jessica goodwin

TIMBER LANE

2015-2016

When we brought Jacob home from the hospital, our family of three set up camp in the living room. It was the easiest way for me to get around as I recovered from what had turned out to be a brutal emergency C-section. I was able to shower in the bathroom on the first floor, braving a peek at my scar once my pregnant belly began to recede. I was amazed at how small it was, how neat and smooth. 

At night, I propped up in the corner of the sectional couch. Tommy stretched out on the floor. The only time I have ever seen the man nap was in those early days right after Jacob was born. Jacob slept in a bassinet under the window, his arms stretched over his head, his fists clenched in what looked like silent victory because he had once again managed to bust out of his swaddle, a parenting skill we had never managed to get the hang of, despite all our best efforts. We set different alarms on our phones to remember when to take pain medicine, to nurse, to make sure Jacob was sticking to whatever sleep-eat-play-schedule we’d read about in some parenting book.

Determined to take care of ourselves as we adjusted to our new roles as parents, Tommy and I sat on stools at the kitchen island every morning and had breakfast together. We ate frozen waffles and fruit and tried to figure out the plan for the day. Later, as Jacob got older, we wheeled his high chair up in between us and fed him his baby food and cereal, plus a little bit of what we were having for dinner.

We spent a lot of time on the first floor, but when I was finally able to manage the stairs, we moved to our bedroom in the evening. One of us would take a shower while the other one did tummy time on the bed with Jacob. Then we’d switch, and the other one would shower while Jacob hung out in his little baby papasan chair on the bed. In the shower, I would swear that I could hear him crying, so I would speed through my washing up, wrap myself in a towel, and fling open the door – only to find both of my boys sitting on the bed, smiling at each other. We watched with fascination as he discovered his hands and feet. We laughed at the faces he would make when he pooped, the way his forehead would flush red, as if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was near. We cooed back to him as he gurgled and stared at us with wide, steely gray eyes.

When we put him in his room across the hall at night, I would stare at the video baby monitor and watch for his eyes to close, for his chest to rise and fall. When he was finally asleep, I would attempt to get some sleep as well. I was relieved to be back in our bed…and to no longer have a big, awkward belly. It took me a few nights before I was gradually able to roll over completely onto my stomach, the pre-pregnancy position I had always favored for sleeping. Yet even though I was exhausted, I slept lightly because I was so afraid that somehow, I’d miss Jacob’s cry. And even though I knew it was just a cry of hunger that always came precisely around two o’clock, it startled me every time.

When Jacob would wake, Tommy and I would both get up and go into his room. Tommy would change the diaper while I got myself situated in the rocking chair. He got up with us every single time except for one – it was the only middle-of-the-night-feeding diaper I ever had to change, and he felt bad for missing it. While I nursed, Tommy, who was in between jobs at the time, would stretch out on the floor, scrolling through employment websites on his phone in the dark. When Jacob was finished, we’d tuck him back into bed. 

I loved going to get him in the morning. His room, with windows on two walls, got the most sun out of all the bedrooms. I was so pleased with how his room had turned out, with the giant tree decal on the wall, all of its sprawling branches and fluttering leaves serving as the backdrop to Jacob’s crib. Even as a little baby, he had a bookshelf crammed full of books and a closet full of clothes. The wooden cradle that my dad had built for my dolls when I was a kid sat in the corner, overflowing with stuffed animals and freshly chalk-painted a crisp navy blue to match the fluffy rug on the floor.

I would gather Jacob up and take him back to bed with me, where I’d nurse, or later, give him his morning bottle. Then I’d hold him in my arms and watch the Today Show while he drifted back to sleep. Sometimes I’d doze with him as the sun peeked through the shutters, creeping and crawling up the bed, urging me to finally get up and start the day.

As a baby, Jacob loved to be outside. We would take his little papasan chair and sit him outside on the patio with us. He would stare up at the trees swaying overhead, the clouds reflecting in his eyes, taking it all in. We survived the “witching hour” phase by loading him up in the stroller and pushing him around the neighborhood until his cries subsided. Some nights, we even plunked tumblers of wine in the stroller’s cupholders. Most of the time, Tommy would take him out on his own, to give me a chance to take a shower or do something that didn’t involve having a baby on my boob or in my arms. 

