Surface

by Stacy Robinson

  His breathing slowed. “Okay,” he said, fluffing his hair and pushing up from the floor.

  She wondered how he felt about all that he had overheard in the study, but for the present, all that really mattered was that he felt safe.

  “When do I have to move?”

  “It should be about three weeks, honey, but we’re doing this together. And I promise to make it as easy as possible,” she said, intending to enlist Andi and Ray throughout the transition.

  Nick resumed his inspection of the room.

  “You can count on me, Nicky,” she said, hoping to convince him at least of that, and convince herself that she’d be able to help him salvage his confidence. Claire glanced at the collection of snow globes and Madame Alexander dolls on the shelves, and pictured a polite and optimistic girl packing up her things for her next great adventure.

  “Pink?” Nicholas said, sharply turning from the alcove and fixing a scowl on her. “You expect me to live in a . . . pink bedroom ?”

  It was like aspirin kicking in after a long battle with midnight. The scowl, now tipping up at the sides, was bogus and ironic. She stood up, smiling. “I share your concern,” she said, taking a Benjamin Moore color deck from her purse and handing it to him. “Pick one, kiddo. We can paint the room any shade you like.” She wanted the idea of a fresh palette to become much more than just a metaphor.

  Nicholas fanned it out and considered the spectrum of choices, laughing softly as he did. It was the first time she had heard him laugh in over six months.

  As they drove off, Claire looked over her shoulder, and framed within the soggy halo of the rear wipers, their new cottage—the last stop, Claire hoped, in their year of living precariously—receded into a light fog.

  CHAPTER 46

  Claire phoned Cora from the SFO baggage carousel. “I’m just heading to get the rental car, so I can be in the City in about half an hour. Do you want to meet for lunch at the Fairmont?”

  “I’m so excited you’re here, dear, but I completely forgot about my meeting with Martha Van Deegan about the debutante committee. This quitting smoking has left me positively batty. I need to be in Pacific Heights at noon.” Her voice rang with excitement. “Isn’t that just fabulous?”

  Claire hoisted her garment bag onto the cart with one hand. “Just fabulous, Mother.” Just so fabulously Cora. “So, what time would you like to meet? I have a cocktail party at seven thirty.”

  “How about tea instead? Say two thirty?”

  “Fine,” she said, thinking the trip was shaping up to be much more relaxing than she’d originally imagined. “Call my cell when you’re leaving Mrs. Van Deegan’s delightful manse, just to make sure we’re still on schedule.”

  “Okay, sweetie. Toodleloo,” Cora chirped, not even asking whose cocktail party was on the docket.

  Claire remembered Mrs. Van Deegen from her own deb days, and she’d likely be seeing her that evening at Letty Rusalka’s, along with enough of San Francisco’s social doyennes and their art patron husbands to knock Cora completely out of her tree with excitement—all thanks to Zibby Harrold’s graciously procured invitation. Zibby had the apartment below Letty’s, and wouldn’t hear of Claire not staying at her place and attending the party in her stead, since she had commitments in New York. Claire had met Victor and Letty Rusalka at various auctions and receptions over the years, and had always admired Victor’s impeccable eye for new artists, and Letty’s outspoken support of the arts, and she had been saddened to learn of Victor’s death the previous winter. Theirs had been a devoted and enviable marriage of over fifty years—the kind that Claire had long ago hoped she and Michael might grow into. So the chance to reconnect with the venerable Mrs. Rusalka amid her extremely notable private collection, coupled with the opportunity to spend one glorious night in Zibby’s marble and taffeta pied-à-terre before heading down to her girlhood room in Burlingame, was too good to pass up. The fact that Richard was driving in to be her escort was an added bonus.

