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 motherhood, 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. 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

Post menopausal Paula was thrilled to finally discover ways to manage her anxiety. Holistic therapy (Breathe!). Cognitive Behavioral therapy (Journal!). And her favorite, watermelon weed gummies (ZZZZ!). 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.

After pouring her second cup of the morning, or was it her third, she sat at the maple dinette she inherited after her mother retired to Florida. The nerve of Goodwill rejecting the generous donation, yet Paula was not deterred. She called it a family heirloom, moved it into her kitchen and claimed the chair with the view of her prize-winning vegetable garden. But as she peered out the sliders, she winced at the wilted mess — a victim of poor hydration and neglect.

Much like herself.

Gone were the days she had time for twenty-mile bike rides and playing in her competitive tennis league. Hello to zipping her favorite jeans and thinking the Pillsbury Dough Boy might pop out of the tin.

In fairness, her life had been disrupted by extenuating circumstances that made it difficult to manage her daily routines. And the more time she had to obsess about what went wrong the longer her mind clung to dark portals. Especially when listening to on-hold music.

Today’s selection was a disturbing piano recital that was about to make it harder for a well-meaning representative in India to subdue a wild woman’s rant. Sadly, her phone wasn’t the only thing on hold.

Paula was crushed when she had to cancel her kitchen renovation due to insufficient funds. And though she was willing to scrap her Etsy vision board with the walk-in pantry and wide rollouts, she at least hoped to replace the dulled floors and peach-colored countertops which screamed, we loved the nineties but they’re over.

Yet how selfish of her to have shallow aspirations while her husband, Marty, was recuperating from a near-fatal cycling crash and could barely manage their stairs. On the bright side, there would eventually be a large settlement with the drunk driver’s insurance company. Until then Paula would fight for every dime of medical reimbursement from her own.

Your call is very important to us.

“Really? Then 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!!!!”

The sound of talking heads on the Today show tempered her anger as she looked up at the large wall mounted TV. The singular nod to modernization. “Dr. Golden, tell us how hypnotherapy helps people suffering from anxiety. And is it true it also examines past lives?”

Great news, Paula! We discovered why you have panic attacks.

With the world at her fingertips, she Googled Dr. Golden and hoped virtual visits were an option. Then her office address flashed on the screen and 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 maybe it was akin to playing the home game of general anesthesia. A way to naturally relax before being asked to listen to the company’s privacy policy.

And how bashert to randomly catch the interview when her insecurities were reaching their breaking point. Once upon a time she was fearless in pursuit of her pilot’s license. Now she couldn’t pry open a bottle of liquid soap without jabbing a steak knife through the center. If only she’d known fifty-four was the age when hormones and inertia vanished like a missing plane.

Paula stood and stretched, her eagle-spanned 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 was no longer obsolescent since turning into 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.

That afternoon, she would vent over lattés with best friend, Judith Segal… and share a new secret. Not the regrettable decision she made at nineteen… no one would ever learn the truth about that chapter of her life. This secret was about trying hypnotherapy to see if it could end the combustible war within.