Take My Breath Away

By Claudia Post Jaffa

It is 1966 when Bridget Danner loses her father, the one person in the world who makes her feel seen and heard. As she helps her alcoholic mother prepare for the funeral, Bridget feels a sense of impending doom. Although she knows her life will be forever changed in this moment, she never could have predicted its impact on her future.

While doing her best to battle her overwhelming grief, Bridget is invited to a party. When she is offered a drink from a bottle of vodka, Bridget starts to feel good for the first time in a long while. Alcohol quickly becomes her new friend. After she escapes her crazy clan and begins creating a life of wonder, tragedy, love, and miraculous experiences, Bridget becomes engulfed in the darkness of her drinking obsession. She suddenly uncovers transforming secrets that lead to realizations and forgiveness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Jun 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798765250440

Claudia Post Jaffa

Claudia Post Jaffa earned a BA in English and drama, and attended the Stella Adler School of Drama in New York. After acting in plays including an off-Broadway play, she taught drama, English, yoga, and music before becoming a medical sales rep. Today, she resides in Baltimore with her husband where she enjoys gardening, dancing, and other activities. Take My Breath Away is her debut novel.

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Copyright © 2024 Claudia Post Jaffa.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 979-8-7652-5045-7 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-7652-5046-4 (hc)

ISBN: 979-8-7652-5044-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024905295

Balboa Press rev. date:   04/29/2024

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

1     The End of the Beginning

2     The Party

3     The Wild Days

4     Fooled Again

5     The Leaving

6     Back to School

7     Where to Go from Here

8     So, What Is Truth Anyway

9     Invisible Again

10   Love, Lies, and Giving Up

11   Back in the Game

12   The Honeymoon

13   Autumn

14   After the Fall

15   A Miracle

16   Is This Really Real

17   Brief Encounter

18   Reality versus Illusion

19   Learning to Swim

20   While the Cat’s Away

21   Back at the Ranch

22   Casey Tells All

23   Here We Go Again

24   What Is Reality

25   Where Is the Ground Anyway

26   To Dream—or Is This a Dream?

27   Oh! The Places We’ll Go

28   Who Says We Can’t Go Home

29   Dancing in the Twilight

30   Dreams Come True

31   Reality Is a Bear

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

They say it takes a village and for the completion of my first novel, it certainly did. I want to thank Jill Pekofsky and Rev. Gussie Scardini for their assistance with the initial editing of my book. Their kind corrections and generosity of time will always be remembered and appreciated.

The beautiful and creative artwork used for the cover was exquisitely executed by Dino Calabrese. He is a muti-talented artist and a dear friend who inspired me by his writing and continued support.

Cynthia Kirk was my life coach who rekindled my artistic fire so I could move forward with this project. I am forever grateful for her expertise and creative direction.

My gratitude for my husband David’s support and encouragement is boundless. He often contributed brilliant suggestions and responses throughout my writing of this novel. His patience was remarkable and loving. I am forever blessed to have him by my side.

I was surrounded by angels including my dear friend Joanne Balkam who contributed in many ways regarding childhood memories which were woven into the fabric of the story. My dear brother-in-law, Bill Chambers, inspired me with his tenacity in writing his enthralling novel.

My brother, Anthony Hauck, was my constant reminder and advocate for completing this project. I will always appreciate his support and loving nudges along the way.

I am grateful to my publisher for their expertise and direction.

I am grateful to Hay House for their insightful writing course, which gave significant information and guidance for publishing my book.

Through this course, I met a sister writer on the West Coast, Janis Nathan, who was at the same point working through many of the same issues. We shared ideas and laughed when that was the only way through. I learned much from her as a woman, mother, and writer. She is a forever friend.

That’s it, folks. If I forgot anyone, please know I love you and you’ll make it in the next book’s acknowledgments.

