Free The Original 1982 by Lori Carson Page B

to Rickie Lee Jones sing “Company.” She’ll remember him too clearly. Her voice is like a sob.
    In the last minutes before midnight, I wrap you in a blanket and take you out to the garden to look up at the stars. They’re hard to see in New York City because of ambient light and clouds. But the night is crystal clear, and I locate one at the edge of Orion’s belt. I point it out to you and make a wish. “Please let us run into him,” I say out loud. The wish fills me with excitement as if it actually brings him closer. Then I kiss your soft cheek and we begin 1983 together, just the two of us, in our garden under that pale star.

Twenty-eight
    T here’s a word for what happens when you stay indoors too long and start to feel you can’t go out, the world is too intense: agoraphobia. I think I have it. I order food in, have groceries and diapers delivered, run to the corner and back, with you in my arms, my coat thrown over my pajamas.
    But finally one day I decide it’s time. I bundle you up in a sweater, warm socks, and a hat. I tuck layers of blankets around you in your carriage, put on my heavy coat and gloves. Out into the world we go, north on Broadway to Seventy-second Street and east to Columbus Avenue. The sun is out and it’s not too cold. The light is bouncing off every shiny surface, glittering the way it does in winter.
    As we make our way past all the restaurants and bars on Columbus Avenue, I point out the landmarks, the corners where your father and I kissed, or fought, the bars we closed at four in the morning. I hardly notice all the passersby, but sometimes they break into our bubble. They look into the carriage and smile. They make unsolicited comments:
    â€œShe’s so beautiful!”
    â€œHow old?”
    â€œCongratulations!”
    â€œSo precious.”
    â€œBless her heart.”
    I mumble thank you and return their smiles with lowered eyes. I seem to have lost the ability to engage in casual conversation. I wish I had sunglasses to hide behind because my eyes are tearing in the bright sunlight, and I don’t want anyone to think I’m crying.
    Soon we’re crossing Seventy-seventh Street, and I see the green awning of the Café Miriam ahead. I’m excited to introduce you to my friends.
    When I wheel you inside, Sofia is the first one I see. She’s standing there with her hands on her hips. She’s got a new hairstyle, kind of an asymmetric shag. She screams when she sees us, and reaches down into the carriage to pick you up. “What a little angel!” she says. You’re tiny in her arms. I’m almost embarrassed by how beautiful you are. It feels like it might be a sin to be as proud as I am.
    We take a deuce, a table for two, by the window. All the other girls come over to hold you, too. “Have you heard from him?” Nina asks.
    â€œNope,” I say, and change the subject.
    Sofia takes her order pad from her apron. She makes a face, says in a goofy voice, “What will it be?”
    I’ve missed her, and the others, and even working at the restaurant. It feels strange to be there as a customer. When the man at the next table asks for a coffee refill, I want to jump up and get it for him. I’m aware of who needs a check and who hasn’t gotten their entrée yet.
    I watch as one waitress holds you and passes you to another. Will leans across the bar to touch your cheek. You’re being so good, but finally you start to cry. I listen as they attempt to soothe you and force myself not to come to your rescue. When Vicky brings you back, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. As soon as you’re in my arms, you stop crying.
    Vicky sits down across from us. “You ready to come back to work?”
    I tell her I think I’ll be ready soon, though it’s hard to imagine being ready.
    â€œYou can start off with a couple of shifts,” she says. “Have you looked into