A Fine Pickle

Isabel wasn't dying after all. When the plus-sign on the test wand leached bright blue, she slumped against the cool porcelain vanity for support, certain her heart would box its way through her ribcage. Something less than the size of a seed was responsible for the vague illnesses which had plagued Isabel the past few weeks. She should’ve been relieved, but panic seized her insides. Isabel jolted when knuckles chattered against the bathroom door.

“Who are you? Mariah Carey?” Her sister, Piper, didn’t wait for an answer. “You’ve been in there for nearly an hour. If you’re still alive, do ya’ mind hurrying? You’ve made me late twice this week and it’s only Tuesday.” Piper’s sarcasm seeped like smoke through the door cracks.

“Sorry, be right out.” Isabel's voice quavered.

Fingers fumbled as Isabel wrapped the test stick in tissue and dropped the mummified evidence in the trash-bin. Catching her gaze in the mirror, she'd never pass Piper’s scrutiny. She exited the bathroom and went to the bedroom at the end of the hall.

Her father appeared to be sleeping. Isabel eased down on the edge of his bed, smoothing back his fine silver hair. His lips twitched, a barely suppressed grin, with one eye closed, the other squinting up at her.

“Morning, Daddy.” Isabel felt seven all over again, remembering when the school bus chugged up their street without her. “We missed the train.”

“Get the next train. For heaven’s sake, it’s New York City, there’s always a next train.” As he rearranged himself, the goose-down settled beneath him, and she caught the muted scent of aftershave mixed with the sweet, rye scent when his insulin kicked-in.

She spied the used syringe and its packaging in the trash, crumpled together like origami. Mary, his nursing assistant, had given the injection while Isabel was hiding in the bathroom. He appeared as comfortable as possible given the list of infirmities he’d developed since his massive

stroke. 

“What a gift you are, my baby girl." He sighed, patting the bedside table for his glasses. 

Isabel placed them in his palm and stood. She leaned down and whispered, "I love you, see you for dinner." She pecked a kiss on his speckled forehead, just as Piper barged through the door.

"What? Am I missing something profound? My old man's last words? His final breath?”  

Isabel had no clue why her sister was speaking in a Southern accent as though auditioning for Gone with the Wind. Piper smiled broadly in their father’s direction, then glared at her younger sister. 

“From now on I’m having a driver take me to the train. I can’t wait for you anymore.” She paced court-room style and pointed a burgundy lacquered fingernail at Isabel. “I was the one who asked the firm to hire you, so how do you think this makes me look? We’ll be lucky if we get to the office before ten! Do you realize I was never late, ever, until you started working with me?” Piper, like a disappointed parent and shook her head. “Isabel will be late for her own funeral,” the parroted assertion Isabel heard all her life. Piper apparently rested her case. 

“Love you, Dad. I’ll be waiting in the car, emphasis on waiting.” Piper sang the last word and flounced out and down the stairs as though just crowned Miss Congeniality.

“Why would anyone want to be on time for their own funeral?” Her father shook his head. “I’d want to be so late you’d have to reschedule it. And, listen to me, kiddo, no more of this late for your own funeral nonsense; I don’t want to hear that anymore.” Her dad probably assumed Piper was the reason for Isabel’s frown. 

Isabel turned at the door and he blew her a kiss. As always, she pretended to catch it, then slid out of the bedroom just as the car’s alarm started blaring. On the brink of tears, Isabel had to giggle when she heard her dad from the other side of the door.

“Jeez, Piper! Relax! You’d be early for your own execution.

   *****

Riding the train to New York City that sunny September morning, Isabel examined the thin space next to her seat in case she needed to vomit. Her nausea was unpredictable, and she was relieved that the only passenger within view was a portly balding man in the opposite seat across the aisle. He was dirty and disheveled, his head tucked to his chest, solely responsible for the maleficent odor. He was either sleeping or dead and no one dared sit next to him. 

