A Fine Pickle

Isabel wasn't dying after all. When the plus-sign on the test-wand leached bright blue, she slumped against the tiled 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 asIsabel wrapped the test stick in tissue and dropped the mummified evidence inthe 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 tobe sleeping. Isabel eased down on the edge of his bed, smoothing back his finesilver 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 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 Isabel.

Full court-room style, Piper pointed a burgundy lacquered fingernail at Isabel.

"From now on I’m having a driver take me to the train. I can’t wait for you anymore. I begged the firm to hire you; 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, shook her head. “Isabel will belate for her own funeral.” The parroted assertion Isabel heard all her life; Piper even

using air-quotes. “Love you, Dad. I’ll be waiting in the car, emphasis on waiting.” Piper

sang the last word and flounced out 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. 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 intestinal procedures. She tuned out 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 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?” Piper queried.

Isabel’s answer would only precipitate an avalanche of 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 to be swept back out, gone like old news.

When the remnants of a discarded baby stroller passed, a lump rose like yeast in Isabel's 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 someday, just not this one.  

“Seriously, Izzy, what the hell is wrong with you? You’ve been acting weird lately. Okay, 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, Izzy. At least you've got 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. "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. In 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.

Piper smirked at Isabel. “Trust me, baby girl, 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. So, thanks to your reliable unreliability, I have been spared the first two-hour depo of the morning. 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.” Piper pointed to herself. “Talk to me, Iz.”

Isabel tried to brush her off with a wave, 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, Girl Scout's honor."

“Okay, Betty-bipolar, first, 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 PMS?”

Isabel sputtered a laugh. “No, Piper, I’m in trouble, real trouble, life-changing trouble."

Isabel paused and turned to the window.

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

“I’m eight weeks pregnant, literally to the day, Piper.”

“You’re what? When, how, okay, I know how. Who then? Does explains 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're 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 baby-daddy?”

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

“What? 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 can't have this baby, 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 when we get home. We will get the best doctor, regardless, I promise.”

“Oh, Piper, thank you, what would I do without you? I’ll pay you back 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's financial district. In less than ten minutes, they were in a taxi, their driver with way too many consonants in his name to pronounce. 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 screeched

through the cab.

“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 Friday.

The crackling static and frequent high-pitched ear-piercing screeches of the cab’s two-way radio bounced between Isabel and Piper, disallowing conversation. After several blocks and what felt like eternity, the radio was awakened 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's really

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, double parked, intersection lights ignored, 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. Hold it together,

Isabel thought, for Piper, she lost a decade of collegiality, Isabel worked there for less than four months.

The newscaster spoke in Spanish, but language didn’t matter. Everyone watched the screen in horror as the surreal scene unfolded, like a nightmare from which they couldn't awaken. The images told the story, 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, 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. That lasted a few moments, before audible gasps around them erupted. Some watched in resigned disbelief while

others covered their faces. 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, fulfilling its job, was a fading yolk through haze, Isabel knew it was time to head home. She 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 hand delicately on Isabel’s abdomen. "Doesn't this fine pickle deserve a fighting chance?"