The Drunkest Three-Year-Old in the Room . . .Amanda Erin Stopa

tongue is stuck in my mouth. I pucker for saliva and repeat, “Si. Si entiendo. ”

“Is she talking to me or to you?”

I am suffocating. My face quakes even though my molars clench the inside of my cheeks. “Por favor, ” I plead. “John, me tengo que ir. I need to go. Por favor, Dios mio. ”

“My wife is indicating yes, she understands. It’ s her bag, which she packed. She ’ s very upset. She ’ s very afraid of flying. ”

I squeeze John ’ s arm, and he keeps his hand on mine. The metal detectors are yards away, like time counters at the finish line of a race. Other people are getting through and continuing to Gate 36. I inhale audibly to expand my chest and fill my stomach, like Dr. Berger has taught me.

Lorraine doesn ’t even look toward me.

“Jesus Christ. Always on my line. She ’ s traveling alone, right?”

“Yes. ”

“Tell her she needs to get to Gate 36, straight ahead after the metal detectors. ” Lorraine jerks her head as she gestures for the next people in line to hurry and approach.

John and I step aside. My heartbeats throb in my ears. My hands fumble as I unwind my scarf, slip off the ankle length coat with its hood and the zip-up wool sweater. I stuff the random small articles into the sleeves of my coat. John rubs my upper arm, cups my shoulder, and squeezes as gently as if it were my cheek.

“Ah, there you are. Tropical Nancy. ” He leans in, and adds, “We know you ’ re not afraid to fly. Lovely Lorraine back there wouldn ’t understand. I can tell these things about people. ”

I nod to play along. I’ll be in Puerto Rico in less than four hours. A new woman. I collapse at the joints like a spring-loaded toy. Tears run down my cheeks before I can get a tissue. I’ ve cried so much over the past six weeks, but these tears come fast. I tremble and look down at my exposed knees.

John places my coat on the ground, and gathers me to him. “Hey, ” he repeats into my hair, my ear, my cheek and neck.

My nose swells and I clutch his coat. “I’ m okay, ” I say, muffled by the wool.

“This is good for you. Everyone ’ s waiting for you. ”

“I love you, ” I say and it makes me want to cry more, so I think about making it to my gate in time. The delays of going through the metal detector, of standing behind people who have to unlace shoes. I need to make one last trip to a normal-sized bathroom before boarding the plane.

“I love you too, Nan. ”

I lift my chin and close my eyes. Even without sight, our lips find each other. I kiss him as if I’d not seen him for weeks. We look like lovers whose rendezvous is ending too soon: Me, the small brown woman returning to my island; John, the white man, staying behind. The image of us is more romantic than the truth. We are long-married. We lost our baby boy. This is breaking me. I am afraid. I take the handle of my carry-on and pull it behind me as I walk past the rope barrier. I turn one last time to wave to John. He raises an arm in uncertain response. My quilted coat is draped over his other arm. The stuffed sleeves hang down stiffly. It looks like a small woman John has caught just as she fell back in a faint.

The Drunkest Three-Year-Old in the Room

By Amanda Erin Stopa

Here comes a school of them right nowJust look at em! They are sooo wasted they have to be strung along on a guide rope, one walking like Frankenstein, another like he ’ s on Broadway. These addicts can ’t take two steps in the same direction without falling all over the place. And it’ s only noon. And that one ’ s wearing a tutu, on a Monday. I’ m going to guess she ’ s coming off a weekend long bender; looking mighty sloppy. And lookover by that fountain, those two kids are so hammeredrunning, trying to climb over each other up the backside of a copper goat. But oh, it looks like their little drunk girlfriend is a bit of a downer, possibly cross faded the way she ’ s kicking around the grass, yelling at her Velcro shoes. Loose cannon. But the drunk I love most is the one who is finding his legs for the first time. Unashamed at how he wobbles, arms reaching towards his intention, the blonde woman cooing through picket fence teeth, he takes his first steps to sobriety.

Amanda Stopa lives in Philadelphia, although she is not from there, and attends a Masters Program at Rutgers University. Wednesday, April 11 54 Cedar Lane, Teaneck, NJ 7:00 p.m.

It got warmer in New Jersey while I was away. I sit on Dr. Berger ’ s couch and tell her I don ’t need the space heater. She comments on how tan I look. I wore as little as

possible in Puerto Rico. I would have walked around naked to feel the sun on every inch of me.

“But I don ’t think my family would have been into my being naked. They think I’ m still little Nancy. ”

“Is that how they view you?”

