Connie

The smiling lady sat across from me. Or, I should say, I sat across from her. When I got on the train at Cathedral Square she'd already been sitting there for I don't know how long. I didn't think twice when she flashed me a warm smile as I sat down; it's one of the hazards of accidental eye contact. I didn't pay much attention to her after that, after the train shuddered, then groaned, then set out on its way.

I watched the city pass by through the window, then glanced around the car. Eyes were turned outward like mine had been, fixed on iPods, or focused self-consciously on fingernails or floor. The smiling lady's were still up, still beaming with the rest of her.

I was a little embarrassed when she saw me seeing her again. I raised my eyebrows as if in innocent, helpless weariness. "Are we there yet?"

When this banal and tedious display seemed to amuse her I assumed she must have children of her own. I imagined in the oversized purse she held on her lap a wallet full of photos, then reconsidered. No busy mom I've known seems to carry photos around with her; those are fodder for grandmas and aunts. And those rough hands, unpainted nails, and periodically flexing fingers were proof enough that I was right about the mom thing.

The workday was done and Mom was probably on her way home. Maybe Dad worked graveyard shifts and the kids played quietly but happily while he slept with the blinds pulled shut. They'd wake him up in "blood or barf" situations, but they knew it was best to let him sleep. When Mom got home, though, and dinner was on the table, they'd rush into his room to wake him for the couple hours of family togetherness they always counted on before Dad had to rush off to work. This early-evening ritual. This daily Christmas morning, children laughing, Dad pretending (just like always) not to wake up, Mom looking on, smiling.

I imagined the dinner table conversation. Her second-oldest, a nine-year-old boy, is crass and self-centered. But his eyes fill up with tears whenever he gets scolded so the smiling lady lets more things slide than she ever imagined she would. Her husband supports her in this, secretly suppressing laughter all the while. The oldest is their daughter who boiled the water for the pasta and hung up the drapes standing on her toes on a dining room chair after taking them to the laundromat with her mom the night before. Both parents worry she's growing up too fast but know that the family needs her help and believes that she's happy to give it. She updates her parents on her school situation as the nine-year-old plays with his food. And the baby, five-year-old Jeffrey, tries to get a word in edgewise between the grown-up conversation and his own incessant giggling.

I imagined how hard it must be for the smiling lady. Her daily alone time with her husband was probably a matter of minutes. And being away from her children all day must be hard, especially for a mother who I like to think is so delighted by the things that they do. Still, all things considered, though time might be short, she has a family she loves very much. And that is enough reason for any amount of smiling.

Of course, I may be projecting my own experience onto this woman's life. Family dinners form much of the substance of what I describe as my "happy childhood." But something in this woman's face made me feel a warmth I've seldom felt outside the dining nook of my suburban family home.

Why the smile? This lady probably had more reason than I did to be tired at the end of a long day such as this. But maybe she had more reason to be happy too. Again our eyes met and I felt like she'd been waiting there for me, that somehow I was making her day.

That's the astounding thing about the people we really love: what they give us is not a handout of happiness or the feeling they're doing us any favors. They offer us an important part to play, somewhere in their world. The satisfaction of a smile on their face.

And so it was. At our next stop another woman got on the train and sat down next to my new friend. They engaged in conversation and I wished I was listening to that rather than the Coldplay coming through my earbuds. When I went to pause the music, however, something stopped me. The fear that maybe I'd been wrong. The possibility that there was no slumbering husband, no mildly-behaved Cratchit-esque children waiting for her at home. She might have been telling this lady about her aging cat or her sister's cancer treatments. Maybe she was being set up on a date that night with a man who'd break her heart or maybe she, like me, was looking forward to her regularly scheduled television programming.

I pushed these thoughts out of my mind and turned the music volume up. A few minutes later when I sneezed I heard a vague and muffled "Bless you" from the world outside my headphones. There really wasn't any way to tell, but without thinking I turned back to the smiling lady and offered a friendly "thank you." Of course it was her. She smiled back at me.

I named her "Connie." I decided her husband woke up earlier than usual to have dinner waiting for her this time. She would give him a kiss that would make the little boys gag and make their young daughter's cheeks turn pink. Then they'd sit down to dinner, making the most of the time that they had.