The Color of Home: A Novel

by Rich Marcello

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” She stood up, reached down for Nick’s hand, and pulled him up.

  In bed, he tried to forget. At first he was tentative and stiff, until she carried him away from thought, as she’d done many times in the past. He opened for a short time, touched a soft spot, pure, like heaven. But something snapped him back. Why was this happening now? What would happen next? Not knowing was hell. Loss was hell. Afterwards, still inside her, he circled back to his earlier question.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Let’s just ride things out. We’ll be fine.”

  • • •

  When Nick woke up on their one-year anniversary, Sassa had already left the apartment. Bikram. He went through his normal morning routine— shower, shave, Morning Joe, SportsCenter—and dressed in his favorite jeans and his Abbey Road T-shirt. As he readied to leave for the studio, she rushed into the apartment with two cappuccinos and pulled up just short of him.

  “I went to Joe’s. I want to talk.”

  “Okay.” He edged up to her, kissed her lightly, and lifted one cappuccino from her hand.

  “You’re drinking coffee today?”

  “Change of pace.” A trace of nervousness colored her words. She made her way to the kitchen table and slid into place. Tapping twice on the table, she pointed toward the chair next to her.

  He joined her. What was going on?

  “This past year rates as one of the best of my life. I’m in love with you. You’re kind, compassionate, and smart,” she said.

  “Good start.”

  “The thing is, I don’t believe I know how to sustain love.”

  “A day at a time.”

  She removed the top of her coffee and took a sip. A slight grimace later, she said, “Maybe. I know couples who began like we did this past year— young, in love, connected on so many levels—but who somehow lost their bond down the road.”

  “We won’t.”

  “I’m not so sure. Maybe work or children get in the way. Or maybe old patterns. There are few people who’ve figured out how to nourish love, or more important, who’ve figured out how to build their love. I can’t name a single couple. Can you?”

  “Slow down for a second. Where’s all this coming from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The past couple of months had been harder. But ups and downs were normal in any relationship. And they had worked through the downs and ended up in a better place. At least he had thought so. What did she mean about old patterns? “We’ll be okay. I have faith that we’ll figure things out. It has something to do with being completely honest with each other, no matter what the topic or how much the truth hurts. We’ve been doing that, haven’t we?” he asked.

  “Mostly, but lasting fifty years is more complicated.” She stood up, walked over to the kitchen drawer, pulled out a pair of scissors, and returned to the table. Cutting the plastic placemat in front of her, she zigzagged along its width until it was cut in two. “I’ve got this idea about the two halves of a relationship. There’s the old cliché about how one person completes the other; two halves make a whole. I guess it’s popular because it contains some truth. We seemed whole this past year. I do feel like we fit together, which isn’t something I’ve experienced before.” She pushed the placemat back together.

  “Nice prop. We are whole.”

  “Or maybe we’re keeping each other company in a place we don’t belong.”

  Before Sassa, he often thought he was stuck in a place he didn’t belong. But that all changed with her. At least he thought it had. Was it possible that in the euphoria of finally getting unstuck, he hadn’t seen that she still was? “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

  “When people are young, few know who they are. The people you’re drawn to in your twenties are probably not the same people you’d be drawn to at, say, forty-five, once you’ve figured stuff out. In the first case, our case, two halves create a whole. But in the second case, two wholes come together.”

  “Do you want another placemat?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “For you, fifty years is about being whole before you commit to another person?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’d all be alone for a long time if you’re right.”

  “I guess.”

  “Can’t we help each other get there? Isn’t ninety percent of the solution knowing that we need to get whole first?” What was bringing all of this on? Was she leaving him? He thrummed his fingers on his thighs. He had an empty feeling in his stomach and tried to fill it with multiple sips of coffee.

  “Maybe that’s a way forward, but together probably hurts too much. What will happen to us if you decide you need to explore another romantic relationship? What if I do?”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m not sure either of us could witness that and handle the fallout.”

  “I couldn’t.” His heart started to race. He folded his arms across his chest. Deep breath. Deep breath. She was leaving.

  “What will happen if we need to explore careers in different parts of the world? How can you know what you like, or need, or love until you’ve crossed over a few lines and had to take a few steps backwards? The best way to figure out who you are is to experiment, and emotional experiments are best done alone.” Her eyes went wet.

  With change? With loss? He stood up, hulked over to the window, and peered out. On the street, men in suits and women in killer dresses and sneakers moved silently away from their homes. A garbage truck worked down the street, efficiently removing the trash. “So you want me to let go of the single best relationship I’ve ever had and trust that we’ll get back together someday? Did I get that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there someone else?”

  “No.”

  A wave of relief, but only for a second. His chest swelled to that place right before the spin out, right before it was out of his hands. He tried to push it back down, but had no weight. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. But in a year or two, unless I figure my stuff out, there may be. I’ll get restless. Or you will. This way, it’s more honest.”

  He spun around. “I’m sorry, this is all bullshit! Can’t we commit to doing this together? Or is this some elaborate way to break up with me? What did I do wrong?” Pacing back and forth in front of the windows, he couldn’t hold back tears any longer.