So much of parenthood, we would learn, is just about survival, making it from one day to the next. We survived our first days at home with a newborn. We survived the witching hour, which nobody warned us about beforehand, but then everybody seemed to know about while we were in the thick of it. We survived many sleepless nights, and then the first night he slept all the way through. We survived the transitions from bassinet to crib, and from breast milk to formula, and then to solid foods. We survived growth spurts, wonder weeks, and teething. We survived the first bloody booboo and the first scary-high fever. We survived ditching the pacifier and dropping a nap. We were so busy surviving from one day to the next that the first year went by in a blur.

When my maternity leave expired in October, I appealed for a year extension. When my year extension was up, I decided, with Tommy’s urging, to not return to the classroom at all. It didn’t make sense to pay for daycare so that I could go to school and spend all day with other people’s kids and, as much as I had loved teaching, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Jacob. We decided that maybe I could use the stay-at-home time to write.

I had gone from not sleeping because of a newborn, to not sleeping because of the ideas running through my head. I started a blog. I started working on a novel again. I started sending stories to parenting websites. I was shocked when not one, but two of them, were accepted. I started freelance writing for different places. We would sit in the office, me at the computer, working away, and Jacob, rocking in his baby swing. As he got older, his nap time became my work time. I no longer tried to sleep when the baby slept; instead, I wrote.

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Both sets of our parents had sold their homes in Florida and moved closer to us, with Tommy’s parents landing in Bristol, Virginia, in the summer, when Jacob was just a few months old, and mine, once again calling Pittsburgh their home that winter.

When my parents moved north, they brought my dog Yodi with them so that he could live with us. While he wandered around our house, sniffing, exploring, and sending the cats running for cover, it was clear that he was happy to see me again; however, it was also painfully obvious that he was in rough shape. At almost fifteen years old, he had outlived my parents’ dog, and it was clear that the years had finally caught up with him. His body shivered and shook with the cold and with old age. His teeth were bad, he had developed a heart condition, and he was losing control of his bladder. He wasn’t the young, strong, peppy dog that he had once been. 

I put the sofa bed mattress on the floor downstairs in the office so that I could keep Yodi company as he twitched and yelped and whimpered in his sleep throughout the night. He was up and down a lot, trying to get comfortable. During the day, we’d move out to the living room, where he would sit on the couch with me and Jacob. When Jacob napped in the Pack n' Play, he would lie on the rug right next to him. Yodi only lived with us for a few weeks before it finally came time to say goodbye. I was glad that my two babies got to meet, even if it was only for a little while. 

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As time went by, our little family fell into a rhythm. We established a Friday night tradition, a family dinner date: slices of pizza and wine tasting at the Italian Store. Jacob did well there and in most restaurants, always a remarkably well-behaved kid. We knew we were lucky, so we ate out often, taking him with us to brunch and to dinner. Our parents came to visit often, and we would leave them with their grandson so that we could go to a concert or out to dinner, just the two of us. But we were homebodies at heart, so what we really loved was just spending time together at home. 

The place was great for having get-togethers. We had my baby shower there a few months after we moved in. It was a relaxed party where everyone showed up in their pajamas. When the weather was warm and our flowers were in bloom, we invited people over to hang out and sip rose under the twinkle lights we’d strung up on the pergola out on the back patio. We once had an Italian night, with lots of antipasto, spaghetti and lasagna, and wine. And we decided that every year at Christmas, we would have people over for a holiday party, Goodwin-style: cookies and cocktails.

We started baking in the fall, freezing batches of cookies and saving them until the holidays. Then we arranged hundreds of cookies on platters, made pitchers of sangria and pots of hot chocolate, and opened our door to all of our friends. 

People brought wine for us and presents for Jacob. I loved how everyone crowded around the island in the kitchen, my friends talking with Tommy’s friends. The first year we had the cookie party, Jacob, about six months old, was passed around from friend to friend. At the party the following year, he tottered around, trailing someone else’s bigger kids. It was the home I had always imagined, full of too much food and friends that felt like family.

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A week after the party, we loaded sixteen-month-old Jacob into his stroller and bundled up for a walk. With snow in the forecast, we figured it was probably going to be our last halfway decent day to get outside for a while. Before we left, Tommy picked out a bottle of Lambrusco from our collection. We walked down our street and around the block, and even though you could feel a slight chill to the air, like winter was finally on its way, I was a little warm in my jacket. Halfway through our stroll, Tommy ordered pizza online from his phone, and we figured we’d make it back to the house just in time for its arrival. 

