A Little Help from Above

by Saralee Rosenberg

  “But he was the one who came up with the idea in the first place.”

  “Yes, but that was before…that was before we knew…Dr. Kessler’s office called yesterday. They got your test results back.”

  “Oh my God. Is there a problem?” Shelby started to feel light headed. “Are we talking Down’s syndrome? Missing fingers and toes?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Well, okay then. What could be so terrible?”

  “Um…you see…they think it’s more than one,” Lauren blurted.

  “Come again,” Shelby screamed. “Did you say more than one?”

  “Yes.” Lauren started to bawl.

  “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Shelby slammed on the brakes, screeching so loud the sound probably reverberated for miles. Miraculously, the alert driver behind her avoided a collision.

  Shelby put on her flashers, causing drivers to have to merge into one lane. As they honked and cursed, she heard Lauren say something about two fetal sacs showing up in the sonogram.

  “OH. MY. GOD.” Shelby could barely breathe.

  “Pull over, Shelby,” Lauren cried. “Please!”

  “No that’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. Really. This is perfect timing. I can drive right into Flushing Bay and end it all right here.”

  “Shelby, please.” Lauren was pleading now. “You’re scaring me.”

  “I’m scaring you?” Shelby shook in disbelief. “Hold on.” She managed to put the car in drive, cross the bridge, and pull over onto the shoulder. “Okay,” she finally said, sliding down into the seat. “Tell me everything and take it from the top.”

  It didn’t take long to get the gist of the story. Avi had been acting even stranger than normal upon learning Shelby was pregnant. Turns out, although he and Lauren had discussed the idea at great length, when reality hit, he was simply too much of a traditionalist to accept the idea of a woman other than his wife bearing his child. Then when they learned Shelby was possibly carrying twins, he freaked. Adding to the frenzy, that same day, his cousin called from Israel to talk about his new rock band, which was in dire need of a lead guitarist. That was all the coaxing Avi needed. Seemed he wanted a big break more than he wanted a baby. So he stuck his suitcase in his trunk, drove to JFK, and boarded the next flight to Tel Aviv. Courtesy of Lauren’s Visa card.

  “That little shit!” Shelby seethed. “I told you he was a putz.”

  “I know,” Lauren cried, her voice hoarse from hysteria. “What should I do?”

  “Hell if I know.” Shelby closed her eyes. “Oh, my God! Twins! Are you sure?”

  “They want to confirm it with other tests, but yes, they’re pretty sure.”

  “I can’t friggin’ believe this. No wonder I’ve been so sick. When did you plan to tell me? When I was in labor?”

  “Believe me, I wanted to tell you,” Lauren cried. “But Avi said we should wait.”

  “For what? For him to get the hell out of the country?”

  Lauren wailed even louder.

  “This is a goddamn nightmare.” Shelby started to sweat. “Do you have any idea how much weight I’m going to gain now?”

  “I heard that’s nothing compared to the swelling and the hemorrhoids,” she blurted.

  “Oh great!” Shelby yelled. “I swear I’m going to kill you!”

  “Not if I kill myself first,” Lauren wailed.

  After hanging up, Shelby’s mind went into high gear. She could go right home to start looking for reputable abortion clinics. Or, she could pack a bag as fast as Avi, fly to Tel Aviv, and track his sorry ass down. Or, she could just continue on her way to meet the McCreighs as planned. She chose door number three, as it was the only option that did not involve premeditated murder.

  I know things don’t look great at the moment, but I hope the girls don’t panic. You know me. I think there’s a logical explanation for everything that happens. Even something as pathetic as Avi jumping ship. It reminds me of 1966, when my own little world was falling apart.

  Larry was so busy building the business, he was never home. My father died in June, and my chain-smoking mother became attached to my hip. I was pregnant with Lauren, and Shelby was going through a difficult stage. Again. Oh, and my girlfriends had all but abandoned me in favor of playing tennis, going out to lunch, and shopping.