ONE

The End of the

Beginning

I watched his every breath. Unaware, my breathing fell into rhythm with his. I figured if I kept my air flowing in and out, it would somehow keep him breathing. I was fifteen and still under the illusion that I could control everything, or at least most things. My father would certainly stay alive if I willed it and prayed for it hard enough. He couldn’t die. I truly believed this. There was no concept of life without Dad—Eli, as Mom called him. There was no image of our family without him. He was the one to drive me to and from the Island (Long Island, in case you aren’t from New York) when I visited my friends, or hug me and hold me. He was always there for me to talk to, whether about boys, about music, or about how very much it hurt just being me. He was my family.

Where was Mom? As far as the everyday life in the Danner family, she was physically there, but beyond that, she just wasn’t present. As far as where she was at this very minute, while I was sitting there trying to maintain any semblance of life as I knew it, I didn’t know. All I knew was that she wasn’t there. She’d left five hours ago saying she would be back shortly. I knew I could stay here with Dad and do this on my own, but what this was, I had no idea. My sister was out with her boyfriend but should be here soon. My brother was away at school, and I was missing him. I wished he were here to help me as he had helped me so many times in the past.

My dad was in an oxygen tent, and in 1966, it truly was a tent. The room was softly lit by a small overhead light—no fluorescent light at that time. The walls were pea-soup green, the same color as the army offices where we went for all those government Christmas parties. We were alone. No one had come in to check on him. I felt like I was in The Twilight Zone, but this was not a TV show. Even today, with my eyes closed, I see that room, that bed, that plastic oxygen tent covering my father’s taught, pale face. He was working so hard to stay with me. If only I could have taken his place, I would have—I know this was true. How could I go on without him? He had so much left to offer the world. I was the invisible one. Who would have missed me other than Eli …

The phone rang out into the darkness of the shadowy, surrealistic room, breaking through the rhythmic meditation between me and my dad. I was not sure at this point what exactly we were waiting for or who could have been calling. I jumped to grab the phone, so as not to wake him, but instead of silencing the alarming ring, I knocked over the table and fell onto the bed. I was horrified. Dad stirred and looked up at me. His eyes were sad and tired but filled with so much love and forgiveness. It’s OK, Dad. I’m here. I love you. His eyes closed again. Silence returned to the room.

I sat stock-still, afraid of making another move that might interrupt the stillness of that moment. I felt stupid for being such a klutz. No wonder he wanted to leave; I caused so much trouble. But what made me think he was leaving? My gut was screaming to me that something traumatic was going to happen. How could he have loved me? Where the hell were Mom and my older sister, Lena?

Those memories are so clear today. I stayed there all night, watching, breathing, and praying. Suddenly, the door flung open, and Mom came in. She had showered and dressed, and looked as though she were going out on the town. I wanted to look pretty for Eli, she said in response to my questioning glare. I was irritated, but she quickly announced that I could go and get some rest. But I’d rather stay here with Dad.

No, you go. I’ll … and before she finished the sentence, Dad opened his eyes, and I recognized his smile that showed how much he adored my mother. I touched his hand and said, I’ll be back soon, Dad. Feel better. I love you. I so wanted to kiss him. That tent! I curse that curtain of life between us that I allowed to paralyze me. I could not overcome the fear of creating more commotion if I tried to kiss him, so I didn’t. Something I will always regret. Besides, all he could see was Mom. She was beautiful and, as my Aunt Rose would say, dressed to the nines. Whatever that means.

I had no recollection of how I got home. I think Marina, my mom’s best friend, must have driven me. When I arrived home, I stood in front of the door feeling apprehensive, not knowing what would happen next. I opened the door slowly as I always did due to the tight space in the immediate hallway. Everything was dark. Mom wouldn’t think of leaving lights on for me, so I didn’t expect it; yet, I was slightly hopeful. I just didn’t want to be in the dark on this early morning. Mom was in her reality and often unreachable even when she was in the same room. If that sounds pathetic, it’s because I felt pathetic in 1966, and on that day, I felt it even more deeply. How many times had I entered that room? On that day, however, I felt like I was seeing each piece of furniture for the first time. Everything was sharp and clearly focused. The deco décor that my mom so adored seemed unforgiving and relentless. The garish red-and-green couches created a stark atmosphere, only heightened by the particularly angular lamps and tables that she chose. I never really liked that room. I could hear myself breathe; the house was so quiet. As I stood there surveying our home, I had no feeling, none. I just sat down on the disarming red couch, as though I was waiting for someone to narrate my next action, my next thought. Once again, I was waiting, not knowing what to expect. With dread in my heart, I wanted this night to be over and for everything to go back to yesterday before this nightmare.