When we eventually turned to head down the side street to our house on the corner, Tommy pointed up to the sky. “Well, that can’t be good,” he said. I followed his gaze and we both stared up at the rising plume of dark smoke for a second, wondering where it was coming from. And then Tommy took off running. The smoke was coming from our house. 

I jogged as fast as I could manage, the stroller bumping over the sidewalk, hoping that maybe it was a mistake. Maybe we were just seeing things. That couldn’t be coming from our house. Not our brand-new-to-us house. No. No!

But a neighbor was banging on our front door. Another had gotten out of his car in the middle of the street and was yelling that he had already called 911. Black smoke filled the window to the farthest right of the house. Tommy disappeared around the side towards the back. I caught a glimpse of our little black cat, Rockie, as she darted through the backyard and knew that Tommy must’ve tried to go in the back door. There was a fire extinguisher on the shelf right there in the laundry room, I thought. And one farther in the house, under the kitchen sink. But Tommy didn’t have time to get to them. He came running back towards the front of the house, car keys jingling in his hands. He hopped in the car and backed out of the driveway just as the first living room window exploded, only a few feet away. Black smoke vomited outward and flames licked around the edges of the window. Seconds later, the next window popped out, sending another spray of glass flying into the yard.

My knees felt weak as I backed the stroller down the sidewalk. I watched the flames take over the lower level of our house. It dawned on me that Rockie had escaped, but Sneezy, our big, fat, gray cat, was probably still inside. 

I didn’t know what else to do in that moment, so I grabbed my phone out of the stroller cup holder and called my parents. Almost forty years old, and when times get tough, I still want my parents. “Dad? It’s me. Look, everything’s okay, but I just wanted you to know that there’s a fire at our house…” I had to pause before I burst into tears. “But we’re okay. We went for a walk and came back and… uh… it’s bad.”

I don’t remember what he said in response, other than a muttered, “Jesus Christ!” 

“We’re all okay, and Jacob’s okay, but I have to go, because I can hear the fire trucks coming. I just wanted to let you know. I’ll call you again soon. We’re okay.”

As the fire trucks pulled up, they cut the sirens and directed those of us near the house to move across the street. Because I’d heard about so many of the jobs my dad had worked on the fire department, I was pretty familiar with what was about to happen. A ladder up to a second-floor window, bust it open for ventilation, and then the firefighters climbed into our bedroom. An EMT rolled a stretcher up the sidewalk towards the house. “We’re all out!” I yelled. “Someone tell him we’re all out. There’s no one in the house. We’re fine!” 

A neighbor tried to put a blanket over my shoulders but I shrugged it off and bent to tuck it in around Jacob instead. His eyes were wide as he stared at the firetrucks and all the commotion; he didn’t seem scared, just in awe. Bent down in front of him, thinking about how awful it was that my baby was sitting outside in the cold while his house went up in flames, I lost it. I knelt in front of the stroller, my head on the tray, sobbing hysterically. Because there was nothing I could do but stand by and watch helplessly as the firefighters did their job.

Tommy’s hands came to rest on my shoulders, jolting me back into the moment. “Jess. I need you to get up, and I need you to take care of him,” he said, inclining his head towards Jacob. I got to my feet and looked him in the face. The kid I sat next to in AP English in high school. The kid that I’d always had a crush on. The man who’d made my adult life exciting and interesting and who pushed me to follow my dreams. The man who was standing in front of me with blackened lips and gray smudges of soot and ash on his cheeks… I was going to yell at him later for going into that damn house. “I need you to be calm, okay? It’ll be okay. The most important thing is that we’re okay.”

______

That night, Tommy and I stood in the black hole that had, just a few hours earlier, been our living room. The fire marshal’s flashlight swept around, casting a dusty, silver light on what remained of our furnishings. The metal skeleton of the couch stood in the same place, but the cushions and stuffing had disintegrated. Our television oozed down the wall like a clock in a surrealist painting. The bookshelves had collapsed in a heap of scorched wood and paper. Recessed lights dangled freely from their wires in the ceiling, because the ceiling was no longer there. You could see straight to the floorboards above. 

