Balloon Abandonment

There are blood screams and non-blood screams and I pride myself on telling the difference in the nanosecond it takes for the scream to rise to full volume. But tonight L pulled one past me. I was in the kitchen catching up on email and the kids were out back playing noisily when suddenly there was this scream that said "There's blood, and lots of it!" L, in the throes of her apoplexy, somehow made it inside faster than I could spin around and bolt from my seat. Stacy, displaying some freaky genetic link with her daughter that allowed her to move great distances in negative time, was already enveloping the flailing child in her motherly arms of comfort. I was immediately caught off guard: clinical hysteria to be sure, but no signs whatsoever of bruises, contusions, lacerations or amputations (full or partial). But the hysteria was all-consuming and it was several seconds before the anguish resolved itself into anything that even remotely resembled human speech, and then another multi-second eternity before the speech took on any Anglo-Saxon-based overtones. Eventually, however, the victim was able, between chokes and snorts and spasms resplendent with mucus and tears, to describe the horror that had so affected her humor. "My... my... ba... ba... ball... balloon!"

We rushed to the backdoor to see the large Mylar birthday party balloon Aunt Joyce had bought her on Joyce's birthday pirouetting gay and free, already a fairly small point over our garage. The sight revived the pitiful lamentations.

There was much consoling to be done, but at first not much helped. I got a glimmer of evil and vindictive improvement out of her when I offered to set N's balloon free too. (N's immediate caterwaul at the suggestion was pretty impressive.) But there wasn't any real alleviation of the symptoms until Stacy suggested we call Aunt Joyce and help her bear the bad news. We dialed and got her answering machine and we were able to leave a halting message concerning the tragic event. The phone call was then quickly followed up by a second emergency call to Maine -- because grandparents respond so well to being startled awake at 10:00pm by a phone call with their granddaughter sobbing inconsolably on the other end of the line. Once we convinced Mimi and Grampy that the family was all safely intact and more or less psychologically sound, we put out the A.P.B., commissioning them to be on the look-out for the large Mylar balloon that would inevitably be heading their way. (All of L and N's renegade balloons end up in Maine with Mimi and Grampy, doncha know?)

As with all trauma, the only true healing comes with time. In this case about fifteen minutes worth. Soon L was busy beating up N again and things were all hunky-dory. L is no doubt a much heartier person for the trial, for as we all know, that which does not kill us, makes us stronger, and she sure sounded like she was being killed a couple dozen times over.