noon

Michele loved the mid day rush of shoppers, coming through her line with a pre-made sandwich or salad.  She was challenged by the pace; most folks were in a hurry to get back to whatever dull job they did for a living.  When she first started working at the Safeway, she wanted to be one of the check-out clerks that had something spectacular to say to every single person that came through her line, since she loved people and appreciated them deeply.  That was thirty years ago, back when the SKU label was being introduced.  She was hired in a time of newness and fresh paint, back when the Safeway was the only grocery store for two miles.  It was before the Whole Foods moved in across the street; before the self-check-out lines threatened to put her out of a job. 

Michele smiled at each customer, but the majority of them didn’t notice, paying with plastic and never asking her how she was doing or how her day was.

“Do you need stamps or…”

“No, thanks,” they’d say, grabbing the ends of their plastic bags and walking toward the automatic doors.  No wonder the self-check was so popular!  She was being phased out by computers because people saw her as unnecessary.

There were some regulars who loved her and appreciated her spirit.  Renee was a young mother with two boys who always seemed to be happy about something.  Michele suspected her to be a Christian, which was her own reason for happiness, but she never asked.  There was Adele, the large Romanian woman with six kids who relied on Michelle’s advice and directions.  Paul worked next door at the ReMax, and loved to tell her that she was beautiful.  Gary and Sam were a gay couple who she laughed with about random trivia: the travel time of cauliflower, their favorite way to eat ice cream, their love of Redbox.

Those were the people who made life worth living; those were her favorite customers who valued her and looked for her each time they checked out.  Over the years she had many such customers; they were getting fewer and fewer.

One day, as Michele stood behind the counter, waiting for the rush to begin, a beautiful but sad looking woman dressed in hospital scrubs approached placed an armload of items on the belt:  Q-tips, shampoo, conditioner, lotion and cotton balls.  Michelle smiled at the woman when she looked up.

“Hi! How are you doing today?”

The woman tried to smile, but her reddened eyes betrayed sleeplessness.  As Michelle scanned her items, the woman sighed heavily.

“I’m kind of tired, I didn’t sleep last night.”

“Oh no!”

“Yeah, and I’m working a full shift today,” the woman brushed her bangs back, but looked worried.

Michelle smiled.  “Where’s your food?  I hope you’re eating today.”

The woman looked down at her items and back up at Michelle.  “That’s what I came in for.  Why didn’t I get food?”

Michelle pointed to the deli section.  “We have homemade clam chowder today.  It’s pretty good.”

The nurse looked over at the deli and then at her watch.   “Can I go get some and then I’ll be right back?”

“You bet,” Michelle said, putting the bagged items to the side and holding the order.  “You won’t even have to stand in line, just come right here.”

The woman moved slowly toward the deli.  A man dressed in a business suit took her place at the keypad.

“How are you today?” Michelle asked him; there was no answer.  She scanned his sandwich, pickles and diet Dr. Pepper.  “Four dollars and eleven cents, please.”

The man scanned his card and grabbed his bag.  Without a word, he bolted for the doors.

After him, an overweight woman and her mother stepped up, quarreling about who was going to pay for their purchases.  “I bought lunch, you get this,” the daughter said.

“No!  I came with you to do errands, not pay for your groceries.”

“Sixteen dollars nineteen,” Michelle said, quietly.  After a tense moment, the younger woman let out a dark sigh. 

“Fine.”  She pushed past her mother to the keypad and scanned her card.  Michelle waited nervously for the receipt, by the time it printed, the women had taken their bag and left.

A small woman with Chinese food.  A young woman with a cocker spaniel service dog.  Cheese sticks, sandwiches, bologna, packaged salads.  Mouthwash. 

After fifteen minutes, Michelle shut off her light.  She heard a collective groan from the peope waiting; she looked back toward the deli for the sad nurse.  Where was she?  Was she alright?

She found her, holding a paper cup by the soup display, waiting for an older man to serve himself.  Michelle approached her, hoping to help. 

“Hi,” she said.  “I just came over to see if you were alright.”

The nurse looked up at her, eyes filled with tears.  “My only friend died three days ago,” the woman said.  “She was the most beautiful companion and she was so…”  She cried softly, but Michelle knew her pain was deep.  It was too deep to solve during the noon rush hour.