I looked down instead, trying to keep it together while they talked about boarding up the windows and putting a lock box on the door. That was all that could be done for the moment. My sneakers were soaked with water and grime and I shivered. Inches from my feet, I spotted a package of baby wipes that had survived the inferno. I toed through the sludge, wondering what else I might find. I uncovered a silicone teething toy. 

The days after the fire were a blur. We stayed with my friend from school, Amanda, taking over her house right before winter break. 

We made several trips to the store to get our immediate needs taken care of – a couple days’ worth of clothes, some toiletries, diapers and sippy cups for Jacob, but there was always something we forgot. Friends and colleagues stopped by or got in touch to find out what we needed, to see how they could help. We didn’t even know where to start. Word eventually spread of our location at Amanda’s, and soon, people began to drop off household items and clothes and toys for Jacob. 

After several days, our family was reunited. Our big cat, Sneezy, had suffered from smoke inhalation but after a short stay at the animal hospital, he was just fine. Our other cat, Rockie, who had escaped, was on the lam until Tommy finally caught her in a Hav-a-Heart trap he set up in the backyard.

We were able to secure a month-to-month lease on an apartment in Falls Church where we would stay during the rebuilding of our home, but it wouldn’t be available until the end of December. In the meantime, Tommy managed to locate a furnished apartment in Arlington that we could rent for a week, where we would spend Christmas as a family. 

Although both sets of our parents offered to have us come visit and stay with them for Christmas, we insisted that we were celebrating Christmas at home as we had planned, even if “home” was a weekly rental on Clarendon Boulevard. The day before Christmas Eve, Tommy ran out and bought one of the last Christmas trees he could find, determined to lift our spirits with some holiday cheer. We put Jacob to bed in a borrowed Pack ‘n Play and decorated the tree with the few ornaments Tommy had been able to scrounge up from the already-on-clearance, on-to-the-next-holiday section at Target. On Christmas Eve, we braved the craziness that is Wegman’s before any major holiday and gathered the makings of our Christmas meal, plus two bottles of wine. Our parents came for Christmas dinner, from Pittsburgh and Bristol, just like we had originally intended, and they showered Jacob with presents, just like we knew they would. It was a relief to pretend that everything was normal, even if it was just for a few hours. 

As we were getting ready to move into our apartment on New Year’s Eve, Amanda asked us to stop by her house to go through some of the things people had dropped off for us. We thought there would be a few staple items, but instead, we arrived to find boxes and bags piled everywhere in her living room, and even more stacked up on her back porch. “I don’t know what you want to do with this stuff,” she said. “There’s so much. There’s a ton of clothes for Jacob. Boxes of diapers. Someone even offered to bring you a crib.” She handed me a thick manila envelope. “And there’s these.” 

I lifted the flap of the envelope and slid my hand into a jumble of papers, pulling out a Home Depot gift card. “Who is this from?” I asked, turning it over and looking for a name.

 “I don’t even know anymore. There were so many people dropping things off. I couldn’t keep track of all the people who wanted to help you guys.” She threw her arms around me in a hug, her eyes watering. 

On the way back to the apartment, with our car packed full of things people had donated, I started looking through the envelope at the notes and cards from friends, neighbors, and total strangers. There were gift cards to places like Home Depot and Bed Bath & Beyond. There was cash. There were words of encouragement from people I didn’t even know, that left me gripping Tommy’s arm and bawling in the passenger seat.

I know this takes a heavy emotional toll. Remember, you are not alone. Many in little Falls Church city are thinking of you and want to help. I am so glad no one was hurt. Count every small blessing. I wish only the best for you in the new year.

- A neighbor

Every night during those first few weeks, we went to bed absolutely exhausted and emotionally drained. My whole body ached. My mind raced. When I thought I was finally done crying, I would peek at Jacob in his crib on the new baby monitor and see him sleeping peacefully, and the tears would come spilling out all over again.

We started making lists of the contents of the house for the insurance company and I would lie awake at night, picturing each room in my mind, each wall, trying to think of anything I might have missed for those goddamn lists. Lying there, other things we needed to locate would come to mind. When I thought of something, I would grab my phone to jot it down. Passports. Jacob’s birth certificate. When I finally managed to close my eyes and drift off, I could still see the fire rolling through the house. I would eventually jolt awake, drenched in sweat, imagining the worst. Then Tommy would wrap himself around me because he wasn’t sleeping, either. “It’s going to be okay,” he would whisper, and we would both struggle back to sleep.

