The Best Laid Plans by Lynn Schnurnberger Page B

contentedly. And then, I hear a familiar snore. I nudge my husband’s shoulder, trying to get him torevive, but it’s not happening. Although Peter thinks something already has.
    “Hm, thanks, honey, that was nice,” Peter says drowsily. He stretches out, rubs his feet against mine, and falls back into a deep sleep.
    I try to sleep, too, but it’s just no use. I start thinking about the time, a couple of months ago, when I unexpectedly ran into Paige after school and I barely recognized my own daughter. She’d ditched her prim blazer and knee socks, rolled up her plaid school uniform skirt into a kittenish costume no wider than a belt, and the pretty, unadorned face that she’d left for school with that morning was positively gothic—transformed by smudgy black eye makeup, purple lipstick and a cheek piercing that (thank heavens!) was attached to her face by a magnet. I didn’t embarrass her in front of her friends, but when she got home that night I’d started to read her the riot act. “Geesh, Mom, don’t have a nervous breakdown. I’m a teenager, I’m trying to figure out who I am,” Paige had protested. “Some days I dress like Hannah Montana. Other days I dress like Miley Cyrus.”
    Ever since I found out that Peter’s unemployed I’ve been struggling to figure out who I am, too. I try to picture myself as something other than a bag lady, searching for an image, any image, of what my life could look like if I’m not a shopping, charity-fund-raising, stay-at-home-mom. But as I spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, absolutely nothing comes into focus.

Five

The Shot Heard ’Round the World
    T EN DAYS LATER I step out into the street in front of our building and pull out my cellphone to call Sienna to say I’m running late. As I distractedly jaywalk through traffic, a monster eighteen-wheeler truck comes to a screeching halt within inches of my body and a conga line of cars going up Park Avenue narrowly avoid crashing into one another. I’m so badly shaken that the only parts of my body capable of moving are my hands, which fly up in front of my face. Terrance sprints from the lobby to safely shepherd me back to the curb, and the driver jumps down from the cab of the truck.
    “Lady, you gotta look where you’re going, this rig weighs forty tons. Do you think it’s a piece of cake to try to stop it on a dime like that?” the driver barks.
    “Sorry, you’re right, I should have been paying attention,” I say, as I reach into my purse to finger one of the half dozen St. Christopher medals that I carry in each of my pocketbooks. Even if you’re not Catholic, it can’t hurt to have the patron saint of travel keeping an eye out for you. Especially if you’rean attention-deficit New Yorker who’s never doing fewer than three things at the same time.
    Terrance pats my hand. “Mrs. N, you’re still trembling. Want to do a meditation?”
    “Or medication?” a female voice sings out. “I have a whole bottle of Ativan, it’s a lovely anti-anxiety drug.” I look up and spot the driver extending a helping hand to a blond bombshell as she daintily steps out of the truck’s cab. Even from twenty feet away I can see that her legs are longer than Heidi Klum’s and her eyelashes are thicker than Bambi’s. She’s dressed in five-inch heels and a sexy bandage dress wrapped so tightly that I momentarily wonder whether she’s wearing Herve Leger, or if she’s been in an accident herself and left the hospital in traction.
    “That’s okay,” I say, as my breathing gets back to normal. I send a quick text message to Sienna to let her know that I’m all right and I’ll be there as soon as I can. “I guess if my thumbs are working well enough to use my cellphone there’s no permanent damage.”
    Terrance and the driver laugh, but the vixenish blonde just stares at me blankly.
    “You must be Ms. Glass,” Terrance says, stepping in to introduce us. “Welcome to the building. Most people