Mark and I were sitting on a picnic table that was situated between a playground and a parking lot, and next the place where our kinder were participating in an “Organized Recreational Activity.” (I’m phrasing it this way in order to better protect the identity of someone coming up momentarily … stay with me here.)
We were chatting when Mark told me there was a little girl crying in one of the parked mini-vans.
“Crying? Like really crying? Is she locked in or something?”
“I don’t know.”
We both wondered. What should we do? Well, we walked by as if we were walking into that Place of Organized Recreational Activity. Indeed, there was a crying girl inside, maybe four years old.
I approached the minivan. The window was rolled down a couple of inches.
“Are you okay?” I asked. She didn’t say anything. I tried to see inside the van. “Are you alone?”
I pointed to the building. “Is your mom inside?” She nodded yes.
“What’s her name?”
She mumbled something I couldn’t understand.
Mark and I went inside. I was pretty sure I knew who I was looking for because I remembered the girl and her mother from previous weeks.
As Mark and I walked through the door the mother turned around in her chair. Our eyes met. I pointed at her. Did I look angry? Accusatory? I’m not sure. Remarkably, we had a brief conversation that consisted almost entirely of half-formed sentences.
“Are you … ? ” I asked.
“Is she … ? ” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Your daughter is crying outside in the car and is asking for you.”
(I’m still not sure what she was going to say to me. Is she … what ?)
The other parents turned to see what was going on. I could not read the expressions on their faces. I wondered what they were thinking? Were they upset? Relieved? Sympathetic? Understanding?
Mark and I sat down. After a few minutes we decided to return to our spot on the sunny picnic table outdoors. On our way out we passed the mother and daughter coming in. The girl was no longer crying. She had her head down, carefully unwrapping some kind of snack bar. The mother didn’t look at me. I didn’t look at her either.
–
Gah. I’m torn. I’m not sure if I should have even written about this.
