THE RHINO DANCE: NINE, TEN, and ELEVEN

NINE

           

            We’re in the fast lane, speeding ahead in the Silverado, the sundry scent of leather and coconut filling our space, while adding to my nausea.  If I were a Benjamin Moore paint color, I’d be Hospital Patient yellow.

            “What can I do to make you feel better, honey? —Need a light?”

            “I’m good.”  I activate my window’s tiny lever and the window hums down.  “I don’t want to smell like smoke.”  This is the same feeling I used to get before competitions.  Only this time I’m not dancing for an award.  My goal here is far different.   “Would you mind playing the song for me?” 

“Not at all.”

Or is it the same? 

            He turns the radio knob and the brightly lit i-pod categories appear.  “Artist.  Prince. The Beautiful Ones,” he mumbles.  “Hmm…  Fitting song for you.”

            “Hope you enjoy the way Aphrodite conveys it.”  I lean back against the headrest, close my eyes, and let the melody drown out my fears. 

            “Wasn’t she the goddess of--?”

“Love.”

“Perfect stage name for your first dance, baby.  You are going to be amazing.  Trust me.”

            I tilt my head towards him.   “But you’ve never seen me dance?”

“I see it in your eyes.  Every time we’re together.”

“Do you know the story behind Aphrodite?  About her birth?”

He turns down the song’s volume.  “Enlighten me.”

“According to Greek mythology, she rose from the foam of the ocean, naked and fully developed.”

“Really?  Hmm…” He smiles dreamily.  “What a stunning visual that is.”

“You think what I’m doing is worth $250.00 for a half hour?”

            The toothpick dangling from his mouth moves to his smile.  “Nope.”

            I give him the evil eye. 

            “We should have charged $400.00.”

             “Aphrodite was also worshipped as a sacred prostitute, you know.”

            “I can imagine she was,” he says, nodding thoughtfully.  “She certainly knew her power.”

“Speaking of power… You agreed quite easily to my contract conditions.”       “That surprises you?”

            “I don’t know.  Guess I just thought a guy like you would want more input.”

            “Guy like me?”  He palms his chest.   “Now I’m feeling stereotyped.”

            I turn the song’s volume back up.  “Why do you think a man is willing to pay so much for my services, but he’ll flip out when his wife hires a painter to change the kitchen color?”

            “Hmm…” His brows furrow.  “That is pretty crazy, isn’t it?”

            “Take a left here,” I tell him.

            “Danvers Road,” he mumbles.  “Fifteen minutes.  And, by the way, I recommend that you change the paint color as much as you want.”

“Thanks for routing for me.”  I flex my wrist and admire my nails.  “Your ex-wife had it rough, huh?  What happened with the two of you?” I glance down at my phone.   My neighbor, Marlene, who’s caring for Maggie for a few hours while I run a few errands, just texted that all is well.  I’m not proud of the white lie.  As a matter of fact, I’m bursting to tell someone my secret.

            “My ex wasn’t able to accept me as I am,” Lance answers, another text gliding in on my phone.  We just made Jello pops with kiwi!  Marlene is not the right person to tell.  She’s too damn perfect.

 “Carla and I were just two different people,” he goes on.  “I always had to improve to meet her standards.  I couldn’t keep up anymore.”  He places a hand on my knee and his eyes zip down to my toes before catching the road again.  “Nice shoes by the way.”

“It’s rough trying to be someone else’s version of yourself, isn’t it?  And, thank you.”  I’m wearing Robert Clergerie, a sturdy high-heel with glossy upper and ankle straps, off-white.  “They may have to be the first to go unfortunately.”

“I don’t’ know how you girls stand up in those, let alone walk.”

“Add dance to the mix, and we’ve got ourselves a natural disaster.”

He laughs.  “You brighten my days, you know that?”

“I try,” I say, applying a coat of lipstick.

We glide off the exit.  A gas station and convenience store emerges.  “Can you pull over here, please? I need to use the Ladies Room.”

            “No problem.  I need gas anyways.”

            He glides into the station, pulls up beside a pump, and parks.