I say yes and laugh, realizing Dr. Berger doesn ’t know the Marreros. Years pass so quickly on the mainland, but time is suspended on the island. The Marreros are always the first Puerto Ricans I see when I get off the plane. They must camp out at the airport the minute I book my flight. They were waiting right in front at the arrival gate, crying, and seeing them like that unhinged me. I stumbled and thought I’d have to crawl on the rough airport carpet to reach them, but my Uncle Pedro ran and caught me. I was nested in their arms, and we were all one shuddering, wet mess, but that’ s what Puerto Ricans do at airports: We cry whether we ’ re arriving or departing. Me and my Marreros looked like a normal boricua reunion. My family drove me everywhere during those ten days and hovered over me like I was just learning to walk.

“Did you enjoy that?”

“It was nice to have everything taken care of, ” I admit. “It’ s okay when it’ s temporary. I haven ’t been little Nancy for a very, very long time.

We ’ re silent, but that’ s okay with Dr. Berger.

“Doctor Berger, what I’ m saying sounds crazy. ”

“What does, exactly?”

I hesitate.

“It’ s okay, Nancy. Just say it. ”

“I sound like I’ m talking about different Nancies. I feel like I’ ve been away for longer than ten days. I recognize New Jersey. The diploma on your wall is always slightly crooked. Everything is familiar, but it doesn ’t feel mine. This is the life of someone else. I recognize the lives of little Nancy and the old Nancy, but none of those are mine. ”

“What experience is your own?” Dr. Berger asks.

“I’ m not sure. ”

“Let me ask another way. What Nancy are you now?”

I look at her in the arm chair across from me, legs crossed under her, and notepad on the side table. She waits. I know I can talk to her.

“I don ’t know, Dr. Berger. I’ m not any of those Nancies. ”

“Are you a new Nancy?”

“No. New means never scrambled. The old experiences are too familiar. I’ m different. ”

“Can you describe how?”

“I tried to do things I used to do, but nothing feels the same. I started running again. I ran every day while I was in Puerto Rico. ”

“It must have felt good to do something you enjoy. ”

I tell Dr. Berger it wasn ’t the same. I expected running to feel different after being pregnant for 39 weeks and delivering a baby, but my limbs were reluctant. Doctor Berger knows about the mind, but I’ ve learned about the body. The body is not faithful; it can only be counted on for betrayal. All those tens of thousands of miles I’ ve run over the years should have earned interest like a bank deposit. I felt ripped off as I lumbered and gasped around the track in Puerto Rico.

My Aunt Cruza went with me every morning. She ’ s the other runner in the family, the one who remembers my marathon finishing times. We would arrive at the track before sunrise but were never the first ones there. The temperature in San Juan hits eighty degrees before 8:00 a.m., so runners complete their daily miles predawn. We ’d go round and around the track. I’d think about the years when I competed and my running was fluid. I had transcended the barrier between the mental and physical. I didn ’t wear a watch when I trained or raced because I could feel my pace and knew I was running seven-minute miles.

It wasn ’t anything like that in Puerto Rico. I felt like I was pushing through Jell-O. I did three frustrating miles in the dark every morning with Cruza. My breathing was too labored for chitchat and Cruza is a silent runner. The white lane lines of the track were barely visible. The sound of other runners approaching and passing guided us.

Every morning, I wondered if I still had it in me to reach the post that marked the end of our last lap. We ’d be on our final laps when the line of pink appeared above the tree line, grew wider and split the sky open like a papaya. The other early morning runners ahead of us became visible. Past races played in my mind, and I willed my legs to turn over faster. My arms pumped faster, hands open, as if there was a winner ’ s tape at the finish, and I anticipated the snap against my hips as I burst through. I ran like there was still a medal for me. I cursed God, my body, and my life as I grunted through those final early morning sprints. I ran as if I heard the crowds from past races instead of my lone aunt, calling after me and asking if I should be running so fast.

I’ m breathless as I recall this and tell Dr. Berger. She asks if I completed the final laps, and I tell her I did. I reached that post every morning and slapped it, knowing I can never run fast or far enough.

Nancy Méndez-Booth was born and raised in Queens, New York. After receiving her BA from Amherst College, she relocated to New Jersey, where she received her MA and MFA from Rutgers. Nancy ' s work has appeared in phat'titude, Jersey City magazine and The Packinghouse Review. She has been a featured blogger on mamapedia.com and also blogs at http://www.nancymendezbooth.com). Nancy teaches writing, Latina/o literature and cultural studies in the New York City area. She lives in Jersey City with her husband, John.