“I was hoping I’d catch you,” Blot said.
“You were?” I said.
“Duh,” he said. “Tell me everything.”
He swung his backpack over his shoulder and stood up. He had on his half-gloves again. He took off one to brush the hair from his face. Feeling self-conscious, I rebraided mine at lightning speed.
“Well,” I said and sighed, closing the door gently behind me. I imagined Victoria already asleep, still dressed and with her apron shifted up, her shoes on, her body a diagonal stripe across her bed.
Moonlessness had overtaken the sky; it was so dark that it looked like a lava-cake spill. The sidewalk was slick and I willed my feet not to trip.
Blot was looking at me, waiting.
“That was the longest sigh I’ve ever heard,” he said. “I’m calling Guinness.”
“Ever?” I said.
I reminded myself to think before I spoke and to be careful not to come off as an emotional wreck. I was happy but shaky, as though I’d been jumping rope for six hours. Victoria had been everything I’d hoped. I loved her apartment: the faded wall tapestries, vases of dried lavender, art, knickknacks, silver frames balancing on every surface, the smell of baking cinnamon. It reminded me of the inside of a child’s fort—a million precious things huddled together. Victoria was wonderful too. She was like an old photograph, feathered and thinned out but mostly unchanged from what, I imagined, she’d once been. She was still unmelted, as if she’d been carved from pain aux cereales dough. Her old age wasn’t something she did to everyone around her, like Aunt Lou’s would be, like her middle age already was. Victoria’s smile was mini and maybe could be read as stingy, as though she were fighting against it—but I didn’t think so. It seemed more like it was wringing out sadness. When she squinted for a moment just before she spoke, I realized that I’d been doing that my whole life. And when I’d asked her if she knew the wooden match trick, she’d said no, and when I showed her, she’d said, “Fantastic. Just fantastic, Lorca,” like I’d built her a house. She’d tried it right then, and she was still for a moment, smushing her lips around the match with determination, holding her face toward the onion, unafraid. I thought, Even if she forgets me as soon as I leave, this little thing will matter to her.
Last year when I’d shown my mother the same trick, she’d looked disgusted. “If you can’t handle the onions,” she’d said, “don’t use them.”
I’d considered asking Victoria about what I’d seen—the woman taking Joseph’s sweater from the pile to be thrown out—but I didn’t. I didn’t want to say anything that could mess things up.
When I finally spoke, a full block later, my voice hoarse from stifled emotion, I told Blot about the ingredients, one by one, and how we’d cooked them. I recalled measurements and techniques and the funny, elderly way that Victoria peered over her glasses as she chopped as speedily as my own mother. I told him that chickpeas must be soaked overnight, and hummus should be thinned out with brine, not water. I told him that Iraqi Jews didn’t eat anything black—even removed the skin from eggplant—because they considered it bad luck. Thankfully, I cut myself off before rattling off the crucial foods for those unlucky in love, which she’d told me too.
“‘Give him food so he can grow,’” I said to Blot, quoting Victoria. “It’s a proverb. Next class, she’ll teach me the Arabic.”
I told him that before I went, I’d worried she would find me frightening. My mother always said, “Lorca, don’t look so dark.” I’d make a big fake grin. She’d say, “Better.”
I knew what she meant by looking dark. It wasn’t that I was goth. I wasn’t. I wore pink sometimes. I wore lip-gloss. It was something about the cast of my face. I had a mole below my eye, and my whole life people had said it made me look like I was crying. My eyes were too light for my face. The peaks of my lips were too tall. My chin was too sharp. I looked like I was squirming out of something even when I wasn’t. Of course, what I didn’t tell Blot was that I’d prepared for the night by putting Band-Aids all over my arms. That way, if I had the urge to roll up my sleeves, I’d be stopped.
I went silent only when I realized Blot had stopped walking and was looking at me. I let him, though I wasn’t used to being inspected—not used to the person I was always looking at looking back like this.
“Before I left, I put on a turtleneck,” I blurted out, as if making up for keeping the Band-Aid story from him. “But then I took it off. I put on a sweatshirt. I took it off. I put on rain boots with turtles on them. I took them off. I told myself it didn’t matter what I wore.”
Blot gave me a big thumbs-up and we started walking again.
The thing was, I couldn’t get myself to shut up. I had so much to say. I even told him about the soap in Victoria’s bathroom, how it smelled of coriander, which reminded me of a recipe for oven fries with coriander seeds. By the time I mentioned okra, I figured he’d had plenty of time to stop me. Still, I quieted for just a second to be sure.
“What?” he said, making frantic motions with his hands for me to go on, and I did.
