Like Jordan, right now.
As Marie pats him gently on the back, I stand there, my mind occupied by the earlier hour at Anterdec. The kiss. The kisses. Andrew’s words cycle through me, his on-off switch so easy to flip, his obvious anger at my “date”—who is now burrowing into Marie’s arms in an alarming way—leaving me with more questions than answers.
And then the silence (other than Jordan’s sobs) is pierced by a strange cry from the sky.
A red-tailed hawk swoops down and in what feels like slow motion, descends to the grass, plucks little Muffin in its talons, and lifts up, wings pushing down with the effort of getting greater lift with its dinner in its hands.
“Oh, my God!” I scream. Jordan and Marie look up. I’m pointing at the horrific scene as Muffin quakes in the hawk’s grasp, twelve feet above us, eyes bulging in terror.
Or is that how she normally looks? It’s hard to tell the difference.
“MUFFIN!” Jordan screeches, scrambling to his feet. “No, Muffin! Mama will be so mad if something happens to you!”
“Do something!” Marie cries out, running after the bird, who is lurching up and down as it struggles to hang on to Muffin the Hawk Munchie.
I grab a rock and throw it. I have the pitching arm of a four year old, so all I manage to do is hit a passing dad pushing a stroller as my anemic throw ends in a parabola of shame.
“Hey!” the dad shouts. “Watch it. Babies here.”
Great. I hit a dad with twins. The karma on that one is going to be massive.
“Don’t hurt Muffin!” Jordan screams at me. “That rock could maim her.”
Right. Because throwing a rock to make the hawk drop her is exactly like having her eaten alive by the bird.
Jordan is definitely on my permanent list of people I will never, ever touch.
Marie sprints over to a little boy who has a remote control in his hand. She says something to him and he hands it over. I look up.
A tiny little silver toy helicopter makes a giant U-turn and dive bombs the hawk.
“MUFFIN!” Jordan screams.
In a split second, I race over to the ground under the hawk and Muffin. Someone has to catch the little dog, because at this point, the hawk’s a good twenty feet in the air. If he drops her, she’ll be a Muffin pancake.
“BOOYAH!” Marie shouts as she manipulates the helicopter. The dad of the twins in the stroller jogs over to the little boy and says soothing things to him. They watch Marie attack the hawk with the toy helicopter.
“Daddy, it’s my turn next, right?” the little boy asks. “I wanna hit the hawk. Twenty points!”
Suddenly, the silver copter buzzes loud in my ears, and I hear Muffin whining. The hawk drops her as Marie goes in for one last try, and I aim, barely reaching my arms out in time for falling Muffin to hit my hands, my body stretched as far as it can go in a last-minute lunge that leaves me holding her in my palms, my chest and hips smacking into the solid sidewalk section with a belly-flop that knocks the wind out of me.
My hands shake.
Because Muffin’s in them, quaking away.
“MUFFIN!” Jordan snatches her out of my palms as I try to breathe. I fail. My face is smashed into the rough concrete, the blooming pinprick of a bad scrape seeping in to my consciousness. I can’t breathe, though. It’s like a brick became my lungs. My legs feel like rubber behind me, and my belly is exposed, the lunge to catch the dog pulling my shirt out of my pants.
I’m facedown, palms up, breathless, and about to die.
Then the clapping begins. If I’m going to die because I saved a dog from becoming a Scooby snack, then there damn well better be applause.
“That was amazing!” the dad with twins says as Marie gives him back the controller. The little boy looks up into the sky and frowns.
“Where’s the bird? I wanna attack the bird! My turn! I’m Player 2!”
I want to say help, but I can’t. I am lying here and it feels like I have a balloon inside me stopping me from breathing. My ribs spasm and my throat gags and then bam!
I’m breathing. The feeling is painful and ragged and god-awfully rippling, like I have layers of skin sticking to each other inside wet lungs, but oxygen gets in.
You don’t realize how much you appreciate the simple art of respiration until you can’t respire.
“You used that helicopter so well!”
“Mama! Mama was Muffin’s guardian angel,” Jordan cries out. “And you!” he shouts, pointing at me.
I roll over and sit up. My knees have grass stains on them, my belly and face are scratched, and my hands are covered in what appears to be Muffin’s pee.
I wipe them on the grass and unwrap my purse from my neck, fishing around for my wet wipes and antibacterial gel. You mystery shop enough men’s bathrooms, you carry those two items everywhere. Who knew I’d be using them to wipe a date’s animal pee off my hands?
“What’s your name?” Jordan asks Marie.
“Marie Jacoby.” She’s laughing, a sound of relief and unfettered joy.
“Marie, you are my hero!”
A new round of applause erupts.
Now, wait a minute. It slowly dawns on me that they’re clapping for Marie. Not me. I’m the one who threw the rock. Who caught the dog. I look at Jordan, who snuggles Muffin and tightens his grip as he gives me a nasty glare.
“You leave my Muffin alone!”
Wha?
“Excuse me?” I choke out.
“First you threw a rock at her and almost killed her. Then you nearly missed catching her. Mama was holding her in the light the entire time, and sent Marie the angel to me.”