11 minute read
Security Breach (fiction) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nancy Mendez-Booth
SECURITY BREACH
don ’t know where Teaneck is, but John drives me here twice a week. Doctor Berger ’ s house is on the residential side of a park, opposite the stretch of strip malls with glatt kosher delis. It’ s cold today, even for March in New Jersey. Doctor Berger places the space heater close to the couch and pointed toward me in her basement office.
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I can talk to Dr. Berger. The crisis counselor at the hospital made me nervous. Her name was Claudia, and she was on call that Friday morning. She was sent to my room, the one closest to the secured doors of the maternity ward. She looked fresh out of school and scared to sit by my bed. She tapped her pad with her pen instead of taking notes. New babies cried further down the hall, but Claudia never shut the door to my room.
Claudia didn ’t know what to say. She hesitated even when asking easy things like my name. She never said the words stillbirth or baby, but we both knew that’ s why we were there. I had arrived at the hospital in labor, and waddled into the emergency room like I was about to claim a lottery prize. Instead, I got Claudia in my room. My baby Liam died before I delivered him.
“The way she looked at me, like I was a monster, ” I tell Dr. Berger again. “She didn ’t want to be in the room with the woman whose baby was in the morgue. ”
“Did she ever say anything to indicate that?”
i“She didn ’t have to. I saw want to be there either. ” I couldn ’t tell Claudia it. I didn ’t about the Rubik' s Cube. Today is my fourth session with Dr. Berger, but I told her about it at our first meeting. I watched her record my words. Doctor Berger is a professional and can do something with my words. She doesn ’t take notes as I tell her again today. “My cousin gave me a Rubik' s Cube when I was twelve years old because it was a good gift for smart kids. ” I look at Dr. Berger. She nods at me to continue. “I was smart but couldn ’t solve the cube. I’d get the red, white and green sides, but the blue, orange and red would be mixed up, and I couldn ’t solve those without messing up the sides that were already solid. There was this book called “Conquer the Cube in 45 Seconds ” , and the guy who wrote it held the record for solving it in 20 seconds. He said anyone could learn to solve the cube in under five minutes. I believed it. I followed the diagrams, step-by-step, but I couldn ’t get it. I spent that whole year turning a cube and feeling stupid. ” “Your expectations of yourself at that age seem unforgiving. ” Doctor Berger has pointed this out in past sessions. I look at the framed diploma on the wall behind her, still askew. It’ s embarrassing to retell how I took the cube apart and reassembled it so it was solid on all sides. It remained solved and untouched on a bookshelf until I tossed it out during a summer visit home from college. “Did you feel satisfied when you looked at the solved cube?” “Yes, but that’ s not how I feel today. ” “Go on. ” “I feel the same as when I was in the hospital. There ’ s something wrong with my mind. It’ s scrambled, the core is off
track like it got pounded by a brick. There ’ s cubelets missing. The ones that are still attached don ’t turn smoothly. No, they just don ’t turn at all. Here, right here. ” I tap above my eyebrows with the fingertips of both hands. “My head. It feels like that, like someone kicked me right here. ” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Right here. It’ s broken. ”
“This is not unusual, ” Dr. Berger reassures.
I ask her again if I’ m losing my mind. John brings me tea in bed many mornings, and I think how nice he is but don ’t recognize him as my husband. I don ’t leave home alone. I forget where I am. It’ s like I suddenly wake up, but I wasn ’t sleeping.
I look at my cuticles, picked and gnawed raw. Doctor Berger hands me “The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. ” She asks me to look at the bold letters on page 463 again: 309.81, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
“You ’ re reacting to cues that remind you of the event or something that creates anxiety. At those moments, yes, you do lose touch with reality. Visualize the happy place in your mind. You can stay there until you feel safe. ”
She forgets I’ ve asked her to call it a safe space. Happy place sounds like a drug-induced fantasy where trees turn to lollipops. It makes me feel defeated and pathetic. She asks how I feel about my trip to Puerto Rico. I’ m leaving in the morning to spend ten days with my family. I’ m afraid to interrupt my treatment, but I can ’t stay in New Jersey.
“Can I call you, please, if it’ s necessary?” I ask.
“Of course. Remember what we ’ ve been working on: recognize the signals. Breathe before you react. Think of the happy place. You ’ re safe now, Nancy. You ’ re not in the hospital. ”
Doctor Berger reminds me to be patient. It’ s only been six weeks since I left the hospital. I don ’t know if six weeks is just yesterday or another lifetime. Our session is up after 45 minutes, and she walks me to the door. I see my truck at the curb with John waiting in the driver ’ s seat.
“I’ll see you in two weeks, ” she says. “Have a safe and restful trip. ”
Everyone says going away to Puerto Rico will be good for me. I will surrender to the intensive care of the Marreros, my family, for ten days. I might rest. John and I have not slept since I was released from University Medical Center. No one warned us empty cribs keep you awake at night. John is afraid I’ m not resting enough. He watches me as I keep my eyes closed and pretend. Hours pass every night, both of us suspended in silent darkness. We ’ re raw, edgy, and confined to our condo by this bitter winter.