            “Need anything inside?  Water?  Gum?” I ask while opening the door.

            “I’ll have one sexy dancer, please.  Premium.”

            I adjust my legs so that I’m able to step gracefully onto the foot bar and hop down from the truck’s height.  “We’ll see what Aphrodite can do,” I say.  “Just remember your role in this business, Mr. Bodyguard.”

            “I’ll protect you with my life.” His expression turns gravely serious.

            I head inside and think about his expression, coupled with those words.  Given the short lapse of time that I’ve known Lance, a mere puppy phase, his message seems melodramatic.  I’ll protect you with my life.  At the same time (and equally as ridiculous) I find myself basking in the words.  It must be the fairy tale thing again.  I can hide pink fingernails beneath a pair of kickboxing gloves all I want; but deep down, I still long for chivalry, for the chance to be rescued.  Don’t we all?

 I pull open an enormously heavy glass door, and my thoughts are lost amid the perplexed stare of the cashier—a bird-like woman dressed in an oversized men’s blue Oxford.  She checks me out like a territorial jay while I offer her a prim smile back.  (In her defense, I’m not the average customer).

 Dressed in Capri length plum colored satin pants (low rise) a cropped gold camisole, and a transparent white tunic, my appearance falls suspiciously between that of a Disney princess and the archetypal Aprhodite.  My hair, worn in long spiral curls, is kept off of my face with a glittery silver headband.

“Can I help you?”  

 “Hi.  I’m just using the Ladies Room,” I say, motioning to the back of the store.

“You need a key,” she says, holding up a wooden stick, a key dangling from its handle. 

“Thank you.” I hobble toward her as quickly as possible, given my unforgiving heels.

“Where are you headed, honey, the circus?”

“If you’re speaking in metaphors, most definitely.” I’m about to tame the tiger.  Or am I just the meat?  I take the key from her, turn away, and leave her stranded with the puzzle of me.

The bathroom smells tawdry, of cheap wall fresheners and paint.  I squat above the seat and pee quickly while reading young lover’s graffiti.  Some of it is cute, some vulgar.  I can conceive of thinking these words, perhaps, but why write them down for a world of peeing ladies and children to read?  Do we all need to know what this reticent writer wants to do to Joe?

I wipe, pull up my pants, and exit the stall.  While my hands soak under the faucet’s hot water rush, I’m struck by a rebellious idea, credit to the audacious Aphrodite:  From a tiny pocket of my Coach bag, I pull out a lipstick, remove its cap, and turn it up so that the stick looks like a fat crayon.   I head back into the stall and write back.  Sometimes fantasy is better.

It’s Aphrodite’s fault.

Back at the mirror, I apply Moroccan oil to my palms, rub my hands together, and run my fingers down stripper-long spirals, pausing to check myself out.  The person looking back at me is a dancer like me, but she’s got more edge.  She’s not afraid to break out of her comfort zone once in awhile.  I hold my cell phone in front of the mirror, snap a selfie, and send it to Lance, along with a quick text message.  Thank you for suggesting dance to me, and for accepting me.

            “You are gorgeous,” he says as I climb back up to the front seat.  “I will always accept you, honey.”

             “And you are one charming bodyguard,” I say back.

            “You ready for this?”

            “You ready for me?”  I tilt my head evocatively.

            He turns the ignition key and steps on the gas.  Just fueled, the engine roars hungrily to life.  “More than you know, baby.”

            His wheels bumble back onto the main road, weave through a few more side roads and, finally, coast slowly into the driveway of Mr. J. T. Roach, of 45 Birch Road.   

            “We’re here.”  He kills the ignition and turns his head to face me. 

            “Have I ever told you I’ve never been to a strip club?” I’m suddenly nervous.

            “You didn’t have to,” he says.  “It’s obvious.”

            “It’s okay,” I say, rubbing my temples.  “I’ve seen these dancers in movies and on You Tube.  But my dance will be different, right?”

            “Look at me, Felicia.”

            I take in a deep breath and do what he says.

“You have nothing to worry about.  Let the song take you.  It’s just another way of dancing.  That’s all this is, honey.”