We returned to the house several times to meet with the insurance adjusters, the restoration company, and contractors. Even though insurance would replace everything, I still couldn’t help hoping to pick something out of the wreckage. A mound of debris sat outside one of the living room windows; the fire marshal had shoveled it out while doing his inspection. Every time we walked past the pile to go into the house, I randomly spotted something else that had barely survived – a picture frame, a charred copy of Good Night, Moon.

Inside, with the windows boarded up, the house was a pitch-black cave. Even though our flashlights didn’t do much to cut through the darkness, we still poked through the piles of rubble, determined to find things that had gone missing. I stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the knee-high pile of wood and paper that had formerly been our bookshelves, looking for memories and things that had once lived there. Insurance would replace furniture, electronics, and clothes, but there were sentimental things that no amount of money could replace. Jacob’s baby book. The wine corks I had saved from every meal or celebration with friends. Our wedding photo album. My grandmother’s ceramic ducks. 

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As a little girl, when I wasn’t sprawled out on the floor at Gram’s apartment, drawing and doodling my way through a brand-new pack of loose-leaf paper, I was building blanket forts under her dining room table and chairs and playing with her three ceramic duck statues, pretending they were my pets. There were three of them, small, medium, and large – who I had dubbed the mommy, daddy, and the baby. Of course, what I didn’t know as a child was that the statues, with their emerald green heads, were really all males.

My grandmother passed away when I was twelve. My mom hung onto the ducks for me, finally presenting them to me as a housewarming gift after I graduated from college. As a kid, I thought the ducks were beautiful. I was able to look past the mommy duck’s chipped bill and the fine cracks that spiderwebbed here and there through the clear glaze on each bird. As an adult, I displayed them proudly wherever I lived. Now they were gone. Ashes. Everything was ashes.

Each time we ventured into the dark house, I marveled at what the fire had chosen to take and what it had chosen to spare. The bottle of Lambrusco we had been planning to have with pizza that night still sat on the kitchen counter, but just twelve inches away, the coffee maker was a puddle of plastic. Marshmallows puffed up in the pantry like cheerful campfire treats but what was left of the light switch covers dripped down the walls over blistered and bubbled paint. We were startled to hear that, somewhere in the mess, one of the smoke alarms still tweeted sporadically in the otherwise silent house. At first, the chilling sound sent goosebumps down my arms. I was grateful that we hadn’t been home when it first started its panic call, but after a few minutes of stepping over sopping carpet and crumbled chunks of drywall, I just wanted to find the damn thing, throw it to the floor, and stomp on it until it finally stopped its smoke-strangled chirping.

Upstairs, the hallway was littered with broken glass from the family pictures that had once lined the walls. The beams of our flashlights revealed mysterious red, yellow, and blue streaks on the floor. I stared at them in wonder for a minute before I realized that the firefighters must have trampled a package of Jacob’s finger paints in the playroom, leaving behind the only splotches of color in the dark, dismal house. 

Our bedroom was a disaster; the dresser must have been knocked over when the firefighters came in through the window. Every item of clothing hanging in the closet was black. I reminded myself that I could buy more clothes. We could replace furniture.

The hardest room to enter was Jacob’s. The canvases that Tommy had designed and ordered before Jacob was even born, the ones with rock lyrics – U2, Robbie Williams, and Andrew McMahon singing about babies and children – were still hanging on the wall, but were singed so that you could no longer make out the words. The cradle that my dad had built for my Cabbage Patch Kids still sat in the corner, but now all of the stuffed animals it held were black. The giant tree decal that we had painstakingly assembled on the wall had disappeared, lost in a coating of soot. Underneath, Jacob’s crib was covered in a nightmare blanket of ashes. 

We might have lost our whole house, but this could have been so much worse.

Each time Tommy and I went to the house, we stayed there longer than we probably should have, coughing and hacking in the sooty interior, working on our lists for the insurance company, taking pictures of the rooms to study later to make sure we got everything. We’d sit propped in bed next to each other, peering at the pictures on Tommy’s phone, trying to make out the mysterious gray objects we needed to add to our inventories. Our lists had to include what every single missing or destroyed item was, plus when and where it was purchased, and how much it cost. We had to do this for clothes. Diapers. Bottles of wine. Books. Toys. Dishes. Spices. You never realize how much stuff you really have until you lose it all.