  “This isn’t an elaborate scheme. I meant everything I said. I love you, and it’s deeper than any love I’ve experienced before. It’s just that I need to search, experiment. I want a life that has fifty more years of what we had most of this past year, a life of bliss, but I’m not ready to be anyone’s longterm partner. I need to get a lot more exposure and experience. We need to be brave and honest enough to let each other unfold. Then we’ll know the right thing to do. I’ve gone as far as I can right now.”

  “I’m out of here.” He raced to the front door, grabbed his keys, and stormed out of the apartment toward his studio.

  • • •

  One day, early in Nick’s senior year at Columbia, he had flipped through an article in Beautiful Noise for Youngsters about the future of the recording studio. The piece projected two major emerging trends. The first, not surprisingly, espoused the virtues of the home recording studio. With price drops on high-quality recording equipment, setting up a good-enough home recording studio to serve singer-songwriters was easy. On the other hand, with bandwidth on the rise and cheaper, larger storage devices doubling in capacity each year, the article predicted the emergence of online recording studios that would allow for collaboration over the Internet.

  The possibilities were endless. A singer-songwriter in Montreal, Seattle, Stockholm, or anyplace in the world with an Internet connection could hire a back-up band in New York City to play on his or her album and the result would be completely seamless to the audience. Beautiful Noise for Youngsters concluded that no clear leaders existed in the sp
ace at that time, and the author believed online recording, with its high-growth potential, was disrupting traditional recording studios.

  Nick threw Beautiful Noise for Youngsters on the top of a pile of music magazines. Was it possible to combine his business training with music? Should he start an online recording company? How would he incorporate? What should he name the company? Where would he get physical space for the large amount of gear required? How much up-front money would he need? Where would he find the studio musicians? How would he advertise? How much should he charge per song? What kind of services should he provide? Who could help him with the website?

  He opened up his laptop and researched his questions. He scanned websites for a business plan template. Working for twelve hours straight, by the next morning he had a first-pass business plan for studiomusicians-dot-com. Temporarily, he lost sight of his sadness.

  In the spring of his senior year, he launched studiomusicians-dot-com with $75,000 dollars. He had risked asking one of his uncles, his father’s brother, for the money. After a reasonable amount of coaxing and reminiscing, his uncle agreed to loan it to him. Twenty-five thousand on the website. Twenty-five thousand to buy equipment. The rest for rent of the top floor in an old Brooklyn warehouse.

  He’d found love.

  After storming out on Sassa, Nick spent the day in his music studio trying to map his heart, trying to map a way forward, trying to hold on to her love. When he’d built the studio, he’d added a large utility room to store his gear when not in use. He made his way to that room right after entering the studio and locked the door behind him. Curling up in a ball on the floor, he surveyed the equipment he’d accumulated over the years: old amplifiers, his first bass guitar, black box synthesizers, endless cables, a case of guitar polish. . . .

  Did everyone leave? He started to sob. The ultimatum. If she left him, they were done. He was moving on and was going to find someone who actually wanted to be with him, who understood how much he had to offer. Too much pride. Didn’t seem right. The path of reason. He knew she was scared. He was scared too. But they loved each other and belonged together. They could figure things out if they just tried to do it together. Would she commit to trying? Maybe. Higher ground. He loved her. He was strong enough to handle the truth. Death was the only immutable. If she needed space, he would give it to her. But he needed some way to check in with her every so often to see if she was still in the same place. Last resort.

  Back on his feet, he switched the light off. In the dark, the smell of guitar polish reminded him of how much he loved music.

  • • •

  When Nick stepped into the apartment later that night, Sassa met him at the door wearing only his Yellow Submarine T-shirt. Like many nights over the past year, dozens of lit candles had turned the living room into a grotto. Sage scented the air.

  She extended her hand palm up. Her eyes were puffy. “How are you doing?”

  He took her hand. “Can we let things settle for a few days and see if splitting up still makes sense? This is such a big decision. Maybe we’re scared and there’s a chance we can work things out.”

  She wrapped both arms around him, and pulled him close. Resting her head on his shoulder, she clung for a bit, then gently, silently, guided him to their bedroom.

  On the way, he grazed his finger along the wall to fill the place with love, as he’d done many times before. He’d stored so much during the year. Was this the last time? Or was there hope?

  In the bedroom, she whispered, “Leave the lights on.”

  At the foot of the bed, she undressed him slowly, expertly. Pulled his shirt off. Unbuckled his belt. Unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans until they dropped softly to the ground. Expanded the elastic on his boxers until they ballooned over his hips and fell.

  A moment later, he was naked on the unmade bed watching her undress. She was so beautiful. It almost made him forget.

  On top of him, with her hair draped over her breasts, she let him enter her. Eyes open and penetrating, at first she moved slowly, as if she wanted to make sure he understood, as if anything she could say wouldn’t be enough, as if only their joined bodies could understand. Once she’d cycled through, she sped up; let repetition, intensity, reinforce the truth.