“That is so true.  Alright…” I let out a deep breath, “I’m good.  I’m really good. Do you have the music?  You’ll set up the song, on repeat-mode, right?”

He touches my chin.  “I will set up your music. I love you.  You’re going to be extraordinary.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said this to me.  He slipped it in.  On some level, I believe him.  I do think there’s something about me that he loves.

“I love you, too.”  I say back, believing parts of it. 

I know what you’re thinking.  It’s too soon to declare love.  Much too soon.  Not to mention the obvious.  I’m married!

“I need to go check things out inside.  Stay put until I give you a signal at the door.  I’ll just be a few minutes.” 

            I give him the army salute and watch him quickly shuffle up to the front door.  The home is old and cottage like, with dusty white siding, small triangular roofs, and a prominent front porch. 

It feels so good to be protected, it’s even sexy.

           This is the thought I choose to cling to while the door opens and I note the tallness of a man I’m about to dance for.  His appearance isn’t clear but I notice immediately that he’s surpassed the Roach of my imagination.  Lance stands sturdily in front of him, obscuring a full view.   Another man might have peeked outside to check out The Bodyguard’s vehicle.  Mr. Roach does not.  Then the door closes both of them in and I’m left waiting for Lance, my knight, who shall return to open my door and walk me safely to the doorstep of my first client.

TEN

           

            His name is Jake, Jake Thomas, I’ve learned.  I’m told that I can call him Jake while he uses a metallic opener to pop off the cap of a cold Corrona.  His home seems newer on the inside, and much bigger.  The living room boasts a polished hardwood floor, an l-shaped red suede couch, and contemporary accents, mirrors and abstract paintings.  A stone fireplace sits regally in the center of the room, flanked by bronze wall sconces.  She kept the furniture and he hired the Interior Decorator, I think to myself, taking it all in. 

He settles comfortably on the sofa’s twin Ottoman, clutching his beer.  Right on cue, the melody begins its seductive tale, with Prince’s falsetto.  Baby, baby, baby…

I circle to the back of his chair and lean low over his shoulders so that the rosy scent of my hair washes over his face.  I massage his shoulders, loosen his tie at the neckline, and rub affectionately.  The scent of his aftershave is tasteful, a modest blend of lime and spice. 

“What do you want out of this?” I whisper in his ear, my nails crawling down his chest, clawing the cotton fabric of his white business shirt, where I undo the top button.   

“I just want to go somewhere else,” he says, already under my spell.  The melody has worked its magic.  We’re both drawn in.

“I think that can be managed,” I tug the knot of his tie, slip it off of his collar, and wear it loosely around my neck while walking confidently to the front of his chair.

I lift one knee and let it slowly collapse on the right side of his lap.  Then I remove the lime wedge from the mouth of his beer bottle and suck on it.  His eyes are fixed on mine, and then on the dribble of juice that has found my chin.  I use the back of my hand to wipe it dry then gently rub the shared lime against his lips.  Here, our eyes lock.  He touches a strand of my hair delicately, as though touching the feathers of a hummingbird.  He’s fascinated by the dance, and by me.  A decent scar embeds the skin above one hazel eye, a fossil of his past.

The song plays on and, by now, it has become personal.  We’re both consumed.  I’m shocked by how easy it is to let myself go.   I unbutton my tunic, slip my arms out of the sleeves, and drop it carelessly on the floor.  Jake’s eyes bloom, as though he’s awakened from a dream.  He’s drunk on the song, and on me. He takes a generous swig of beer while I carefully tug at the zipper that runs alongside my camisole.  I slip myself free of it, leaving his tie on.

His eyes drizzle longingly down the curve of my body, from the frilly border of my purple push-up bra to my narrow waist and sparkling belly ring.  “You are absolutely beautiful,” he whispers to me.  I watch his eyes wander lustfully.  He wants me but, more than that, he wants to be wanted.  He’s tried everything.

“Thank you.”

He wants to touch me all over.  It’s killing him not to.

Mr. Roach is not the man with the greasy cuticles who tucks a bill in the elastic thin panties of a stripper.