  Claire strolled out to the curb feeling unbound. The weather was overcast, but mild and warm. She tied her sweater around her shoulders and boarded the rental-car bus. Fifteen minutes later, she was in a Ford Taurus driving north on the 101, putting some much-needed physical and emotional distance between herself and Michael and the lawyers, and the draining march toward divorce. Clouds veiled the colorful row houses of Daly City, but as Claire rounded the curve that opened San Francisco to her view—a sight that never failed to take her breath away—the sun broke through, draping the glass and steel skyline in diamonds. She cruised toward the city, and away from the disarray of the previous weeks.

  Off the highway, the streets rolled past her, hilly and angular and gray, and in no time, wet. A profusion of striped and floral umbrellas blossomed up outside the boutiques and cafés. At a stop sign, a man dashed in front of Claire’s car, holding a newspaper over his head with one hand and a steaming coffee cup in the other. He licked his wrist and made for cover under the awning of a gallery. As Claire drove past, she saw him fold the paper into neat fourths and begin to read as he sipped. The familiarity of the act struck her—transported her, really, to a hundred Sunday mornings in Burlingame. And instead of making the turn toward the Fairmont, she found herself heading downtown to the financial district. After a brief scuffle with traffic, she pulled over and looked up to see a grand pyramid flooded with light. Slowly the letters of the familiar insignia emerged from the receding mist. The building seemed even larger to Claire than she remembered from her childhood—her father’s place of business, the Transamerica Building—towering above her and glistening through the rain. She killed the engine and leaned her seat back.

  “I was charmed by a silly illusion, Dad,” she whispered, still missing him with all her heart and wishing for just a slice of clarity and confidence he’d always been able to help her find. “Bamboozled and blinded. And now I’m picking up the pieces on forever.” She had been dreaming of him lately when she did sleep, and she closed her eyes, recalling her weekend visits to the office with him, their lunchtime walks through the emptied streets, hot dogs in hand and the seemingly insurmountable issues of the moment up for examination and, almost always, resolution. She wanted the beautiful forever he had always promised to start now.

  Claire studied the bronze reliefs on the massive main doors of Grace Cathedral, recognizing them as replicas of Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise from the Duomo in Florence. Her right hand went to her chest, and she stepped back to take in the beauty before her. The rain had ceased, and the Gothic arches of the cathedral had carried her in the direction of the church from the Fairmont valet. She had another hour before meeting Cora.

  Venturing inside, she needed a moment to adjust to the mystical dimness. Ahead and above her rose the high arched ceiling, dark and ornate in its detail, and contrasted by the dazzling beauty of numerous stained glass windows. On the floor she saw a sprawling maze etched into the stone just before the nave. A sign announced the “Interfaith Labyrinth,” and she then understood why she had been drawn to this place of spiritual growth and healing. Several people were making their journey to the path’s center, and she watched these “pilgrims” for a moment, so deep in their meditations. She felt her body tremble and she looked up, wondering if Someone was doubting her ability to find such visible peace. There was another labyrinth, she read, just outside and adjacent to the church plaza. Something about that option felt right.

  Claire walked through the door beyond the sign, and into a courtyard overlooking Nob Hill. She took in the Zen-like arrangement of trees and plants there, and glimpsed a speck of dew reflecting off a spider web. It shone like spun iridescence, and she marveled at this bridging of two azalea branches with nature’s glue. A hummingbird fluttered above the low branch of a flowering plum tree to her right. Such an extraordinary painting, she thought. Only it was real. At the center of the courtyard was the labyrinth—eleven winding circuits paved in white and gray terrazzo. Alone in the space, Claire fac
ed its starting point and considered the symbolic journey before her, to one’s spiritual center, as the sign had explained. Who couldn’t use a little centering, she thought.

