Feeling a little Beat today. . . though usually am more Lost

This quote keeps running through my pretty little brain:

. . .because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time. . . (Jack Kerouac)

Fahrfromwedding / Wedding Expo -- revised

My tires crunched asphalt as I turned into the Hilton parking lot for the wedding expo. Sweat loosened my grip on the wheel as I pulled into a spot. After a quick glance at the promise that encircled my finger, I walked into the lobby. Greeters congratulated the soon-to-be brides, invited them to enter a drawing. I bent to fill out the entry slip. My hand shook as I wrote my name; my breath became labored.

            “Are you alright?” the attendant asked.

            “A bit under the weather.”

            My nose and eyes burned as blood rushed to the surface of my skin, moisture threatened to flow from both. I crumpled the entry sheet, stuck it in my pocket, and hurried to a restroom. A splash of water on my face.  A quick prayer that someone would rush in, stop me from doing what she I’d promised to do.

            As I reflected over the past weeks, my inability to choose a caterer or a dress meant something plain now. I stood in that lobby looking toward the ballroom. Women hustled past, maniacally discussing gowns, bridesmaids, rings, and flowers. They had no problem filling out a contest entry form.

            I hurried back to my car. It took twenty minutes for the ten-minute drive home.

            I turned my key and walked into the house. I could see through the sliding glass door that David was sitting on the patio. I walked through the house, out to the patio, and closed the slider behind me.  Hard.

            “I can’t do this,” I said.

            He looked up at me, his blue eyes bloodshot and droopy from his best friend – weed. “What?” he asked.

“The wedding. I can’t do this. It’s stressing me out. Can we just elope?”

            Deposits are paid. Reservations are made. My fate is scheduled for the  morning of February 2, 2002 – 02/02/02— now in Jamaica. I look at the calendar on our desk. October. I think about that thick envelope I mailed to the resort, heavy in my hand as I dropped it in the mailbox—birth certificates, photocopies of licenses, the signed application for the marriage I don’t want. My simple, white, satin dress hangs in the closet. Thick, complex doubts hang in my mind. 

            My legs sweat atop the unbreathable fabric on the beige sofa. I sit cross-legged, mind sick from spinning. The TV is on in front of me, but the sounds and pictures fail to register in my brain. Absentmindedly, I twirl my three-stone diamond and white gold engagement ring, look around the room at the wallpaper David and I hung together when we moved in. The moss-colored oriental paper more sophisticated than we are.

            The sound of church bells pulls me from languor. My cognition reattaches itself to my eyes, as a television commercial draws me in.

            A man, anxious, sweat dripping from his brow, driving. Hurried. A woman in a white silk and tulle gown being primped by four friends in champagne dresses. He checks his watch. She twists and pulls at her ring as the smile fades from her face. He overtakes a truck hauling an Airstream in his rush. She looks out the window. He stops for a passing train. Screams. He pulls up to the church, runs inside. The woman is at the altar with another man. He is there to stop her.

            This fifty-seven second ad for a Volkswagen baits me. I pray that will happen at my wedding. Brando, the married Italian foreign national and father of two who I've been having an affair with, is who I imagine bursting into my ceremony. I don't love him, but I want him to love me, rescue me. I know he won't.

            For days, I wait to see the commercial again; it's my only solace.

            “Have you seen that Volkswagen commercial?” I ask Meghann, one of my bridesmaids, over the phone.

            “The wedding one?”

            “Yeah.” Sigh. “I want that to happen to me,” I confess aloud for the first time.

            “You can't marry David.”

            I know.

Roadside Assistance (fiction)

            “Rachel, I really feel like Jesus is an important part of education. . . of life,” Wesley said.

             One Thursday afternoon he sprang this on me. It was summer, so I was home, the main reason I love being a teacher. Since summer is slow for landscape architecture, at least in Florida, Wesley was home with me. We were in the kitchen. I unpacked the groceries while he put them away. I just put things wherever I see a spot, but he likes to arrange the fridge. Everything has its place. That's how we did it. It worked that way. Just like I thought everything else worked. 

            Wonderful, I said to myself. Sarcasm dripped off the word like the condensation on my glass of iced, sparkling water.

            I thought we'd straightened this whole religion thing out before we got engaged, but I guess not. So there I was, approaching my twenty-sixth week of pregnancy carrying twins, our first—and probably only—children, and things were up in the air. A place I don't like things to be. The babies are supposed to be a boy and a girl, but right then I wouldn't have been a bit surprised if they turned out to be a litter of kittens.

            Religion is a funny thing. It's something you're born with, but don't necessarily subscribe to. Somehow the cheerleading and defensiveness are ingrained. You don't believe it, but you identify with it. You don't live it, but it's somehow who you are. I'm a Jew. A real, live, practicing Jew. Granted, I don't go to temple every week, and I don't celebrate all the holidays, but I belong to a temple, Reform of course, and I go when I need to. That is generally more often than most of my contemporaries, who go twice a year on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. My husband, sweet man that he is, is a Baptist. Or he used to be.

