So I push myself farther and farther away, sickened at the mere thought of that place, where the whitewashed facade of the two-story apartment building, built in the 50’s, seems to conceal some secrets; where—behind this or that window—you can spot an eye taking a peek, following you through a crack between the blinds; and where inside, the air is stale.
Home. That is the place where, ten years ago, the gossip surrounding my family, together with the silence, that sudden muteness between my parents, drove me to despair. So I tried to distance myself from both of them. At the age of seventeen I thought I would go crazy—or else, to escape madness, take my own life.
The walls had been closing in on me, and even more so—on my mom. I remember the last time we talked, which was also the last time I was given the chance to hug her—and missed it.
It was well after midnight and my homework was still far from complete, when suddenly, inspiration struck: I came to the realization that come what may, trigonometry was not a subject in which I would ever excel. I might as well drop out of school. No one would miss me there.
So for a while I sat idly in my bedroom, scribbling and looking blankly out the window, after which I closed my notebooks with a slap. And then, on my way to the bathroom I noticed her door, which was slightly ajar, and through which I could hear some noise. Mom was packing a suitcase.
“Ben?” she said. “As long as you are still up, can you do me a favor? Bring me that thing from there—”
“What?” I asked, reluctantly; which made her turn her back to me and say, “Oh, never mind. I will do it myself.”
I repeated, this time more willingly, “What, mom?” And a minute later, “I am already here, so let me help,” followed with, “please, mom,” but to no avail. “That’s all right,” she stated. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself. It would be easier than having to explain.”
I resented the way she said it, which allowed me to go back to my room—but at the same time, placed a weight on my shoulders, saddling me with the burden of guilt. Back then, nothing was more annoying than, “Never mind. I will do it myself.” I wondered, why would she ask for my help—only to reverse herself immediately, and refuse it? Was it her way to needle me? To show the extent of my weakness, laziness, dependence? To match it with an equal measure, the measure of her sacrifice?
Quite often mom would frustrate me by insisting on doing it herself—whatever it was—and each time, for a slightly different variant of the same basic reasoning: because she wanted the thing to be done right, or because she was afraid it would be too heavy for me, or too hot to handle, or something.
Play. Rewind. All these years I have been playing her voice over and over in my head, rewinding this last conversation, and tormenting myself by focusing on the wrong phrase: the one at the end.
“Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”
Now—only now, at nightfall—do I realize my mistake. Suddenly, as if discovering a new twist in an old piece of music, I can detect a certain note of stress, right there, from the beginning, the moment she opened with the phrase, “Bring me that thing from there.”
So I slow down the replay, and listen carefully to each one of these words—only to wonder about the other words, the unspoken ones, those that were missing, strangely, from the conversation. What thing? Where was there? Why would doing it be easier than having to explain? And how could I be so dumb as to miss the early, telltale signs, back then when she started forgetting things?
Simple things, such as the names of her students, and how to teach music, or play Beethoven's fifth. And later, how to put words on paper, and mail me a letter, and why not call me, why not tell me the truth; and how to talk to him, to my father; and most of all, how to forgive betrayal.
So for me, home is where her illness has been buried, up to now, under a thin, undisturbed layer of memories.
Or should I call them lies.
I think that in the future, I should refrain from talking to my father, and especially, from asking him any more questions about her. Let him not upset that image, which I have been striving so hard to construct, the image of mom, framed by their life together, because if this image collapses, so will I.
Still, I am unsure if her forgetfulness should be called an illness. Those doctors, they could have made a mistake. Two years in medical school taught me one thing, which is how terribly easy it can be to make an incorrect diagnosis. I recall a study of brain autopsies, in which roughly half of those diagnosed with Alzheimer's before death did not, in fact, show any evidence, I mean, evidence of the right degree of brain lesions to support the diagnosis.
If there is one illness which—in this case—seems too far-fetched, it would be Alzheimer's. My mother is now in her early fifties: much too young, I think, for anything like that.
Yesterday, arriving at LAX, I hoped this could be a short visit, short enough just to take my father out of the hospital and make sure he is all right. I planned to spend no more than a week—but now, now that I know more about mom, and about where she is, I may have to stay longer and think about my next steps.
At this point, the crowd has thinned out to the point of disappearing altogether, somewhere there, in the distance behind me. Looking straight ahead I can see the outlines of two or three runners, jogging along the wide grass median, which is splitting the traffic. And in a few minutes they, too, have receded from view.
I look around me and suddenly, I know where I am.
This is San Vicente Boulevard, where homes are known to be among the most expensive in Los Angeles County, and the people living in them are so fantastically rich and so content and successful that you, a mere mortal, can never catch even a glimpse of them, because of the barriers of carefully trimmed vegetation, and the towering trees, and the fancy fences, and the locks behind locks, gates within gates.
You can only imagine the picturesque views spreading before them out of their back yards, views of the Pacific Ocean or the Santa Monica Canyon, which must give them great joy, and persuade them to stay there, nestled in their safe, secluded existence.
