by Amy Arnold
So I came back. It must have been after eight when I got here, because the beginners had already begun and there wasn’t much happening, although Kate was there in forest green and she wasn’t looking this way, she was teaching her class. There wasn’t much happening, so I decided to start on my hot chocolate. I poured some into the mug and when I looked up she was strolling towards the window.
And there she is, standing by the window, in forest green.
I expect she’s noticed the crescent moon hanging over the car park, because she talked a lot about moon energies. She’d taken a course. She’d taken a course in the spring, which wasn’t long before she put her hand in my pot of granola.
I expect she’s noticed the moon between us.
‘Is it waxing or waning, Ash? Tell me and I’ll tell you about its energy,’ she’d say.
She had a leaflet. She’d taken the course in the spring, so she still needed her leaflet.
‘Waxing or waning?’ she’d say.
And I’d tell her, and all the talk of moons made me think of a poem, an American poem, but she always said it wasn’t as if I was American or anything, so I kept the poem to myself. I mean, I kept saying it to myself whilst she checked her leaflet, because it was only a short poem and there was time. There was enough time to say it over and over.
The moon was a thread of a thing that last day. She hadn’t asked. I was waiting for her to ask.
Is it waxing or waning, Ash? That’s what I wanted her to say. I wanted her to say the same things she’d always said. She looked out of the window. She looked up at the moon and I had my answer ready. Waning, I was going to say, but she didn’t ask.
She looked up at the moon.
‘Almost fallow,’ she said.
She shook her head. She rattled the last of it from the sky. I swear that’s what she did. She definitely liked moons. The week after she helped me with the pose she called me over after class to show me the crescent moon.
‘Ash,’ she said. ‘Ash. Ash,’ she said. ‘It’s easy to transition from the mountain to the crescent moon. From Tadasana to Ashta Chandrāsana.’
She liked to use the Sanskrit. She liked it both ways, that’s what she said.
She jumped up from the floor. She was always sitting on the floor. She said my name and she leapt up from the floor. She started with the mountain. Then the crescent moon. She softened herself into its bow. That’s what she did and she’d done it a thousand times before. She looked like she had. And when she relaxed she took a breath. A slow breath. A harmonising breath.
‘You try,’ she said, and I felt the shape of my waist with her hands on it.
‘Gently,’ she said. ‘Slowly,’ she said.
I opened my eyes. Abbott was looking at me through the glass in the top of the studio door. He was holding Charlie’s hand.
‘You said eight forty-five,’ he said as I pushed it open.
He was looking at his Second Core. He was tightening his jaw muscles, he was clenching them.
‘It’s nearly nine,’ he said.
I felt the shape of my waist where her hands had been.
‘And you must be?’ Kate said to him.
‘Abbott,’ he said. ‘I’m Abbott, and this is Charlie.’
‘Well, it’s lovely to have you both here,’ she said.
She put her hand out for Abbott to shake it, and after he had his jaw relaxed Kate went down on her haunches, crouched down to where Charlie was and whispered something in her ear, and whatever she said made Charlie grin. She was grinning. She was grinning about whatever it was, then Kate stood up. She pretended to zip her mouth shut, and Charlie copied her.
‘Zip.’ That’s what they both said.
‘She’s nice, your teacher,’ Abbott said as we walked towards the car.
Charlie zipped her mouth. She zipped it both ways, and more than once. Open and shut, open and shut, open and shut.
‘She’s nice,’ he said.
But I was thinking about the crescent moon and how to transition into it from the mountain. I was thinking about the shape of my waist now her hands had been on it.
It’s probably the moon that’s made her walk to the window again. She probably knows about its energy without looking at her leaflet these days. But the moon wasn’t visible last time, and she walked to the window then, even though she’d never done it before. No, there definitely wasn’t a visible moon and was it waxing or waning? No, there wasn’t a moon, but still. Still, she walked right over and I’ve never seen her walk over before. I can’t remember her walking to the window, I can’t remember seeing her do that, and I remember a lot of things. Abbott says I remember too many things.
She knows I’m here then. Here, on my log. It’s perfectly possible, because I can’t remember her walking to the window before. Call it serendipity, or karma, and that was her word. Karma.
I asked her to explain what it meant. I wanted it for my collection the moment she’d said it.
‘What does it mean?’ I said.
She took my hand. She told me.
Karma kept me awake that night. It was something to do with the letter k and the weight of responsibility behind it. I watched the sky through the skylight. I watched it roll on by. By the time morning came I was tired of thinking about karma and anyway, it didn’t seem so ominous all spelled out in broad daylight, and the daylight was broad. It was summer. Even though it rained almost every day, it was summer.
I thought that top was forest green, but it isn’t. Look at it now through the window. Look at it under the light of the moon. It’s more dark moss than forest. I don’t know why I thought it was forest. She was better with colours than me, but she shouldn’t keep staring out of the window. She should walk away. Get back to teaching the beginners. She should stop looking through the window. It isn’t nice watching people like that. Everyone always says you shouldn’t stare.
She shouldn’t.
