Free A Little Help from Above by Saralee Rosenberg Page A

parking lot, it occurred to her the problem with men was they were no different than parking spots. The good ones got snapped up right away, and the only ones left were disabled.
    Just as she was about to dial David’s number, a car stopped and a middle-aged man with a bad toupee honked, then pointed at her spot. “You leavin’?” he mouthed.
    She was about to blow him off when something stopped her. “Uncle Marty?”
    The man rolled down his window, yanked off his sunglasses, and squinted until his sun-drenched eyes adjusted to the dark garage. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Shelby? Look, hon. It’s my niece, Shelby. You remember my wife, Bonnie, don’t you?”
    “I certainly do.” Shelby grimaced. More like I’ve spent the past six years trying to forget how my mother’s older brother dumped sweet Aunt Ellen for this stacked, blond-from-the-box shikseh with fake fingernails and an even faker ID. “If she was born in ’61, I’ll eat at McDonald’s,” Shelby whispered to Lauren at their wedding.
    Bonnie peeked through the window, snuffed out her Virginia Slim, and waved hello. “Hi, hon.” Her gum snapped. “How you doin’?”
    How am I doing, you ask? You fat ignoramus? Excuse me. Aunt Ignoramus? Shelby knew the polite thing would be to walk over, but her legs suddenly turned to Jell-O while a magnet-like force glued her rear end to the car door. “I’m fine, thanks.”
    Uncle Marty didn’t seem all that interested in following social graces, either. His hands remained clamped to the steering wheel. “Good for you. You came all this way to donate blood.”
    “Excuse me?” With all the garage noise in the background, surely she’d misunderstood.
    “We got a call to come over right away. They said your folks needed blood. But you’re definitely the better match. I mean ’cause you got all of your dad and maybe some of Roz.”
    Shelby nearly passed out at the thought of having a needle jabbed into her arm. “Nobody said anything about giving blood. I’m just here to support Lauren.”
    “From outside? Jeez, Shelby. Don’t tell me you’re still pullingthat stupid, baby crap about not going into hospitals. You’re a grown woman, for Christ’s sake.”
    “And you’re a moron if you think my father wants to be injected with the nicotine-filled blood of your shikseh wife who’s wearing a cross so big she could probably be nailed to it!”
    “Whad she say?” Bonnie stopped cracking her gum.
    “Forget it.” Uncle Marty waved in disgust before speeding off.
    Shelby stood motionless, terrified, thinking that some migrant worker who swam here from Cuba was now waiting for her upstairs with a syringe and a basket of empty vials.
    I need to collect myself, she thought as she opened the car door and collapsed in the driver’s seat. She turned on the ignition, the radio, and the AC, rolled up the window, and leaned into the headrest. After a short nap she’d be fine. Back to her old self. The tough-minded, volcanic-spewing Shelby, who still believed polite conversation was entirely overrated.
    Oy.

Chapter Six
    “She’s coming to.” A nurse in blue scrubs pulled back the curtain. “Call Dr. G! Stat!”
    Shelby’s first conscious thought was she wished she didn’t drool when she slept. Nothing was worse than waking up to a moist cheek on a soggy pillow. Or having to admit drool’s cousin, incontinence, would inevitably be the next member of the Insult family to visit. Her second conscious thought was, what pillow? She didn’t remember there being a pillow in Lauren’s car.
    Nor could she readily identify her bland, green surroundings. In fact it was not until she looked up and saw a bag of clear fluid hanging from a pole that it dawned on her she was no longer in Lauren’s VW. Not even German cars came standard equipped with needles that could be lodged in one’s forearm. Did she say needle?
    A shrill, earsplitting scream suddenly echoed down the hospital corridor and an army of medical