Finally, my sister appeared in total disarray. Why are you up so early? she blurted out. She didn’t have a clue, but then she often didn’t. Since it was March and five in the morning, it was still dark.

Where the hell were you? What are you doing coming in so late? I wanted to scream, just scream at everyone. Dad’s in the hospital. He had a heart attack! I watched him breathe all night, and I was alone. Where were you? I started to cry. Lena was never very affectionate with me, but at that moment she put her arms around me and held me tightly. Her hug only lasted a few minutes, but it filled me up. We sat on the red couch beside each other, and for an instant, I felt everything would be OK. A little love goes a long way. I guess she didn’t know what to say. Neither did I. We sat there, just looking out into the empty room and a blank TV screen.

I didn’t know how much time had passed, but suddenly I felt a jolt, an actual physical jolt that went through my entire body, like the electric shock treatments I had seen in Snake Pit, one of the old late-night movies that I watched. Then I knew. A pain so deep and visceral engulfed my heart and soul. The atmosphere was full of the same agony. Dad was dead. I screamed so loudly that Lena jumped. She looked scared. Why are you screaming? What’s going on? Stop it, stop it. She was shaking me hard. I didn’t have to answer because she, too, knew something horrid had just happened.

The phone rang. I dreaded the thought of what I might hear. I didn’t want to answer it, but Lena didn’t move, so I did. I was always the one who did what needed to be done around there. Mom’s best friend was on the phone. I guess she was back at the hospital with Mom. She sounded so weird; I didn’t want to talk to her. Why did she have to call us? I didn’t want to hear what I thought she might say. I felt like I was going to faint. Her words began to fade away as though she were speaking from a tunnel. My mind began to race in every direction, and I felt like I was falling. I regained focus in time to hear her say, And your mother wants the two of you to get right down here. Take a taxi. Now! The phone went dead.

I jumped up and turned to Lena. We have to go to the hospital right now if we want to see Dad again. Come on and run. Do you have any money?

Yeah, I have five dollars. Why, why won’t we see him? Are they moving him? What’s—

We have to take a taxi now before … I ran out the door. Lena grabbed her coat and rushed after me.

We ran to Queens Boulevard in search of a cab, since they never drove down our street. It was freezing, but I didn’t feel anything. Lena and I ran out into the traffic. I waved my arms and screamed like a wild girl because I was one by that time. A cab drove across three lanes to get to us. That driver knew we were upset, and I think I even scared him. Elmhurst General. My dad is dying! That was the first time anyone had said that word. I started to cry—not surprising since I always cried, even when I watched my favorite old movies time and time again. Lena was crying too. Unlike me, she seldom cried. If only we were actors in a play, and the man dying in the bed at Elmhurst General were a complete stranger.

We ran up the stairs to the third floor because we couldn’t wait for an elevator. The door to his room was closed. I knew beyond that door was the beginning of a strange and different world, possibly without Dad, but I held on to a tiny hope that he would still be there—I mean really there—and everything was going to be OK.

I pushed the large door open. I couldn’t see my dad. Mom and her friend Marina were blocking my view of his bed. I had to see him. I ran around them, and there he was, my dad. It looked like him, but then it didn’t. I was hoping it was the wrong bed and the wrong person. He was very pale, like the wallpaper on the upstairs bedroom in the old Vermont house. He was very still. I took his hand, and my body went limp; I thought I would fall to the floor and pass out. His hand was cold. His hand that had been so warm and loving. The hand that had held mine so often when I was scared or when we were in a crowd and he didn’t want to lose me. Those hands that had glided over the keyboard of our old piano to elicit such beautiful sounds from the otherwise worn black and white keys. Those hands that had taught mine to play, at least I had tried for him. I loved his hands and knew every line, every detail. Now they were cold and lifeless. I fell on him and cried till my chest and eyes and cheeks hurt so badly. It didn’t matter; nothing mattered then or ever would again. My mother just stood there. She didn’t say anything to us. She didn’t move. She had mentally left the room, escaping to wherever she would go when things were too crazy or painful.