  She began the serpentine path with tentative footsteps, her feet never falling outside the marble lines that delineated the sharp curves and switchbacks. As she ventured toward the elusive center, she had to pay close attention to her balance while navigating the turns so she wouldn’t step outside the path. What would happen, she wondered, if she just cruised through the labyrinth, letting her feet fall where they may, and disregarding the rules and boundaries she believed to exist there? What if she skipped or danced her way to the center, singing as she did? She made the next hairpin turn without regard to the path lines her feet were crossing, but just that small adjustment was noticeable and unnerving. She had to force herself to move more freely and not walk as though she were walking down the aisle at her wedding, one foot forward and then the other catching up to pause at its side for a beat, then moving on. And this absurd contest to be less constrained prompted a sudden rush of tears from a very deep place. There was nothing at stake here, she had to remind herself, no need to be impeccable. Reflexively, Claire looked around to be sure there was still no one there to see her. But it was just her, the birds, the occasional car horn and trolley bell, and what seemed like fifty more turns to reach that mystical center. She let the tears flow until she regained her composure, and with each successive step she began to release the distractions of protocol and uncertainty, her body finding the pace it wanted, her mind quieting. The noises of the city around her fell away. Soon she had the sensation of floating in a tank, hearing the power of her heartbeat and her breath, as questions lined themselves up for inspection.

  As Claire proceeded, she imagined her life in the context of a path. Maybe we inadvertently cast ourselves to sea in search of . . . different horizons? Necessary vicissitudes? The scent of orange blossom filled her head, along with the rapid fire fanning of hummingbird wings. It was as if the volume of her senses had suddenly been turned to high, and things were coming into a brighter focus. But what about Nicky’s journey, where would he find himself? She continued winding forward, the turns reminding her of the inevitable changes in life, the unpredictability. Maybe a little ambiguity and imperfection isn’t so awful. Maybe there’s growth to be found in that. With each one hundred eighty degree change in direction, it was almost as if she could feel her awareness shifting between her right brain and left brain, her movement becoming effortless, her mind more balanced and attentive to her intuition. Get comfortable with the asymmetry, she found herself chanting. Find the beauty in the scars and the uncertainty and the possibilities. Don’t be paralyzed. There was a sacred sort of wisdom bubbling up, something that seemed to know what she needed. When Claire looked down after some indeterminate time frame, she was in the center of the labyrinth. A peaceful energy coursed through her. She opened her mouth and took a hungry sip of air, feeling as if she’d just broken the surface of a cool, deep lake. Pausing for several moments in that serenity-filled space, she drank in the healing forces at work, releasing angst and guilt, and receiving the permission she needed for things to be just as they were.

  She walked out of the labyrinth in the same direction she entered it. Looking skyward, she smiled before sitting down on a shaded stone bench to meditate. You are on a path, exactly where you are meant to be. You are okay. Surrendering to possibility, her soul felt stretched, her body revitalized. After a few moments Claire was tipped from her reverie by the vibration of her cell phone. “Hello, Mother,” she murmured into the phone. “I’m at Grace Cathedral, meet me inside the entrance.”

  Twenty minutes later, and seemingly forty pounds lighter, Claire reentered the cathedral to find her mother. And there, at the back of the nave, stood Cora, hatted, with her coordinating navy bag and pumps, and dark round sunglasses clutched in her hand—her best imitation of Jackie O. If Jackie had had a perm and recently quit chain-smoking Kool Lites. Claire kissed her mother warmly and guided her toward the cathedral doors. “Shall we take a little walk?”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  They emerged, blinking, into the sunlight, and Claire took her mother’s hand. “I’ve just found my way through an extraordinary labyrinth.” She looked out across the city, and the sky was a blue she hadn’t seen before.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Cora said, sizing her up and reaching into her pocketbook. “Here, take my hanky.”

  Claire took the handkerchief and just held it, feeling an overwhelming need to talk. “Mother, I don’t know how to convey what I’ve been going through since the accident. It’s been ungodly painful but, I think, somehow . . . necessary.”

  Cora looked at her skeptically as they walked down the great church steps and onto California Street.

  “I was in hell. Lived there for quite some time, actually,” she continued. “But it’s helped me to see things more clearly. It only took me forty-three years, the near death of my child, and the breakup of my marriage to wake up.”