  He had to look away. She had so much compassion. Love. Strength of purpose. The alarm clock on the nightstand read exactly 9:49. At 9:51, he abandoned any hope of persuading her to stay. She needed to leave. He had to let go. Somehow on the way toward good-bye, he managed to keep the sadness out of the room, thankful for one last time when he could lose himself.

  Afterward, he flicked the lights off. The outside street lamp barely illuminated the room. The underlight had morphed him into a shadow. He glanced over at Sassa, who had fallen into a deep sleep almost immediately, as if a giant weight had been lifted, as if she were free-dreaming. Still naked, he covered himself with a sheet, and folded his hands behind his head. What makes someone a soul mate? Effortlessness. They had that. Trust. They had that. Honesty. That, too. Lust. Yep. Nothing about being whole first. Not a single thing. He’d found his soul mate; he’d found home, but she hadn’t. Was there a way forward together? His heart offered one answer, his head another, and in the end, old patterns won out.

  A thought took shape. He turned on his side and tangled his finger in a strand of her hair. She’d entered his life as an “almost” and was destined to leave the same way.

  • • •

  On the morning Sassa moved out, Nick met her one last time at Joe’s. Unlike the previous year, spring in Manhattan was unusually cold and damp. That morning, a freak flash storm hit the Village. From their seats, they watched the streets take on water.

  Nick had to seek higher ground. There, a profound, sweet sadness surfaced, old and familiar, threatening to push him back down into a darkness where reality only played out on movie screens.

  “Why don’t we get together once a year to check in?” he asked.

  “Do you think that will help?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure where I’ll be.”

  He wasn’t able to read her body language. When was the last time that happened? Maybe that was part of letting go, of leaving the inner sanctum. “That’s okay. We can meet in New York or I’ll come to you.”

  “I guess I’d like to get back to the city once a year,” she said.

  “Good. How about talking through what happened the year before at each reunion? No masks, no fear, complete truth for one day.”

  “Are you sure you want to share everything?”

  Did he really want to hear she was happy? That she’d started a new life without him? Did he want that much truth? He did. He always would. “How about a few guiding questions?”

  “Good idea.”

  After a little more back and forth, they arrived at their three questions. In their last act as a couple, they alternated reciting them.

  “What did you learn this past year?”

  “Do you feel whole?”

  “Do you know where you belong?”

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 6

  Early April, After Nick Year One, New York City: Sassa packed her dilapidated 2001 Volkswagen Beetle and headed toward Cambridge. She drove in silence for over an hour until she pulled into the first service stop in Connecticut to fill up. There, an old habit surfaced: she purchased an iced tea and some spearmint gum for the road, as she’d often done as a newly licensed teenager. Before slipping back into her car, she progressed through two quick yoga positions: standing head-to-knee pose and standing bow-pulling pose. She had to stretch. A man, filling up his car across from hers, tried to strike up a conversation about yoga. Brushing him off gently, she slipped back into her car. As she accelerated onto I-95, she said, “What am I doing? I have no plan.” For the next hour or so, she aspired to welcome uncertainty, intermingling hope and long stretches of doubt. It didn’t work.

  To break a stretch of doubt, she balanced her iPod against the st
eering wheel and navigated to find the mix called “Sassa Soars”. A rush of warmth spread across her face. There were so many familiar songs. Nick had made her the playlist the day before to help pass the time on the road, to extend the good-bye. Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. Was she ready? She pushed play. Her shoulders tensed and her breath went irregular. Ani DiFranco’s “Overlap” played. They certainly did. About midway through, the tension released and her breathing steadied. Nick’s favorite love song followed, the Beatles’ “Something.” She took a long, deep breath. He really needed to knock her down a few notches. In the lull between songs, she sipped her tea and dialed down the temperature control. During the third song, “Destiny” by Zero7, magically, unexpectedly, bliss pierced through.

  Slowing down, she moved into the right lane, sandwiched between two large trucks. They scared her. They always would. For a time, the two trucks and her bug caravanned up the highway as Sassa took in the playlist. Sara McLachlan sang “Answer.” Did anyone have that much commitment? Nick did. Damien Rice’s “Volcano.” If only she could sing, that would be their duet. Like in the song, she wasn’t real yet; she wasn’t ready to choose. Marc Cohn’s “One Safe Place.” That would always be true no matter what. “The Dress Looks Nice on You” by Sufj an Stevens. He loved her red summer dress. “Paper Bag” by Fiona Apple. He got the pain part right.

  Finally, with her eyes wet, she broke the caravan, pulled over onto the shoulder, and cracked open her window. Cars whizzed past, shaking her bug to a regular cadence. Exhaust fumes invaded the air. Chewing on two fresh sticks of spearmint gum, she took another sip of her iced tea and composed a text. “I loved the songs. Thank you. Love, Sassa.” The title phrase from “I Will Follow You into the Dark,” by Death Cab for Cutie, filled the car, briefly tempting her to return to New York. Instead, she deleted the text message before sending it and returned to Phil Schmidt’s.