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I head to the kitchen, retrieve the bottle of shiraz, and pick out a pinot noir from the Willamette Valley in Oregon. My parents sent a case of it down a couple of months ago. It’s a delicious wine, and we deserve it after our horrible day. On my way back to Zoey, I select four small, dark-chocolate Dove candies from a glass dish on the fireplace mantel.
You’re hanging around, right? I don’t mean to ignore you, but you’ll find Zoey engaging when it comes to the men in her life.
With a corkscrew, chocolates, my wine glass, and two bottles in my possession, I join my friend in the great room. She has already made herself comfortable on the long couch, bare feet resting on the glass table.
I pour the remaining contents of the bottle of wine into my glass, open the other bottle, explain where it came from, and pour Zoey a drink. My body feels more relaxed; no doubt the meds and alcohol are blending well.
As I fill her glass, she says, “So, let me tell you, girl; no more men for me. No more online dating, either. Ever. Tonight, I met Marco Pattini at Matteo’s on Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood. Have you ever been there?”
“Yes, once with Denny, Mark, and Melissa. It’s got delicious Italian food, but all those mobs of people crossing the street make it claustrophobic.” I place two of the candies on the table in front of her, adding, “Here, this will make your dating dilemmas go away.” I sit on the matching loveseat, tucking my silly-socked feet underneath me, and rest my wine glass and two chocolates on a side table.
“Perfect, choice, Sar! Wine and chocolates make any bad day look better!” She continues with her story without touching the candies. “I don’t know about the food—this was my first time at the restaurant, and we never got around to eating. That’s how ridiculous tonight was. Anyway, with Marco being Italian, he said it’s a good place to go.
“You know me with online dating: I’ll research any guy I meet. Marco looked interesting, I thought. He works in telecommunications and has a condominium in Brentwood. He is divorced and has an eight-year-old daughter who I think is demanding, as is his ex-wife; they live in Santa Monica.”
She samples the wine, commenting that it’s much better than the prior one. I nod in agreement but don’t bother to interrupt her. I know you’ll be as entertained as I am.
“He walked to the restaurant from where he works. We arrived at the same time and were seated next to a family of six, parents and their four kids. The children were well-behaved and not the bratty type.
“So, he and I are having a decent conversation, talking about our backgrounds, where we grew up, what we do for a living—you know, the easy-breezy details I could give in my sleep I’ve stated them so often. In the meantime, the server had taken our drink order and delivered two glasses of Chianti along with a basket of warm bread. I started to relax, thinking this guy could have potential, but then his phone rang. He informed me it was his daughter calling, and he had to take it. He excused himself and walked out the restaurant’s front door, but I could see him through the door’s window standing on the sidewalk, talking on his cell.”
That was curious, I thought. “Do you think it was a front so he could ditch you or leave you hanging with the bill?”
“Ha. Seriously, that did cross my mind as it’s happened before, Sar. But we hadn’t ordered our meal yet. I thought we had chemistry between us. Seconds later, I heard that strange sound everyone is talking about. I looked over at the table with the family. Only the father was sitting there, his face ashen, obviously in shock. His wife and kids had disappeared! Also, the waitress who had served us was filling glasses with water at another nearby table for two, and poof, she was gone—ice-cold water spilled all over one of the customers. When another server finally came over to wipe up the mess, she picked up her coworker’s clothing from off the floor, complete with her shirt, skirt, shoes, panties, bra, and even what looked like two breast implants. She started sobbing when she carefully collected a gold cross necklace, two bracelets, and a couple of rings by one of the table legs. Meanwhile, I looked out the window repeatedly, but Marco was no longer in view.
“Of course, I had no clue what was going on, so I sat and waited almost an hour for him to return. But he didn’t. As everyone was wildly being irrational around me, not only did I eat the bread in front of me, but I also drank both glasses of wine.”
Despite the multiple tragedies of today, I laugh. The girl’s priorities are food and alcohol. But what else could she do if she expected the guy to return? Would you wait around?
Zoey stares at the ceiling, eyes narrowed like she’s picturing the scene. “The restaurant was mayhem; everyone was yelling and confused. Even outside there were crowds of people, so there was no way for me to find this guy. After I’d polished off both glasses, I left two twenties on the table and went to my car. It was obvious Marco was not coming back.” She smiles wryly, saying, “We won’t be going on a second date, because I believe I was stood up once again.”