There were several times where I would venture to the house by myself, desperately hoping to recover something, anything that I had overlooked during our last visit. Some days I would come home victorious, with, say, the locket Tommy had given me on our wedding day, or my wallet and car keys, but usually I would return disappointed, unsuccessful in my attempts to locate any more treasures – sentimental or practical. Back at the apartment, the clothes I had been wearing in the house would go straight into the washing machine. In the shower, I would scrub my fingernails and shampoo my hair repeatedly, desperate to get rid of the darkness and smoke that clung to everything.

Once we gave the contractors the go-ahead, the inside of our house was going to be gutted. While Tommy and I were eager for the rebuilding process to begin, I was sickened by the thought that everything in the house was just going to be cleared out and chucked into the enormous Dumpster that had taken up residence in our driveway. For days, I had a nagging feeling that we might forget something, that maybe something had survived the fire and we just hadn’t come across it yet. I worried that maybe we had just overlooked some of the things we had been searching for – some of our son’s first artistic scribbles, a quilt a friend made me, my grandmother’s ducks. I knew those things could be replaced or recreated, but my sentimental heart ached for what we wouldn’t be able to get back. 

The day before demolition was set to begin, I went to the house for the last time. I paused outside to fill my lungs with a few deep breaths of cold January air before plunging into the darkness. I wandered through each room, looking around, but we had scavenged them pretty thoroughly. There was nothing left. Even the persistent smoke detector had finally given up its sad, eerie song. I decided it was finally time to go. It would take several months, but at least this part of the process was over and we could finally move forward.

I locked up and replaced the key in the lockbox, then sat down on the steps. I coughed and spit while I wiped my sneakers clean with a package of baby wipes from the car. As I sat there, trying to scrub my hands clean, I gazed at the pile of debris still sitting on the walkway outside the window. And I thought I saw something.

I got to my feet and walked to the pile, bending down to look more closely, wondering if I was seeing things. There, sticking up out of the soot, plain as day, was what looked like the head of a duck. I reached for it, expecting it to be just a fragment, but it didn’t immediately give. I loosened the ash around it, like an archaeologist gently attempting to unearth fragile bone, and revealed the duck’s slender neck. I wiggled it back and forth, sending soot crumbling down the pile and all over the sneakers I had just cleaned. I brushed more soot away and the whole body of the ceramic duck eventually came free. His bill and tail feathers were chipped, but that didn’t matter. 

Tears spilled down my cheeks, stinging my face in the cold air. That was exactly what I had been afraid of. That I would miss something. That I would walk away from the house and never know what I could have gotten back if I had just looked a little harder. I placed the duck, the daddy duck, on the porch steps and then rushed back to the pile, determined to find the others.

I got down on my knees and started digging through the soot and ash. After a minute of fumbling, I uncovered the baby duck. Sobbing, I turned him over and over in my hands. Although the emerald green glaze was now a dull, matte black, he was in one piece. He went to sit with his daddy on the steps while I continued my search for the mommy duck. I brushed through the pile, knocking debris all over the walkway and into the grass. At last, I found her. Part of her. Her head had broken off. She had a hole in her side. I combed through the pile until my hands were black and my fingers were numb. I couldn’t find the rest of her. She was gone. 

I sat down on the steps with the other two ducks. The daddy and the baby. They were blackened and broken, but they were okay. Somehow, they had managed to survive this ordeal, and I would, too.

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JESSICA GOODWIN IS AN AUTHOR AND FREELANCE WRITER FROM FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA. SHE HAS WRITTEN FIVE WOMEN’S FICTION NOVELS, A SERIAL NOVELLA, POSTS AND ARTICLES FOR NUMEROUS ONLINE PUBLICATIONS, AND HAS JUST COMPLETED A MEMOIR. SHE RECENTLY GRADUATED FROM HARVARD UNIVERSITY WITH A MASTER OF LIBERAL ARTS IN EXTENSION STUDIES: CREATIVE WRITING AND LITERATURE. MORE INFO CAN BE FOUND AT WWW.JESSICA-GOODWIN.COM.