  Not that I was passing judgment. I liked having nice things, too, and was crazy about my canary yellow Cadillac convertible, and the three-carat diamond Larry surprised me with on our tenth anniversary. I just couldn’t help but wonder what purpose was being served by my being a bored little housewife whose highlight of the week was driving into the city to have lunch at Saks, and see the Wednesday matinee of Mame?

  I remember chatting about this with Matty’s mom, Carol, a rare event in those days in spite of our children being inseparable. Truthfully, the fact we weren’t close was my doing. I guess I assumed since her husband struggled financially, we’d never be able to travel in the same social circles. My closest friends were of the country club variety, hers of the mah-jongg-at-my-house crowd. She shopped at Korvettes; I frequented the better department stores. While we were busy planning our next cruise, she was hoping to swing a week at a bungalow colony in the Catskills.

  This all sounds rather shallow and pathetic, I know. And I could kick myself now, for it turns out this very smart, outspoken lady gave me the best advice of my life.

  Turns out she had just read The Feminine Mystique cover to cover and liked it. Yet, with all due respect to Betty Friedan, she said to hell with my own little identity crisis. I should get off my skinny little rump and devote all my energy to being a good mother.

  At the time, I didn’t take kindly to her blunt message, even though I suspected she was right. Perhaps Shelby’s somber moods and ornery behavior could be tempered by my spending more time with her. Still, I insisted Carol was wrong; that the problem was simple. Shelby was acting out because of the new baby coming. But it was I who was wrong. For even at six, Shelby was too selfish to consider how a new family addition would have any bearing on her life. What bothered her more was that things with her and Matty were changing.

  Up until then, they’d simply done everything together. Slept in each other’s beds. Taken baths. Read comic books. Shared glorious summer days in the pool. Gone to the movies. Made Jiffy Pop on the stove to bring to the movies. Carried on so, until one of the grown-ups drove them over to Baskin-Robbins for double dips of Rocky Road and Peppermint…

  But by first grade, different ball game. Suddenly Matty preferred playing football than making Tollhouse cookies with Shelby. He preferred running around in his Batman costume to sitting with her through another of Miss Elaine’s story hours at the library. And in school, Matty made lots of new friends while Shelby made no attempt to mingle.

  Every day at three o’clock, she’d wait to see if he had plans, and even if he did, she’d ring his doorbell anyhow. Of course she was always invited to stay, but with her flawless instincts, she knew three was a crowd.

  Thanks to Carol’s incessant prodding, I picked up the slack and spent inordinate amounts of time with Shelby. We began to do everything together and forged a bond that never would have happened if I’d relegated the task of raising her to my mother, or the maid.

  Only now can I see how circumstances conspired, giving me the opportunity to take a lead role in Shelby’s life. And in fact I can safely say, it was the most important work I ever did. For little did I know then that it would not only be our best years together, it would be our last years together.

  So you see? It’s not time for Shelby and Lauren to jump off the deep end. Soon, I’m sure, they’ll discover the reason Avi left, and realize it was all for the best.

  God help me if I’m wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It was an amazing feat that Shelby was able to drive along the narrow Hutchinson River Parkway without incident, given she was having difficulty breathing and had a stabbing
pain running down her arm. This could only mean one thing. She was having a heart attack, and the next stop for her was not the town of Chappaqua, but the village of Cardiac Arrest.

  How did this happen to her? Once upon a time she was a high-paid journalist enjoying perk-filled days with no real personal obligations. Now she was living back home, visiting sick people in the hospital, carrying her sister’s twins, and wondering if the babies’ father was going to get his cowardly ass back to New York where it belonged.

  And how would she be able to conduct a decent interview right now? Shelby was the first to admit it was difficult enough for her to act cheerful and friendly on a good day, let alone when her life was in turmoil. To say nothing of the fact that when she’d spoken to Mrs. McCreigh on the phone, she hadn’t exactly heard the voice of Little Mary Sunshine, either.

  Shelby recalled that the woman was not only curt and evasive, but quite indifferent about her pending tenth anniversary. God help her if the only reason that Mrs. McCreigh had agreed to meet with her was to sit there and promote all her pet charity projects. Shelby cringed at the prospect of listening to yet another woman who ignored her kids and mistreated her nanny try to pass herself off as this selfless philanthropist who worked tirelessly for underprivileged children.

