Clarity on the Tube

My family and I were on vacation in Europe. You can know this is going to be tragic or humorous or some combination of the two based on that. For years, literally since I can remember, I’ve been trying to explain the dynamic of my family. Which, so far, has only served to make me a peculiar child, an anxiety-ridden teenager, an overly analytical adult, and an English major. I guess it could have been worse; I could have been a psych major like my crazy younger stepsister or worse still, a theatre major. Because of my particular brand of neurosis I am compelled to write about my family and upbringing. My apologies.

I can tell you exactly when my family dynamic crystallized in my mind. It’s caught there like a prehistoric insect in a dysfunctional chunk of amber. Now, to be fair, we had spent nearly two weeks together at this point, itchy and irritable with the regularity of one another’s company. To this point, we had spent nine days in Italy cramped by our language, itinerary, hotel reservations, and distance from anything familiar.

It was unusually hot in London and we were taking the tube into the center of the city, which took us about an hour. Mom was upset. Her mood was inexplicable but easily visible as usual. My mother does not operate on a system of emotional subtlety, while she will never come right out and say what’s bothering her, all of her mannerisms will generally indicate one of two things: she’s pissed or she’s terribly depressed and saturated in self-pity. You have to be something of an expert to be able to distinguish between the two, as they are similar to the untrained observer. And since I have been privy to these volatile mood-swings since birth I consider myself the foremost expert in the entire universe. Each time my mother has married I’ve hoped that her husband would take over my duties of diagnoses and treatment, my role as universal expert on my mom’s silent fits. So far, my stepfather does a pretty good job as my assistant; he’s the Watson to my Holmes.

So we file onto the train and Jon, Ali and I take a seat next to each other. Across from us are three empty seats, my mom takes the one in the corner and huddles into it, obviously upset and nearly in tears. So, there are empty seats next to her, her version of an invitation for help that she will decline but will be devastated if it’s not offered. My hopes of abdication are running high at the obviousness of the situation and I wait for Dave to take his place (my place) next to her.

I look over as the doors are closing to see him standing at the door, fixed to one of the handgrips. He’s not moving! He intends to stay there. He’s going to leave mom silently crying for help and alone with two empty seats next to her. I wonder if he doesn’t know the signs or if he’s tired of them and has stopped responding.

I look around to see if Ali and Jon have noticed my mother silently spewing forth her martyrdom in an invisible force field of self-pity that is filling the train car. I’m not surprised that they have not.

My reaction to the general inattentiveness to her muted begging is not unlike the time I was in New York and stepped onto a subway car to see a man beating his own face into floor in a bloody pool. I was the first to take notice and the first to take action to notify the MTA and the police and the one who redirected the boarding commuters.

In fact, minus the additional horror of blood, my feelings about both situations are more or less the same. I feel simultaneously powerless and responsible, sympathetic and annoyed, and at bottom – fearful.

My family was filling their usual roles with exactness.