“I need to either clear your purchases or have you come back and pay,” she said, gently.  The nurse nodded and served herself soup from the big carafe, hands trembling.   Michelle came over and took the ladle from her.  As she spooned the soup into the container, the woman thanked her. 

“I usually don’t break down like this,” the nurse continued.  “It’s just that I saw a service dog that looked just like her…”

“Oh!” Michelle smiled.  “Your friend was a dog?  A cocker spaniel?”

The nurse nodded, smiling.  “Did you see that service dog?  She looked just like my Marli.”

“That’s a great name,” Michelle said, putting a lid on the soup container and walking toward the cash register.  The woman walked alongside of her, wiping her face with her hands.  As soon as they got to her checkout counter, Michelle reached under the counter and grabbed a wet wipe.  She handed it to the nurse. 

“You know,” Michelle said as she re-opened her register, “I lost my boxer last year.  I know this sounds funny, but it forced me to go out and make other friends.  Losing a pet is tough and it reminded me that I need social support.”

The nurse nodded.  “I work with a lot of good people, I should try to get out somewhere with one of them.”

“Maybe so.  Twenty-five eighty for everything.”

The nurse scanned her card, then signed her name.  As her receipt printed, she smiled at the nurse.  

“Are you going to be alright?”

“Yes,  I will.  Maybe I just needed to cry. Thanks for reminding me to eat something.”

“You’re welcome.  I’m sorry about Marli.  She sounded wonderful.”

The nurse smiled as she picked up her bags.  “I’m Belle, by the way.”

“I’m Michelle!”

“Thanks a lot.”  The nurse exited through the doors and Michelle whispered a prayer for her, quietly.  In a moment, she saw Paul standing in front of her with a bottle of apple juice and a sandwich. 

“What a great friend you are, Michelle.”

Michelle sighed.  “That poor girl!  She just lost her dog!  Have you ever lost a dog, Paul?”

“I have,” he said, solemnly.  “I think it was great how you encouraged her to get out.  She should have more dates with human friends!”

“Yeah, well…”

“Did you get her number?”

“She’s a customer, Paul, not a friend.”  She looked up to see him watching her from the counter.   

Paul, although successful in business was usually by himself.  “Why don’t you try and catch up with her?  Maybe you can strike up a conversation about your dogs.”

Paul shook his head and smiled.  “Sometimes people just want to be listened to.”

“Five eighteen,” Michelle said.

He pulled out a five dollar bill and a quarter, handing them to her.  It was the same exchange every day.  Paul should learn to make his own sandwiches, Michelle thought.

He left the same way the nurse did, but instead of turning the corner for his office, he walked straight into the parking lot. 

A man with a slight limp had twenty pounds of bacon on the belt; Michelle looked up at him.  “I know it says fifteen items or less, but I figured if it’s the same item you might make an exception.”

“Why not?” Michelle smiled. 

The man took out a worn wallet and pulled out a fifty dollar bill.  As she scanned each bacon package, Michelle wondered if Paul actually did run after nurse Belle to connect.  

Now that would make it a great day.  

11:00 a.m.

Texas Medical Center in Houston had beautiful padded chairs in their quarantine area.  Gigi felt their smooth upholstered seats while she waited for the nurse to come back.  It was now 11:00.  Her long red hair twisted into a fury of ringlets, and Gigi absentmindedly played with them as she considered her elephant ankles.

Swollen and red, Gigi kept her ankles in the chair in the hopes that something might circulate better and suddenly she would be able to walk out.  At last, the nurse arrived, wearing a paper mask and rubber gloves.  Gigi raised her eyebrows, in disbelief.

“Really?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. VanDerHaven, you may come with me now,” she said in a sweet Southern accent.  The accent that, just six hours ago, was the most charming sound in the world to Gigi.  Now it was a heckling sound of Satan, forcing her to use self-control.

She followed the nurse to a clean grey room with more padded chairs and a stainless steel table in the middle.  The nurse had her file in her beautifully manicured fingers and Gigi looked at it suspiciously.  “Is this all really necessary?”

“I’m afraid so,” the nurse answered through her mask.  “Please justy be patient with the process.”