As usual, Piper was handling business on her cell phone, and this annoyed Isabel. Granted it was 2001, the new millennium, post-Y-2K and all, but people disregarded the purpose of owning a cell phone; only to be used in emergencies. For all Piper knew she may unwittingly be responsible for derailing the train or skipping the conductor’s pacemaker.

"Are you joking? How can I possibly defend that a kiddie-meal toy choked a grown man? I'd have to be Johnny Cochran." Piper winked at Isabel,

then turned her focus back to her phone conversation. "Fast-food is

right up there with hotdogs, baseball, apple pie, and sex." All her interactions were laced with brief periods of silence and occasional bursts of laughter, mostly at her own jokes. 

"Listen, the drive-thru has perpetuated the human race. Over the years it's given mom a little extra energy for hubby at the end of a long day. Throw in the minivan and she can feed her little critters without ever setting foot in the kitchen, all the while sitting down. I'd rather have a colonoscopy than take this case to jury selection, but I'll do it for sheer comic relief."

Isabel’s stomach groaned at the reference to intestines. She tuned out the rest of Piper’s banter and wondered how pregnancy, a blessed state which in most cases should be euphoric, could feel so horrible. Lately, she didn’t just miss the train; she misplaced things including her train of thought. She figured when a woman was ready to have a baby, actually planned it, all the difficulties associated with the condition would be tolerable. Happiness would over-ride the negative symptoms which, in and of themselves, would be a constant reminder of this beautiful journey the body was on. The whole experience was miraculous. It just felt so wrong and of all people, she was sure Piper's practical side would completely understand Isabel’s decision. So, why this pervasive feeling of guilt? She had to stop focusing on the wrong things. She’d let her sister afford her that humiliation. 

“You do realize you look like you’re in crack recovery. What the hell is the matter with you?”

Isabel’s answer would only precipitate an avalanche of further grilling, so she didn’t respond. 

“Here." Piper passed her a sports bottle that read: Get a real Bush in the White House – elect Hilary. "Drink some water. You've got bags under your eyes resembling avocados."

As they trundled through northern New Jersey, Piper peeled her banana while Isabel tried to block its pulpy smell with sips of water. Peering past the smudged window, she focused on the detritus littering the landscape, smashed cans, glittering shards of glass, a brown loafer on the lam, a twisted lawn chair. She followed the page of a newspaper blowing by, clinging to the railyard’s chain-link fencing only a second later to be swept back out, gone like old news.

When the remnants of a discarded baby stroller passed her view, a lump rose like yeast in her throat. If she was going to get through this whole ordeal, the imaginings of a baby cooing inside her had to go, along with the pregnancy. She wanted a baby, just not this one.  

“Seriously, Izzy, what the hell is wrong with you? You’ve been acting weird lately. So, I yelled at you to hurry this morning but, hello? I was supposed to be taking a deposition this morning at nine with a Wall Street, corporate --”

“Kiddie-meal? Is that it, Piper? Oh no! Earth is in jeopardy!” 

"Hilarious.” Piper said. “Well at least you still have some remote sense of humor left in that cute little head of yours but here's a newsflash, Sis-kabob, I’m not the enemy. Besides, that client is the same fast-food freak

who's paying the firm's salaries next month." Piper glanced at her phone.

"Listen, Izzy, to be honest, as we speak, I'd be sitting across from a 300-hundred-pound horse's ass asking the most tedious questions about food and toys, subjects about which I know nothing. I fact, I need to be reminded to eat and, ideally, men wanted homemade food, if possible, served between a woman's legs on the fifty-yard line.