  On the other hand, who cared if Mrs. McCreigh was a bitch? Focusing on work would sure beat dwelling on her own seriously malfunctioning life. Besides, she would have a good laugh when the interview was over. So that was that. For the rest of the ride she would think of nothing other than the McCreighs and how their ten-year-old marital journey had begun.

  Shelby remembered after reading the McCreighs’ engagement announcement and looking at the bride-to-be’s photo from the exclusive Bachrach studio, that Gwendolyn was the quintessential deb. The blond, well-bred trophy girl who made Mummy and Daddy proud. Known as “Gwenny,” Mrs. McCreigh was the eldest daughter of William Lloyd Armonk, a prominent Manhattan attorney, and the former Evelyn Peck of Bedford Hills, an antique dealer on the Upper East Side. The Armonks resided in New York City and Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts. Gwenny attended Mummy’s alma mater, The Spence School, and graduated cum laude from Wellesley College. She was presented at the Junior League Ball in 1985 and worked as an account executive at the advertising agency, Ogilvy & Mather.

  The bio of Gwenny’s then fiancé, M. Jay McCreigh, known as MJ, was a bit more sketchy. There was no reference to a father, only a mother, a one Carol McCreigh, who managed a realty concern in Portland, Oregon. And although MJ’s pedigree was not up to the Armonk and Peck family standards, at least the boy had gotten a respectable education. Somehow he’d graduated with honors from Brown, then completed his MBA at Wharton. Still, it didn’t take the keepers of the Social Register to see Gwendolyn Peck Armonk McCreigh had married beneath her.

  Another curious thing was the wedding itself. Typically Anglo-Saxon couples had elaborate church affairs officiated by a very reverend, or an Episcopal minister who was invariably related to the mother of the bride. But for some reason, the McCreighs were wed in a judge’s chambers. If she remembered, she would casually mention it and see if it added some oomph to the story.

  In the meantime, it was back to reality and the road. If she didn’t start paying attention, she’d never find her way to their house. Thankfully, traffic lightened up and she could cruise along at 70 mph. That was until she caught up to some jerk in a Range Rover who dared to be doing the speed limit in the left lane. Why buy an expensive truck, only to drive it like your grandmother?

  Naturally when Shelby passed him, she aimed her intimidating, make-my-day glare in his direction. Then she swerved back into the left lane, nearly cutting him off. Damn right it was road rage. How else could morons like him be taught to drive? But when she checked in the rearview mirror to see the man’s reaction, she nearly drove off the road.

  Incredibly, he looked just like Ed Lieberman, Matty’s father. Only a much younger version, of course, as Mr. Lieberman would be in his late sixties by now. This guy was definitely more her age. Oh God. What was she thinking? That the man behind the wheel could be…Matty?

  Shelby’s heart raced as she veered back into the right lane to catch another glimpse. He was a handsome hunk with wavy, brown hair and broad shoulders, but surely her subconscious mind was playing tricks after getting Lauren’s shocking call. No one ever actually ran into their long-lost love on the highway. Except in those cheap airport novels you left in the seat pocket of the plane.

  As Shelby agonized over what to do, Mr. Range Rover appeared to be doing some agonizing of his own. Did he think she was trying to kill him or pick him up? Either way, she’d gotten his attention. But now what? Speed up to get another good look, of course.

  Unfortunately that meant barreling down a crowded highway, weaving in and out of lanes, with no real justification other than wishful thinking and a hunch. All the while contemplating what to do if and when he drove off in a different direction. She was scheduled to meet the McCreighs at one, so forget having enough time to follow this man home.

  Where was she going anyway? Shelby tried to read the directions while following the other car’s every move. From the Hutch she had to bear north onto I-684 for approximately four and a half miles, take that to Exit 2 near the Westchester Airport, then follow the signs to Country Road 135. Damn! So many roads, so many opportunities to ditch her!

  In the meantime, she realized a large dog was pacing in the back of his truck. Cool! The Rover had its own Rover, and upon closer inspection, wasn’t it a collie? Matty adored collies. Growing up, he couldn’t have a dog because of his father’s allergies, so he’d named his goldfish Lassie.

