*The One That Got Away*

Once upon a time I had friends, best friends. But after we graduated high school God cast us far and wide. He flicked his wrist hard and we scattered like so many Pick Up Sticks. None of us touched after that, not geographically anyway. Hefty phone bills and first jobs out of college widened the distance between us, and eventually, marriages and babies. So then what? We had to find new gal pals. But it had gotten harder. Since we weren't spring chickens anymore.  Since everyone we met was so daggone busy. Even so, we didn’t have a choice, did we?

~~~

“Do you wanna be best friends? Just you and me? Do ya, do ya? Huh, huh?” 

 I didn’t answer right away. Didn’t look at her either. Instead I fiddled with the snaps on my daughter’s onesie. Pretended to give my friend privacy while she nursed her baby. Her question surprised me. Made me feel claustrophobic. Like if I said yes, it would be me and her in a Jif jar with a lid on and a cotton ball soaked in nail polish remover. 

I turned away slightly and cupped my hand to push air in my mouth.  And then she moved. Far away.

~~~

“Guess what?” my best-friend-first-through-twelfth-grade said when I answered the phone. “I have unlimited long distance calling now. We can talk like, every day.” 

And we did for awhile. Till I blew it. We got in this tiff, of all things, about her religion and my faith. When she said that one thing just so, I was pretty sure it was over. I heard the word never come out of my mouth even though my personal philosophy is never say never. 

She fell silent and Iwatched our friendship, like an egg, roll across a surface that wasn’t level, but tilted ever so slightly downhill. 

~~~

Soon after, I met another woman, at my son's pre-school. She had the best cheekbones ever but something shadowed her. All the time. One day I figured out what it was—fear. Eventually I got used to it—her scaredy-cat aura. And actually, it seemed to lessen the more we hung out.

 As our kids got taller, we grew closer. At one point though, in my mind, I pretended to be a traffic cop. I extended my arm, flexed at the wrist. Stop. Don’t come any closer. ‘Cause I don’t think we have enough in common. 

See, she didn’t paint her nails, wear lipgloss, or love shoes. I could tell her anything but somehow that didn't seem like enough. We telephoned and emailed a whole lot, but I knew even if she didn’t, that I’d put SaranWrap around my heart.

She moved away, just for a year, but still . . . 


               A     L   O   N   E   (L   Y)    N E   S   S


The just-you-and-me gal visited the other day. We sat side by side on the sofa. 

You’re more like me than anyone I know, I said inside my head.

 I grinned as my kids laughed with hers. Only thing is,  you don’t wear mascara.

 She hugged me as we stood beside her car. “It’s like I never left.”

I stepped back and nodded. Waved as they drove away.  Ask me that question again. I’ll say yes this time.

~~~

When we found out my pa-in-law had super bad cancer, I phoned my best friend from childhood.

“Tell me all that stuff you do again,” I said. “The natural, organic, herbal, and homeopathic stuff.” 
                “Really?”  

I nodded. “Really.”

