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Twins sat next to me on the train. Fraternal. One boy, one girl. They both had the same haircut and piercing, youthful giggle. The kind of shrieking laugh that no headphones, no matter how big or noise canceling, can possibly block.
They shared a single seat, while their parents sat across the aisle, passing an infant back and forth while futzing with the traditional overpacked Bag of Stuff that parents carry, almost universally. It’s filled with toys and snacks and diapers and clothes and first aid items. And apologies.
“Katie, why don’t you leave the nice lady alone?” the dad said to Katie, whose tiny hands reached in front of my laptop to show me a small plastic dolphin.
“I named him Harry,” Katie said.
“Harry?” her brother asked, incredulous. “That’s not a dolphin name!”
“I’m so sorry,” the mom said to me while reaching out to wrangle the twins before deciding she didn’t have enough arms. She passed the baby back to the dad, then made a second, more serious attempt toward the twins.
I shrugged and casually waved her off, like it was no bother. Like I was used to kids, liked kids, maybe had kids of my own. Like I didn’t have a report due to the client by tomorrow morning.
This time, the mom pulled out a Disney coloring book and pulled down the tray table in front of the twins. Conceptually, her idea made sense. A open coloring book offered two pages—one per child—to color simultaneously. But she had not anticipated the high stakes negotiation before either twin would agree on what pages to share.
Douglas wanted to color Donald Duck, but Katie wouldn’t stand for Daisy. No deal.
They agreed on Mickey and Minnie fishing at the lake, but they both wanted to color Mickey (because, the patriarchy). A non-starter.
Katie wanted to color Pluto, but Douglas went back to his first offer: Donald. Now, he was stuck on Donald, wouldn’t let go of the page of Donald, wouldn’t even explore another option. A dead-end.
You had to give it to the twins: they knew how to play hardball. They weren’t afraid to walk away from a raw deal. They also weren’t afraid of theatrics. The screaming. The tears. The boogery accusations of injustice.
The mom grabbed Katie and Douglas by the hands and took them for a walk. As they scream-cried from car to car of the train, the mom issued a string of apologies to everyone she passed, like walking down the receiving line of a funeral. The dad sat, holding the infant: an angel, fast asleep. An androgynous ball of cells assembled into cuteness by design. The calm before the storm before the full moon’s tidal superhurricane.
Almost on cue, the twins returned, each carrying his and her own bag of pretzels. Never mind that their bag of stuff already had pretzels. The peace was well-worth the $5.20 investment. I would have paid double. Triple. Octuple.
Using her mom-rounded body, a soft voice, and strategic positioning, the mom sent subtle cues to the dad. Plan A had failed. It was time to enact Plan B: the separation.
The mom sat in the seat next to me, holding Douglas on her lap, asking him to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and “The Alphabet Song.” It was the first time I’d ever noticed that they share the same tune.
The dad welcomed Katie to his side of the train car, shifting her to the interior. “You see the river?” he asked, pointing out the window in the distance. Katie stared at the world, enamored into silence until she closed her eyes and fell asleep, her ageless skin pressed against the window.
As Douglas and the mom moved to the very apropos “I Been Working on the Railroad,” I closed my laptop, ignoring the report that no one would read until Monday anyway. I stared out the window and watched as a panorama of trees, houses, rivers, and cities turned blurry then drifted to a state of sleep or hypnosis.
I woke up as the train pulled into Philadelphia. The mom now wore the infant on the front and the oversized bag of stuff on her back, holding Douglas’s hand and telling him about the Liberty Bell. The dad slung Katie over his shoulder and rolled two suitcases with a single free hand.
“Sorry again,” the dad said.
“No bother at all,” I said, smiling.
Finally, I could get some work done. But instead, I put my laptop away and zipped the bag with finality. If Katie and Douglas didn’t need screen time, neither did I.
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