Bella Donna (re Post)

I park my car and rummage in my purse for my cell phone. "Why the hell don't I ever put anything BACK where it belongs?" I sputter. "And how many friggin' receipts and dead lottery tickets can I possibly fit into this old satchel? " Fumble, fumble. "Planning on doing some wallpapering with these stupid slips, Pat? Geez! This is a friggin' MESS!"

Just then, I feel the clunk of a shopping cart on my back passenger side door. I'm wishing that my arm were longer, so I could roll down the electric window and punch someone's lights out for being so damn careless. I flip my head to the side, to glare at the offender, but lose a little of my steam. It's a blue haired lady, and she's fussing with her purse, trying to find her keys, I guess.

"Geez, Granny, be a little more careful, will ya?" I say loud enough to satisfy my own nasty mood, but not loud enough for her to hear.

Spare the elderly, that's always been my motto.

She peers in at me, waves her wan little hand in apology, and smiles. I paint one on and wave back. "Move along, Granny," I say, between clenched teeth, "I could change my mind."  

I hear myself and I can't believe how edgy and maniacal I sound.

She gets into her car and sinks really low in the seat. I wonder if she can see over the steering wheel. In predictable form, she overdoes the ignition, and it makes that grating metal sound that would make an auto mechanic want to jump off a cliff.

"Damn! Grind it some more, Matilda!" I say, as I wave and smile at her again. Give her the whole personality. I'm thinking that when I finally get into the grocery store, I'm going to search the candy aisle for some of those red wax lips. Stash some in the glove compartment for days like this one.

She guns it and her huge silver Buick lurches forward. I nervously peer over the hood, at my right front bumper, which lies in peril. It juts into the arc of her turn. She's wrestling with the wheel like she's steering a ship out of port. I can't believe that I actually have to wave again, as she clears my bumper. She gooses it, and the Buick gallops forward, in fits and starts, like a mare that's been spooked.

I sigh, shake my head, flip open my cell phone, and try to press the impossibly small numbers to call home. "When am I going to grow a brain and sit for fifteen minutes and program this damn thing?"

A kid in an Abercrombie hoodie pulls in next to me, like a shot. Into Matilda's spot. His brakes screech and his head bobs forward with the sudden force of his stop. He's wearing a Celtics cap, sideways. Stupid looking, I think. The bass on his speakers is so damn loud I can feel it in my chest. My eardrums throb and then, for some strange physiological reason, they itch. So I put my finger in my ear and swirl it around. He glances over, laughs and punches off the tunes. He cranks open his car door, bangs my car door and then does a sort of lean back maneuver, with his hands up, like I have him at gunpoint. Which is not too far from what I'm thinking. I smile again. Nod. Wave him off.

Where are those damn wax lips when I need them?

He struts off, his jeans falling off of his ass.

"Punk," I mutter. "How the hell do they walk in those stupid baggy pants? What is holding them up, anyway?"

I try to focus on the keyboard again. Widen my eyes, as if it might make the numbers bigger.

"When did my fingers start to resemble tootsie rolls?" I'm talking to myself again. Asking myself questions, no less. This can't be healthy.

I misdial, and then stab at the red button to cancel the call to Timbuktu. Redial. I hear the trill as it rings off the walls at the home front.

"Damn! Where ARE they?"  I can feel my cheeks tightening and my blood pressure rising. I knead my forehead with my free hand, my eyes squeeze shut. I gotta get a grip, here.

Trill. Trill.

They say that you can't feel your blood pressure rising, but I beg to differ.

"Hullo?" A sleepy son voice mumbles, like he just came out of a cave somewhere, into the light.

"You're sleeping? It's 4:30, for crying out loud!"

"Mom? What?"

"What the heck are you doing sleeping?" I ask the question, but have no intention to pause long enough to let him formulate an answer. "I wish I were home sleeping!" Go ahead. Lay on the guilt, Pat. That's what you're good at. "I've been working all day and..."

He interrupts the tirade. "So what do you want, Mom?" he asks, in a tone so kind, a patience far greater than my frazzled psyche can generate. Well, sure he can do that. He's been sleeping, my inner bitch whispers.