            We'd decided, well, maybe I asserted and he agreed, that we'd raise our future children in the Jewish faith. That was the agreement before we ever got married—in a Jewish ceremony, mind you. It seems, though, that things have changed, and it wasn't a binding agreement.

            After I loosened my jaw that clenched tightly upon hearing his comment, I turned to him and calmly said, “And I agree that it's important to know about Jesus, but worshiping him as the son of God is something completely different.”

            Where did this come from? I wondered. Wesley and I had been sleeping in separate beds—separate rooms—for the last six or seven weeks. My expanding stomach and aching back had made it nearly impossible for me to sleep through the night, and, since Wesley is a light sleeper, we thought it would be best if he relocated to the guest room. Maybe that was driving us apart. Maybe he was second guessing the marriage, or the babies.

            Wesley put the gallon of milk in his hand back on the counter and looked at me as he said, “What about Christmas? Don't you wish you got to celebrate Christmas when you were a kid?”

            I folded up the multi-colored, fabric grocery bags, sat down on one of the leather barstools, and leaned against the quartz counter top with my swollen hands folded in front of me. I considered my answer carefully as I looked into his face. I could see Wesley as child at that moment, afraid his mom would take away his Transformers.

            Of course, every Jewish child wishes they could celebrate Christmas. In the U.S., every store is transformed into a red and white wonderland, the carols are piped in through every speaker, and Santas are everywhere. Their bells ring-a-ling on street corners or they sit covered in well-dressed, smiling, blonde children with elves standing by with cameras. And all the presents those Christian kids would get! When we came back from Christmas break—now they call it “winter break” after finally realizing that not everyone celebrates the supposed birth of Christ—when I was in school I would hear stories of how Santa brought them the Barbie townhouse and the corvette or the new Asteroids game for Atari. I wanted to sing cheery songs, watch the cartoon movies, open a mountain of presents, and eat things besides white fish and liver. But should I admit that to Wesley?

            “Christmas might be fun for the kids, but it's all about materialism anyway,” I said. “How many people really even think about Jesus on that day? I bet not many.”

            “How 'bout if we just go to a service at that church down in Venice? The one that Adam and Jen go to. I hear there's a visiting pastor who's not bad,” he said, making room for the orange juice in the fridge.

            I forced myself not to shoot him in the back of the head with the rubber band I saw lying on the counter in front of me.

            “Did I ever tell you that when I was a little girl, I went to the First Baptist Church with one of my friends and her family?” I asked him.

            “I don't think so,” he answered as he pulled the open bottle of Perrier out of the refrigerator door and laid it on its side on the top shelf to make room for the orange juice. He eyed me when he did this, knowing I put that bottle in the OJ spot. Oops.

            I leaned against the high-backed stool and stretched my massive belly, rubbing the babies as I recounted my memory. “I remember being there one night at the adult service when all of a sudden there were kids on the bimah, or whatever you all call it, and the pastor was dunking their heads in this big pool of water. I clutched the pew and looked around, sure that they were randomly taking kids from the congregation and forcing their faces under water. I was terrified.”

            “You know that those kids wanted to do it, though, right?” he asked, afraid for a moment he'd married an idiot.

            “I was eight years old,” I said in my own defense. “It was scary.”

            “I promise you that no one will baptize you if we go to a service,” he said as he closed the stainless steel refrigerator door. He stood on the opposite side of the breakfast bar, leaned over the counter across from me, and grasped my hands that were no longer rubbing my belly.

            “Alright,” I said, squeezing his hands. “Let's go this weekend. The service won't be too long, will it?”

            “If you're really uncomfortable, we can leave early.”

            The doorbell rang.

            “I'll get it,” I said as I eased off the stool, then kissed him on the cheek. I love him, even if he is a fool sometimes.

            I waddled to the front doors. Diamond-shaped prisms of light decorated the tiled foyer. I peered through the leaded glass windows in the doors and saw a small person standing outside. When I opened the door, our seven-year-old neighbor, Ruthie, held out the camera in her hand.

            “Hey, Mrs. Traforo,” she said, one hand tugging at the hem of her pink tennis skirt. “Can I take a picture of the fish on your roof?”

            “What? There's a fish on the roof?” I asked, stepping outside with her.

            “Yeah, a big one. Mom said I should ask you first. It's up there,” she said, pointing as she walked backward. She swiped at a few hairs that strayed from her dirty blonde pigtails.

            I stepped back with her, careful not to trip down the brick paver steps, as I looked toward the roof. Sure enough, on the terracotta roof tiles was a huge trout, or bass, or snook. I'm no fish expert. It was lying there, midway between the pitch and the eaves, mouth agape, with lips like a woman from reality TV.

            “Wes!” I shouted, not taking my eyes off the new roof ornament. “I need you.”

           

            That Sunday at church, I heard “Jesus” and “Christ” more times than I usually do in a year, and involuntarily cringed each time. Then, at the end of the sermon, Pastor Gardner wanted to share a personal story with the congregation. I was a little annoyed, but mostly because I was uncomfortable. The babies had been kicking away during the whole service and had finally settled right on my bladder. I looked over at Wesley and saw that he was very much involved in what the pastor was saying, so I sat back and tried to listen.