“Trust me, Izzy, nothing is more irritating than listening to a 50-year-old man who claims he choked on a plastic mermaid.” Piper rolled her eyes. “You know Jen Wilkes, the associate who’s always working the perky? She’s covering for me.” Piper smirked at Isabel. “Thanks to your reliable unreliability, I have been spared the first deposition of the morning, 8am. But not the point, Izzy. What’s going on with you? I don’t care about the client; I just don’t want you to lose another job. I realize I can be a bitch sometimes…okay… often, but something else is bugging you. It’s me, Iz.” Piper pointed to herself. “Talk to me.”

Isabel tried to brush her off with a wave of her hand but then sighed. "Nothing, Piper, really, I'm just exhausted worrying about Daddy and all, really, that's it. Honestly, it's all good. I'm fine. Promise. I swear, scout's honor."

“Okay, Betty-bipolar, you were never a scout. But if you decide to talk, I’m here for you, always.” Piper winked at her sister. Isabel covered her face as tears dropped to her lap.

“Wednesday, Thursday, Friday?” Piper’s genteel way of saying; What the fuck? She grabbed Isabel, mucous and all, and drew her into her Chanel blazer. If that wasn't unconditional love, Isabel wasn't sure what was. "C’mon, what’s going on?” Piper wrapped her sister in her arms again. “Maybe it's PMS?”

“No, Piper, I’m in trouble, real trouble, life-changing trouble." Isabel paused and turned to the window. She needed to get this right the first time.

Piper gave her a tissue, and patted Isabel’s knee. “Everything will be okay, Izzy. Just tell me. An STD? No problem.”

“I’m eight weeks pregnant, Piper.”

“You’re what? When, how, okay, I know how, who then? Explains all the moodiness.” Piper laughed. "Start from scratch. I didn’t even know you dated, but sex? A friend with bennies? This is blowing my mind. I'm gonna be an aunt!"

“Piper, you are not going to be an aunt. I’m not keeping this baby.”

“Are you serious, you are definitely having this baby. I promise to be there every step of the way. C'mon, so who's your baby-daddy?”

“I was raped, Piper.” Isabel began to sob uncontrollably.

“Izzy, why didn’t you tell me? Who is it? I’ll destroy the fucker.”

“I don’t really know him. He works in the North tower a few floors above us, a bank, I thought- but who knows, everything he told me was lies, even his name. I never said anything because I was humiliated." Isabel wiped away tears, "I’m pregnant with a rapist baby. I cannot have this baby, Piper, no way.”

“Jezz, I can’t even believe what I’m hearing. Alright, let’s just get through today and we will address this first thing tomorrow. We will get the best doctor, regardless, I promise.”

“Oh, Piper, thank you, what would I do without you? I’ll pay you back for the abortion, every penny.” Isabel nuzzled into her older sister’s shoulder as the train prattled into Penn Station.    

*****

Arriving in NYC at just past nine, Piper despised the subway, so they stood in the curbside taxi que for lower Manhattan. In less than ten minutes, they were in a taxi, with way too many consonants in the driver’s name. A loud static screech came from his radio accompanied by the rumble of what sounded and felt like thunder but in a cloudless sky. Loud noises in New York City were a regular occurrence but one normally didn’t feel them. 

“What was that?” Isabel glanced sideways at her sister. The taxi radio pierced the air.

“What the fuck?” Piper grabbed her head. “Are my ears bleeding?” 

The driver shot Piper a disgusted look, eyes birdlike in intensity and mumbled something about salty talk and irreverence. He slowly eased his livelihood into bumper-to-bumper traffic. 

While Piper scrutinized her phone for service, Isabel’s thoughts were on the excuse she’d give her boss. A dental emergency? She had used that pathetic excuse a few weeks ago, but perhaps it was chronic gum disease. At 30? She could say her dog was sick. Unfortunately, she didn’t own a dog and didn’t want to get caught up in discussion with colleagues wanting to see pictures of her adorable, but invisible, pup named Sunday.

The crackling static and frequency squelches of the car’s two-way radio bounced between Isabel and Piper, disallowing conversation. After several blocks and what felt like an hour later the radio was awakened again in the form of a shrill voice from the receiver that cut through the static.

