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1 Chapter One The Thunderbolt Life is a lesson to be learned. —Stephanie Finell It all began with the bite of a mosquito. Yes, with a bite of this pesky but seemingly so innocuous little insect that sucked her blood. Not just one, but hundreds punctured her arms and legs with red marks that later swelled to small welts. Who would ever have thought that our family’s life would become derailed, that its tightly woven fabric would eventually fray and break—all from the bite of a mosquito? Friday, December 11, 1970 I checked my watch. Eight-fifteen. The school bus was late when it pulled up at the curb. Stephanie’s slightly older brother, Steven skipped down the red brick steps and, running toward the bus, saw me at the bathroom window. He waved. I blew him a kiss and waved back. Marvin had already left for the office, scheduled to be in court in downtown Los Angeles by nine. Stephanie, a month past her seventh birthday and still recovering from the turista stomach flu she contracted on our recent visit to Mexico, sat in our bed, watching I Love Lucy. I thought of how Stephanie’s eyes had sparkled the previous afternoon in anticipation of our plans for this day, a “mother and daughter” day of shopping , lunch in the tearoom at Bullocks Wilshire, and if Steffi felt up to it, perhaps a movie in the afternoon. It was Friday, and I wanted her to stay out of school for one more day. She still felt weak from the Mexican intestinal disorder , but I hoped she would feel better than she had last night. Even then she had 2 Broken Butterfly insisted she dress and participate in the annual Brownie holiday show at El Rodeo , the school she and Steven attended. Last night, on stage, Stephanie’s color suddenly drained to deadly pale. Even the waves in her brown-gold hair went limp. She and her group were on stage singing, “My Heart Belongs to Daddy—” but Stephanie did not finish the song. Stephanie, who loved to sing, dance, act and clown, left the stage and fell into my arms, whispering, “Take me home, Mommy, please—” The rumbling of a truck broke my thoughts. Through the window I saw it come to a halt in front of our house. Ah, the Christmas tree the four of us had selected before the Brownie performance. Steven played a big part in finding the right tree and looked forward to helping decorate it this evening. Celia, our housekeeper, opened the front door to receive the tree and the sound of bells rang through the house. The Austrian chimes on the front door played “Edelweiss , Edelweiss.” The melody made me smile, and the nostalgic warmth still lingered when I crossed the room to the walk-in closet behind our bed. I heard someone on the television chant, “Meeses Ricardo?” My hand on the half-opened closet door, I asked, “Steffi, do you have your list for Santa Claus ready?” Turning, I froze. Stephanie sat flailing. Her right side twitched, her body shook, her eyes rolled up into her skull. I took hold of her, “Stephanie, Stephanie!” I wrapped my arms around her, held her tight. Her right leg kicked me as it shot upward. Sheet and blanket pulled off, her body jerked, went stiff, limp, stiff, limp. She stretched, balanced on head and feet, her torso an arc. Her soft brown eyes were replaced by two white orbs. “Estefani!” Celia heard my screech, tossed the Christmas tree onto the terrace, and was by our side. “Que pasó? Que pasó mi niña?” When she saw what was happening, she sank to her knees next to me. Her hand clasped her mouth. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She made the sign of the cross. To me, the room and Stephanie appeared as if through mosquito netting. While Celia held my child, I grabbed the phone and dialed: the doctor, my husband ’s office, my mother. Voices blurred. My eyes tried to regain focus, while Stephanie lay twitching, wrenching, quivering, rigid, limp, rigid, limp, in a relentless spin of random movement. “It’s an emergency, yes,” I heard my voice, now a rasp, shriek into the phone. “I have to talk to Dr. Rosin, now!” I chewed on my knuckles. Then a cool, calming voice came over the line. “This is Dr. Rosin.” [18.119.131.72] Project MUSE (2024-04-25 16...

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