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.”