Little children have a way of getting your attention in ways adults have lost once the start crossing the river from their childhood. A little girl, probably five years old, sat next to me, but as far away from me as possible by latching as closely as possible to her slightly older sister. Their mother decided not to sit near them, even though there were seats. Instead, she decided to stand a row of seat away from them. The older girl's job, apparently, was to take care of the girl, but soon the little girl started calling "Mommy." Mommy told her that she couldn't come stand with her because it was a long ride to New York. The explanation was superfluous; the answer was a simple "no." No, you can't be with me; just sit with your sister. No, because I need my space and your sister has a job to help me get that space.
But none of this explanation would have helped either. The mother had no emotion on her face, not fatigue, not joy, not pensiveness, nothing I could read. She was very aloof; all she wanted was to be left alone by the door of the train. She and her daughters came with some relatives who were busy chatting away in Spanish. The mother never uttered a Spanish word even though she looked very Hispanic.
The older sister started by playing with her sister using a DVD case with a DVD inside. I went off to my reading, but when I paused to think about what I was reading, I noticed that the little girl was playing alone. Her sister was sleeping. Then the little girl tried to nudge her sister, but to no avail. She didn't scream or in any way talk to her. In fact, all this time the only thing I've heard her say was "Mommy" in the beginning.
When the nudging didn't work she tried to go back to her playing. She was bored. She even started to lick the back of the seat in front of us, which is full of germs. I gave her a childlike display of disgust, not serious. But she didn't care. And I went back to my reading.
Then it started. "Mommy? ... Mommy? ... Mommy?" I turned my head from the book and saw that the girl was now standing. She was so short that she could barely see her mommy. She didn't climb on the seat, but I think it's because she was ready to venture from the useless protection of her sister and be with her "Mommy." Her eyes barely reached above the seat she was licking. For the first six "Mommy" calls, her Mommy didn't respond. I think she heard her, or perhaps she just fell in her own revelry of some sort. But the slow, methodical, monotonous, pleading call of "Mommy" accompanied by nothing else, no explanation, no extra words to convince anyone because a child's whine is itself enough to get anyone to have to respond. I tried to overcome my natural irritation with children's supplications. I tried to blame the Mother for abandoning her child to the care of another child so she could have her moment alone. I wanted to scream at the Mother and demand that she sat with her scared daughter, lonely daughter. Isn't this where adult loneliness starts? Being left alone with no remedy when the person who always stood by you is tantalizingly unreachable? There were many conflicting feelings in me.
The Mother finally looked this way and told her the same thing, play with your sister. I don't think she noticed that the little girls appointed guardian was sleeping on the job. The girl begged again with that mono-syllabic plead. Was I the only one in that area of the train irritated by this child's call? The Mother, still emotionless, told her again to play with her sister. This time the girl gave up. Children give up eventually asking for attention, otherwise adults would be whining all the time like this. She dropped her DVD box and laid her head on her sister's lap. Her sister remained motionless as though she was dead. The little girl tried to find some place on her sister's body to put her upper body on while still standing, as if at some point she could be welcome over where her Mommy was standing. She wasn't giving up, apparently.
At least children can sleep easily. Adults have this thing called insomnia that is induced by so many reasons in their lives, but children, however traumatized, can sleep. I wonder how we lose that when we ford that river into adulthood. After another short read from my book, I turned to my left and saw that the little girl was sound asleep, still standing. The Mother was still standing by herself, not talking to anyone, including her relatives, and in her face there was nothing; nothing was betrayed, a face so devoid of meaning, devoid maybe even of signs of aloofness, that it would be a challenge to make a statue of her face. She was just living, not feeling, not thinking, just existing, and if there's a feeling of gratitude of being left alone to live, I didn't see it.