“You’re good at this,” he goes on.

He’s the man at the office copy machine.  He’s stylish, even handsome.

I lift my other knee and guide it slowly up the other side of his lap, my hips forward, and calves back.  “Think so?”  I’m positioned like a frog in one of my favorite stretches, atop the lap of a stranger.  I close my eyes so that I can fall deeper into fantasy.  Aphrodite’s character has an alluring effect on me.  Adding to my ecstasy, the song plays on.

Jake’s hands roam hungrily across my satin pants and settle affirmatively on my butt, where he squeezes both cheeks.  Seated opposite us, at the far end of the room, Lance clears his throat.  I sense his foreboding presence before I feel the vibration of his body.  There is a chair shift, then a full stand.  A warning.    

I lift a hand to ward off his worry, toss him a glance.  “He’s okay,” I hiss.  Even in the brevity of my gaze, I note our bodyguard’s discomfort.  He’s visibly uptight, perhaps even irritated.  The reality is not helpful to my fantasy and I make a conscious effort to sweep it to the back of my mind.  Jake’s silk tie, purple with tiny yellow triangles, is an effective distraction.  I play with it for a moment.

“This is to help you go somewhere else,” I say, securing the improvised blindfold around his eyes and tying it at the back of his head.  Wisps of his breath tickle my breasts, making my nipples tingle.

He responds with a pleasurable sigh.   “I like that, Aphrodite.”

I arch my back and let my head roll back so that his nose nearly touches my skin.  I let him absorb my scent for a moment.  The dab of his wet tongue, quick as a snake’s, flecks my abdomen. 

Now’s as good a time as any, I decide, shimmying out of the satin pants, then removing both of my shoes.  My satin undies match the bra. They are purple and laced with a border of lace, a thong at the backside.  In the company of a Purple Rain song, the set feels perfect on my body.   

I adjust myself so that I’m kneeling on his lap, grab his beer bottle from the adjacent end table, and enjoy a slow, forbidden swig.   Then I slide the smooth, ribbed mouth of the bottle against his lips and offer him a taste.  Despite the blindfold, he knows exactly what to do next.  He tilts his head back while I bottle-feed him a sip.  He can’t see me, but he can imagine me.

I climb off of his lap and dance at his knees, squatting in second position, legs turned out, hands on my inner thighs.

“Can I watch you now?” he asks me.

“Not yet.”

I want to dance alone for a minute.  I want to go somewhere else, too, and practice the choreography I’ve worked on in my bedroom for the past few weeks.  I slide into a graceful split and arch my back, lifting my back toe to my head. Then I gracefully change positions until I’m propped up on my elbows, my legs opened to a wide v, toes pointed.

“You may remove the blind,” I tell him.  It’s a liberal view, though I choose not to exploit it for long.  I curl my legs back in, one at a time, before making a half turn to the other side of the room.  Here, I stand back up and circle my hips to offer a full show of my thonged ass.  My hair is messy now.  It falls over my eyes and tangles at my lime-sticky mouth.

In this pose, I’m able to see Lance.   He’s concentrating deeply on me, captivated by a dance that unfolds with frightening sexuality.  I’m turned on.  And I think Lance might be as well.  It feels natural to take off my bra and this time it’s Lance who gets the first peek.  My breasts feel round, awakened by the dance.  I circulate to Jake, my arms attuned to the melody and dance at his lap again.  He extends his hand to bring me in closer and I touch his fingertips then let them slip free of his hand while stepping backwards, my feet ballerina light. 

His disappointment falls over me like dust and I can sense his dreamy stare while I dance freely.  I allow myself the pleasure of dancing as though no one’s watching because, to a large extent, this dance is for me.  That I find myself also enjoying Jake’s company (especially his intense approval) is a bonus.

“How many years have you been dancing?” he asks upon my return.

 “Pretty much my whole life.”

I know he’s asking about exotic dancing exclusively, but I blend in my unpaid work because, if you think about it, those years brought me here. 

“I thought so.”

Gently, I climb back on his lap. “You like what you see, then?” I massage his shoulders.