She sits up and then leans forward, her body language portraying seriousness. “After at least twenty minutes battling the hordes of pedestrians and getting into my car, I hopped onto the 5 into the Valley. Sar, it was twelve lanes of sheer terror. So many accidents or abandoned cars stopped on both sides of the freeway, with drivers doing their best to maneuver around them. I’ve never seen so many people giving others the finger, never heard such a cacophony of blaring horns. It made no sense. Wacky world! It took me over two hours to drive less than twenty miles. Several times, I was in standstill traffic for up to ten or fifteen minutes. It took me twenty-two minutes to exit an off-ramp to talk to Steve, the guy who gave me the banking tips, and twice as long to drive side streets the rest of the way home.
“Also, I was listening to the radio, and some guy was saying he was at a friend’s wake with an open casket. Get this, the dead person’s body evaporated right in front of him and everyone there! That would’ve been spooky.”
Not wanting to visualize any ghostly scenarios involving the dead or caskets, I reach for the wine bottle and fill my now-empty glass, asking, “Out of curiosity, did you notice any other children—like when you were walking to your car or driving home?”
She leans over, picks up a Dove, and tops off her wine glass.
“Nada.”
“That’s what I thought. Same thing with newborns, babies, and even the unborn.” It’s said with a touch of remorse. “They were all taken, along with the adults. Including Denny, I’m afraid. But we were not. What made us different?”
I untuck my legs and stretch them out, wiggling my colorfully socked toes on the edge of the glass table.
“You got me on that one.” Zoey unwraps one of her candies.
Suddenly she cries out, “Oh, my goodness, girl!”
I practically spill my wine, alarmed at her reaction.
“Did you ever look at those socks, like up close? They spell out ‘Happy’! Cute, but why are all the letters backward on your left foot but not on the right? How lame is that?” Is she feeling tipsy, or is she merely excited over my socks?
Our laughing feels good. “Sure, I know the writing is backward on the one sock. How else could the letter H be on both big toes?” I wiggle all ten phalanges with flair. “Yes, they look ridiculous.”
Shaking her head in mock disbelief, Zoey pops the chocolate in her mouth. She smooths the wrapper so it’s flat and shows me its saying.
One of the reasons I buy this brand of chocolates is because each has a saying printed on the inside of its wrapper; my dad and I love reading them so I always have plenty on hand, especially for when he visits next week.
“Ha, this one reads, Compliment someone. Well, I already commented about those attractive socks; I could tell you how you may need a mirror to read one of them. But no, here is my compliment: Sarah, my dear friend, this is an excellent wine. I guess we’re either celebrating some sort of one-of-a-kind occasion or wallowing in our losses while the world around us has gone amok. Thanks for sharing it with me.” She lifts her glass to toast me as she mixes a swig of red wine with dark, rich chocolate.
“Back to reality.” She hunkers herself back on the couch. “Then there’s your hubby. He’s healthy, so why is he gone? Will he come back? If not, will you bother to do a funeral or service or something for him? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t know. My parents are supposed to come next week; they’ll help me decide what’s best. I can’t fathom thinking about all the stuff that needs attention—if he’s indeed gone.”
“A morose thought. Do you pick out a casket and put it in the ground if there’s no body? Or do you put only a marker there instead? It’s mind-boggling.”
Zoey takes another gulp of wine as we both sit in silence. I’ve no clue how to answer. I can’t even think about tomorrow. Instead, I unwrap one of my candies. “It says, Call, don’t text. Well, sometimes texting is better, don’t you think?” Jeremy and I rarely speak on the phone to each other, preferring to flirt with a cat-and-mouse emotional affair via our keypads.
“I agree.” Zoey chuckles. “At least, texting is the way to go when you’re ending a relationship. It’s quick and efficient—unless, of course,” she pauses dramatically, “you’d rather pull a disappearing trick at a restaurant and leave your date hanging.”
My friend interrupts my thinking about Denny’s nonexistent body and Jeremy’s well-defined one.
“I don’t want to talk about today’s happenings and these missing or taken people,” she declares. “Time to change the topic. You texted asking me to call you about something. What’s up?”
“Um. It was about finances—as I said, my dad asked about it. Thanks for helping me out.” Suddenly I’m feeling fidgety, which could be from the sugary chocolate and alcohol. “It’s well after midnight now; the banks are closed. Tomorrow morning I’ll text or email and trust the message gets through. I hope they don’t run into a cash problem in Oregon.”
“They lived through both quakes and are fine.” Zoey comforts me. “Their home is paid off, right? I bet they have some cash, food, and extra supplies.”
I try to convince myself that if they survived physical shake-ups, they will the financial ones. “Yes, Dad is usually prepared for any disaster. He keeps those emergency kits in the basement with gallon containers of water, medical supplies, and those yucky-tasting MREs or meals-ready-to-eat packets. I’m sure he’s got money stashed away.” I want to be optimistic about this.
