Collateral Damage

First published in The Blotter Magazine, November 2015.

She needed time to herself interacting with people she didn’t know, learning how to live an uncomplicated life. No, it wasn’t the sex, or my companionship that was lacking, driving her away.

I understood—for the most part. She’d survived an abusive father and a socialite-wannabe mother. Cancer hadn’t defeated her—either time—both before she was twenty-five.

I offered to quit my job and go with her. She said that wouldn’t work. She needed to learn who she was, who she was supposed to be, who the person inside was that she could live with for the rest of her life.

I told her I’d be there when she returned, watched her walk down the ramp to the waiting plane, blew a kiss to her back, pocketed my hands, swallowed a few times, stepped outside the terminal, yelled “Shit,” ignored the man and woman with two small children standing at the curb.

Forever

First published at The Story Shack, December 2015.

Hump day was their favorite. Bill and Lauren made love for the first time on a Wednesday in her dorm room. He told her he'd hump her every Wednesday for the rest of their lives. And he did. Sometimes twice. They continued the tradition, even after Lauren's brain cancer diagnosis. She insisted.

Thursday was surprise day. He relished providing Lauren with jewelry, or wine, or tickets for a show, or sometimes just a long hug. She offered the best surprise, though, on a Thursday twenty-three years ago when she told him she was pregnant with twins. Paul and Patty were married now. Neither had children, but he and Lauren were hopeful they'd get a special Thursday surprise and learn they were going to be grandparents.

Every Friday they dressed up and went out for dinner. Bill always ordered fish and chips with a side of fresh fruit. Lauren was the adventurous one and often requested the special for the evening. They'd linger over dinner and drink coffee. They rarely ordered dessert. Now that Lauren was no longer strong enough to go out, Bill found recipes online for some of her favorites, like Amish meatloaf, or Chicken Marsala, and made them for her. He wasn't much of a cook. Tonight's filet was chewy and the fries burnt, but Lauren smiled and ate what she could.

Bill spent Saturdays in front of the TV with a six-pack of beer and a bowl of popcorn watching whatever sports were in season. Lauren rested in the recliner and watched Bill jump, sometimes with joy, other times in disgust, the leap always accompanied by a fist pump or a growl. On cold days, she'd cover her bald head with a Notre Dame ski cap.

Sunday was a day of prayer; and they did, especially Bill, hoping for a miracle. When Lauren became too weak to attend church, young Father Joseph came to the house.

Monday used to be Bill's third favorite day—after hump day and surprise day—a day for fresh starts. But not any more. Not since the Monday the doctors gave Lauren six months to live. Now it was his least productive day, one he could skip every week.

On a Tuesday in February, Lauren passed peacefully in her chair. Bill sat with her before calling 911, holding her hand, thanking her for a great thirty-three years. He'd promised her he wouldn't cry when the time came. It was the first promise he failed to keep.

He received the surprise they'd waited for two months later when Patty told him she was pregnant—with twins, just like Mom. "Mark and I hoped it would happen before…you know," Patty said. Bill told her it was okay. Mom knew. Mom always knew.

Bill still bought surprises on Thursdays. He gave them to neighbors, or friends, and sometimes strangers. He went out to eat on Fridays, often ordering the special, instead of the fish and chips. He still watched sports, but the excitement wasn't there. And on Tuesdays he sat next to Lauren's chair, closed his eyes, and held her hand.

Memories

This week's 5 to 50/55 challenge. Prompt words below.

Cheryl waded through debris, wobbling at times as if drunk, her house topless after the tornado’s rampage. A Starbuck’s cup wafted past. A perfume of destruction rode the breeze with it. She found a picture of her and Matt before the divorce, shielded her eyes, stared at the interstate where he’d melded into the horizon. (55 words)

Prompt words: perfume, topless, Starbucks, interstate, drunk

When

First published in Boston Literary Magazine, Winter 2015.

When Angela learned she couldn’t have children—something she’d looked forward to since getting a doll house for her third birthday—she turned to drugs and alcohol.
   
When she awoke in the hospital after the overdose, her sister, Eileen, sat in a chair reading a Bible.
   
When Angela exited the rehab center for the second time, Eileen waited in the car to take her to the halfway house.
   
When, three months later, Eileen opened the door to her home with a smile, Angela hugged her sister and wept.
   
When her nephew, Joseph Anthony Ridgeway, was born, Angela was in the delivery room.
   
When she held Joseph for the first time, she felt joy.
   
When the bridge collapsed and the swollen river swallowed the car containing Joseph’s parents, Angela’s mind went numb.
   
When Joseph first called her Mommy, Angela felt complete again.

A Child is Born

I came out of the Quick Stop and found her in the back seat of my ten-year-old Camry. I don’t know who she is, or why she chose my car. I do know she’s having a baby any minute now based on the size of her belly and the sounds emanating from her. Note to self: in the future, remember to lock car doors, or give up cigarettes, or both.

I ask her name. She says it, I think. It’s buried in one long scream and a lot of huffing.

She’s pretty and has a slim body—or will have once the baby comes out—and nice legs. Blonds interest me. For that matter, so do redheads and brunettes. I’m not so excited by the lavender lipstick or neon, multicolored fingernails. Still, in other circumstances, if I wasn’t so afraid of talking to girls and making a fool of myself, I might ask her out.

I agree to drive her to the hospital. She thought she had time to walk there. Obviously, that didn’t work out so well. 

Traffic comes to a halt when we’re three blocks away. The honking of stopped cars due to an accident at the intersection tells me it might as well be three miles ahead. 

“This isn’t good,” I say.

“At least my water broke before I got in the car.”

“Your what what?” I feel light-headed.

I consider driving down the sidewalk, but there are too many Christmas shoppers. And it’s dark. I might hit someone paying more attention to their phone screen than where they’re walking. Maybe that’s what happened up ahead. Texting is just as dangerous when walking as when driving.

A scream from the back seat engulfs all the other sounds. I peek over my shoulder. She’s lying on the seat, knees up, legs spread, skirt bunched near her waist. “It’s coming,” she says.

“NO,” I respond. I want to run, but my legs won’t let me. They seem to have other ideas as to how I should spend my next few minutes. Another note to self: when finally at home, chop off legs for insubordination. 

I jump out of the car and look around. “Somebody help. She’s having a baby!” Everyone stares straight ahead. “She’s your wife,” a nearby cabbie yells through the window. “Man up.”

“She isn’t. I don’t —“

A second scream interrupts me. 

“It’s coming now. Get in here.”

I look around for help once more. A young woman walks by. I open my mouth, hands waving over my head. She gives me the finger.

“Aaaagh.” I open the back door. Look inside. Notice she’s not a natural blond. Avert my eyes.

“Oh, come on. You’ve seen a pussy before,” she says.

Actually, this is my first. 

“Okay, just breathe. . .or relax. . .or whatever it is you’re supposed to do,” I say.

“I am, you idiot. Now get your hands in there and get ready.”

I put my hands between her legs and close my eyes. Two more grunts and I feel something wet in my hands. I think it’s a head. I still can’t look. Then there’s more. A body. I sense the mother slumping into the seat. I look down and see a healthy baby boy in my hands. His chest rising and falling with each breath. The umbilical cord keeps him tethered to his mother. I try my best to not throw up.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Joseph. What’s yours?”

“Mary,” she replies. Laughing and holding her stomach with both hands, she says, “What do you think we should name the baby?”