“You know I only need a diuretic, right?” Gigi had said this several times this morning to many people.  All of these people were preoccupied with her nationality: South African; and her flight path: Johannesburg-Senegal-Atlanta-Houston.

“Your doctor will be right in,” the nurse made eye contact with her at last.  She didn’t look like Satan, In fact the nurse had beautiful green eyes with just the right amount of mascara on them.  She looked happily content keeping Gigi cooped up in quarantine until her blood tests came back.

“You do know that South Africa is nearly nine thousand kilometers away from any area that had ebola right?”

The nurse looked away and began to close the door.  When Gigi sighed heavily, the nurse looked back at her.

“You might not think this is necessary, Mrs. Van Der Haven, but the hospital does have its procedures.”  The nurse started to leave, but decided to cruelly add: “Senegal is much closer to the infected areas.”

As soon as the door shut, Gigi stuck her tongue out.  Of course the nurse couldn’t see, but she felt better. 

Gigi sang a song she learned in Sunday School; she tried to focus on God’s plan, God’s timing.  She and Carl had taken the cheapest flight available and didn’t even consider the ebola crisis, since it was six months old.  When they arrived in the States, Gigi had a fever and had swelled up like a water balloon.  She was sure she caught Andy’s flu; their youngest child had fallen asleep in their bed the night before they left.

At 11:45 a doctor entered, casually strolling in like Gigi was a normal patient.  

“Good morning, Mrs. VanDerHaven.”

“It’s FUN-nee- Hoffen,” Gigi corrected, impatient and worn out.

“Oh!”  The doctor looked down at his paperwork, then back up at her.  “Okay.”

“So sorry, but I’m out of patience and I just want to go home.”

“Of course,” the doctor was an overweight fifty-something that seemed pleasant, but Gigi didn’t care. All she cared about were her test results and getting out of Houston. “Well, your test results came back negative, which is good news.”

“Meaning I don’t have ebola, right?”

“No, you don’t.”

Gigi nodded angrily.  She had been telling anyone who would listen that she hadn’t been inn contact with ebola in any way.  “And I suppose I can’t have a diuretic, which is why I even came to the hospital in the first place?”

The doctor laughed, as if this were some kind of joke.  When he realized that Gigi was serious, he cleared his throat.  “No.”

There was an unpleasant silence and then Gigi sighed again.

“So I can leave?” She asked, standing up.

“Yes, ma’am!” The doctor took a step back. 

“Alright, good,” Gigi started for the door and realized she didn’t know where she was going.   She had walked down so many corridors this morning; she had lost her bearings.

“Well, then will someone kindly escort me to my husband?”  Gigi asked, on the brink of tears.  “I don’t know where I am.”

The doctor, moved with compassion, opened the door for her and placed his hand on her shoulder.  “Of course Mrs…”

“FUN-nee- Hoffen,” Gigi pronounced for him. 

“Yes, come right this way,” he began to walk with her, stopping by the quarantine lockers to pick up her purse and scarf.  While they walked to the main waiting area, the doctor explained hospital policy and the terrible scare of 2014.  Every fever from West Africa was treated like an outbreak of some kind, he told her.  Of course, don’t quote me, he said.  He was laughing as he said it, but Gigi continued to sob, quietly. 

It was her first time in America and so far her experience had been harsh and heavy.  She had never been separated from her husband in a foreign country until now, and even one as first-world as the Untied States was scary. 

“Now just ride this elevator down to the second floor and you will run right into the main waiting area.  Your husband is there waiting for you…”

At that moment, a woman in a denim jumpsuit hopped on the elevator, almost running into Gigi.  “Oh, please forgive me,” the woman said.  Gigi tried to say “That’s okay” or some polite response, but all she could do was cry.

“Are you alright?” the woman in the jumpsuit asked.  The elevator doors began to close; the doctor waved, clueless about the emotional toil Gigi had gone through that morning. 

“I’m sorry,” Gigi finally said.  “They tested me for ebola this morning.  It was a frightening experience.”

The woman nodded.  “Have you been in West Africa?”

Gigi nodded, pushing tears away.

“Well, then you’re going to be treated like you have the plague until they prove otherwise.”

This struck Gigi as funny and she laughed.  The woman in the jumpsuit handed her a tissue from one of her many pockets.  Gigi thanked her, grateful for the laugh and the tissue from a stranger.

