The Original 1982 by Lori Carson Page A

Wizard of Oz. He’d make a better lion, I think, with his barrel chest. He’s mixing drinks with his arms encased in silver cardboard. It doesn’t look easy.
    Toward the middle of the afternoon, there’s a lull, and we’re all standing around the bar talking and teasing him.
    Sofia says, “Uh-oh.”
    And I look around.
    Gabriel is coming through the door. Did I mention he liked to wear hats? Before he got married and moved to L.A., it was baseball caps. Now it’s a black fedora, tilted sideways on his head. I can tell he thinks it makes him look cool. Plus it hides his bald spot.
    I meet his eyes and his gaze travels down to my belly. In my catsuit, there is nothing left to the imagination. He looks surprised, maybe a little nervous. I’m as big as a house now.
    â€œHe’s got a lot of nerve coming in here,” Janelle says under her breath.
    But she’s the only one who says anything. We’re all waiting to see what he’s going to do. Nobody even asks him if he wants a table. He looks at us, staring back at him. We must look pretty silly, all in costume. For a second he’s got the beginnings of a smile on his face, but then it falls, and he turns around and walks back out.
    Part of me wants to follow him down the street, but I stay where I am. I get a big lump in my throat that dissolves into tears. Sofia dabs at my face with a cocktail napkin. “Don’t cry,” she says. “He’s not worth it, and you’re going to mess up your whiskers.”
    I smile when she says that, but for the rest of the day he’s the only thought in my head. I wonder if he’s at the apartment. I wonder how long he’ll be in town. I wonder if he misses me. Still, I don’t go to his place and I don’t call him. This may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I feel like an addict craving the drug. But I’ve started to realize that the longer I stay away from him, the easier it gets.
    In the original 1982, I lose my mind. I drink myself into oblivion. I call him repeatedly and wait outside his door. I beg him to tell me why.
    He grows bored with my drunken pain.
    â€œI’ve told you why,” he says.
    â€œBut I don’t remember,” I say, sobbing.
    â€œWell, maybe you should write it down.”
    But there’s no way it’s going to happen like that this time. I’m pregnant. I don’t drink. I don’t call. I don’t wait outside his door.
    I leave the restaurant in the late afternoon. There’s a light rain falling. I hold my face up to it and close my eyes. It seems to always rain on Halloween.
    I get home in time for all the little trick-or-treaters in the neighborhood. I’m ready for them. I pretend to be afraid. I tell them they look scary or beautiful or funny.
    They hold bags open, already full of candy, and say, “Trick or treat!”
    I drop Hershey’s Kisses and miniature Milky Way bars into the bags of ghosts and mermaids, superheroes, and clowns. Their parents stand a few steps behind, under half-open umbrellas. The mothers ask me when I’m due. Their smiles are welcoming.

Twenty-two
    A lan comes with me to prenatal class. We make fun of everything. I don’t think any of the other women look as pregnant as I do. They’re mostly in their thirties. One is even in her forties. They seem superior and smug to me in their expensive spandex outfits, their well-groomed husbands in tow.
    The woman who leads the class, Nicole, reminds me of an elegant racehorse. She says our babies will grow a lot in the last month and Alan and I look at each other with raised eyebrows and laugh. How is that possible? Already, I’m waddling like a beast. I’ve outgrown my maternity clothes. I can’t find a comfortable position in which to sleep.
    One woman says she sleeps with eight pillows. Another says yoga has saved her life. I listen to everyone but feel I have nothing in common with