Chance Encounters
- cherylmurfin
- Apr 12, 2021
- 5 min read
In a recent meeting of my Sunday writing group, this prompt was offered: Chance encounters. At first, I groaned. Have I had any truly chance encounters? Then it hit me, LIFE is a chance encounter, a constant game of place and time. These three flashes fell from the session.
Roulette
The baby sleeps soundly as the young mother takes her seat next to me on a plane. The woman looks nervous, worried. The look of someone who knows the shit is about to hit the fan but doesn’t know exactly when.
I know the feeling. I was a mother traveling with a baby once.
“Hopefully she won’t fuss too much,” Mom smiles at me, hedging her bets.
I smile back. Alaska Airlines’ seat roulette is on her side.
“No worries at all,” I tell her. “I’m a doula and baby fuss doesn’t bother me at all.
“It’ll help if you nurse her on the way up and down.”
Her smile widens.
“Oh my god, I’m so relieved,” she exhales, as if she’s been holding her breath since stepping into the security line. “She’s never taken a bottle but I brought one. I didn’t want to offend some old man stuck sitting by us.”
“Bring it on,” I assure her.
Passing On
It’s freezing cold outside as the dog and I walk through the park and realize we are still three miles from home. A woman on a park bench waves us over.
“Does your dog need a sweater?” she asks. My first thought is dementia — as if kindness no longer exists in the world.
“I should have grabbed one,” I say, feeling guilty.
“It’s hard to tell with this crazy weather,” the woman, possibly octogenarian, possibly older, gently assuages my guilt and pulls out a tiny hand-knitted sweater. It’s lavender purple with yellow daisies and white stripes. I slip it over the dog’s head and wiggle her legs through.
The woman tells me her own tiny dog recently passed away. I sit down beside her, feeling an odd desire pick up her hand and comfort her. She pulls out an old wallet and shows me pictures of a tiny pug decked out in the sweater now warming up my dog. I tell her I can’t imagine her loss — since I can’t. Posie has become my third child.
“I hope this doesn’t sound too crazy,” she says. “But this was our favorite park and I’ve been coming here for days hoping the right dog would pass by.”
I look down at Posie, no longer shivering, decked out in the perfect-fit wool pullover on a path we’ve never walked before.
What are the chances?
One More John
I’ve met my share of Cheryls. In the 1970s and 80s my name was all the rage, what with the model Cheryl Tiegs and the actress Cheryl Ladd and all that beautiful feathered hair at the top of their game. But unlike classic names, mine arrived, thrived, and (mostly) died in the 20th Century over about a 30 year span. I wanted more longevity and connection to the past for my kids.
Which is why my daughter became Madeleine. Her name has been around way longer than the French cookie hit boulangeries in the 1700s.
When we got pregnant again, the hunt was on.
“Connor feels stronger,” my husband argued. “Like Conan or Thor . . . but less Superhero.”
“But I really, really love Aidan,” I countered. “It’s strong. Not to mention it’s a connection to both our Irish history. ”
We had been going back and forth like this for weeks, ever since an ultrasound turned the second daughter we were expecting into a son. Settling on another girl's name had been easy, but now that she was a he we couldn’t come to agreement.
A couple weeks before the due date we packed our bags for a final pre-labor getaway to San Juan Island (one of several in an archipelago between Washington State and British Columbia); One last hurrah before three years of (lovingly) tossing one child back and forth gave way to 18 years of tag team between two kids.
Several hours later, I pulled The Seattle Times out of my pack as we strolled onto the ferry that would deliver us to the island. There on the front page was our answer.
“Whidbey Island Becoming Popular Filming Site” the headline read. Scanning it, I discovered that the actor Aidan Quinn would be spending lots of time on that other Washington island as he filmed the movie Practical Magic.
But there was a chance he’d also be spending time filming on San Juan.
“Ok, how ‘bout we throw it to chance,” I dared my husband. “It’s a big island. If we actually see Aidan Quinn — as in eye contact — we call it fate and name the baby Aidan. If we don’t, I concede to Connor.” I was feeling generous, thinking that maybe a dad should get to name a boy.
He looked skeptical.
“Come on, it’s a legit contest,” I weedled. “Hey may not even be there.”
“Ok,” he gave in, “but there absolutely has to be eye contact.”
The ferry slipped into the dock like a missing puzzle piece. We hoisted our packs and clicked our daughter into her stroller and lined up with the rest of the walk-on riders to disembark at the front of the boat. I wasn’t looking down when I rolled the stroller right into the heels of the man in front of me.
“Oh! So sorry,” I looked up to meet his eyes. They were almost cornflower blue in the morning light.
“No problem,” Mr. Quinn smiled down at my golden haired, thumbsucking toddler. “Most men dream of being run over by a beautiful girl.”
And off he went down the ramp.
I turned to my husband as he picked his jaw up off the ground.
I’d like to say that was the end of the story. A fair and square game of chance.
But in a strange and sentimental move, my husband thought it would be a wonderful gift to place the name John on the birth certificate in front of the names we practically arm-wrestled for our son. It was in honor of his own dad’s 75th birthday (his name is John). My husband swears I agreed to this, but if I did, I claim memory loss due to sleep-deprivation.
“John. Ugh. Can we change it back?” I moaned, seeing the name on the official document.
“It’s OK,” my husband tried to sooth me as his dad beamed across the table. “We’ll definitely call him Aidan.”
And we did.
Unfortunately, school, doctors, the IRS and, of course, his grandparents, did not.
The kids are grown and my ex-husband’s father is nearing a century of life.
And while I’ve never called my son John and don’t ever plan to, I have come to appreciate that name lovingly added to the birth certificate. Twenty two years later, I see it for what it is: a gracious gift of namesake and memorial bequeathed to a beloved father and grandfather.
In receiving the name my son was also gifted — with a sweet reminder of his dad’s dad of course, but at the same time, a place in the lineage of the most popular and long-lived name in the history of the world.
As the owner of Brady Bunch-era moniker Cheryl, I admit I’m a little jealous.
It disappeared into fad name oblivion and definitely not coming back to birth certificates any time soon.
Commenti