John returned to work two weeks after my release. I still have six weeks of what was originally supposed to be maternity leave. I don ’t think it’ s good to be by myself. I got lost in our building. Right in our building. The hallways didn ’t look familiar. The man who owns Freddy, the gray schnauzer, found me on the second floor and accompanied me back to the fourth. I didn ’t recognize him but I recognized Freddy, and felt I could trust someone with such a nice dog.
I need to get away from the highway overpass being built yards from our windows. The traffic improvement project began before I was even pregnant. It continues every day, day and night, through this snowless winter. The construction crew started up again about 30 minutes ago. The pile drivers thud and unsettle the inside of my head. I squeeze my head between my hands and pace our bedroom, but I still hear the pounding. I want to tear at my skin with each pound. Some days I feel the bathroom tile tremble beneath my feet. That’ s why I had called my Aunt Cruza in Puerto Rico. I needed to tell somebody to take me away.
“What do you need? I’ll come to you. I’ll book a flight right now, ” she had said.
“No. Please. I need to be with you. I need you. ”
I begged her repeatedly until I wasn ’t sure if I meant Cruza, all the Marreros or someone else entirely. John and my family made the arrangements. Electronic communications between New Jersey and the island must have crashed networks worldwide. I had an itinerary within 36 hours: Nancy MarreroTwomey; one adult passenger; Continental Airlines flight 527; departs Thursday, March 21 at 11:57 a.m.; nonstop to Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport.
8:07 a.m.
I shouldn ’t have believed Slim Cognito ’ s promises. The bodyshaping undergarment looks like a pair of black cycling shorts for a circus monkey. The packaging claims the super-duper body shaper is a luxe wardrobe solution, ideal for every occasion when you want to wow. I write marketing copy for a living, and know bullshit when I read it. My family won ’t be wowed when I land in Puerto Rico in a few hours. Things might get ugly when I bloat in the plane ’ s pressurized cabin, and compromise Slim Cognito ’ s compression technology. I gyrate and try to pull the elastic fabric to below my breasts. I’ m sweating from the effort.
“Need help?”
I don ’t hear John enter our bedroom and he startles me. The waistband slips from my grip and snaps my lower belly.
“I’ m not sure you can. ” I grab the fabric in my fists again, determined.
The mirror reflects John standing behind me. He keeps his distance, confused by my hopping, the Slim Cognito,
or both.
“It’ s called a body shaper. It’ s fat-girl underwear to make me look smooth. ”
“You ’ re not fat. ”
“I look like I’ m still pregnant. ”
“It’ s only been six weeks, Nan. ”
“I’ll die if anyone asks if I’ m pregnant. ”
John pauses, as he does before he questions a volatile witness. “Do you think anyone would?”
“I don ’t want to find out. People say stupid things. ”
“They mean well. ”
“Whatever they mean, it makes me feel like shit. I wish they ’d shut up. ”
Our eyes meet in the mirror. I look at myself to break our gaze. I’ m a wreck. My breasts hang like empty sock-puppets against my stomach. At another time, I would have looked at John in invitation to reach from behind. Any touch reminds me that I’ m not looking good, but I’ ve been able to hide under winter layers.
It’ s eighty-two degrees in Puerto Rico. I’ll be there in less than seven hours, in shorts and a tee shirt. The last time I dressed so lightly was September. I was pregnant. John and I hadn ’t told anyone we were still trying to conceive. We wouldn ’t need to deliver bad news again to family and friends if no one knew. But this pregnancy was different. I made it past the first trimester.
See ya, I thought, when I exited the waiting room of the fertility clinic for the last time. Let other women sit in that limbo. My nipples were as prominent as my belly button in the thin tee shirts I wore past Labor Day.
That was September. I still carry a belly that makes me look pregnant. It rests on my lap when I sit. There ’ s no baby in that space. Our baby died in my body. At thirty-nine weeks of pregnancy.
I had looked perfect. I held my belly like a jewel set between my hands. Our baby was perfect. John and I kept the ultrasound images tucked into the mirror. I could see right into him, his vertebrae a string of impossibly miniature pearls against the dark backdrop of my womb. I stored those images in the box with the sympathy cards, in what was to be Liam ’ s room.
I look at John and myself in the mirror this morning.
Whatapair.
“Could you give these things a hike in the back as I pull up the front?” I ask him.
“Uh, okay. ”
John steps forward, the master of unsexy tasks for the past six weeks: stuffing ice packs into my sports bra to numb my engorged post-partum breasts. Rinsing my vaginal stitches. Carrying the life-preserver orange circle cushion, the only thing that makes sitting tolerable.
“Damn, these things are tight. How do you breathe?”
“I don ’t think I’ m supposed to. ” I wiggle my hips and hop. “I just need one last tug. Pull like you ’ re giving me the mother of all wedgies. ”
“It doesn ’t have to be that much. ”
“Yes it does. Now get ready. On three. ” I hold the front of the waistband in my fists. John grabs the back and leans over me. Our eyes meet in the mirror. He gives a small nod.
“Okay, ” I say. “One. Two. Three. ”
We hoist simultaneously with a force that almost sends me into the mirror.
8:42 a.m.
My carry-on and toiletries are the last things to pack this morning. The medicine cabinet is overwhelming. Do I need antibacterial bandages? There ’ s floss, a supply of contact lenses. Will I need extra pairs of contact lenses?