            “The other day I was playin' golf with some friends over at The Oaks,” the pastor said.

            I elbowed Wesley. Pastor Gardner had been in our subdivision.

            “When we were at the sixth hole, do y'all know where I'm talking 'bout?”

            His southern twang that dripped off of every other word made him less credible as a religious leader in my mind. And I doubted that half the people in the congregation knew the sixth hole at a private golf course.

            “Anyway, there's that big ol' pond right there,” he continued. “Once in a while ya might see a gator, but this day I saw somethin' else. A great raptor swooped down, caught itself a large mouth bass in its talons, and flew off. In mid flight, the fish tumbled from the grip of that great bird. Folks, I knew right then that it was a sign to continue my mission here in Sarasota.”

            I chuckled. I couldn't help it. When I got a few looks, I pretended to be preoccupied with what was going on inside my huge belly. The babies made me do it.

            We left after Wesley personally thanked the minister for his sermon.

            “Did you tell him that the raptor dropped his fish on our house?” I asked.

            “No,” he said as we walked to the car. “I wanted to, but I didn't think it would be appropriate. Maybe if we get to know him better I'll tell him.”

            “How would we get to know him better? You don't golf.”

            After services at Temple Sinai the next Saturday, we decided to go over to the God's Closet thrift store at the Presbyterian church instead of going straight home. Wesley and I love flea markets and thrift stores. Once in a while we'll find a great treasure there. Usually, though, it's a bunch of crap: crocheted doilies, tea cozies, china figurines, and cheap wigs.

            We drove south a few miles before the traffic became as congested as my sinuses in the spring time. A flashing sign on the shoulder read “CAUTION CAUTION CAUTION. ROAD WORK AHEAD.”       

            Great, I thought. U.S. 41 in Venice, where the construction never ends. At least the northbound traffic was still moving, getting home would be much easier. I looked at the display on the dash that read ninety-seven degrees outside. The number next to it, the temperature of the car AC, was a much more agreeable seventy-two. I'd never been more grateful for modern comforts.

            We made it to God's Closet after another ten minutes. The musty smell inside the store seemed to radiate from the ladies who scooted around with their walkers, or maybe the scent was just trying to drown out the several ounces of L'air Du Temps perfume that several of the women had apparently bathed in. Wesley and I split up, I went to kitchen wares. Who knows where he went off to. A silver chafing dish on a lower shelf caught my eye, and I leaned forward to pick it up.

            First, let me say that my brain had not been fully functioning since around week six of the pregnancy. Words were elusive, my balance was off, and I became more generally air-headed than usual. So when I bent over, I didn't notice the cast-iron skillet handle sticking out from the shelf just above the dish. I didn't notice it until my forehead made direct contact and sent the skillet to the floor, and me with it. I lost my balance from the shock. Of course, at that moment Miss Bessie was walking by. That's how her name tag read: Miss Bessie, Caretaker of God's Closet.

            “Good lord, missy,” she exclaimed. “You all right, child?” She rushed over as fast as her bunioned feet and stiff hips would carry her. Her blue flowered dress with the white lace collar reminded me of a period movie. She must have bought the dress here.

            “I'm fine, thank you, but I might need help getting up.” My face had to have been bright red from embarrassment, not to mention the trickle of thick fluid coming from my scalp line.

            “Let me help you, honey pie. Where's your husband?” she asked looking at my belly as I grasped her bony, liver-spotted hand.

            “Oh, he's around here somewhere.”

            “You best sit in this here chair for a spell. Lemme fetch you some Kleenex for your head.”

            Miss Bessie directed me to an old rocking chair I was hoping would hold my weight. I'm not a big woman by any means, but I have legs built for walking the desert for forty years, two babies residing in my stomach, and what sure looks like enough milk already to feed them for the first several months stored in my thighs. I touched my hand to the goose egg forming on my head, and felt the sticky mess. It wasn't too bad considering all the excess blood I was carrying. My pregnancy nose-bleeds were worse.

            I sat down in the chair that, thank God, didn't break beneath me, and fished for a napkin or tissue in my purse. I found one and held it to my throbbing head. Wesley found me sitting in the corner, Miss Bessie was close behind him, her angular body moving like a rudimentary cartoon figure.

            “Whoa. You okay, Rachel?” he asked, bending over to get a closer look at my wound.

            “I'm okay. Are you ready to go?”

            “I don't know if you should get up just yet. The devil knocked you over and he may try to keep you down,” Miss Bessie said very seriously.

            I looked at Wesley. Was this woman for real? I asked him with my eyes.

            Wesley said, “She's all right,” as he took my hand to help me up. “We've had a long morning and she probably just needs to get home and lie down.”

            We walked out of God's Closet. Traffic sped by on Highway 41 tossing exhaust and asphalt heat on the parking lot. The sun was high and beating down on us as we walked to our car. Wesley opened the passenger door for me, and as I turned to step into the car I saw Miss Bessie headed in our direction.