“Love is more like it.”

We go on this way, encased in a bubble of fantasy, flirting wildly. “What do you like to do in your free time, Jake?”

“Free time?”

“Yes, free time.” I smile mischievously while allowing him to suck on my index finger.

“I don’t have much of that these days.”

“And why is that, Jake?”

Lance’s chair shrieks behind us again.

“Because I haven’t met you.” 

I wrap his tie around my lower back and give him the two ends so that he can pull me in closer.  Then the song comes to a sudden rude halt; ending our conversation, our private dance.  I climb off of his lap and it seems that I’ve just stepped off of a spaceship, onto the dirt of a new planet.  Reality slaps me in the face and then Lance is beside me, wrapping the tunic around my shoulders.

“That will be two-hundred fifty dollars,” he says to Jake, game face on.  “I hope you enjoyed her dance.”

I slip into my bra and clip the front latch.  Lance collects our money with a gravity that defies the personality I’ve come to know and love.  Gone is the glimmer of spontaneity in his eyes, the happy creases around his mouth.   Jake digs into his pocket and draws out three crisp hundreds.  Lance flaps open his wallet to make change. 

“All set.  She can keep the change,” Jake says, his eyes fixed on my chest while I button up my tunic.  “I enjoyed her dance very much.”  His eyes float up to my face. “Thank you, Aphrodite.  I’d like to set up another appointment if that’s okay with you.”

Buckling up my shoe straps, I’m about to answer but Lance cuts in.  “We’ll have to see what our schedule looks like.  We’ll be in touch.” He lifts the portable radio, gestures for me to walk in front of him and, together, we exit Mr. J. T. Roach’s polished and lonely home.  Outside, the air feels more humid than earlier, thick with secrets. 

I step up onto the Silverado’s step bar and Lance closes the door gently behind me before he circles over to his side and climbs in.  My heartbeat, quick as a vibration, reminds me of how exciting it has been to dance again.

“Whew.  He wants us back.  I must have done something right.  What did you think, Partner?”

He pushes his driver’s key into the ignition, digs into his pocket, and hands me three hundreds.  “I think you’ve done this before.”

I poke my occasional cigarette into the small red face of the dashboard lighter and draw in a drag. “I think you’re wrong, Mr. Santigado.” I hand him back the hundred, his thirty percent, and blow a funnel of smoke out the window.

“You’ve never danced for your husband like that?” He gives me back the bill.  “Buy some more clothes.  That’s what our tips are for and this guy was generous.”

I toss it back onto his lap.  “Use it for our vanilla chai fund.  They’re costing us a fortune… and to answer your question, not so much.”

 He rolls his eyes and concedes, pocketing the bill.  “But you have danced like that before.”

“I’ve held a few of the same poses, but the delivery was different.  It wasn’t quite a dance.  My husband and I went through a picture phase.”

 “Pictures only?  I see.  Jake was a lucky man then.”

“Jake—your recruit—was not a lucky man, but a paying customer.  That’s sort of the point, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I think you’d dance like that for free.”

“I think you already knew that.  But that sort of defeats the purpose, no? Doing too much for free decreases your worth, remember?”

He eases back into the smile I know and love.  “Not all of the men are going to be like Jake, you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean… He was the perfect client for your first dance, honey.  But every man is different, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Did you purposefully feed me a Jake to ease me into this business?”

“What did you expect… that I’d hook you up with a classless chump for your first dance?”

“You did!” I quip.  “That was so calculated of you!”

“Business as usual, baby.”

“Well, he’s a paying customer and he wants us back.”

“He wants you back.”

“As it should be.   I am the meat of our business, Partner.”

“We need to stick to the contract, Felicia.”

“Oh, you mean the touching part.  Yeah, right.”  I play with my hair.  “Some rules are meant to be broken.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here, right?”

“You drive me crazy, you know that.  But in a good way.”  Unexpectedly, he lifts the right directional, pulls over, and leans carefully over to my side, where he cradles my face in his hands.  I lift an arm up to move my cigarette away from his face, and stare into his wanting eyes.  His breath smells of an earlier toothpick, of mint and wood.  God, I’m attracted to this man. 

