Copyright © 2001, 2007 Paul Alan Fahey. All rights reserved. 

Paul Alan Fahey is a learning disabilities specialist at Allan Hancock College in Santa Maria, California. He is the editor of Mindprints, A Literary Journal [www.imindprints.com], a creative forum for writers and artists with disabilities. His work has recently appeared in Audience, Poetry Midwest, Storyteller, Flashshot and is forthcoming in Coyote Wild.

The streetcar is crowded today, and Meeda has to stand in the aisle, her small suitcase wedged between her feet. But Meeda doesn’t mind. She is free now, and, in a way, she is going home.

The car clangs to a stop. Meeda sees her reflection in a grocer’s window, her hair tied up in a bun, the deep shadows and wrinkles about the eyes. The faded yellow dress the orderly laid out on her bed this morning doesn’t help. Her face looks jaundiced and sallow.

At Church Street, a seat becomes available, and Meeda unfolds her copy of the Gazette. She glances at the classifieds, hopes she isn’t too late. What luck finding the ad so close to her release. Meeda knew it was a sign. The past eight years were a blur. Her short stay at the Hudson County jail, then the transfer to Pinehurst. Dr. Philby telling her she’d snapped like a twig on a cold morning. Her husband’s disturbing note: I’m taking Janie away with me. Don’t try to find us! Such a contrast to Matron’s lovely letter of reference. Meeda has shown such care and devotion to our younger patients.

The driver announces her stop. Meeda rises and moves to the back exit.

Walking the neighborhood, the newer buildings mixed in with the old, Meeda considers how much alike one city is to the next. She shivers as a familiar vision returns.

An early winter afternoon and a woman sits on the steps of an old brownstone dressed in a light cotton blouse and black woolen skirt. A small child stands beside her, resting a hand on the woman’s shoulder. The sun hits the limbs of a bare maple, casting a shadow on the pavement below while the woman rocks an empty baby carriage to some inner sound only she can hear, a rhythm only she can feel.

Meeda is almost there now. A few more blocks. She didn’t need eight years of therapy to understand that she was the woman on the steps and the child standing by her side, Janie. She was such a good girl, Janie was. But then came Nathan. What was the saying? Wednesday’s child is full of woe. That was Nathan. She would sit and rock him for hours, and he would scream and scream. Nothing worked. Not the warm milk, the patting, the caressing, the soft tone of her voice whispering in his ear, "Quiet, Nathan, quiet."

"Rats in the cellar," she’d told the young clerk at Miller’s Hardware. "I’ve tried everything," and as far as Meeda was concerned, she had. So she bought the colorless crystals in the bottle with the red plastic cap and mixed them in with Nathan’s formula. Just to get a little sleep, she told herself.

Meeda checks the address in the paper against the black numbers painted on the transom. 653 Tanner. Yes, this is it. She goes up the stairs and rings the bell.

A well-dressed woman opens the door. "Yes?" she says, and then after no response, "May I help you?"

Meeda returns the woman’s smile, and holds up the newspaper, the words, Full-time Nanny Wanted, circled in red.

"I've come about your ad."

Contact the Author - pafahey@sbceo.org