            “Wait, wait!” she was shouting above the traffic as she scuttled toward us, waving a hand in the air.

            I leaned against the open car door, not really wanting to wait. My head hurt, my back hurt, and I was shvitzing to high heaven out in that sun.

            “Could I have a word of prayer with you?” she asked.

            Wesley and I shot each other a look.

            Miss Bessie took us each by the hand, squeezed her wrinkled lids shut, and began her prayer. “Lord, thank you for this couple. Bless them, Lord, and especially, Lord, the lady. . .”

             She opened her eyes, interrupting her prayer to ask Wesley if we knew if I were having a boy or a girl.

            “They're twins. A boy and a girl,” Wesley said, his pride beaming from his face.

            “The lady carrying twin babies, Lord,” she continued. “We ask for your healing grace for this sweet, special lady.” Again she opened her eyes, and before I realized what she was doing, she brought her hand up to my forehead, held it there, and said in an authoritative voice, “Lord, in the name of Jesus cast out this pain caused by Satan and heal this woman! Pain be gone! Satan be gone!”

            Miss Bessie pushed the heal of her palm into my head with enough force to send me back into the car door.

            “Grant this sister in Christ safe travel and to be with us all. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

            As we drove away, I looked back at God's Closet in the side view mirror, tried to picture what passers by had seen during those few moments in the parking lot. Then I turned to Wesley who seemed to have already forgotten what had just happened. “Can you believe that woman?” I asked him.

            He shrugged. “I don't think she meant any harm.”

            The last two weekends had not renewed my faith in Christians. Had I married the only sane one? Good lord. Trying to put that behind me, and hoping Wesley had plucked the wild hair that led us to the whole Bible-thumping fiasco, I went about planning the bris for our little boy. I got a list of local mohels from my temple, and from some friends. I'd been considering a hospital circumcision instead of the big ceremony, but I wouldn't admit that to Wesley now. It might throw more fuel on the burning bush.

            One of the mohels had been recommended by most of my friends and my rabbi, and he was an M.D., so that put him at the top of my list. Dr. Jacob Diamond. I made a quick phone call, and we agreed to meet the next day at his house on the Island of Venice. That night, I told Wesley about the meeting.

            “I'm going to meet with Dr. Diamond tomorrow about performing the bris for little Wesley Junior,” I said while sautéing chicken with veggies and garlic.

            Wesley, who was sitting in the family room, looked up from the newspaper. “Who's Dr. Diamond?”

            “He's a mohel that Beth, Robin, Helene, and Rabbi Shapiro all recommended. I talked to him on the phone for a few minutes, and he seems really nice. And he's an M.D.” I said, starting a pot of water for the pasta.

            “I didn't realize we were going ahead with the bris,” Wesley said as he laid down the paper on the coffee table and scooted forward on the sofa. 

            “It's an important tradition, and since we'd circumcise anyway, I figured we might as well start putting it together. I mean, we only have about twelve weeks left. And twins usually come early.” I didn't even look at him, feeling more justified than sneaky in what I was doing.

            “Do I get to meet the guy?” he asked as he walked toward the breakfast bar separating the two rooms. I could feel his stare, though I still didn't take my eyes off the stove.

            “Sure. I'm meeting him tomorrow at two o'clock. Do you wanna come with me?” I knew he had a big day at work and couldn't, but I looked at him innocently, feigning no recollection of his meeting.

            “We're meeting with the Hyatt people tomorrow afternoon, construction on their resort on Siesta Key is rolling along and they're ready to see my final designs.” I could hear the frustration in his voice. “I can't leave that meeting to my team. They expect the owner, the face of the company, to be there. I wish you would've checked with me first, Rachel.”

            “If I like him, we can set up another time for you to meet him, too,” I said as I looked up again from the stove, suddenly heavy with guilt. “We still have a little time before they're born.”

            He shook his head at my contradiction. “Alright, gimme a call after and let me know how it goes.”

            The next day, I got ready for my visit with Dr. Diamond. Sometimes during the summers it was nice to have a reason to get dressed and do something with my unruly, ethnic hair. I'm sure Wesley didn't mind the days that I got out of my yoga pants, stretchy t-shirt and frizzy ponytail. I like to remind him, and myself, once in a while that I wasn't always a big, fat blob.

            At quarter after one, I grabbed my car keys and purse, set the alarm on the house, and went through the garage to my car. I was a little nervous, and hoped that Dr. Diamond could do away with the reluctance I felt about the bris. Somehow it seemed okay to circumcise a baby right after birth. He'd just been through so much trauma, one little snip couldn't add to it too much. The idea of waiting a week, when the baby is getting used to life on the outside, and being constantly loved and cared for, then handing him over to strange man to cut off his foreskin seemed cruel.

            The only classical music station in town, set at a soothing volume, played a lively concerto as I drove down to Venice. Fortunately I was headed to the Island and all of that road work was on the mainland, so the drive shouldn't be too bad, I told myself. As traffic slowed for the light ahead, I could see the turnoff for the Island just before me. Then I felt a strong bump in the back of my car. Within a second, I felt another one at the front end. I looked in the rear view mirror, and saw a little white Ford coupe with its hood almost on top of my trunk. The guy in front of me got out of his Cadillac and walked up to my window.

