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Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Chapter 8: Lost and Found

Naomi roused herself quickly, especially once she realized that she was sitting on a plastic lawn chair in front of a neighbor’s house with a small child staring at her.
“Is that lady dead?” she heard the little girl ask her nanny.

“Hush,” said the nanny. “See, her eyes are opening.”

The girl looked doubtful and, Naomi thought, a touch disappointed, as she was hurried away by her nanny.

“Here’s water for you,” said another neighbor briskly. “Start with that and we’ll get some food into you in a minute or two.”

“I’m fine,” said Naomi, rising slightly and trying to wave away the water. A wave of sweat and nausea threatened to overtake her and she sank back into her chair. “This happens to me sometimes.”

The neighbor nodded and grasped Naomi’s wrist. She felt for a pulse and stared at her watch.

“You see, we just moved here and then the fire trucks came. I quit my job recently; it was fundraising for a non-profit, so I didn’t make a lot of money, and I didn’t know if I could handle the commute,” gabbled Naomi. “The recession hit many non-profits hard, no surprise, and I worked for the Juvenile Foundation. We support research for kid diseases— How’s my pulse?”

“It’s okay,” said the neighbor. “Maybe a little high. My name is Maureen Caprio. I’m a nurse up the hill there at the hospital, so you’re lucky you fainted on my lawn.” Maureen smiled at Naomi.

Naomi saw that most of the neighbors had retreated to their porches, where they had a good view of the smoking oven, the fire trucks, and her.

“Do you think I’m sick? Is something wrong with me?” asked Naomi in a rush. “I, I, I,” she stammered. “This happens a lot, where I sweat and get sick and see black spots in front of my eyes. My heart pounds and I fidget. But then it’s over.”

“I’m not a doctor,” said Maureen. “But it sounds like a panic attack. Is that possible?’
Naomi straightened her spine as she had been coached to do in yoga. “Certainly not. I don’t panic. In fact, I’m known for rolling with the punches, no matter what comes along.” She forced herself to laugh, throwing back her head extravagantly.

“Okay, then,” replied Maureen. “Here’s a sandwich and some tea. My mother is bringing it out now.”

Naomi and Maureen watched the older woman climb down the front steps slowly, carrying a paper plate and a mug. She handed both to Naomi.

“Ma, this is our neighbor…” Maureen paused, at a loss, looking at Naomi.

“Naomi. My name is Naomi Nootbahr Roth,” she answered quickly.

“And this is my mother, Ann Geary,” said Maureen. “Ma, Naomi’s fine. She just felt a little woozy for a minute.

The older woman smiled broadly at Naomi. “May all your troubles be little ones,” she said, reaching out to pat Naomi’s abdomen.

“Oh, that’s not it,” said Naomi in embarrassed confusion. “We’re not ready for that, if ever. No, anything but that.”

As the two women looked at Naomi with the same expression of puzzlement on their faces, the Fire Captain approached.

“You can go back in now,” she told Naomi. The smoke is out of the kitchen and we found out what the problem was.” The Captain unfolded a newspaper headlined “South Orange Bulletin Reports on Hoboken Blizzard,” dated 1941. Inside the newspaper was a small leather-bound book labeled “accounts” and a sheaf of airmail letters, their envelopes still a faded blue.

Naomi reached for the bundle, but Ann’s hand grabbed it first. “So that’s where all this went,” she said. “I have been looking for them.”

This time, the puzzled expression was shared by Naomi, Maureen and the firefighter, as Ann turned the little book to page one and began to read aloud.

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