The Original 1982 Read Online Free PDF

is so low. I can’t see how I could afford to live somewhere else.”
    He’s ready for my response. Seems to already have an amount in mind, as do I.
    â€œMiss Nelson, we’re prepared to offer you five thousand dollars to vacate the apartment. This will greatly help with your moving costs and other expenses.”
    Five thousand dollars is a lot of money in 1982. I can rent a very decent place on the West Side for under a thousand.
    â€œWell, I appreciate the offer,” I say. “But I’m thinking about what it’s going to cost to pay the higher rent for a year. I don’t think I can do it for less than fifteen thousand.”
    My landlord sits quietly, plays with his ink blotter. I have no idea what he’s thinking. He sighs and rises from his chair. Behind him is a big window looking out onto the buildings across the alley. He turns to face it, and we both watch the people in their offices, lit by fluorescent lights. Finally, he turns back to me.
    â€œI can tell you, Miss Nelson, it’s probably not going to happen, but I’ll talk it over with my partners. Hopefully, we can come to a compromise.”
    I thank him and make my way back to the elevator, down to the street, and outside to the beautiful day.
    That fifteen thousand will rent a place big enough for the two of us and the cats. That’s what I’m thinking. I’m not going to take a penny less.
    My landlord calls a week later and agrees to the fifteen thousand. I start looking for a bigger apartment, one with a garden.

Thirteen
    F or the ultrasound test, the technician covers my belly with a cool gel. I stare at the empty screen, watching anxiously, until magically you appear in the shape of a lima bean, or a seashell. I’m twenty weeks pregnant. The technician, a middle-aged Indian woman, is gentle and kind. She points to your head, to your foot, to your heart. She helps me to make sense of what I see. Then she freezes your fuzzy silhouette on the screen, takes a Polaroid of it, peels off the back, and hands me a picture of you to keep.
    â€œLooks like you’ve got yourself a little girl,” Dr. Nancy says. Although, of course, I’ve known that from the start. She lets me hear your heartbeat, for the first time, using a special kind of stethoscope. She listens first and counts, watching the clock. Then she places the earpiece in my ear.
    â€œIt’s beating so fast!” I say, truly shocked.
    â€œThat’s right,” she says. “That’s how we’re sure it’s your baby we’re listening to and not you.”
    I catch the tears that fall with my tongue. I can’t stop laughing. I think of that Joni Mitchell song about laughing and crying being the same release.
    Dr. Nancy smiles. “Now you can start thinking about baby names.”
    â€œI have a name already,” I say quietly. It’s silvery, quick and shining, delicate and perfect, a name to conjure wading pools, rivers, and smooth stones. But I don’t say all that. “I’m going to call her Minnow.”
    â€œMinnow?” Dr. Nancy repeats. Her expression says she thinks she’s heard me wrong.
    â€œYes.” I look down at my sneakers, feeling like your name is a secret I’ve told and want to take back.
    After I leave Dr. Nancy’s office, I look for some place cool to grab a bite, but there aren’t any restaurants or cafés in the neighborhood. Years later, the Flatiron District becomes super commercial, full of restaurants, a farmers’ market, and every retail store you can think of, but at the time it’s industrial, desolate, and kind of dirty. A lot of photographers have their studios here in the soot-covered loft buildings. Garbage blows through the streets as it does in much of New York City in the eighties. I look down Sixth Avenue to the bottom of Manhattan and see the twin towers of the World Trade Center.
    By the time I reach Ray’s Original