            “Why the hell'd you hit me?” the little Italian man said. Not quite a yell, but  close.

            I was in shock, didn't know what to say. I opened my car door, and was about to say something when the girl from the car behind me got out and rushed over.

            “It was my fault,” she said, shaken. “I hit her first.”

            It was then that they both noticed my huge belly almost touching the steering wheel. I tried to get out, but my seatbelt was still on. I unbuckled it, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my abdomen.

            “Can someone call an ambulance? I think something might be wrong,” I said, trying to maintain my composure as tears filled my eyes.

            The ambulance came, and the EMT strapped my bulk to a stretcher. Being pregnant, they didn't want to take any chances and had me on my left side. It was not comfortable at all, but I was more concerned about the cramping in my uterus. They took me to Bon Secours Hospital. Just my luck, I thought, I have to go to the only one in the county that's Catholic.

            “Can someone call my husband?” I asked the EMTs.

            “They'll call from the hospital,” one of them said. “Don't worry.”

            Right away they put me in an examination room. A nurse's aide helped me into a gown, then left. An older woman came in, her brown hair cut short, above her ears with no real style to it, but it had a glimmer of a marcelled look in the style my grandma used to wear, though this woman was probably only in her fifties. Her softly wrinkled face showed a tendency to smile, and the slightly crooked teeth gave her mouth a peculiar charm. Her name tag read “Esther, R.N.”

            “Hi, sweetheart. You doing okay?” she asked as she took my hand.           

            My facade of strength and calm crumbled, and deep sobs escaped my chest. “Please don't let anything happen to my babies. I'm so scared. I love them so much. Please,” I begged.

            “Babies?” she asked. Excitement swept up her face as if I were her own daughter breaking the good news. “Are you having twins?”

            I nodded. My heaving cries continued.

            “How exciting,” she said as she patted my hands. “The doctor will be in very soon, honey, and we'll check everything for you. I don't think Jesus would let anything happen to those babies. Jesus has a special place in his heart for children, you know,” she told me.

            Please, no more of this crap, I thought. Not right now.

            Then she saw my necklace, a sterling silver Star of David. She delicately fingered the star. “This is lovely.”

            I sniffled a thank you.

            “We all share the same God,” she said, as she took my hand again and sat on the rolling stool next to the exam table. Her voice grew even softer, more gentle. “God is up there looking out for you and your little ones. Call him Jesus, Yahweh or Allah. It's all the same pumpkin pie, right?”

            I nodded. My breathing calmed a little as I listened. I rubbed my belly with my free hand.

            “We all know that life's about being kind to others, being honest, and living the most fulfilling life we can. The Almighty is up there looking out for us all. Especially you and these little ones right now. Right?” She looked me in the eye as she spoke, the strength with which she held my stare projected wisdom and self-assuredness. She wasn't just saying these things to appease me, she really believed them.

            I nodded again. Then the doctor came in. The nurse's assistant wheeled a portable ultrasound machine in behind him then left.

            “Hello, Mrs. Traforo. I'm Dr. Canon. I understand you were in a car accident, and you have a couple babies on board,” he said, shaking my hand. He was a short man, gray around the temples, with blue eyes that stood out against the beige that drowned the room.

            “Yeah, do you think they're okay?” I asked, the tears flowing heavily again.

            “Let's take a look-see,” he said.

            Nurse Esther released my hand and went about setting up the ultrasound machine as the doctor got a paper sheet out from a drawer in the exam table and spread it over my lap. Then he opened up my gown and did an internal exam.

            “Everything looks A-okay down here. No dilation, you're not effaced, and I don't see any blood. That's a good sign, kiddo,” he said patting my knee. “Let's take a peek at the little ones, shall we?”

            Nurse Esther stood at my side, and squeezed my hand as Dr. Canon squirted warm, clear gel on my mountainous belly. As he pressed the ultrasound probe into my flesh, a bunch of blurry black and white mounds appeared on the screen. There was a flashing to one side.

            “There's one heartbeat,” he said. “Let's find the other one.”

            He moved the probe around. Every second he searched seemed to last forever. Please find it, please find it, I prayed to myself.

            “Here it is,” he said. “Nope, that's the same baby. The other one seems to be hiding in the back. It can be a little tricky finding the right angle. I'm sure you know we don't do many of these down here,” the doctor said, referring to the Venice demographic. Lots of senior citizens.

            Then, a moment later, he found it.

            “Aha!” he said, a proud smile showed off his straight, white teeth. “There she blows. Heartbeat number two.” He moved the probe again. “Baby A heartbeat,” he showed me, “and Baby B heartbeat,” he said moving back to the other position.

            “Oh, thank you, thank you,” I said, partly to the doctor and partly to God.

            Esther gave my hand another squeeze. “You see, honey, I told you. God's always got a special eye on children.”

            “Do you know the genders?” the doctor asked.

