Hushed Conversations

There are very few times on my commute to New York that I actually sit beside somebody. Usually I'm in an early train to arrive in the morning so that I can be the good corporate citizen and punch in for my full 8-hours.

It is a rarity, then, when somebody plunks down beside me.

And usually, I have either my laptop open and my Ipod or minimally my Ipod so that I can appear the least interested in my surroundings. In public transportation it's a necessary trait.

My last trip to the city was a little different, in a broad variety of reasons...I left mid-day, worked my way through a fairly large crowd of fellow travelers and also had somebody sit next to me prior to even departing.

She was young, probably my daughter's age, and if somebody asked me to describe her I think that the most effective word would be Persian. Dark hair, tee shirt and jeans, she sat next to me and immediately put her head in her hands and leaned forward, hunched.

She was clearly upset...not distraught, not at a loss of control, but rather she looked like she had received atrocious news.

As the train departed, she made some calls and despite my desire to merely look away and listen to the 80's music that dominates my Ipod, I did hear snippets:

"Just came from the doctor's office"

"I haven't told a lot of people"

"The treatment takes about three weeks and then it's over."

Now, as a former Army Intelligence officer, I didn't need to hear everything to come to some conclusions...and by her body language and hushed tones it was clear that this was something piercingly personal...and unprecedented.

I ventured a guess to myself that she had become pregnant, and that she was either doing something about it or was thinking about it.

"My mother was a wreck...my father was very quiet"

Spilling out upon the fabrics of the cloth seats, this poor girl's fabric was rapidly unraveling. I sat there fairly muted, not wanting to intrude. When she called one of her friends, she admitted that she was heading out to a date in New York City that very night.

"Do I even tell him anything?"

I listened a little bit now and then, not because of some voyeuristic quality but because she was so close in age to my daughter that I figured I could learn something. Figured I could hear how this girl's world might unveil slowly, over the course of 3 hours on a train. She grew stronger on the ride, likely comforted by the friends on the other side of the call, offering advice, and thoughts and in brief tiny moments a laugh.

I don't think I was judging her either. I don't think I was filled with "how dare she?" I actually think that I felt like she had discovered a problem and was very matter of fact in fixing it. Yes, it was debilitating, but she seemed very up front and resolute. I think I was impressed by the straightforwardness.

Almost to New Jersey, the calls started up again, and one included her mom. It was a quiet conversation, and the fact that she called her "mommy" made me smile...for it is a term that my wife continues to lobby for when our kids talk to her. My daughter I think sometimes tries...my son outright refuses.

"Mommy...how are you feeling?"

She went on for a bit and then made one last call. The call that actually became the big reveal, leaving me feeling extraordinarily stupid and naive. A call as we rolled almost into view of the city when she brought up the entirety of the circumstances.

"I went to the doctor today. With my mom."

"She has cancer...she's very upset...she needs to start right away and she's very scared."

In my brief recollection, I wanted to know if I should have come to this conclusion, always assuming the circumstances were hers. That the privacy of her conversations were of her private life, whispered in discreet volume so that only I, her seatmate, could hear.

I felt different as well...that her postures and exhortations were not about her, but for her mother. That she wasn't some "unlucky girl" who got unknowingly pregnant, but rather she was victimized in an all too familiar manner that unfortunately afflicts too many mothers.

I felt foolish in that regard. My stupid conclusions. And I felt like I was sitting too close, almost invading, as this young girl tried to make her mom feel better and support her at these early moments.

I asked her if she was getting out at New York since I needed to step over her to exit.
She was, and she got up and walked out the opposite door. I knew that I had something to write about, this trip, this quiet small conversation that was not between anybody that I knew but certainly got to know. I think I was trying to do the math in my head about how many passengers on the train were sharing such private discussions.

I was in the line to go out the door when two people in front of me were discussing a colleague who was featured in The New Yorker for behavioral psychology. A man still seated, a complete stranger, asked the two if they were psychologists.

"Yes, we are."

"Interesting. My son was diagnosed with autism yesterday. We're working with some experts."

The two, sort of stunned by the revelation, fumbled their response.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Oh, I wasn't looking for any sympathy. Just thought I would share that."

I shook my head as I walked past, exiting the train, following quiet individuals who I truly preferred would stay that way.