“K4, K4, you dare, guy, hey, Mon,” came through clear, as well as the next grammatically incorrect exchange. “Holy sheet, dude, Twin Tower been crashed into. Fooking crazy sheet. Da tower wit’ plane steeking out da windows! Ya’ dare, K4?”

K4, as he was obviously known in the garage, shook the handset and mumbled something but the connection broke and the harsh static resumed. Isabel would never know if K4 was offended by his own colleague’s salty talk because at the next light, Piper threw a 50-dollar-bill on the seat next to him, reached across Isabel, opened the cab door and nudged her out. They walked, pressed in the crowd, not really sure of where they were headed. Visible a good 40 blocks away, they saw the black billowing smoke.

“We need to get to a landline that works and call the office to find out what exactly what is happening.” 

A noise Isabel could only liken to a sonic boom echoed in the air. “What was that?”

“I don’t know, Izzy.”   

“Shit, Piper, I’m scared.”

“Something bad happened but bad things happen all the time in New York. Calm down and let’s just find a television.”  

People were running and yelling, but then folks these days were always noisy and impatient. This was NYC, of course there was an elevated level of frenetic energy. This was something more visceral. Horns were blaring in useless discord as traffic in all directions solidified from sludge to stalled. Cars were stopped in fire-zones and double parked, intersection lights ignored. A few vehicles appeared abandoned, driver and passenger doors left wide open. To the south, a cloud of gunmetal gray smoke churned and widened while the crisp clear blue sky just above them seemed to mock the chaos.  

Piper swerved them into a bodega. A thrumming crowd gathered around a television mounted high on the far wall. The scents of human stress sardined in this small establishment caused Isabel’s stomach to lurch and her head swam. 

The news reporter spoke in Spanish, but language didn’t matter. Everyone watched the screen in fascinated horror as the surreal scene unfolded like a nightmare from which they could not awaken. The images told the story just as the cop had said, both towers had been hit by hijacked commercial airliners and both buildings were ablaze. The realization that this was obviously not an accident, but well-calculated and synchronized attacks, paralyzed Isabel with terror.

“We’ll stay in here for a bit, get our bearings.” Piper always had a plan. Despite this awful situation, she was still all business. 

There were audible gasps around them as some watched in resigned disbelief while others covered their faces. Isabel wondered why they would televise such raw and hopeless human desperation.  The fact that the plane struck the North Tower a few floors below their law firm did not escape Isabel’s notice, only her comment. Isabel had worked there less than six months, but Piper was there for more than a decade. 

“It’ll be okay, I promise.” Isabel had no clue what she meant by promising but she patted Piper’s back just the same. “We’re safe for now, and so lucky, Piper.” She needed to stop talking – how could anyone possibly know what to say? Isabel sat with her sister as Piper cried, twisting and pilling napkin after napkin.

Then, the unthinkable happened. The crowd groaned in unison as though they were all simultaneously punched in the gut. The sisters sank back against their seats, slack-jawed and at a loss for words. Before their very eyes the South Tower collapsed. They were frozen in place knowing the North Tower was not far behind.

The sisters sat for a long time in silence - what seemed hours, maybe it was. They should’ve been there, at their desks. Isabel imagined for decades, if they still existed, people would ask, where were you on that Tuesday morning? They would all remember.

When the sun that had shown so bright that morning was a fading yolk through haze, Isabel knew it was time to head home and broke the silence.

"Piper, I’m pregnant with a rapist’s baby while the world is coming to an end. Even if I wasn’t raped, how can I possibly, in good conscience, bring an innocent baby into a world such as this." Isabel put her face in her hands. "Isn’t this a fine pickle, indeed?”

“Izzy, by making us late this morning, this miracle saved our lives.” Piper gently reached over and placed her delicate hand on Isabel’s abdomen. "Doesn't this fine pickle deserve a fighting chance?"