            “I think they're a boy and a girl,” I said, as I squeezed Esther's hand back.

            “That's sure what they look like to me,” he said. He wiped off the probe, then my belly with a clean towel. “Looks good, missy, but you should call your OB and make an appointment for blood work and another exam tomorrow. Just in case.”

            “Thank you, Doctor. I will.”

            Someone knocked on the door, and Esther went to open it. The nurse's aide was there with Wesley. “Mr. Traforo is here,” the aide said.

            “Come in,” Esther said to Wesley, then she thanked the aide.

            Wesley's face was ashen and his eyes were red. He looked at me lying on the table and came in for a strong hug. I could feel his chest quaver, and feel his heavy breath on my neck.

            “Are you okay?” he asked softly, almost as if he were afraid of the answer.

            I sat up. “I'm okay, and it looks like the babies are, too,” I said, patting him on the back and giving him a reassuring smile. “I think we're going to be all right.”

            “We just saw two strong heartbeats, and your wife's internal exam showed everything's how it should be at this stage,” Dr. Canon said.

            Wesley regained his composure enough to shake the doctor's hand. “Thank you, Doctor.”

            “We'll leave you two alone for a bit,” Dr. Canon said, excusing himself.

            “You can go ahead and change back into your clothes. I'll be back in a few minutes,” Esther said with a wink, as she wheeled the ultrasound machine out behind her.

            “You sure you're okay?” Wesley asked. He leaned back over me and brushed a few hairs off my forehead.

            “I'm shaken up, but I feel pretty positive.” I could see him blinking back tears.

            He looked at my belly, then kissed it twice. One for each baby.

            “We need to go see Dr. Brody tomorrow just to make sure, but I think everything's gonna be fine,” I told him. I gave my belly a pat and said, “We're gonna be fine.”

            “Thank God,” he said, cupping my face in his hands. “That was the worst phone call I've ever got. They wouldn't even tell me if you or the babies were okay.” His face crinkled as he said this.

            I looked into his eyes, trying to reproduce the look of calm wisdom Esther had given me. The lines at the corners of his eyes from years of landscaping looked deeper at that moment, aging him. I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and tried to lighten the mood.

            “The doctor confirmed that they're a boy and a girl. So I guess it's time to settle on some names.”

            He smiled. “Isn't it Ashkenazi tradition to name them after dead relatives?”

            “We don't have to do that,” I said, sitting up with his help. “My brother was named after my mom's crazy Uncle Ira. Every story about him I've ever heard is about him burning food on the barbecue or taking everyone out on the boat only to get it stuck on a sandbar. He took my mom canoeing once and capsized the canoe when she was just learning how to swim.”

            “That sounds just like your brother,” Wesley laughed.

            “Exactly.” I paused and pulled my paper gown tighter. “Remember that story I told you about how scared I was during those baptisms when I was a little girl?”

            He handed me my clothes that were folded on the blue tweed chair behind him. “Yeah.”

            “Well, did I ever tell you about Ira's Bar Mitzvah?” I asked him.

            “I don't think so.”

            “I was on the bimah doing the aliyah Torah portion when I had an anxiety attack and started crying. I just froze. I couldn't stop crying, couldn't read. I wanted to get out of there. I was mortified. The Cantor wouldn't let me off the bimah, so I stood there sobbing while he finished for me. I couldn't believe he wouldn't let me get down. I didn't forgive him for years.”

            Wesley hugged me. “No, you never told me about that.”

Displaced (fiction)

            On a blustery morning in 1980, a freighter struck a main support beam of the original Skyway Bridge. The story that snaked its way into elementary school tales was that the storm was so dense and abrupt that it had robbed the morning of vision. As drivers in the two southbound lanes attempted to make their way across the bridge in the storm, they had no idea that the span before them had crumbled, that they were driving into oblivion.

            Ten years later, on another bridge, Stan Mendelssohn's car was overturned when he was sideswiped by a woman who was applying lipstick in her rear view mirror instead of watching the road. Stan was killed. The woman was fine. Stan left behind a wife and two daughters.

            Rumors had been circulating for months, but the mood in the eighth floor conference room was surprisingly upbeat. Forty or so of Miranda Mendelssohn's fellow appraisers and their support staff sat in stiff-backed chairs in the grave, unceremonious room. Waiting. Talking about everything but what was about to happen.

            She had imagined being pulled into an office one by one by the division managers. “You're staying,” or “I'm sorry, but you're going,” they would say. “So, so sorry.”

            Miranda, who usually wore black slacks and a white blouse to work—never wanting to stand out—wore  a fitted skirt suit that day. She went all out: real pearls, hair styled, sheer black pantyhose, and crimson toenails that peeked through the leather peep-toe shoes–plagiarized confidence was all she could muster. 

            Jim Amana, some big shot from the San Antonio office, quieted the crowd. A poised African-American woman stood to his right.

            “I'm here because you've all been displaced,” Amana said.

            Displaced, the polite term for laid off.