Maybe she isn’t. Maybe she’s looking at the moon. Maybe she isn’t staring at all, although she’s never walked to the window before. I can’t remember her walking to the window, and she liked moons back then. Yes, there must’ve been moons she could’ve looked at. She didn’t. And I know a poem about the moon, but it’s American, and after a while I had to think carefully, think twice about mentioning poems from America, because it’s not as if I’m American or anything. No, it’s just that some poems are better than others.
Lynn left a message on my phone.
She’s planning to take the three of them bowling. Sophie, Charlie and Grace. It’s a treat. She said she wanted to treat them. She called them the girls, like they belong together.
‘Charlie might want to dress up. Wear something a little bit special,’ she said.
And Charlie says she does, but there isn’t anything to dress up in. She hasn’t got anything a little bit special.
I had an idea. I waited. I waited until we’d put the plates in the dishwasher. I waited until Abbott sat on the sofa and patted the space next to him and said, what are we watching tonight, then? I waited until Charlie sat down next to him. I heard the TV. I heard them laughing, I heard her pat the sofa too. Telling Nelson to come up, come up, boy. I went out into the garden. I went into the garden to look for something to use, and there must be something, because it isn’t that long since we made flower bracelets. Last year, the year before. We’ve made them every year since.
Every year since they’d grown too tall, the flowers. The petals, the leaves, the stems were brighter than they should have been. The sky was thick with clouds and we were kneeling, we were kneeling amongst the flowers, in amongst them, and the earth was damp, and before Charlie said the thing about the swifts going, before she said anything about them leaving, that’s when we were making bracelets. We’ve made them every year since.
It isn’t always wrong to end a sentence like that, with since, I mean, and there’ll be something. Something I can use for a bracelet. Something a little bit special.
Something for dressing up. Charlie might want to, after all, and I was sure it wasn’t late, but Joan’s curtains are closed and her lights are off, so it must be earlier than ten, but I didn’t look at the clock before I came out, so I can’t be sure, and I still haven’t asked Abbott to get me a nice watch, but it can’t be later than ten, so I don’t know why Joan’s done for the day. She said herself she’s done for the day by ten, but what does she mean by ten? What does it mean if time goes round in circles? Because where is before, where is after when everything is before and after and everything comes around again, so when is Joan done for the day if she’s done now and it isn’t ten? I’m fairly sure it can’t be anywhere near ten, it isn’t long since dinner, and here, I’ll use field scabious, because she’s always looked good in blue. Looked good in cerulean. Under it. But it’s been a long time since.
I swam out. I swam right out until I was under the sky. It was calm out there, so I had to swim right out. I kept on swimming and I didn’t think she’d cry and it isn’t that difficult to make something special. The stems are good for twisting, see. It isn’t that hard, and I can take my time because Joan’s done for the day and Charlie, Nelson and Abbott are watching TV. I waited until I heard her pat the sofa for him to come up, come up, boy. And I twist the stems like this, which is the way Papa showed me, and the way I showed Charlie, because this is the way you twist them to help them stay strong.
I never liked picking them, flowers, but Papa said it helps.
Thinning them out.
But it didn’t help with choosing. Because which ones stay? I mean, which ones go?
‘Like this,’ Papa said.
He held the twisted stems so I could see.
‘Like this,’ I said to Charlie.
I held them so she could see.
Kate said ‘like this’, too, but she was talking about yoga and Papa and I were talking about the way stems need to be twisted if you want to make something that lasts. And there must have been someone who said ‘like this’ to Papa, but he didn’t tell me. He took the stems and held them out so I could see.
‘Like this,’ he said. ‘Be careful with them. Be tender.’
And Lynn’s taking the girls bowling, so a bracelet should be just the thing. Something a little bit special, because she’s always looked good in blue.
‘You have to take your time,’ Papa said.
He was twisting the stems.
If you want to get it right, you have to take your time.
But possession is an illusion. He’d said that too. And I suppose if Papa stopped to think about it, he’d think that possessing time was the biggest illusion of all. Because he didn’t have a nice watch, or any watch because he wasn’t fooled the way most people are fooled.
And there, it’s almost done. If you want to get it right, you have to take your time.
You have to take time. But where do you take it from?
The girls are standing at our front door. They’re looking a little bit special.
They say ‘ta-da!’ when Charlie opens it. They say ta-da. Probably because they’re wearing something a little bit special. Lynn says there’s plenty of time.
‘There’s plenty of time, sweet,’ she says to Charlie. ‘If you want to pop upstairs and get changed.’
But there isn’t anything for Charlie to get changed into and where can something a little bit special come from at the drop of a hat? But the girls are sparkling and Charlie isn’t sparkling and I’m trying not to think of the day Mrs McIntosh said something about giving Charlie’s hair a little wash.
‘A little wash,’ she said. ‘It’ll just help her be, you know. You know,’ she said.