  “This is so dismal, dear. How can you seem so . . .” Cora focused her tractor beam on Claire. “So fine with it?”

  “Because I can finally breathe. Because I’m not underwater anymore.” She held her shoulders back and spoke with a renewed dignity. “And because I’m going to stop waiting for life to come to me.”

  All around them, view-seeking tourists pointed their cameras toward the bay or the three gilded Grande Dame hotels at the top of the hill. But for Claire and Cora, the scenery melted into the distance. “Claire, I’m so sorry. I only ever wanted the best of everything for you, and I was so grateful that Michael seemed to be able to give those things to you when your father and I couldn’t.”

  “You and Daddy did give me the best. We all make our own choices and decisions, Mother. My life was laid out in front of me like this beautiful magic carpet, and I just hopped on without checking underneath for dust and pretenses and all the other things we hide under our rugs. You know? And I just kept shoving more stuff under it. I couldn’t reconcile the flaws—” She looked back at the cathedral. “With my reality.”

  Cora made a sad, tight o with her lips, holding back some soothing response, Claire was certain, while attacking a piece of Nicorette through its foil blister pack. She put the gum in her mouth with a satisfying-sounding crunch and breathed a sigh of relief. “What are you saying, dear?”

  “I was always chasing the perfect. Or,” she said, searching for the right words, “at least trying to capture all these perfect moments like a photograph. When things were ugly, I shoved the ugly away. Which doesn’t encourage much growth or depth, does it? And I’m afraid we pushed Nicky into this unreasonable striving for perfection, too.” Their pace slowed as they climbed the hilly street and digested Claire’s theory. “And look where that led us.”

  “Claire, you may be right about your own experience, but in my humble opinion, that pushing business with Nicky was Michael’s crap, not yours. Just another item on that bastard’s list of . . . crap.” She had been like a preschooler for the past weeks, playing with a dirty word and relishing the danger of it.

  “We both contributed. That’s what parents do, for better and for worse.” She didn’t expect Cora to hear any accusation in her statement. It was a universal truth, at least in her humble opinion.

  “Well, if he doesn’t do the right thing by you, he’ll have me to deal with. He’s a pusher and a—”

  “Mother, can you say anything nice about him?” Claire asked jokingly, trying to avoid any more trips to the dark side.

  Cora placed two fingers against her lips as if holding a cigarette, and seriously considered the question. “He wears a suit well,” she finally said.

  “He does, indeed.”

  Cora took back the handkerchief and dabbed her forehead. “What’s happening with the pension?”

  “Well, because he made restitution so quickly—”

  “Thanks to you, dear.”r />
  “Several people helped him see the light. And it looks like he’s just going to have to pay some stiff penalties and interest. No jail time. The boys from Skadden, Arps are working overtime to make this disappear. My guess is that the legal fees are going to be far steeper than the fines. But that’s not my problem.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” she said with a satisfied sniff. “Especially after piling all that blame and guilt on you without any consideration for your pain.”

  “It was his way of coping, I suppose. It wasn’t about me, not really.” Claire no longer felt the need to share her mother’s resentment about Michael. That well of bitterness and anger, she noticed, was newly filled with a sense of peace. And a delightful absence of headaches. A cable car approached, and they stopped walking to watch a young man and his three-legged collie chase after it at. The man waved at the conductor to stop. And the dog, a lopsided whirl of slobber and barking, wagged his tail and smiled a carefree doggy smile as he tried to keep pace with his master. The man hopped onto the platform and shouted for the dog to “Leap, buddy!” The collie struggled stalwartly to make the leap and then to climb into his master’s lap, reaching his mark just as the bell clanked and the cable car resumed its journey. Claire stared as the car continued up the street, the melancholy beauty of the scene piercing her. In her periphery she could see her mother wiping her eyes behind her sunglasses.