            The youngest in the room by at least ten years, Miranda noted the reactions of her fellow employees. Former employees. She seemed to be the only one with tears in her eyes. Blending into the group, as she had fought to do most of her life, she sat with eyes focused on the far wall as everyone was handed the neat folders that held their severance documents.

            Amana and his counterpart from corporate HR told everyone that they had the rest of the day off to absorb the news, and ask whatever questions they might have.

            “Take the rest of the day,” the woman told them. “Today there's no deadlines.” But tomorrow it would be back to work as usual – for another two weeks. Turn in your company car, your laptop computer, your dignity, and you get a severance check. But only after you sign the waiver agreeing not to litigate, that you would leave quietly with a check in hand. Miranda qualified for six months of pay, though she would have traded the last six months' pay if things could have remained the same. The progression of stability had been vaguely nostalgic. So was the feeling of it being ripped away.

            She thought of the cigarettes she had given up just months ago. She looked at the scars marring her left wrist that peeked from inside her sleeve, years-old lacerations from scissors, knives, whatever had been handy. They pleaded for new attention.

            Six months' pay. A payoff. Hush money. Pity cash.

            The money wouldn't last. The first scheduled dispersement from the trust fund her father set up before he died was gone in a matter of months. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Too much for a twenty-one year old. Her mom had always tried to make Miranda feel that the money somehow made up for her dad's death. Everyone tried to buy her off.

            The group was dismissed. When she rose, Stephanie, a co-worker—former co-worker—from the Sarasota office noticed the difference in Miranda's appearance.

            “You wearing a skirt?” Stephanie asked.

            Miranda said, “Yeah.”

            “What? Did you think that would help your chances?” Stephanie asked as she walked over. Miranda stood near the door, ready for her exit. Never one to beat about the bush, Stephanie habitually made comments about other peoples' appearances. Very conscious of her own forty-pound weight gain over the last couple of years, she would say anything to draw the attention away from herself. Stephanie was the kind of “friend” Miranda wouldn't mind losing.

            “Yeah, right,” Miranda smiled. “I dressed for a funeral. Just saying a proper goodbye to what was the best job I'll probably ever have.” The brightness in her face and her casual tone were careful not to give away her true emotional state, though her words couldn't have been more honest.

            “Are you coming to lunch?” Stephanie looped her arm with Miranda's. “All the Sarasota crew, and some of the Tampa people are heading down the road.”

            Miranda begged off lunch. “I forgot to crate my sister's dog,” she said as she twirled her hair with one hand. “Yeah, dog sitting. Pathetic, right?”

            A lie.

            As she walked out to her gold Honda—the bank's gold Honda—she remembered the day a couple of years earlier when she and the other new employees got delivery of their cars. Many things were changing for the better. She had finally convinced herself that she could grow up, no more hanging around bars, partying every night, treating everything as if it were disposable. No more acting out at the slightest indication of rejection. And no more paying for gas, insurance, car payments. Bank management told her she could sell her car, she could use this one for personal use, too. They even let her pick out the color. She belonged somewhere, the bank wanted her, was taking a chance on her.

            Now she glared at the Civic. As she sat in the car, she realized how much stuff she had in it. Maps of the southern counties, tampons, money, shoes, plastic grocery bags. She could smell the spilled lattes clinging to the headliner and the floor mats.

            Miranda turned right onto Westshore as she left the parking garage, but immediately realized it should have been a left. The airport was just ahead of her.

            “Damn!” She slammed her open palm on the steering wheel.

            After taking her first left, she found herself on the Courtney Campbell Causeway. She was headed to Clearwater, not Sarasota. Frustration gave way to tears. She hated driving home from the Tampa office. After ten meetings over the last four years, she still didn't have the hang of it. Adding more than a half hour to her commute was the last thing she wanted right then. She couldn't wait to get back to her apartment and make herself a margarita, extra tequila, no salt. Miranda wanted to stifle the voice inside her head that told her she was a failure, that she knew it would only be a matter of time before everything fell apart. No one, nothing ever stuck it out with her.

            The taste of balance in her life and confidence in her future was slipping away like a mirage upon approach.

            Miranda rounded the bend on Interstate 275 and saw the Skyway Bridge ahead. No lights flashing on the “High Winds” sign. She always checked.

            She paid the toll and avoided the engine-gunners out of the booth. The Skyway always made her nervous. Her muscles tensed and knuckles whitened as her grip tightened on the steering wheel driving over any bridge. Miranda pictured her father's car accident a thousand ways since she got her license. A bridge was the only constant.

            She drove a steady sixty miles per hour, five below the speed limit. Cars passed her on the left, some drivers even flipped her off. As if she hadn't been having a bad enough day.

            As Miranda approached the summit of the bridge, she noticed a state trooper pulled along the right side. No lights flashing. Just sitting. As she was about to check her mirrors to change lanes, wanting to be as far away from a potential collision as she could get, she saw another man standing on the cement guard rail. Not next to it. On it. She slowed, unable to look away. The man, who didn't look much older than herself, straightened his body as he looked ahead at the blue bay two hundred feet beneath him. He raised his arms parallel to the railing, and for a moment he stood still. Then he looked in her direction. Right at her, she thought. He lifted his arms straight above his head, lifted his face upward to the sky, then leaped forward, head first, with the grace and style of an Olympic high diver. He was gone.