“I want to eat you up, Felicia.  But how about if I just kiss you.” His eyes dance along the sides of my mouth.  Then he runs the soft flesh of his thumb along my jawline.  “What’s one more broken rule?”

I feel like Sleeping Beauty, a girl nearly comatose before she awakens to love again.  There are so many reasons to kiss this man back and I want to so badly.  But I’m caught somewhere between ecstasy and sin and one more complication is not what either of us needs. 

“Please don’t kiss me.” My voice is soft and unconvincing. “I want to be friends with you for a long time.  Please don’t kiss me, Lance.”

With a long sigh, he lifts himself off of me, checks the rearview mirror, and sets the truck back into motion.  “You are so right.” 

We drive in silence for the next twenty minutes, until we’re back in Beverly, at the Stop & Shop parking lot where I’ve left my car.

“I’ll text you either tonight or tomorrow,” I say, fishing for my keys while he pulls up beside the Explorer.

“Felicia...”

My eyes lift to his voice. 

“I just got caught up in it all.  I’m sorry.”

“I know.  I’m caught up, too.”  I push open the door, pausing one last time to face him.  “We need to get this right, Lance.”

I scurry over to my vehicle, key myself in, and start the engine.  I back out slowly, mindful of the rushing Mom who’s suddenly present in my rearview mirror.  She pushes forward a carriage, her toddler’s stubby legs dangling from the front seat.  He watches the world speed by, trusting it explicitly.

Tears rise up in my throat and stay there until I pull into my own driveway, then our cluttered garage.  I kill the engine, and stay seated in the driver’s seat for a long minute.  The drilling noise of a woodpecker resounds in the distance, followed by the happy calls of a few chickadees.  A single tear dribbles down my cheek.  What the hell have I gotten myself into?  I’m not a fucking princess; I’m a mother of two for God’s sake.

 They’re not all going to be like Jake, you know.    

To make matters worse, my knight is jealous and I don’t know whether to be flattered or frightened.

ELEVEN

My digital clock reads three fourteen a.m when I’m jarred awake by the haggard voice of my son.  “There’s something wrong with me.”

“What’s the matter, honey?”  I sit upright, my mind hazy as it’s pulled out of a dream.  Andre is hunched over at my bedside, clutching his abdomen.  I spring from the covers and shoot a backward glance at my sleeping daughter while Derek jostles, tugging at the comforter to cover an exposed bare shoulder.

 “Bad stomach ache?”  I grab a crumpled nightshirt off of the floor, slip it over my head, and study my son.   There’s not supposed to be something wrong with my kid.  I’m the parent, the one in charge around here; I’m the one who’s supposed to take on what’s wrong.  

“It’s really bad,” he sputters.  “Sharp pains all over.  “His bottom lip hangs low and his skin is blanched, the color of stale cheese.  There’s tension in his forehead, a weary look in his eyes. 

  I’m terrified.   “Alright.”  I rush into the bathroom.  “Let me take your temperature.  Have you tried to go to the bathroom?  What did you eat in the last twenty-four hours… let’s think.  It could be food poisoning.”

   “It’s not that, Mom,” he grumbles.

    He’s not drunk is he?  He wouldn’t drink alcohol. Not yet.  I rifle through a vanity drawer full of lotions and hair clips, a hunched-over Andre in my shadow.  The thermometer doesn’t appear.  “Hold on.”  I spin around to the back closet and snap plastic lids off of storage tubs that, as usual, have failed to make our lives any more organized.  “Where the hell is the thermometer?” I mutter to myself.  

  “Holy crap this hurts.”

  “Found one.” I grab it from its hiding spot behind a canister of Vaseline. 

  “Here.  We’ll get through this.”  I pop it under his tongue.  “Hold it in place.  Come sit down for a minute.”  I pad his shoulder with a caring hand and lead him over to the toilet seat.  “Just sit tight for a minute.”