“I’m Gigi VanDerHaven,” she said, offering her hand.

“I’m Carol Semi,” the woman said, shaking it.  “I hope your visit to the United States improves, Gigi, I really do.”

Gigi smiled, just as the elevator dinged and doors opened.  Ahead of her was a busy waiting room; Gigi was overwhelmed with the amount of people.  Maybe it was the transition from isolation to a crowd; but she froze.  Behind her, she heard Carol’s voice:

“Who are you looking for?  I’ll help you find them.”

Gigi was grateful and nodded, thankfully.  “My husband, Carl.  He’s tall and wears square glasses.”

“Is he a red-head like you?” Carol asked.

Gigi smiled again.  “He has dark brown hair and a fair complexion.”

“Is that him?” Carol turned Gigi’s shoulders ten degrees to the right, where Gigi saw Carl, walking speedily toward her. 

Their embrace lasted a good ten minutes; afterward Gigi turned to Carol to thank her, but she was gone.  Had she been an angel?  What a wonderful exchange for such a brief encounter, Gigi thought.  Maybe America wasn’t going to be that bad, after all.

.

10:00 a.m.

At 10:00 a.m. Everly checked the date on the bottom of the box to make sure that the test wasn’t expired.  At 10:02 she carefully collected a clean stream of urine in the Dixie cup she got from the water cooler and dipped the test stick inside.  She was supposed to wait for twenty seconds before she took it out.

Because she was on her break, she knew she didn’t have long.  At the call center, operators were given two fifteen minute breaks a day, plus a half-hour lunch.  This seemed adequate to Everly when she applied for the  job, but after working there for two weeks she realized how controlled the breaks were.  Breaks were the only time Everly was allowed to leave her desk, and the supervisor kept close track of how long she was gone each time.  The schedule now felt like a sweat shop, and her supervisor resembled a caged tiger, roaming the rows of cubicles and watching every little thing the callers did.

She removed the test stick, hands shaking.  There was a picture of an hour glass: it was processing.

“Please…” Everly whispered.  She looked at her watch: 10:03.

When she left Rochester, three months ago, it was to move to the big city.  New York had been calling her name for years and she decided, at nineteen, to leap in and pursue her dream of becoming a singer.  As her bus arrived at the Port Authority in NYC, Everly’s heart was beating wildly.  She found her roommate in a sea of faces, holding a white cardboard sign with her name on it.  Excited to meet her, Everly pushed past several disgruntled travelers. 

“I’m Everly!” she told the girl, breathlessly.  “You must be Emily!”

“I am,” Emily smiled.  They had been emailing each other when Everly decided to do an online search for a roommate; they became fast friends.  The apartment has two other tenants, but she and Emily would be sharing a bathroom.  At first the city was everything she imagined it would be: lights, beauty, excitement.  

Everywhere she looked there were people who didn’t care about her at all – she could stay out as late as she wanted, do whatever she pleased.  The freedom was exhilarating.

Soon the exhilaration wore off and Everly found the horrid reality: everywhere she looked there were people who didn’t care about her at all.  She tried to find a job singing, but there were so many singers in the City; most had recorded something. She was forced to find other work; the call center was the best job she could get.  There, she sat taking call after call; answering questions about Rapid Rewards for a national airline.  She dealt with people who traveled all the time and wanted to be upgraded, or even given free flights.  Most of the time, people were cruel and rude to her, even when she was able to help them.  Employees weren’t allowed to talk to each other, or fraternize, making her  workplace a bleak place where she spent most of her day.  There was no time for singing, no money for lessons.  By the time she arrived home Emily would be gone to work, or sleeping.

Everly felt lost; loneliness consumed her.

On the subway she started meeting people, many of them young men who were more than happy to strike up conversations with her.  Sometimes they would suggest coffee; sometimes even more.  A few times, Everly accepted their invitations, mainly because she just wanted to be held.  The sex was good, but nowhere as good as the closeness; the human touch.  Afterwards, walking back to the subway, she would ache for her mother.

The display on the test stick changed from an hour glass to a book. 

“What the hell?” Everly looked at it closely, and then got the printed directions out of the box.  She scanned the instructions for the book symbol.  Finally, she found it.