The reason I know this place, the reason it ignites such emotion, such passion in me, is not the sight of these homes—but the majestic trees, whispering in the night air. Planted at regular intervals along the median, as long as the eye can see, they are named Naked Coral Trees. Naked because—according to my father—they shed their leaves annually.
I know this because at the age of fifteen I used to come here with him, every Saturday for an entire spring. During that period he worked for the Landmark Division of the City of Santa Monica, reviewing applications for the Landmark Designation of trees. To this day I have no idea what that means.
Dad talked little about his job, and cared for it even less. He was a writer at heart, and during spells of unemployment he would do two things: at night, scribble furiously in his notebook, and during the day, acquire new skills—which he did with great ease—and change his line of work, trying to make do until someday, some fine day when he would strike gold with his yet unfinished book.
During our walks that spring, dad would point out the tree: Its fiery red flowers, that looked like fat pinecones at the tips of irregular, twisting branches, and the seeds, which in certain species were used for medicinal purposes by indigenous peoples. The seeds were toxic, he warned, and could cause fatal poisoning. I learned that mature Coral trees should be watered frequently—but not during the summer months. In fact, he said, the less water in summer, the more flowers you can expect the following spring.
I cross two lanes of traffic, come closer to one of those Naked Coral Trees, and with great awe, brush my fingers across the trunk. It is a contorted, elephantine thing, with a roughly textured bark, and thick roots clinging fiercely to the earth. This being early October there are no flowers, no leaves, even. The tree seems to take on a humanoid appearance, as if it were the body of a character, or even several characters, mangled beyond recognition.
It is a stunning sight,
which has fascinated me since childhood. Above me, the bare limbs—some of which have been pruned recently—are branching apart, and looking at them you can imagine a knee here, an elbow there, someone wrestling, someone in embrace.
As you walk past them, the trees seem to tell you a story line by line, scene by scene. In one tree I could see a man and a woman, kissing; in another, a father and son.
I remember one time, during our Saturday stroll, I asked my father for some details about his family. At first he seemed relaxed enough to tell me—at more length than usual—about my grandfather, whom I never met, because he had died long before I was born. I got a distinct sense that dad was, somehow, still afraid of the old man, who had pressed him hard to achieve that which he himself had failed to become: a lawyer.
“So,” I asked, “what did you do?”
A brief laughter erupted on his lips. “I told him that I had registered at the university, and would be majoring in Law, just as he had always wished—but somehow I neglected to mention that the closest I ever came to registering was flipping through an outdated course catalog, while sitting on the toilet, and dreaming about something else.”
“And,” I hesitated to ask, “did he ever find out?”
“Well,” said my father, and in a flash, his face turned red, “if it occurred to the old man that this might have been a nasty lie, he admirably concealed it.”
I listen to his voice, which is still here, echoing in my head, and all of a sudden I grasp that he grew embarrassed not only because of his obligation to his father—but to me as well. Perhaps a sudden sense of shame caught up to him, shame for falling short of becoming an acceptable role model. Or else he had a premonition—a fear, even—of how I would treat him, not too far in what was then the future.
Which makes me realize one thing: up to a certain point, I wanted to become a man just like my father. And from then on, I wanted to be anything but. Which made me spend a whole decade in diametrical opposition to him, so that I wound up living a life based directly on his, as though I had never left home.
At daybreak I wake up, snuggled there between the roots at the foot of the tree, to a sharp pang of hunger; which drives me back home.
After a brisk walk I turn into 10th street, and the moment I spot the apartment building, the sprinklers in the garden come alive: first with an intermittent stutter, and then with a full-throated singsong; which makes me take a step back, and notice a rainbow hovering, trembling there, in the spray of water.
It brings back a moment, an unforgettable moment of that morning, ten years ago, when my mother walked out slowly—with her head held high—as if she was blind to the splash.
Now I wonder if mom knew where she was going. What was her goal, her direction? Where, in God’s name, was her there?
I remember how her wet dress clung to her body, and how she receded into the distance with her packed suitcase, which seemed to become soggy after a few steps, never once stopping to wipe it, or to turn her head back.
Her tears are still here, in the rainbow. I wait for the nozzle to go through its circular motion, and then slip past it, sensing the last of the mist, right here on my skin. At that moment I imagine myself crossing right through her ghost. Perhaps there is a touch, a light touch between us.
I feel a breath of air as she fades away and I come in.
Without asking a single question, my father opens the door and to my surprise, he wraps his arms around my shoulders. The old clock starts ringing its alarm. It startles him, brings him to a halt for a minute—but then, with great relief, he kisses me; which makes me mumble, “Were you waiting up for me? Really? Oh. Sorry, dad. I guess I was lost.”
“Lost?” he says. “Here, in Santa Monica? How do you manage to do that? This city is no bigger than two miles in any direction—”
“It takes time,” I have to admit. “It takes concentration. And above all, it takes some kind of effort.”
A Place Called Sunrise
Chapter 7
This is no nightmare—but it sure feels like one. I am gritting my teeth, determined to find my mother among the inhabitants of this place. If not for having a purpose here I would pinch myself, even though I know: Here, there is no waking up.