 I hover at my son’s knees in a bathroom that is too bright for my awakened eyes.  Elbows on lap, he sits glumly atop the fuzzy covered lid, his expression sending me back in time—to a day when he was swaddled in my arms, to a day when I could make everything right.  The thermometer beeps sooner than usual.  My mood shifts, dipping downward like the dropping floors of an elevator.  He pulls it from his mouth and checks the tiny window.  “One hundred three,” he croaks. 

 “Oh boy.”  I check the verdict with my own eyes.  “You’re fighting something.  Let me grab the Tylenol.”  Unlike the thermometer, I find the blessed drug easily, pop off its cap, and hand him three tablets, the maximum dose for his size.  “Take them with water.”  I grab a paper cup from the small tower on our vanity counter, fill it with water, and hand it to him.

  He swallows each one despondently.  “I think I have to go to the hospital.”

  Andre would rather have a friend pop a dislocated shoulder bone into place than go to a hospital.  He’s not one to complain about illnesses.  This is bad, really bad.  Oh God.  Don’t punish him.  Punish me instead. I shouldn’t have accused him of drunkenness, even in my mind.  I’m sorry.    

I’m suddenly powerless.  “Okay.  Sure.  Good idea.   Let’s go to the ER and get this figured out.”  I hide my fear behind a seemingly chipper plan.  “I just have to tell Dad, I mean Derek.”

I make my way over to Derek’s side of the bed. I can tell that he’s awake, having heard the commotion in the bathroom, though he keeps his eyes closed.  “Derek,” I whisper.  “I have to take Andre to the ER.  He has a vicious stomachache and a high fever.  Can you please go in a little bit later this morning?  I should be home by eight, but you can never tell with the ER.  Maggie’s still asleep.  I’d rather not have to wake her and drag her along.”

 He opens his eyes but leaves his head on the pillow.  “I really can’t.  I’m sorry, completely swamped with deadlines.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut.  Torment surrounds me like the cool air in a narrow cave.  I’m trapped in the confines of Derek’s priorities again. 

“You sure it’s not just that stomach bug?” he asks, lifting his head off of the pillow. 

 “I wouldn’t choose to go to the ER for a stomach bug, Derek.   Never mind, I’ll take her.” There’s no room for an argument.  I hand him over the win, scooping up my daughter. 

  “Mommy?” Her eyes pop open.

   “I’m sorry to wake you, honey.  We have to go to the hospital.  Your brother is sick.” 

   “Is he going to die?”

   “No, honey.”  But I may put have to put something in your father’s drink tomorrow.  “We just need to go quickly.” 

   I set her down so that she can grab her blanket, then I pull my phone off of the charger and take along both, followed by my pocket book downstairs and a few bottles of Snapple from the refrigerator.  We’re off.    

  I back out of the driveway while managing to hand each of my children a drink. 

  “I want the lemonade!”

  “It’s fine,” Andre concedes with exhaustion, handing me back the lemonade in exchange for an apple juice.  I reach back to hand Maggie the open mouthed lemonade when it slips free of my hand and spills all over her lap.

“Ahhhh!” she shrieks.

You’ve got to be kidding me.  A million versions of the f-word explode like a shaken soda in my mind.

“My blanket is soaked now!  I feel angry!”

I shoot a glance to Andre.  His head is back in the passenger seat headrest, eyes closed.  He’s just trying to get through this.  I’ve got to pull it together, here.  I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. “Maggie.  Just roll the wet parts into a ball and lay the dry part on your lap.  Tell me if that works.  Otherwise, we’ll try something else.” I flip open the lid of my vehicle’s console and draw out a miniature canister of play dough.  “This is to help you move away from your angry feeling.” I steer with one hand, handing her the remedy while my vehicle crosses the road’s midline for a moment.  I pull it recklessly back.

The strong-willed child just needs to feel empowered to make things happen on her own terms

I wait for a positive response.  “The dry spots make my skin feel better, Momma.  But now my blanket is going to smell like lemons.”

Please keep on writing parenting books, Dr. Eleanor Goodrall. 

“I’ll throw it right in the wash as soon as we’re home, honey.  Now please think of something you can create with play dough to help your brother feel better.”