“Good.” Zoey thinks for a few minutes. “But before that, your first text mentioned needing my wise guidance. You texted right before I got to the restaurant; that’s why I didn’t have the chance to answer it. Was that about money?”
“Oh, I had a problem, but it worked itself out, I hope.” I feel silly having to explain myself and consider mentioning Jeremy instead but don’t.
“That’s a teaser, girl. Tell me. I won’t make fun of you, really. Your hideous outfit’s fair play, but what was bothering you? Give me something mundane to think about instead of today’s troubles.”
I almost blurt out my wine, afraid to divulge the secret you and I know, but I’m ashamed to speak aloud about it for the first time.
The room remains noiseless until I exhale loudly.
“Okay. I thought I was pregnant today and was considering getting rid of it, you know. I wanted your opinion of the options.” I take a drink and add, “But it turned out to be a false alarm, and I’m not or no longer pregnant, so no worries now.”
“Seriously? I bet that’s a relief. I know you aren’t planning to have a kid now. And I fully understand why not. But—well—let me tell you, you may think having an abortion is an easy choice, but it’s not. While the entire West Coast may still allow them, there are personal consequences—trust me. The counselors make the decision easy by being flippantly clinical, convincing you it’s the ‘right thing’ to do at the time. But they lie; it haunts you for the rest of your life. Believe me, having had two of them, I can’t tell you how I wish I could turn back the clock and make different choices.” She pauses and takes another drink.
“Lately, I’ve been feeling sad about it; I thought about getting counseling again. It sounds melodramatic, but I’ll say it: I feel worthless, unwanted, and unloved, and having those children might have made all the difference. I’m having trouble wrapping my head around the truth that I killed my babies voluntarily.”
I try to find the words of comfort but cannot. She has always acted strongly on this topic; I never expected such raw honesty. What would you say to her?
She bites her lower lip and continues, “Here we are, years later, and I’m still a basket case, still dealing with it daily, fixated on how old they would be, what they would look like, what they would have been like.” She drinks more wine and picks up her second candy, marking the end of the conversation. After opening the package, she sighs and shakes her head. “Coin a new phrase. That’s a doozy, isn’t it?”
I don’t respond, only start unwrapping my sweet.
Zoey’s expression is something I’ve never seen before on her face. Is she feeling lost? Or perplexed? Is Ms. In-Charge-of-Everything unsure of herself?
“You mention that these people have been taken,” she says solemnly, “yet we haven’t been. We’re untaken. If all the innocent babies and children are gone, they now may be in a better place. So, are we the unlucky ones left here, the ones unworthy of being taken?
“Here’s my phrase, although I am only speaking for myself: I’m untaken; I’m unmissing. Due to my past mistakes and wrong, stupid, selfish choices, I was not taken away like all these others were. I’m the one who blew it. We all did if we’re still here; we’re all untaken.”
I know she’s woefully wrong about this. We are good people, she and I, and even you. I make light of her odd comment. “Right, since I’m here with you, I guess I’m proud to be one of the un-taken then,” I pronounce the syllables slowly and deliberately with noted sarcasm.
However, my words fall flat.
I don’t know if the wine has made her lugubrious, if she drank too much, or if she is simply worn down and no longer cares. Like me. There’s a strange quietness between us. I look at my wrapper, put the treat in my mouth, and read aloud, Ignore the clock.
As if on command, we both look toward the mantel. It’s 1:35 in the morning. Instead of doing what the paper suggests, my reticent friend silently rises from the couch. We both know tomorrow is a workday, and we’re the types who feel our jobs are how we thrive and survive, especially during a crisis. She retrieves her laptop from the dining room table and stashes it in her briefcase. She slips on her shoes, quietly thanks me for the wine, and heads to the front door. Minimal words are spoken. What can we say to each other after all that has been said and unsaid this evening?
After a hug and her making a weak comment about my pathetic socks, we exchange goodbyes. I thank her sincerely for her help with finances and ask if she is okay walking alone this late at night to her two-bedroom townhouse three buildings over. With masked stubbornness in her voice, she says she’s fine and makes her exit.
Behind her, I set the deadbolt since I now know I’m the only one remaining inside.
Something happened with Zoey. I’ve never seen her this introspective. I can tell you she usually is vibrant and vivacious, but she wasn’t tonight. I doubt you notice the difference in her, but I saw her real self for the first time.
After pouring the last few ounces of wine into my glass, I finish them off. Without care or concern, I set the now-empty wine bottles and glasses on the kitchen counter, have the refrigerator Alexa set the alarm and turn off the lights, and head upstairs.
Untaken? Surely, I’m not that.
If you’re still here, does that mean you’re untaken, too?
And if so, what can or will we do about it?