子里看到它。

我那時(shí)在188號列車的第三節(jié)車廂。我常常要途經(jīng)東北區(qū)域，往返于位于布魯克林的家和位于華盛頓的辦公室。（我是美國《外交政策》雜志的一名編輯。）前兩個(gè)小時(shí)的行程很順暢，我寫下了一篇采訪，編輯了一篇文章;我查看了6月6日的任務(wù)清單——我和科里將在那天結(jié)婚。在馬里蘭州的某個(gè)地方，一個(gè)穿著白色海軍服的年輕男子上了車;他向我請求要坐我右邊的過道位置時(shí)，稱呼我為“女士”。

剛過了費(fèi)城，我們的車就加速了。速度似乎太快了。我們轉(zhuǎn)彎時(shí)，感覺像是側(cè)翻?；疖囈魂囶嶔?，我旁邊正在打瞌睡的同伴伸出雙手找平衡。又一次顛簸。接著整輛車開始劇烈地?fù)u晃，仿佛遇到了地震。

座椅哐當(dāng)作響，行李掉了下來，人們開始尖叫。突然，我們向一邊翻倒，也許是翻滾——那么多的機(jī)器，那么多的身體，全都甩起來了。周圍全黑了，我不知道自己在哪兒，不知道其他東西在哪兒。我感到身體懸在半空，但被某種看不見的巨大力量固定在椅子或墻上?；疖囎驳降孛妫易彀蛧L到了金屬和泥土的味道。我記得當(dāng)時(shí)想的是：“我們停下來時(shí)，我會(huì)死去嗎？”

車最終停下來時(shí)，我還在呼吸。我的四肢還能活動(dòng)。坐我旁邊的同伴不見了;我后來再也沒有見過他。我爬到他原來的位置，趴在一個(gè)行李架上，和其他許多人一起叫喊，我們需要找到出口。我穿著裙子，左腳穿著鞋。我感覺血液從我腳上的傷口處慢慢滲出。幾分鐘后，一個(gè)男人把我從別人推開的窗戶中拉出來。我們站在火車頂上——其實(shí)是火車左面——審視著周圍不現(xiàn)實(shí)的一切。人們蹣跚地離開扭曲、冒煙的廢墟。我的背部在撞擊中受了傷，疼痛逐漸增加，我那沉重、擦傷了的胸腔難以呼吸。但我仍跟著大伙。我們一個(gè)跟著一個(gè)，拉著手或摟著肩膀。沒有人推搡，沒有人要求額外照顧。“我們太幸運(yùn)了，”一個(gè)年輕的女士說，她后來幫助我離開現(xiàn)場。“你知道我們有多幸運(yùn)嗎？”

我借了個(gè)電話打給科里?！拔覀兊幕疖嚸撥壛耍蔽乙云届o的語氣對他說，這時(shí)，直升飛機(jī)的燈光開始掃過我周圍的地面。幾分鐘后，他坐上了從紐約出發(fā)往南開的車。與此同時(shí)，我被抬上了警車的后車廂，伴隨著大聲鳴叫的警笛疾馳著離開現(xiàn)場。

四個(gè)小時(shí)后，我終于在天普大學(xué)醫(yī)院見到了科里。那時(shí)我已經(jīng)照了X光（我的肋骨擦傷了，可能幾處有輕微骨折），做了心電圖。由于我只穿著一只鞋子，一位護(hù)士給了我一雙襪子。除了這位護(hù)士，還有很多陌生人給了我們很多幫助，如擁抱、水、長袖汗衫、安慰的話語等等。我試著記下他們的名字，告訴自己以后要給他們送感謝卡;但人太多了，這不可能做到。當(dāng)我出院時(shí)，一位保安扶著我到天普大學(xué)醫(yī)院為家人提供的等候區(qū)。我的牙齒不受控制地打顫，事故發(fā)生后就一直這樣。我經(jīng)過房間時(shí)，我的未婚夫看見了我但幾乎認(rèn)不出來，不僅僅是因?yàn)樗暎驗(yàn)槲业哪樏缮狭嘶覊m。他擁抱著我，對我說沒事了——一貫的令人寬慰的語氣。

但在他的眼里和聲音里，我發(fā)現(xiàn)了一些特別的東西。我看到了自己。那是伴隨著我并讓我苦苦掙扎的恐懼。他幫我洗去灰塵和血跡后告訴我，雖然我在現(xiàn)場給他打了電話，他還是擔(dān)心我會(huì)死去。因?yàn)榭赡軙?huì)有內(nèi)出血。也許他去到醫(yī)院后我就死了。這些推測性的、警惕性的話語是我常常會(huì)說的，我們稱之為“萬一問題”，現(xiàn)在從他口中聽到讓我很震驚。

在過去幾天里，我們說了無數(shù)次我們是多么幸運(yùn)。我們在新聞里看到死者的照片和名字，感到一陣陣恐懼、悲傷。我們對彼此微笑、親吻對方，睡覺時(shí)牽著手，一直在尋求安全感。除此以外，我們還有著共同的恐懼感——從前只有我自己體會(huì)過。

周四早上，我看到了他的恐懼。我到我父母在費(fèi)城的酒店房間里洗澡，科里留在我們的房間休息。他后來也過來了，進(jìn)入房間后看到我穿著浴袍坐在那里，他哭了起來：“我現(xiàn)在不能離開你太久，”他說著，彎下身來擁抱我。

失去的恐懼——一個(gè)人會(huì)隨時(shí)消失——和愛的深淵一樣深沉、感性。也許它是愛的黑暗面。它有著異常強(qiáng)大的力量——強(qiáng)大得侵襲你的思想，讓你在最平常的情況下假設(shè)發(fā)生最壞的事情。