As we journeyed on the Metro to The Louvre, I wondered if the subway car was overly crowded because of the security cordon for the approaching Olympics or if it was always this fucked up.
“The station at Place de la Concorde is closed,” my wife said. “We have to get off at the stop afterwards and walk over.”
“Just great,” I said. During our two week vacation we’d already walked one hundred miles, and my gimpy knee was suffering as a result. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone running that morning. Pulling into a station, I watched as a large multi-generational family surged into the subway car, jockeying for position in the crowd. Like two pieces of matter trying to occupy the same place at the same time, it could not be done. But it was fun to watch.
Then a man, desperate to catch the train, pushed his way in just as the doors were closing, almost knocking a young woman from the family trying to board the car off her feet. Luckily, she didn’t fall but, as I watched her right herself, I saw a look of panic spread across her face. “My baby!” she cried in English. Sure enough, as the train began to move out of the station, I saw a baby stroller all alone on the platform. Oh shit.
“MY BABY! MY BABY!” the woman yelled.
Closing my eyes, I knew every on the subway car was about to get a dose of PTSD after this mother and her extended family went supernova. Talk about every parent’s worst nightmare. I also feared for the man who almost knocked the mother down and caused this mess. The beatdown he was almost sure to receive was going to be epic. Then, as the train started to pick up speed, the baby’s father pounded on the window shouting, “Stop the train! Stop the train!” Then the screams began.
If there’s anything that sends my daughter into a meltdown its children being separated from their parents. When Elsa and Anna’s parents died in a shipwreck in Frozen, she burst into panicked tears – and don’t even get me started about Bambi. Feeling powerless, I put my hand on Natalie’s shoulder and noticed her muscles were tauter than steel cables. This was going to be bad.
Luckily, an on the ball conductor noticed the developing drama and stopped the train just as the baby disappeared from view. Then, after the train backed up, the doors flew open and the entire family poured out of the car and surrounded the baby, crying tears of relief and launching prayers of thanksgiving heavenwards. Looking at the pushy guy who’d probably escaped being guillotined by an outraged parent, I noticed he was doing his best to alter his molecular structure and become invisible.
“Crisis averted,” I said, patting Natalie’s shoulder. “All is well.”
“What would’ve happened if they couldn’t stop the train?” she said. “What would’ve happened to the baby?”
“People are very nice,” I said. “They would have made sure the baby was safe until the police arrived and the cops would’ve found the parents.” That seemed to mollify my daughter but, as any parent knows, when confronted the enormity of losing your child, your mind goes to a very dark place. If it had been my baby in that stroller, I’d already be imagining infant organ traders scooping her up and flying her to some lawless shithole on the other side of the world. I have a relative who lost his two year old daughter at the Jersey Shore for half an hour back in the Seventies and, as he frantically searched for his child, he told God if she was found, he’d go back to church for the rest of his life. That man is now eighty and still goes to Mass almost every day. Talk about keeping your side of the bargain.
A short while later, when Natalie was out of earshot as we walked through the courtyard of The Louvre, I said to my wife, “What if Natalie got separated from us? How would we find her? We’re in France, not Jersey.”
“Good question.”
“We should give her a piece of paper with our names, numbers, and what hotel we’re staying at. In French.”
“By the time we noticed she was gone,” my wife deadpanned. “She’d be on a plane to Saudi Arabia.” When you’re married, your spouse knows just what buttons to push.
“I’m not Liam Neeson in Taken” I almost shouted. “I can’t be electrocuting every guy in Paris trying to find her!”
“She’s fine. You’re fine. Relax.”
If, God forbid, my daughter disappeared in my town, I could get our entire police force out looking for her. But I wasn’t home. I was a stranger in strange land unable to speak the language. I had no old buddies working in the Sûreté, nor was I an ex-CIA agent trained in hand to hand combat, evasive driving, subterfuge, and enhanced interrogation. Quite simply, I had no particular set of skills. Then again, if Taken had been a realistic movie, old Liam would’ve been a blubbering mess.
Aggravated and baking in the summer sun, I dragged Natalie towards a bench in the shade, sat down, and pulled her close. “I’m okay, dad,” she said.
“What would you have done if that happened to you?” I said.
“I would’ve stayed there and waited for you to come and get me.”
“Good girl.”
But next chance I got, I was going to sew my phone number into her underwear.