“If a book symbol or nothing at all appears on the screen, an error has occurred.  Retest, making sure to follow the directions carefully…  What?”

She looked inside the box, knowing that there were no other tests.  Again, she looked at the instructions.  “Feel free to call us at 1-800-378-1783…”

Where was her cell phone?  Had she left it on her desk?  Everly dug around in her purse and found it, a Juicy Fruit wrapper sticking to the screen.  She dialed quickly, flushing the toilet beneath her and exiting her stall.  No one else was in the bathroom; the supervisor like to stagger the breaks.  What time was it?  

10:08.

Nervously, Everly pressed one for English.  Then held while cheesy music played.  Finally she heard a male voice, deep and somber.

“Thank you for calling EPT, this is Theo.  How can I help you?”

Everly froze.  What should she say?  What could she do?  She had already used half of her break and now she was waiting to ask this man – this stranger – what to do.  What could he say?  Would he tell her she was just a statistic in the city of broken dreams?  That she should be careful and use protection when having sex?  Would he ask her why the hell she was having unprotected sex with boys she just met? How could she explain her fear of failing – of going back home and admitting that she really was not cut out for city life?

Where should she begin?  What should she say?

With a heavy sigh, Everly hung up. 

It was no use; she had to get back to work.  As she walked to her cubicle, her eyes clouded with tears.  Maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t – what a horrible predicament.

9:00 a.m.

Time was of the essence in transporting organs, especially hearts.  As Carol Semi approached the small Louisiana airstrip, she was on pins and needles.  She had left Memorial Hermann Heart & Vascular Institute at theTexas Medical Center in Houston at 7:00 a.m. The bird they had waiting for her was a 206B-3 JetRanger III, with a strong tail rotor and powerful engine, but there were choppy winds coming in from the Gulf of Mexico.  She knew she'd have to use every skill up her sleeve to even get her off the ground.

“Hey, Cap,” the co-pilot, Tim smiled at her.   His voice was fuzzy through his headset and she forced herself to smile back.  A seasoned heli-pilot since Desert Storm, Carol was not known for letting stress get to her, but she was about to lay down her bird in some podunk landing strip in Louisiana.  This was some damn place she had never heard of: Abbeville.

“Hey, Tim.”

“Are you ready for this?” He asked her, seeing the outline of Abbeville Chris Crusta Memorial Airport out of his window. 

“What time is it?” Carol knew she had four hours; four incredibly precious hours to get from Podunk Central back to Houston. 

“8:59”

“We should have no problem if the ticker is waiting for us,” she said. 

“Unless there’s the Houston chop we had this morning,” Tim answered.  Bummer man!

“Is there a change in the weather?”

“Winds from the east,” he said.  “Twenty to thirty miles per hour.”

Carol shook her head and made a slight dip towards the landing strip. “My kingdom for a Huey, Tim.”

She heard her co-pilot chuckle in her ear. Tim had seen enough in the couple of tours he did in the sandbox.  He knew what she meant: the Army could afford all the best stuff.  This commercial bird didn’t know how to fight against the wind- it was all on Carol.  Those doctors really didn’t know the pressure!  She was only carrying a human heart to take to Texas Medical Center.  Someone’s life hung in the balance; a child, she heard.  She heard it was a child awaiting this heart transplant, and that turned up the heat. 

They landed peacefully on the strip, a bit of a mist was falling, but nothing of a breeze.  She looked at the clock: 9:00 a.m.  It was time to phone the hospital.

Carol ran into the terminal while Tim picked up the radio.  As she trotted into the open space, she saw it virtually empty, except for an older woman in a loose fitting red dress.  She was standing over a desk, stirring coffee and looking straight at her.  Carol wondered where the others were. 

“Hey!  UNOS flight for Houston?”

The woman nodded, calmly.  “I saw y’all comin’in,” she said.  “I called the hospital.  They are on standby until you pick up the red phone.”

Carol breathed a sigh of relief; it was nice to have someone know the procedure.  Being prepared was half the battle.  She trotted toward the desk and picked up the phone, an old-fashioned black phone with two push button lines.  One was lit up and blinking.