            Surely they were filming a movie, or there was a platform set up just below where the man had landed safely. No way she just witnessed someone take their own life.      

            Just as she passed the patrolman, her car slowing to under ten miles per hour, Miranda saw him get out of his cruiser. No hurry, just eased himself from his seat through his open car door and walked the several yards ahead to where the man just dove off.

            Did he just roll his eyes? she wondered. No way.

            She pulled her car over over onto the right shoulder of the bridge. She was stuck, couldn't concentrate on what to do. Miranda shook her head, tried to make sense of what just happened.  She was the only one who stopped, the only one who seemed to want to jump out and throw a rope, a parachute, or a life vest down with him. Cars kept driving. The world kept going.

            When it was clear that no one was doing a damn thing, she picked up her phone and called 911. She told the operator, “He's probably already dead, so I don't know if it's an emergency. I just . . . saw a man . . . jump . . . off the Skyway. There's a cop here, but he's not doing anything. No one is.”

            She wondered how everything was still moving when a life had just been dashed out in the stark daylight before so many eyes.

            The operator was asking for more information, but Miranda just hung up. Her eyes were fixated on the spot where the man had vanished. Someone honked behind her. More horns followed suit. She was the odd one. Concerned for a stranger she couldn't help anyway. Miranda pulled back into the slow-moving traffic and descended the bridge. She wondered if any of the victims of the 1980 tragedy had been there at the wrong time because they had gotten lost, just happened to be crossing when the bridge fell out from under them. She wondered if they had heard the crash of the freighter as it collided with the pier. Maybe they thought it was thunder. She wondered if they knew what was happening as they drove themselves off the bridge.

            Had that man known what was happening as he dove toward the water? Did he change his mind on the way down with no way to take it back?

            Miranda pulled into the rest area at the end of the bridge. Still shaking, she reached for her phone and called her sister. Audrey would be worried. She had made Miranda promise to call as soon as the meeting was over.

            “Is everything okay?” Audrey asked.

            Miranda didn't know how to respond.

             “It's okay, honey. You'll find another job.”

            Finding her words, Miranda said, “I just saw a man die.”

            “What? What happened? Where are you?”

            Miranda could hear Audrey's body straighten and tense with the shift in her tone.

            “I just drove over the Skyway. There was a man at the top, a guy. He jumped. It was like he waited for me to get there. Like he wanted me to see.”

            “Are you safe? Have you pulled over?” Audrey asked, ever the mother figure in Miranda's life.

            “Yeah, I'm at the rest stop.” Her breathing had steadied, Audrey's voice calming her. “I honestly don't . . . I mean, why would he have done that? He was probably your age, and he was handsome!” The details came back to her mind as the scene played over for her in slow motion. “I saw his face, just for a second, and his shoes. He had nice shoes. A well-dressed, handsome, young guy just jumped off a bridge. Why?”

            “It's just one of those things,” Audrey said softly. “You just happened to be there at the wrong time, and I'm really sorry. Especially after the kind of day you must be having. Just take some deep breaths and calm down. There's nothing you can do about him. . . it.”

            Miranda was silent.

            “So, how'd your meeting go?”

            “I've been displaced,” Miranda said. “Maybe he was a murderer. Or a child molester. He must have had a reason. Maybe no one loved him.”

            Audrey said, “Don't lose it, Mira. That guy's dead. Don't make it your problem, you're just going to get yourself more worked up.”

            Miranda didn't want to hear it. “I gotta go. I'll call you when I get home.”

            After she hung up the phone, she drove the next forty-five minutes in silence. No music. No radio. Only a replay of the day spooled through her mind. It was only two o'clock, but she was exhausted.

            Though she wanted to go right home and climb into bed, she willed herself to stop at the Target just off her interstate exit. She bought a liter of water and a package of ivory, linen-finish, embossed paper. She drank half the bottle of water while still sitting in the parking lot. When she got to her apartment, she went to her desk and dug through a mountain of business cards. She found the one she was looking for, lavender with a flower in the corner. Picking up her phone she dialed the number from the card and left a message.

            “Hi, Beth. This is Miranda Mendelssohn. I know it's been a long time since I've called. I hope you're doing well, and I was also hoping that you had some availability maybe this week or next week for me to come in for a session. There's a lot of stuff going on, and I think I really need to talk to someone. Please call me back when you get a chance.”

            Miranda returned the phone to its cradle, opened the middle left drawer in her desk and pulled a photo in a tarnished silver frame from the back. Wiping the glass with her hand, she studied the picture. Her dad was in a dark suit, a smile that radiated love dominated his face as he held a six-year-old Miranda in his arms. Kindergarten graduation. Miranda touched the top of her head, almost expecting to feel the cardboard graduation cap still there. After placing the frame on the shelf above her desk, she leaned over her laptop, ran her finger across the mouse touchpad until the screen illuminated. She went to Google and typed in “resume samples.”