Saralee Rosenbergauthor
speaker
humorist

Synopsis

Married couples often keep secrets from each other. But what happens when it turns out they’re keeping the same secret?

In this cannily observed novel about marriage and trust, Paula Berman secretly struggles with regret. She got pregnant at nineteen and talked into giving up her daughter through private adoption. But after marrying and having twin sons, a shameful Paula never mentions Freddie nor her relentless search to find her. Oh, to reunite and be done leading a double life. Then evidence mounts Marty may also have a daughter and Paula is devastated by this possible betrayal. Is the girl the child of a dear friend? Paula is determined to learn the truth about who they really are as a family though she might have to end her closest relationships to get answers. WHERE THE F IS FREDDIE is about second chances, and a mother’s dilemma if she never finds her daughter she can never find herself.

Excerpt

Paula Winter was pleased with the therapies she was using to manage her anxiety. Holistic therapy (Breathe!). Cognitive Behavioral therapy (Journal!). And her favorite, gummies laced with THC (ZZZZZ!). But after being kept on hold and listening to menu options that recently changed, not even her go to’s could regulate her overstimulated vagal nerves. And while cutting down on coffee might have a calming effect, she was no longer a patient of the doctor that dared to suggest this non-negotiable.

After pouring her second cup of the morning, or was it her third, she sat at the maple dinette she took when her mother moved to Florida and stared out the sliders. If only her phone wasn’t the only thing on hold– so was her dream of renovating the kitchen. And though she scrapped her vision board it would be nice to replace the dull flooring and peach-colored countertops which screamed, remember the nineties.

But how dare she have shallow aspirations when her husband, Marty, was recuperating from a near-fatal bike crash and couldn’t work. This was self-recrimination, of course, because Paula would not burden him with her internal anger after their finances were also hard hit. Plus, there would eventually be a large settlement with the drunk driver’s insurance company.

Until then she fought with their carrier for much needed medical reimbursements.

Your call is very important to us.

“If it’s so important, pick up the damn phone.”

Did you know you can find the status of your claim by visiting our website?

“Did you know you can go fuck yourself?”

We are experiencing higher than normal call volume.

“I am experiencing higher than normal rage. Live agent. Human being. SPEAK TO A REPRESENTATIVE!!!!”

So much for keeping pent up emotions inside. But at least she resisted flinging her phone because if she cracked the glass, she’d have to fill out more claim forms and worry that devices were also subject to preexisting conditions. Then her angst was diverted by an interview on the Today show and she looked up at the large wall mounted TV. Their one nod to modernization.

“Dr. Golden, tell our audience how hypnotherapy helps people who suffer from anxiety. And is it true it also allows past lives to be examined?”

Great news, Paula! We’ve discovered why you have so many panic attacks.

In seconds, she Googled Dr. Golden and prayed virtual visits were an option. But when the woman’s office address flashed on the screen, Paula thought she was hallucinating. Did it say White Plains? She could leave her home in Scarsdale and arrive in fifteen minutes. Twelve if she ran the yellows.

Paula jotted the doctor’s information on the back of an envelope and did a hallelujah. She was unfamiliar with hypnotherapy but hopefully it was akin to playing the home game of general anesthesia. A way to naturally relax or at least to stop yelling at customer service reps on a recorded line that were being monitored for training and quality purposes.

And how bashert to randomly catch the interview when her insecurities had reached a breaking point over the smallest defeats. Once upon a time she was fearless in pursuit of her pilot’s license, and now she couldn’t pry open a bottle of liquid soap without jabbing a steak knife through the center.

Why hadn’t anyone mentioned fifty-four was the age when hormones and inertia vanished like a missing plane.

She stood and stretched, her eagle-length arms nearly knocking over the pile up of supplements on the table. A probiotic for gut health. Collagen and peptides to stop her hair from falling out. Magnesium Oxide so she pooped every day. Glucosimane and Chondroitin for aching joints. Fish Oil for she couldn’t remember why. And two recent additions, Black Seed oil and Shilajit, which claimed to be the secret longevity weapons of Himalayan monks.

At least her kitchen remained functional by doubling as a shipping department. A new order was arriving on Wednesday. Another had to be returned to Whole Foods by Friday. And who took her packing tape? Without it she couldn’t reseal the carton that needed to be dropped at the post office.

So sad how few of these miracle cures delivered on their promises. Even more annoying, Paula was wasting money she didn’t have to achieve longevity, which maybe she shouldn’t want. Wouldn’t more time on earth mean more holding the line until her call was answered in the order it was received?

That afternoon, she would vent over lattes with best friend, Judith Segal. And she would share a secret. Not the regrettable decision she made at nineteen… no one was privy to that. This secret was about trying hypnotherapy to see if it ended her struggles with insomnia and anxiety.

Buh-bye high cortisol driven three AM wakeup calls.