“Is this it?” Carol asked the woman, who was already nodding.  Carol pushed the blinking line.  “This is Captain Semi, we are on the landing strip and ready for delivery.”

It was five minutes when an ambulance arrived, red lights and sirens blazing.  Out of the front seat jumped a little man in a white doctor’s smock.  He ran to Carol and Tim with a blue and white Igloo cooler, handing it to Tim and looking at Carol suspiciously.

“Which one of you is the pilot?” he shouted above the whir of the propeller.  Tim smiled slightly and pointed at Carol as he held the handle of the cooler.

The little man, Dr. Sergey Kostolov, his nametag said, grimaced.  “A woman pilot?”

Carol resisted rolling her eyes.  “Do you have the file, doctor?  We have four hours.”

Dr. Kostolov patted his pockets and turned back toward the ambulance.  Carol shook her head as the little doctor ran back for the all-important paperwork.  She motioned to Tim to get the cooler in the bird. For a second, she considered going in her seat herself.  The little doctor would have to duck and run just to hand off the file.  She wasn’t in the Army anymore and pranks like those were not so funny to civilians.

He was back quickly, thank God.  Carol took the folder as the doctor shouted something to her.  She watched his lips, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying.  Did it matter?  She realized that it didn’t, nodded a thank you and ran for her seat.

By 9:10 her bird was in the air and she was on her way to Houston.  Woman or not, this heart would be on the ground in two hours.  Two hours, east winds or no.

7:00 a.m.

The haircut was the result of a desire to break through a mold in which she was supposed to fit.  In truth, molds were for cookies and chocolates, not for people.  But since people insisted on the molds, she shaved the sides right off, to break out of that flipping mold.

It was 6:45 a.m. and she looked in the mirror. 

The top of her hair was silver, breaking into a periwinkle and finally rose, the color that hit her shoulders like soft feathers.  When she tied it back in a ponytail, it was plain to see that the sides of her head were shaved clean above her ears. 

Instead of the predictable panic, her parents reacted mildly. 

“I guess you could do worse than shave off part of your hair,” Mother said, pouring olive oil over the salmon.  Then she looked up and smiled.  “Will you please get your clothes out of the dryer and hang them up?”

Dad's reaction was no different.  When she showed revealed the crazy hair, it was via selfie: from her iPhone to his.  “What do you think?” she texted.

“You should smile in pictures!”  Dad wrote back.  

Where was his indignation? His panic?  Shouldn’t he give her a lecture?   Why weren’t they more like the parents that her friends had?

The clock said 6:48.  

She put on a thin coat of lip gloss and stood up; it was nearly time to go.  Her first day of middle school was not one she was looking forward to.  Smarter than most of the kids in her class, she had been laying low so that the teachers would not make her go into those gifted classes she hated so much.  Instead, she decided to learn and produce enough to excel, but not show her true brilliance until she could do so anonymously. 

Her outfit was carefully understated, chosen especially for the first day so that she could show off her designs but not stand out.  Middle school had such a complicated balance of irritations; she would have to navigate the river without overturning her canoe in the first week.  She was sure she could do it.

Cut off shorts with pockets spray painted and sticking out, a t-shirt, lacy vest and a bandanna in her hair that matched her vest.  

Her face was perfect, Dad liked to tell her.  He said she was the kind of girl that didn’t need make-up.  She had the same kind of Raphael face that Mom had.  She normally hated comparisons, but Dad loved Mom’s face more than anything.   It was a compliment.

6:52.

She tried on her Hercules sandals, then changed her mind and chose her gladiator sandals.  These were the ones that everyone would be wearing, but they did go with her design the best.  After months of sewing and clothes design, the outfit was the thing she wanted to showcase; shoes were secondary.

She picked up her backpack and threw it over her shoulder.  The amount of books she was required to carry everyday was incredibly stupid; there had to be a locker she could have.  Last year, the school ran out of them and the new kids had to carry their books.  She wondered if the same thing would happen this year again.

She stood up and examined herself.  She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was special.  A lot of kids thought of themselves as special, but she knew that in her case it was true.  She was brilliant, stylish, beautiful, talented and lived in a house that was filled with love. 

7:00.  Time for school.

As soon as she opened her door, she was greeted by her cat, brushing past her.  Cat had been waiting to be let into her room and was impatient to get into her bed.   

