The Red Line

TW: Child abuse

The Red Line

The little girl on the Red Line train is crying as silently as an 8 year old, with years of practice, can. What had been screeches a moment before have been slapped down to mewling noises and sniffles. That slap having been delivered by her mother.

The other riders scattered throughout the car ignore this weeping girl, as is polite. How a person raises their child is none of our business. This is covered in the unspoken contract of public transportation.

Roxie generally complies with these terms but on occasion she’s tempted. She eyes the mother, weighing her options.

Roxie adjusts herself in her seat, pulling down the hem of her dress, resettling her handbag and bouquet of lilies in her lap. New black patent leather shoes pinch her toes. Her legs are crossed at the ankles, in the ladylike manner her mother had enforced. She uncrosses them. She considers again the mother and child at the far end of the train.

The whimpering girl is smoothing down her yellow skirt, her eyes pleading with her mother for… compassion? Forgiveness?

•

“Mama, I want to sit on your lap,” she had said.

“No! You stand there. I don’t want you on me.”

Even at 9pm, the day had not cooled below 90 degrees. The train’s stifling, humid air is shuttled from station to station along with its riders. It was inescapable.

The mother had been aggravated by the heat, taking a small cloth to her face every few minutes and sighing audibly. Roxie was suffering too and counted down the subway stops till she could emerge from the tunnels, hoping, at last, for the rain that had been promised all week.

Reasonable, then, that no one would want a hot, clinging child too near. Roxie could concede that point.

But the child was unable to remain upright when the subway route had taken a sharp turn, despite her fierce grip on the metal pole. She was pitched off balance and fell, spilling the soda she’d been clutching onto her mother’s white sneakers. In a coordinated motion, the mother yanked her up by one arm and slapped her thigh.

“You got it all over my shoes. Give me that.” She snatched the can from the girl.

Whether from the shock of falling, spilling, being jerked upright or the slap, something had cracked the child's fragile composure. That’s when the wailing had begun.

The next blow was to the face. “Stop crying!”

The girl held a hand over her gaping mouth to block the shriek that was rushing to escape. Tears slid down her baby fat cheeks, cutting a path through the film of sweat and grime.

•

That was two stops ago. She still stands, gripping the metal pole for equilibrium. Each little breath carries a tiny complaint.

The train stops. The sliding doors open. A slice of sweltering air is exchanged for the cool of the damp, dark station. The girl tracks the people exiting the car. She sees Roxie watching her.

“Sit there.” The mother shoves her toward a newly vacant seat across from her. There’s an empty seat next to the mother. Roxie and the girl now look at it, then at each other.

Obediently, the girl climbs onto the seat opposite.

There are only a few remaining riders. Their headphones, mobile phones and one dog-eared book consume all their attention. Across the aisle from Roxie a couple argue about whether a grocery store closes at 10 or midnight. If they’ve noticed the little drama playing out at the end of the car they give no indication.

“You’re gonna get it when we get home. And this Coke is mine now.”

Roxie’s eyes fix on the girl.

The girl’s face has evolved from a pleading, puppy dog shape to something more feral. Her lips, once soft and quivering are rolled between her teeth, pressed together to barricade her thoughts. Her brows gather to a point, and her eyes hold a steady, hot gaze on her mother as she drinks the Coke. Her Coke.

Roxie absently crushes a folded sheet of paper around the flower stems, a funeral service program from St. Joseph’s.

Beloved Wife, Mother and Grandmother, it read.

So many had tried to comfort her that day, sharing stories of her mother’s good deeds as proof of a loving, caring life lived for others; of a compassionate ear in trying times; of memories from the old country.

But what good were these to Roxie?

They mistook her tears for tears of loss. They were tears of rage.

Rage at the pervasive, snipping injustices Roxie had endured since the beginning of her memory.

Rage at the sharp, cruel words that rattled her naive child’s heart, leaving her innocence wrecked, like rubble after an earthquake.

Rage because that soft, trusting heart had been lost, bit by bit, like milk teeth.

In the end, she could not say she knew a what a mother was.

Teacher? Comforter?

A bomb that went off in little explosions, not loud, but with enough shrapnel that Roxie would be picking it out her of flesh for decades.

She’d wanted to scream from the pulpit: None of you knew her! If you had you would never have left me alone with her. Why didn’t you protect me?

Roxie looks at the girl again, now stone-faced, and envisions her future. A life of tiptoeing around her own maternal bomb. Frantic to uncover the evil truth about herself that made her mother despise her.

Roxie wanted to sweep that child into her arms. To look her in the eye and say:

There’s nothing wrong with you. Your mother is horrible and it’s not your fault. She shouldn’t even be letting you drink Coke this late at night. You should be in bed. She should be reading you stories. And she should be wanting to hold you in her lap as much as possible because you’ll only be little for a little while. And she’s supposed to comfort you and love you and teach you things. She’s a terrible mother.

But one day she’ll be dead and you’ll be free.

In two stops Roxie will be out of this scene. Out of their lives.

She digs a pen out of her purse and rips a small strip from the program and starts to write.

What should she write? What does this child need to hear? What would be safe?

She writes, quickly, clearly. She secures the strip of paper around the stem of one of the lilies.

An automated voice announces Roxie’s stop is next. She walks towards the little girl, swaying with the motion of the train, exaggerating her unsteadiness. The girl watches her every move, eyes wide.

The mother regards Roxie suspiciously, but says nothing.

Roxie smiles at the little girl with the sad, angry eyes. She extends the lily toward her and the girl mirrors her movement to accept it.

For a second, both their hands are on the flower, trembling. Roxie lets her finger pass gently over the little girl’s hand, trying to impart all the kindness in her heart into that small gesture.

The doors open. Roxie exits the car, holding a thumb against her quivering lip. She sees the girl framed in the train window, admiring her flower. The doors close and the vignette is carried away to its destination.

Roxie dumps the rest of the flowers into a trash bin and bounds up the stairs to the street.  A light rain is falling, and she feels as though the whole city is sighing in relief with her.