Prospect Park, Emily Ward

Prospect Park

You’re never gonna believe me, but I was actually named after an old Prophet who basically wrote the Old Testament. I know, right? What the hell were my parents thinking? They must have seen the similarity, since both me and the old guy were diagnosed with epilepsy. Yeah, it’s not too much fun having epilepsy. You get the whole shebang: a heart-gripping seizure and a freaky-as-hell “vision,” not to mention the splitting headaches and bloody noses. Yeah, it’s a real bundle of laughs. And then, of course, because the Universe is a freaking b*tch, the “vision” comes true. The poor prophet— he probably didn’t know what to think all those years ago. I shook my head and brought myself out of a dusty old tale and back to the balcony, watching the light fade on the Plaza. My empty stomach growled like a caged animal. You’re never gonna believe me, but this was the first year I had fasted for more than six hours. Crazy, right? But the rabbi said that since my Bar-Mitzvah was only three months away, I should start practicing my fasting, like it’s some kind of twisted hobby. Twenty-two hours so far, two more to go. So anyway, I was aware of the sluggish evening traffic while I watched them. My family was cutting its way down to the sidewalk, on their way to Temple. I was skipping the services. They thought I had left with Solomon hours earlier, but I was sitting up on our balcony, watching them from ten stories up. Slid right under their noses. They never even noticed that the French doors in the parlor were unlocked and cracked open. It was Yom Kippur, October 5, 1957. We had spent the whole day in Temple, had come home for a brief rest, and after pondering my hiding place realities, I decided that I did not want to go back. The service restarted at 6, in no less than 10 minutes, and I did feel a little guilty, but it was nicer up here than some stuffy, body-odor-ridden synagogue with far too many wailing children. However, I did have a good reason to skip: I didn’t want to

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have one of my times in the middle of service, because they always got worse while I was fasting. Plus, our rabbi wasn’t the nicest guy— he never was very understanding about a bleeding nose and a seizing kid. Only a few moments had passed, and I glanced down at my family. David (my elder brother of five years) was having a heated, strident conversation with my mother, who was nodding in agreement; my father was walking meekly along, his gaze on the ground; Eliza (five years old) was skipping down the sidewalk next to them, not watching where she was going. They came to the street light on the corner, and everyone paused to wait, except for Eliza. She ran out into traffic, eager to get to the car. I gasped aloud and almost threw myself over the balcony of number 1050, 46 Plaza St. East, but my mother got to her first. The cars were screeching and honking, but my mother’s slap rang out true. Head pounding, I watched them get into the car and drive away, my mother and David haranguing my sister. I could see their angry, twisted faces from the balcony. Someone always had to hold Eliza’s hand, or else she ran. And she never stopped. I swore and shook my head, a piercing headache forming in my left temple. Oh, stop it, came a snide voice from the corner of my brain. It’s your own fault, you senseless bastard. You weren’t there to hold her hand. That’s right. Blame Ezekiel, the kid who can’t wrap his head around anything, the kid with the funny brain and “visions” and bloody noses. Despite my inheritance, I could never be a prophet. Who would listen? Who would pay attention? Who would be there to agree? What more could I possibly do? Pray harder? Wish more? Beg? Please, God, if you are up there and listening, please... Our family could be called rich, if you could believe it. We lived around the corner from Prospect Park, right in the upper part of

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Brooklyn. There was a Grand Army Plaza directly across from our apartment, surrounded by trees and all sorts of green. The northern corner of the park was perfectly visible, and we had grown up watching the park shift and bloom. The Park was big, and you’re never gonna believe how many people were there on Fourth of July. Masses. Flocks. It was disgusting. All those people grouped together so tight they can’t even breathe, shoving food down their throats like simplistic pigs, gazing up in rapture at the exploding lights. Eugh. I tell you, I don’t even know how I survive those things. Solitude is an under- appreciated novelty. The Park was nice during the spring, though. Lots of cherry blossoms and children screaming. Oh, and ice cream, too. There’s always an ice cream truck there or a guy with a barrel full of sour, juicy pickles. It’s not so nice during the winter, though. Too much fog. Wow. I’d been up here for over two hours. I couldn’t even see the stars anymore. Suddenly, I jerked back against the doorway, my grip digging into the cement of the landing. I felt my thumbnail split and tear, digging into my skin. I shuddered, begging for it to be a quick seizure, every fiber of my being vibrating and splitting. My head cracked in two, and I was surrounded by a bright, whitish-blue light that carried me like a wave across the ocean. You’re never gonna believe me, but I swear to God, next thing I knew I was standing outside our temple, and I could see the building and the road clear as day. There were crowds of people spilling out of the door, and I quickly picked my family out from among them. My mother was walking with David, Eliza trailing from her too-firm grip, my father following as usual. The voices around me were muted and I couldn’t believe how strange the laughter sounded. My family continued down the block as the street flooded with cars.

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But Mother was careless. They loitered, talking to a new family. She didn’t notice when Eliza slipped out of her grip and took one too many steps towards the road. The picture became muddy and black, but I heard a piercing screech, a thud, something shattering, and a loud, high, keening wail. Then came sobs. I was pulled out of the vision like a fish pulled out of water, and I came back to Earth with a thundering headache and blood dripping onto my shirt. God only knows how long I was out. I cursed and wiped my nose. Every single time I seized... dammit. God, that was a stupid vision. It wouldn’t even come true. But then again... I stared out into the sky, my heart throbbing painfully. I heard a distant ambulance siren find its voice and screech with urgency, its cries growing louder and louder. Huh. I wonder what’s happened.

Emily Ward ’15

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