“Um….” She considered evicting the cat; she was shedding a little too much.  “Well, alright.”

She decided to permit the cat to stay; after all, she wasn’t able to control the cat.  Cats loved breaking the rules that humans set out for them. 

She ran down the stairs, just in time to hear her mother open the garage door.  

5:00 a.m.

5:00 a.m.

Batman flew through the air, hitting the wall with a nasty thud.  As he fell to the ground, Batman left a big, gaping hole.  Ben looked over at his sleeping brothers and decided to wake them up and show them the uh-oh. Batman was in trouble.  Batman was bad.

“Steve!”  Ben shouted.  “Look!”

Steve turned over in his crib, looking at the wall.  His eyes were small slits and he yawned.  Slowly, the fuzz went away and he looked at Ben, who was pointing at the wall.  Steve's eyes surveyed the giant  white space, its two bookshelves and hanging TV.  When he saw the hole, he smiled. 

“What happened?” 

Standing up on his mattress, he held on to his crib rail.  He knew better than to get out of bed before Mama came in; he would be in deep trouble if he made that choice. 

Next to him, Ben was taller than Steve.  They were born on the same day, but Ben was taller, faster, stronger and (at least this morning) more stinky. Steve wondered if that was why Ben woke up first; his pants were full of doo-doo.  

Steve loved the way Mama would smile and say that.  Sometimes she would poke their belly buttons with her shiny finger when she asked them, “ Are your pants full of doo-doo?”   

“What happened?” Steve repeated; Ben was still staring at the hole.  Ben finally looked at him and raised his eyebrows.

“Batman flew into the wall!”

Their laughter woke Robert, who stood in his crib immediately.  Upon seeing his brothers laughing, he jumped up and down. 

“Ba! Ba! Ba!”  His tongue dangled out of his mouth. Robert wanted to keep his brothers laughing, but he suddenly stopped; he could smell doo-doo.  He felt the underside of his pajamas for moisture or lumps. 

“Rob, LOOK!” Ben pointed at the hole in the wall.  Robert looked up, satisfied that his own pants weren’t filled.  Both of his brothers were pointing at the wall; his view was slightly obstructed by a bookshelf.

“What?”

“Look!”

Climbing over the rail, Rob hit the floor and ran over to Steve.  Steve shook his head wildly and tried to correct his brother; it was no use.  Robert ran up to the wall and pointed at the hole.

“Bad! Who did that?”  In almost the same breath, both Steve and Ben shouted an answer.  From Steve came: “Ben did it!”  From Ben came: “Give me Batman!”

Robert looked down and saw the plastic toy figure at his feet, regarded it carefully and then looked up at his brothers.  Steve was motioning toward his crib, warning him - with the motion that their Mama used – to get back in.  Ben had pleading eyes, his arm was outstretched toward Batman.  

Robert reached down and picked it up and walked it over to Ben, who smelled ripe and stinky.  Ben grabbed it quickly from his hand  and sat down with a squish.  It was then that Robert heard the toilet flush; Mama was awake. He would be in trouble if she found him out of his crib. Steve heard it,too; he started to panic.

"Get back in!  She's coming!"

“Ok,” Robert said.  He ran toward his crib and attempted to get back in as fast as he could.  In a panic, he twisted his foot  so that it got caught between the slats.  He tried to hoist himself, but his foot would not come loose.  “OW!” he cried.  Hot, fat tears accompanied the pinching pain; Steve began to cry, panicked that it was happening again.  He fell down on his mattress, shoved his face into his pillow and pretended to be asleep.  He could hear Mama’s footsteps.

In between playing with Batman and watching Steve cry, Ben saw his brother, foot caught in the terrible crib and decided to help him.  He threw one leg over the rail and slid down, his sagging diaper drooping more as he moved.  By the time he made it over to his crying brother, the dirty disposable  mess had come loose and landed, doo-doo side up, in the middle of the floor.  The majority of his poo clung to his bare bottom, like peanut butter on white bread. 

Robert, even in pain, did not want to be helped by his dirty-bottomed brother.  He kicked at him with his free foot, crying desperately for the pain in the other to stop.  