The strategy is blissfully effective; expediting my drive.  My Explorer weaves through quiet Beverly streets, its high beams illuminating mailboxes and stop signs and gangly crab apple trees.  Andre appears more miserable by the minute.  My attitude dips.  It’s not the stomachache or the fever alone that worries me.   It’s the mysterious combination of the two, the unknown.  High fevers can mean anything from a bad virus to spinal meningitis. I just wish we knew what we’re playing with here.

My mistrust for his symptoms leads me to the highway in less than four minutes.  I clutch the steering wheel with a death grip, hoping to compensate for a speed that makes my steering wheel vibrate.  The odometer needle makes a nervous climb upward.  Forty, fifty, sixty, seventy-eight. I watch it climb a few more notches before lifting my foot off of the gas pedal.  No use getting all of us killed here. 

I whiz past dusty trailer trucks and a suspicious navy blue car.  I can't help but wonder about what the paper’s headline would read if I did something stupid like misjudge a curve in the road and crash.  Mother of Two Killed during an Attempt to Reach the ER:  Speed was Allegedly the Cause.   I scan the signs of each passing exit meticulously, as though my life depends upon them.  Both Children Miraculously Survive.  Yes, save my kids.  Kill me off.   But who would take over the caretaking role?  Children Left in Custody of Father.  

I slow down significantly.

We arrive safely at the entrance to the ER.  Those two simple letters and two syllables make my heart beat twice as fast. My eyes dart from the arrow to my son, the suffering patient who doesn’t belong here.   Teenagers are supposed to play baseball and listen to music and mouth off every now and then.

He presses a hand against the right side of his lower abdomen, and it comes to me.  I know exactly what’s wrong.   Andre belongs here.

                                     *         *          *

4:45 a.m.

Maggie presses the vending machine’s coded button, B14, while we watch the bag of Swedish Fish drop from the metal claws and fall into the tray.  We’re waiting for Andre to come out of surgery.  It’s been almost an hour.

A blood test, along with an abdominal ultra sound, confirmed what I had suspected.  Andre suffers from appendicitis.  His appendix, the “worm-shaped pouch attached to the large intestine,” is inflamed,” Dr. Nadir, a small doctor with careful hands, explained to me, adding, “His white blood cell count is high, indicating a bacterial infection.  He will need immediate surgery but the laparoscopic procedure is quite common and he should be fine to go home within a day or so.”

I kissed my son’s head and wiped tears on the back of my hand before he was rolled away with a complicated IV.  Maggie wanted to give him the play dough bird nest she made during the car ride, but the nurse intercepted it, offering me a wink.  “How beautiful!  We’ll be sure to give it to him in the recovery room.  What a special little sister you are!”

4:46 a.m.

Maggie sits on my lap facing other patients; her legs flopped outside of mine, the back of her head resting against my chest.  She chews the candy fish while I sit and think about the ruthless fortune of a mother’s worry.  The doctor was articulate in describing the risk of infection without immediate surgery, using words like rupture, peritonitis, and inflammation, but his words—as though chalk-drawn on pavement before a rainstorm—dissolved in my mind.  There was only one word I wanted to store away in the database of my frightened head. 

“He’s going to be okay, right?”

“He should be just fine, Mom.”

I didn’t like the word should.   

I still don’t.

6:13 a.m

Maggie has fallen asleep on my chest when the same nurse that took the bird nest approaches me, her expression unreadable.  My heart sinks. Why isn’t she smiling?  Closer.  Her lips remain pursed, until she’s close enough for me to see the mole above her lip.

“The surgery was successful, Mrs. Norton.  Andre did great.”

The chirping of baby birds.  Butterflies.  Confetti.  An air balloon.  A rainbow.  I lift my head to the ceiling and let out a deep breath.  “Oh gosh, thank you.”  I cup her hands in my own as though we share a sacred connection and read her nametag.  Elaine.  “I really appreciate all that you’ve done.”  Elaine is my new angel.  

While Maggie sleeps, Elaine and I discuss what the next twenty-four hours will look like for Andre, followed by a discharge plan.
There will be no dancing this week and I'm okay with that.