And she did. Things got better after that. In fact, we're almost back to the place we were before. There’s still a creek that divides the lands of my belief and hers, but after six years, the bridge is coming along nicely. 

~~~

I threw a welcome-home-unload-the-U-Haul party when my one friend moved back. Despite phone calls, emails, and texts (and not having enough in common), I missed her. A whole lot. As I walked up her driveway I wondered if she’d be able to tell the difference in me.  How the SaranWrap around my heart had disappeared.

And Then There Were Five--Part I

I never wanted kids, but then my husband said,  "Try it.  You'll like it."

I crossed my arms and huffed.  "Oh, all right," I said.  "Just one.  For you."

"Hey," I said when our daughter turned one.  "I do like it.  A lot.  But one's enough."


"How 'bout another one?" I said across the dinner table a couple years later.  "You know.  To keep the other one company."

My husband's eyes looked buggy.  "Really?"

"Really," I said as I handed him a spatula.  To scrape his chin off the table. 


So there we were.  At Sea World.  With the two girls.  And all the babies.  Good golly!  I'd never seen so many babies in my life.  In strollers.  In slings.  In backpacks.  Toddlers too.  Some were taking their first Monster Mash zombie steps.

I turned to my husband, and as I did, I heard my voice say, "Wanna try for a boy?"

I see the moment in slow motion.  My husband looked like he'd just chugged a pint or two.  His eyes were glassy.  Bright.  His mouth hung open.  Something came towards me.  From him.  Amazement?  Hunger?  Unspeakable joy?

I cupped his chin and lifted.  He put an arm around me and pulled me close.  Tight.  He placed his other hand on my belly.  I smiled as I watched the blonde Sea World girl in her blue and black wetsuit put the tee tiny fish into the giant black and white whale's mouth.  It was an I-can-make-a-human-being-with-a-little-help-of-course kind of smile.


I blipped my key fob to lock the car.  Ran into the house.  Called my friend Kelee in Ohio.

"Guess a what?"

"What?"

"There's a penis inside me."

I heard her huff.  I grinned.

"I mean, it's a boy."

"A boy?  Oh!  A boy," she said.  "Yay!  You're just like us--two girls and a boy.  Awesome!"

I nodded and smiled.  Leaned over 'til the sofa caught me in a black leather hug.


I stopped smiling when my doctor called.

"I'd like you to have another ultrasound."

Everything stopped.  My heart.  My breath.  Time.  My doctor's words sounded like they were coming through a tin can and yarn.  I heard apology in his voice.

"There's a spot on the baby's brain.  On the ultrasound film," he said.  "It's just a couple of millimeters right now, but I'm concerned.  It could grow.  Sometimes it's an indicator of problems."

I blinked.  Finally.  "Problems?"

"Or," he said.  "It might disappear.  I've seen that happen too."

I pushed my fingers into my hair.  "Disappear."

"I'll call you after the ultrasound results, okay?"

I hung up the phone.  "Yeah.  Okay."

I tipped over until the sofa caught me in black leather quicksand.


My husband and I?  We hardly told anyone.  We didn't want folks to worry about the baby.  Didn't want anyone to feel sorry.  For us. 

I mentioned it to a few people.  Praying people.  "Pray for our baby. Please?" 

I didn't ask 'em to pray for us.  That would be selfish, right?

A Prince of a Guy

Some gal wrote a book that says every girl wants to be swept off her feet.  Rescued.  A bride.  But I never did. 

There's a picture of me when I was little.  In a dress-up wedding gown.  At a toy ironing board.  My mom must have made me do it.  Must've tickled me at the last minute to make me smile like that.  That was never my dream.  I was like the dentist elf in Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.  I wanted to be in-de-pen-dent.  I didn't need anybody.  Least, that's what I used to think.


Martin Luther King introduced me to you.  See, his birthday was on a Monday.  That meant an extra night to get dolled up, belly up to the bar, and shake a leg.

I always told my girlfriends, "You'll never meet Mr. Right in a bar."  Like I knew.  Heck, I could practically count the dates I'd been on with five fingers.  For some reason, guys seemed to be scared of me.  Maybe 'cause I could hit hard and burp long and loud.  That's what happens when you grow up with three older brothers.

But I wasn't with my girlfriends that night.  I was with my buddy, Dave.  We were both on the prowl for guys to dance with.  He and I spotted you at the same time, through a Kool and Camel haze, through the Purple Rain. 

You had a puffy half smile.  Lips like Angelina Jolie before anyone knew who she was.  And a pencil-thin moustache.  Your eyes were the color of Kraft caramels but I couldn't tell 'til we slow danced.  Your hair was almost ebony and looked like it had been curled around a popsicle.  You were dressed up.  Had a skinny leather tie on and everything.  Dave and I thought that was neat.  Way better than a t-shirt and Levi's.

I wrote my phone number on a Dolly's cocktail napkin with a chubby, aqua, Maybelline eyeliner.  Tuesday day and night came and went.  Then Wednesday day.  I was looking up your number in the phone book when you called.  My heart forgot to beat, then remembered.


We went out a couple of times and I decided you were some kinda fairy tale prince.  You opened and closed doors for me.  You always smelled nice when you reached across to buckle my seatbelt.  I liked the citrusy freshness of Drakkar Noir as it came off your warm golden neck in waves. 

You picked McDonald's cups off the sidewalk and put 'em in garbage cans.  Helped little dowager-humped ladies cross Walnut Street.  You did what you said you were gonna.

But then you didn't kiss me on the first date.  Or the second.  I got to thinkin' maybe you weren't a fairy tale prince.  Maybe you were just a  . . . .  And then you did kiss me, and once again, my heart forgot to beat, then remembered. 

It was cold in the hallway of my third floor, over Rite-Aid on High Street, apartment.  I was leaning against a door frame and you were saying maybe we should see . . . Then the warmth of you pressed against the warmth of me and it was so very nice I thought my knees would give out, right then and there.  It was just like the ketchup commercial said.  You know . . . anticipation. 

You coulda asked me anything  and I woulda said yes.  But you didn't.  'Cause you're a gentleman.  That's what happens when you grow up with four older sisters. 


You wanted to marry me even though I wanted to leave West Virginia and never come back.  Even though I didn't want kids.  Even though I didn't need you.

We closed our eyes and stabbed a map and that's where we moved.  In Cincinnati, I worked and you worked.  Then I said, "Well, I reckon I can have one baby.  For you." 

A couple years later you made me cry when you said, "I wanna move back to West Virginia."  And I said, "Don't you remember me saying I'm a big city girl?"  You held my face in your hands and said, "If you hate it after a year, we'll go someplace else."  I knew you always kept your promises, so I said okay. 

Not long after that, I decided the first baby needed company.  Then a few years later, I got the notion that you should have a son.  Funny thing.  The way having kids can stir up things inside you. 

When my childhood caught up with me, you held the sharp shards of my broken littleness in your hands.  You didn't flinch.  Your eyes didn't bug out.  You said, "There, there.  Everything'll be all right."  And it was. 

And then one day. when I was all alone in our hundred year old house, I held my thumb and pointer finger in front of my eyes.  They were almost touching.  And I whispered, "This much.  I might just need you this much."