It was this scene that Mama saw when she opened to door:  

In one crib, a sobbing child pretended to be asleep.  In the middle of the floor, a dirty diaper lay doo-doo side up (thank God).  Another child had his foot lodged between his crib slats for the third time this week (for this reason, she didn't panic). Her remaining child was crying, holding his bruised arm and sporting a bottom smeared with feces.  It was this child she decided to attend to first.

“Good morning, Ben,” Mama talked in her robot voice.  The voice was neither angry nor happy; it was the morning voice that hadn't had coffee. She scooped up her child under the arms, bringing him into the adjoining bathroom.  “Bath time!”

For a moment, her child objected, through tears.  “We haven’t had dinner!  I haven’t even had cereal!”

As she set him in the tub, she warned him not to move.  He saw the look in her eye and decided to obey.  She went back for Robert, whose foot easily became dislodged with her help.  His tears soon dried up and he was trying to tell her something about the wall, but she carried him to the bathroom, in a foggy daze.  

Steve, from his crib, now realized he would have to scream to get Mama’s attention, from his place in the bedroom.  Through his tears he heard the water running, the cries of his brothers and his Mama’s voice, saying “Just do it!”

He cried and cried, before seeing her  return to him.  Her face was pink and pretty and he wanted her more than ever.  She picked him up and took him into the bathroom, where he tried to keep clinging to her.  It was only when he saw that the bathtub basketball game was set up that he let go of her neck.

He looked over at Ben, who sat in the sink, bottom being washed by the slow tap.  He imagined the warm water breaking up the smeared doo-doo and washing it down the drain.  He had sat in the same sink, in the same position, for the same offense many times.

It wasn’t until naptime that Mama found the hole in the wall.  She looked at her silent sons, who seemed to have forgotten all about the events that caused it.  By the time Daddy got home, she had already spackled it.

Alannah

Harmony and Alannah

Today was an unusually busy day; I am going to bed winded and exhausted.  Fridays are my days to go to Chico and “help” Alicia (Grandma language for ‘my day with my granddaughters’). It also is one day before Alannah turns four years old. 

In true Grandmother fashion, I brought a helium tank, balloons, and gifts.  Alannah, like her mother, loves to celebrate her birthday. 

“I’m so glad we’re making a party!” She told me, excitedly.  This was before or day turned busy and filled with activity.  “Who is invited?”

Alannah loves people and of course the first thing she wants to do is invite a bunch of folks to my private birthday party.  I cannot help comparing this behavior to her mother – my  own baby who also loves a lot of company when I desire private time with her; a girl who loved people around.   

If we are in Safeway, Alannah will strike up a conversation with the random person picking out oranges next to our cart.  “What’s your name?” 

The person will be so charmed, they tell her.  She starts asking about their family, their favorite fruits, if they regularly have oranges…  It is a sight to see.

I

When we finally had arts and crafts time in the afternoon, Alannah drew a picture of her “birthday party” – one she was having for herself on paper. 

“EVERYONE is invited!” She exclaimed, drawing stick person after stick person with smiling faces.  “This is Mama!  This is Harmony!  There you are Grandma – and here is Grandpa! Here is Jensen!  This is Yaya and Owa with Sissy… here is Daddy.  This is Auntie Morgan and Jay-D…I have to make Auntie Alannah and Kynan.  Here is Baby Scarlett – and here is Baby Harvey.  Scarlett has to watch out for Harvey because she is older than him….”

I looked up from chopping celery to survey her picture.  It was filled with activity and life.  “How do you know that Scarlett is older than Harvey?” I asked her. 

“Here are my girl cousins.  Laila and Lili and Lauren…”

It is hard to talk about the swells of love that come and go in my heart.  I explode with joy and love for the life in Alannah.  I love how she wants to bring us all together in her picture even if we can’t be together in person.  

I decided to sit down and draw with her.  I made a card with a big cake on it – four layers with four candles- since she is four years old.

“No Grandma!  I want just a little cake!”

Next to the tall cake, I drew a cupcake.  Harmony leaned over and drew and arrow next to it.  “There!  That’s the one Alannah will eat!”

And that’s the one she’ll pretend to eat.  A paper cupcake for my little baby granddaughter – who is already four.  Time certainly flies.

Happy Birthday, Alannah!  Grandma loves you!