  This had to be a sign from above! Shelby gripped the steering wheel, then quickly changed lanes again so she could drive alongside him. A fine idea if not for the old woman in a Buick who’d never driven a mile over the limit and wasn’t about to start now.

  Miraculously, the woman turned off at the next exit, finally allowing Shelby to get close enough to make eye contact. Only to discover the man looked totally befuddled. How to telegraph that she wasn’t some crazed woman on a bender, that they were possibly childhood sweethearts? No time, as she had to turn on I-684. Unbelievable! So did he.

  Shelby was torn between excitement and dread. It would be an amazing coincidence if he was heading to Chappaqua, too. Then maybe she could signal him to pull over, apologize for the confusion, and ask one or two questions, like maybe where he grew up. But what if he was a family man who had been on his way to his son’s Little League game until he discovered a blond vixen on his tail? Was he thinking, good-bye son, hello fantasy-filled, no-one-has-to-know nooner?

  Sweat ran down Shelby’s cheeks, even though the air-conditioning was cranked so high the car was as cold as a meat locker. Forget about the perils of driving drunk. She was discovering how risky it was to speed while intoxicated with terrifying thoughts. And yet she so wanted to believe in this happy-ending fairy tale, not even wild horses could stop her now.

  Not true of a New York State trooper.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” Shelby cried out, brilliantly deducing that the loud siren and flashing red lights were meant to get her attention. There should be a law against ambushing motorists! Now she’d have to pull over, listen to some boring lecture on aggressive driving, wait for the cop to take his sweet time writing out the damn ticket, all while losing precious minutes.

  Shelby indicated she was pulling over and hoped the trooper would relax once he realized she was an otherwise law-abiding citizen. What a shame she wasn’t back home, as she had great connections in virtually every police precinct. But from this guy’s stern, don’t-even-think-of-messing-with-me expression, it was going to take more than a get-out-of-jail-free card from the Chicago Police Department to be let off the hook.

  Shelby rolled down her window and took a deep breath. She knew the drill. Don’t say a word, and don’t make any sudden moves or the cop might think you’re reaching for a gun.
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  “Do you have a problem with the speed limit the state of New York has deemed safe to travel at?” he barked.

  “No, sir. No, Officer…Donnelly.” Shelby read the name on the badge and guessed from his growl he wasn’t the type to take kindly to being told A, it was grammatically incorrect to end a sentence with a preposition or B, adding a little fiber to his diet would make him less irritable.

  “Were you aware you were clocked doing seventy-six in a fifty-five?”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry,” Shelby smiled. Perhaps he would warm up to a conciliatory blonde.

  “Are you also aware that drag racing and reckless endangerment are serious crimes, punishable by large fines and, if convicted, possible incarceration?”

  “Really?” Shelby whispered. Not good. Not good at all. If he hauled her in to the local police station, she didn’t exactly have a list of good criminal attorneys at her fingertips. Hell, she didn’t even have a list of lousy criminal attorneys.

  “License and registration,” he ordered.

  “Permission to get my pocketbook from the backseat?” she asked sweetly.

  “Yeah fine.” He started to write out a ticket.

  Shelby could tell by the fury in his pen he was not being swayed by her spirit of cooperation. He did say, however, that he was very concerned that her Illinois driver’s license was expired, as was the car registration, which was not even registered to her.

  “I can explain everything, Officer,” she started.

  “Save it for the judge,” he instructed. “And wait here while I verify this with DMV.”

  “Of course.” Shelby buried her hands in her face. What a nightmare. Cops, judges, lawyers’, lawyers bills. All because she’d followed her heart and driven a teensy bit over the limit. For that she was being treated like a savage criminal?

  Shelby searched her pocketbook for her cell phone. She’d call the McCreighs, tell them she had car trouble (not an outright lie) and reschedule for another day. But before she could dial, she looked in her rearview mirror and clutched her shirt. The Range Rover and another patrol car had exited the highway and were pulling up behind Officer Donnelly’s squad car.