"I just want to know what to get for dinner. Any ideas?"

"Ummm. We need milk."

"Great. Never mind. I'll be home soon..."

"Chill, Mom. What are you so pissed off about?"

I suddenly realize that I don't really know. Just life. Just the have to's. Just feeling like a martyr for the fortieth time today. It seems that lately I have to work at being sunny. Hell, that's me most of the time, who am I kidding? My head is usually the kind that's always expecting showers. Or raining on someone's parade. I make a mental note to try to change that. And then I hear that inner bitch again. She says, "Yeah, right."

"I dunno. Just a long day, where nothing seems to be going right. And now I'm at Shaws and my feet hurt and I just want to be home, want the dinner dishes already done and my feet already up. Oh, and don't forget the promotional sized glass of red wine that I'd like to be already tilting, right about now."

Great, Pat. Teach your children well. Teach them to douse their stress in cabernet. Oh well, it's too late now.

As I head into the store, I can see a table and some people milling around. I scramble for my wallet looking for a buck or two to drop into yet another slotted coffee can. Probably some cheerleading team, looking to fund a trip to camp, or some school band members wanting to defray the costs of their trip to the Rose Bowl...but instead I look into a tired, but supremely happy- looking face. She's wearing a pink Boston Red Sox cap that has been decorated with the most ridiculous array of pink silk flowers.

"Hi! My name is Anna. Would you care to buy a raffle ticket?"she asks. Her voice is lively. It bounces at me, like a red rubber ball. "We've got a spa basket that's filled with...oh... just about everything you'll ever need to keep you beautiful," she says, beaming at me so genuinely, that I almost believe her. "And with any donation, you have your choice of a bracelet, or one of these funky plastic flower key rings," she says scooping up a handful from the basket on the table. "I really LOVE these. My daughter uses one as a zipper pull!"

In seconds, it hits me. Her eyes know something that I don't know. Joy. Triumph. Courage.

She's pointing at a poster, chatting away. But I can't hear a word she's saying. The table is festooned with a pink satiny flag, emblazoned with the words, "Breast Cancer 3 day". I try to catch up with her energy. She's still smiling and pointing at that poster. There's a photo of a woman with a flowery bandana, pink plastic bracelets to the elbow, and a pink feather boa.

"And what's so awesome," my chatty new friend's voice breaks through, "is I know her!" she says, beaming so brightly that she rivals last night's full moon. "Her name is Sarah. She's a three year survivor."

"Wow." It's all I can say. I am so dumb.

"She's in my group. We've been doing the walk together for three years now. We call ourselves the 'Bella Donnas!' Pretty women, "she translates, rolling her pretty eyes.

But I already knew that.

In the picture, Sarah has her arms spread wide, like a glorious pink bird. And she's laughing, her face turned up to the sky. There is a look on her face of pure ecstasy. And that same look is mirrored on the face of the pink- hatted Anna. The sun highlights the high points of Sarah's face, her cheeks, her brow, her chin. And it's dark in the hollows, there under her eyes.

"I met her when I was first diagnosed. Fifteen months ago," she continues. "I think she saved my life. I'll love her forever," she says, glancing back at the poster, smiling at her feathered pal.

I'm wishing that I had a friend like that. Joy like that. I am flooded with unspeakable shame.

"I'll take twenty chances," I say, fumbling for my checkbook.

"Great!" Anna says. She unrolls an arm's length of blue raffle tickets. "Now, make sure you write your name and phone number on each one. I gotta feeling about you," she grins. "I think you're gonna win that spa make over."

I can only smile weakly.

As I stuff my wallet back in my purse, Anna reaches into the basket and dangles the funky pink flower key chain, at her eye level. As I grasp the flower, I get to look into those eyes again. At that face.

It's wide open. Not a trace of self consciousness. She has no eyebrows, no eyelashes. Under that hat, she's wearing a little pink kerchief, tied at the back. I can see downy fuzz growing at her temples. Her skin seems almost transparent. Sort of gray. Spidery blue veins lace her temples.

It's one of the most beautiful faces I've ever seen.