And why do people always say ‘a little’ when all they mean is the thing itself? Because people who say a little instead of the thing itself could save so much time, but they aren’t thinking about time, even though most of them have nice watches, they aren’t thinking about time, they’re only thinking about saying the thing they want to say without saying the thing they want to say and Mrs McIntosh could have saved herself time. The bottom of her neck turned red when she said the words ‘little wash’. I could tell she didn’t want to say little wash and I didn’t want her to say it either, but after she said it we gave Charlie’s hair a little wash and after that her hair was as clean as the other girls’ hair and Charlie hasn’t popped upstairs, although there’s plenty of time. She hasn’t popped up because there isn’t anything a little bit special to wear, and now there isn’t plenty of time, even though there was, because Lynn’s saying they should be off.
‘We should be off then,’ she says, and the plenty must have gone somewhere because it was here only a few minutes ago and where has it gone now, plenty? Where has it gone?
They’re ready for the off and Charlie hasn’t got anything a little bit special. She hasn’t got the flower bracelet, although I took my time, and now they’re ready, and now they’re going, and maybe Lynn’s taken plenty with her. Maybe she’s stuffed it inside her hair on the top of her head because there’s room for plenty in there. There’s definitely room. And it looks nice like that, on top of her head. It does look nice, although Kate never put her hair up. No, she never put it up.
I told her I’d always had mine short. That’s what I said when she asked me.
And come to think of it, I am tired. I need time to myself. I should shut the blinds and get some rest. Like Abbott said. Like Lynn and Sashya said, and thinning the flowers out helps. It helps the air circulate. It helps them breathe, and Charlie and I know how to breathe underwater, but Abbott doesn’t. He says he’s never been taught. And I’ll probably rest. Thinning them out was the important thing. That was the thing that mattered, and now I’ll rest. They all say I should rest. Go on up to bed and rest, in our bed. Abbott’s and mine.
‘Tiredness comes down on me like night,’ Kate said. ‘All of a sudden.’
She slept then, in our bed, after that first time. It was summer too. The height of summer, the height of day. The light was everywhere, but she slept. I didn’t think it was possible to sleep in light like that.
‘Why would anyone sleep?’ Papa said. ‘On nights like these?’
Sometimes he’d go. After he’d said something like that he’d go off into the night, except it wasn’t really night and I didn’t know where he was, but it wasn’t dark and we both understood, because he was the first one to tell me about Arctic summers. I knew about them long before I found the book by Jari.
Kate slept. Right here. It’s hard to believe. It’s hard to forget. The light was coming in and it must have stopped raining for once, because the swifts were circling the rooftops. I could hear them. I could see them from where I was lying. I had time to watch them, there on our bed with her sleeping beside me.
She slept on her back with her arm flung out, although I didn’t see her fling it and I didn’t know if I’d get another chance. I was awake and she was sleeping, with her arm flung out, so I picked it up at the wrist, where it was heavy. I placed it across the slack of her stomach and waited a bit. I waited for a few moments, then I flung it back to where it had been just before. It made a noise, it played back into her body, but she didn’t wake. She didn’t even stir, and the light was coming in across the room and the swifts were circling the rooftops, and I didn’t think about how long it would be until Abbott came home, although thinking about it now, I could’ve touched her. I should’ve at least looked at her some more but I couldn’t, or I didn’t, or I hadn’t thought of it. All I did was shut my eyes and listen. I remember her. Full of noise. That’s how she was after that first time.
As soon as she woke she folded her flung arm back into her body. Like a wing, that’s what I thought. She folded her arm like a wing, and then rolled onto her side. There was so much skin. I mean, she had so much it took me by surprise. When she got up she dressed with her back to me. It was after the first time. All of this was after the first time. She dressed with her back to me, her breasts were facing the wall
and the swifts were leaving soon.
‘Are you coming to bed?’ Abbott said that night. That summer. It was after the first time.
‘To bed,’ he said.
To our bed. That’s what he meant. I’d never thought of it until. Until he said it, ‘Are you coming to bed?’ And it meant our bed and leaving out the possessive made it sound even more like ours. And it sounded naive. He sounded naive because he should have known. He should know possession is an illusion.
‘Are you coming to bed?’ he said.
‘How can you sleep?’ I said. ‘How can anyone sleep on nights like these?’
‘But you’ve slept in summer before,’ he said.
I had.
It wasn’t easy to sleep that night. Abbott rubbed his legs and chest up against where she’d been and all I could think was that he was hairy. I kept thinking about how hairy he was, I could hear his hairs brushing up against the sheets, and I’d never thought much about how hairy he was before but that night I couldn’t think of anything but his hairs. I thought about her too. I tried not to, but I did. I tried to think about Abbott’s hairs, the opposite thing to thinking about her. But I couldn’t think about his hairs the whole time. I mean, I couldn’t go on thinking about them without thinking about her. So I let Abbott hold me. I let him hold me whilst he slept. He held me, it helped me think about his hairs. I tried not to think about her. I listened. I strained to hear the sound of his hairs on the sheet and I almost forgot the way she’d got dressed, the way she turned her back on me.
In the morning Abbott asked what’d got into me. He said it was lovely sleeping together like that. Lovely was the word he used. He said he didn’t care. He said he didn’t care what’d got into me, he only cared that whatever it was had. He liked being close. That’s what he said and I said OK and let him hold me every night that summer.