When Marina thought it was time to leave, she took Lena by the hand. As I watched, I thought I would never want to hold a hand again; I get too attached. I leaned over and kissed Dad’s face for the last time, but it wasn’t Dad I was kissing. I felt a cold cheek, someone else’s cheek. I jumped back and looked at his face, wondering where he had gone. Dad wasn’t in this distant cold form lying where my dad had been all night. Mom turned to me and said, I need you to stay with me and take care of everything. I don’t know what to do. So, I stayed.

I didn’t know what to do either, but somehow my instincts kicked in. If Mom couldn’t do something, and Dad wasn’t home, I usually got it done. I tried to be there for her, but it was getting harder and harder to do.

We went downstairs to the large administrative offices. A woman walked in with a handful of papers. She gave her condolences and started to explain the process to Mom. I just sat and watched my mom’s hands shake as she signed the documents placed in front of her. I knew that she was upset, that she couldn’t help it.

We left the hospital and hailed a taxi. I didn’t even know where we were going. I didn’t care. Nothing seemed to matter. We stopped in front of a low, flat, dismal building. It was the Mayan Funeral Home. I passed it all the time going to piano lessons or on my way to the subway. I had never been inside before. Little did I know this would be the beginning of a lot of firsts. Everything would be a first from now on. The first time I brushed my teeth without Dad; the first time I laughed or cried without dad. Everything would be a first without him.

Mom turned to me, Bridget, you have to do this. I can’t.

I was puzzled and wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but that wasn’t a first; I knew she would tell me. What do you want me to do, Mom?

Irritated by my not knowing, she snapped back, Pick out the casket. I need you to pick out the casket! What do you think I mean?

A shiver went through my spine. I was terrified, but she was serious, and I didn’t know how to say no to her.

She stayed in the office while a man walked me down the hall. The hall seemed to go on forever, like in some grade-B horror movie, but we finally stopped at a large dark double door. He hesitated and then opened it. We stood there staring at the contents of this huge ominous room. He looked at the rows of wooden and metal boxes with pride and anticipation. I saw a pit that was waiting to swallow me along with everything I knew as good and safe.

We slowly walked down the first aisle as he explained the various qualities and benefits of each casket. I didn’t hear a word he said, but I knew this task was horrid and that I needed to make a decision and make it quickly. Show me the medium-priced ones, please, I requested, trying to sound older, like I had done this before. We walked two aisles over to where three different ones were priced about the same. Which one is the best? But as soon as I uttered those words, I thought, Best for what? I looked straight into his eyes and thought I saw pity, which just pissed me off. At that point, I couldn’t take it any longer. I pointed to one and ran out of the room and up the hall.

My mother was still in the office. She was talking to an older woman about bringing my dad there and what was going to happen. I didn’t want to hear anymore or see anymore. I ran outside and cried. I just stood there and cried because that’s all I could do. I didn’t have any cigarettes with me, but if I had, I would have smoked the pack, even if Mom saw me. What did it matter now?

What was burned in my memory of that day, that endless unceasing day, was the sense of impending doom. Yet what could possibly be worse? Somehow, I was in touch with that part of me that knew the answer to that question. I knew my life would be forever changed by what had happened that day, but could never have predicted its impact on my future. The dread clenched my stomach and dried my tears. Fear overwhelmed sadness and settled in my inner being, a fear that would be with me for a very long time.

Our three-story townhome in New York was small. Suddenly, it was full of relatives, friends, and people I didn’t even know. The narrow rooms were full of people telling stories and drinking, full of tears and laughter, but I was alone. I retreated to my yellow room with bluebells, rolled by my dad’s loving hands onto