I am so astonished, coming in, by the attention my arrival seems to stir in these listless figures—some sitting, some standing here and there, scattered around the large dining hall—all of whom look more dead than alive.
One of them, a figure with lean, spindly hands drags herself towards me, knuckling down on the handles of her walking frame. With each shuffle, each jerk forward, her veined, confused eyes keep widening, as if by some hope, some wishful recognition. And then she thrusts her hands to grab me, and in a hollow voice, “Mine kind!” she shrieks, “mine kind!” which as I recall, is Yiddish for my child.
The words reverberate across the space, and they seem to agitate everyone around me. Moaning there in the background, a bent figure stands up and then, like a bat out of hell, echoes that earlier shriek, “Mine! Mine kind...”
Another one, a seated figure hunching her shoulders over her empty hands, which are nestled in her lap, lifts her head for a moment to gape at me, and her mouth is black and utterly toothless. So now I begin to make sense of that which I thought I heard, even before the door opened: The trembling of her thin, strained voice.
It takes me a bit to take in the speech sounds, which are changed, because of the lack of teeth, and disjointed, because of an occasional catch, deep down in her throat. I am listening carefully—until at last I figure out that this, incredibly, is an old lullaby.
Twinkle... Twinkle... Little star... Her black mouth breathes slowly into the air, into the gathering of these bent, misshapen shadows, in whom life seems to be no more than a dim residue. How... I wonder... What you are...
What is this, I ask myself, what sort of a home have I entered? What is this place?
Meanwhile, standing there near the vase, by the long dining table, her busy hands covered with disposable plastic gloves, is a young staff member, dressed in a neat, light-blue nurse uniform. I should really say a Care Giver, which is what they prefer to be called around here, at Sunrise Assisted Living.
With swift, efficient movements, she is stretching open the mouth of a large garbage bag, replacing the flowers in the vase, wiping some spills off the Formica surface, and picking up spongy leftovers of white bread. I watch her for a while and finally make up my mind to approach her, and I ask—in a voice choked, suddenly, with excitement—about Mrs. Kaminsky.
“Who?” she says.
“Mrs. Kaminsky,” I repeat. “Natasha? Natasha Kaminsky?”
“Oh,” she says, and in place of an answer lifts her gloved hand and points over there, to a narrow window in the far corner of the room; where, slumped passively in a chair next to the bent figure, is my mother.
For a moment I cannot move, cannot even raise a hand to my heart, where it starts racing wildly, because I have to keep my grip, and clutch the photo album, which is hidden under my jacket, and which is quite heavy. It was Anita, my father’s new wife, who suggested I bring it along, just in case we may stumble, my mother and I, into a moment of embarrassment, or run out of things to talk about.
That woman, how can she offer advice when she knows nothing, really.
I dash towards mom, wondering how I failed to notice her just a minute ago, because clearly, she looks younger, I mean, younger than the rest of them, by two or three decades, at least. Mom is in her early fifties and so, she seems out of place here. Perhaps I should take her back home.
She must have been hidden from view, perhaps by that bent figure, whose skeletal arms hang there, shivering over her shoulders. So going around him I come closer to my mother, and now I can see her profile, which is lined so delicately with light, the late morning light streaming in through the glass.
Her eyelashes, which used to have a red tinge, are nearly transparent now. Except for an occasional blink, she sits there
motionless, letting those cold, crinkly hands part her curls and comb them, as if she were someone’s broken doll.
Her lids fall shut over the hazel mist of her eyes, every time those fingers drift forward, brushing the hair, and casting a shadow over her head, which makes me uneasy. What is it with her?
Does she feel the quiver, the cold touch of these hands? Is it possible for her to ignore it? Has she grown used to it—or has she trained herself, somehow, to shut herself out, as if she were asleep, so she can no longer sense these figures around her, and this horrible place, which to me, seems like hell on earth?
And if so, how can I wake her up? Can I reach her at all? And how am I supposed to start over, I mean, to renew the conversation with my mother—in the presence of strangers?
Just looking at her stuns me, not only the light crowning her hair, a pale light which casts silver twists into that which used to be such a brilliant, fiery rust; nor the uneven gloss of her lips, which conveys a few touches, here and there, of discoloration; or the dry texture of her skin, which is gathered, in fine stitches, around the corner of her eye.
These things I have imagined a thousand times before. I have braced myself for any surprises, painting mom in my mind with one aspect of aging after another, because I knew—and said it repeatedly to myself, so as to fix it in my mind, and not to forget—that ten years, ten years have elapsed since the last time I saw her.
No. It is her distant, absent-minded stare which astounds me most of all, and not because it is new to me—but somehow, just the opposite: Her expression—or more precisely, lack of one—seems so incredible to me exactly because in a flash, I recall that which I have hidden so well and so long from myself: The fact that I saw my mother that way, at least one time back then, in the past.
The White Piano (Still Life with Memories Book 2) Page 6