I felt smart then, telling him what Victoria had told me. “To avoid slime, we don’t wash the okra,” she’d said. “We flash-fry it and don’t move it around encouraging the juices.”
Finally, on Ninety-Sixth Street, I stopped my rambling. Blot’s jaw was clenched and muscled. His hands were clasped behind his back and he was pitched forward, heavy. He looked concerned. Please, I thought, don’t let me have ruined everything. I tried to recall the words I’d used. If I’d somehow said that this was the most affection I’d been shown in years, that being with Victoria had felt like standing in a lone coin of sun in the middle of winter. When I’d thanked her for the evening—about to walk out the door—she’d cupped her hand over mine. Her fingers were chilled on the outside but soft like wet petals. After a few seconds, I pretended I’d dropped something and leaned down, just to undermine the moment. I didn’t know how else to keep the tears away.
Now I tried to remember if I’d said the word sad and made Blot think twice about me. I whispered it, wrapping my mouth around letters. Sad. It didn’t ring a bell.
“Wow,” Blot said and sighed. I waited for more. His eyes followed a pigeon as it moved from a lamppost to a tree and back again. He took off one half-glove and then the other, folded them into two perfect squares. It occurred to me that I’d been totally selfish, talking about myself like this, about all my good things.
“I like slime,” he said. “And octopus is in my top ten.”
I laughed out loud. I covered my mouth, afraid that I might not be able to stop. A couple walked by and smiled at me smiling. Blot’s face was open and unbothered.
“Is that gross?” he asked. “My dirty secret is that I love tripe. Now you know. My grandma was Portuguese and used to make it with butter beans.”
I thought of his grandma, pictured her huge and barefoot with a little girl wrapped around her muscled calf. Greta.
“It is gross,” I said. “But who am I to judge?”
“Hold on,” he said. He actually stopped walking. “Did you get the recipe? For masgouf?”
“Oh, fudge,” I said. I slapped my own cheeks. “I totally forgot.”
Without thinking, I turned around as if to go back. I had to go back. Though my mother knew nothing of my grand plan, I imagined her with her hands on her hips, and no breath passing through her. What were you doing with that woman, then, if you weren’t getting the recipe? Just hanging out with an old lady? Call your grandmother, if that’s what this is about. I don’t care.
“Wait,” Blot said. And I turned back to him.
“Next time,” he said. “Right? You can just get it next time.”
It was something about the stern calmness in his tone that made me not go racing back to Victoria’s, made me see that it would have been nuts to go, that I would have been letting myself down and him too.
“I guess so,” I said but realized that I wouldn’t see Victoria til
l next Monday: a full week from now. I was suddenly exhausted in my shoulders and knees. For the first time in a few days, I had that itchy, desperate feeling. I’d betrayed my plan. I didn’t have time to make mistakes. Worse, I had forgotten my mother.
“Hey,” he said, looking at me. Apparently, I couldn’t keep my feelings to myself. “It’s okay,” he said.
We stopped at a crosswalk and I turned away, feeling like I might cry. I needed a moment to catch my breath, get a hold of myself, but just as I moved, he grabbed my wrist. I spun around. For a second, I thought he was about to kiss me. I was ready for it, but also not ready. He wasn’t looking at me. He was holding my wrist still, nodding to some dog poop I’d nearly stepped in.
“Careful,” he said and I yanked my arm back, remembering myself. I held it tightly to my side. Heat zipped through my body and landed in my face. Suddenly, my eyes were puddles. I tapped at them. I couldn’t look at him. I wondered what he’d felt—stickiness or scabs or something like the cool exterior of a hard-boiled egg. I couldn’t remember where exactly I’d put the Band-Aids. I put my hand in my pocket. I was shaking. Something sore echoed in my wrist. I must have grimaced. I’d forgotten myself so deeply. I’d forgotten how easily I could ooze out.
“Sorry,” he said. “Did I hurt you?” Concern overwhelmed his face. I had to shake off the itchy feeling to tell him. I wanted to, I swear, for a second, I wanted to. I didn’t.
“Yes,” I said. “No. I mean, I’m okay.”
Stop. I used all the strength in my fingers to reach around and feel my wrist for what he felt. It wasn’t bloody, at least not yet.
“You sure?” he asked, reaching for me again. I staggered back. His arm was stretched toward me as if he were afraid I might fall backward into a freezing pool. I wouldn’t.
We stood there staring. I would have run away but I couldn’t feel my feet. I had no idea if they were hot or cold or what shoes I was wearing. I couldn’t look down either. I couldn’t tell if I was being strong on the outside and concealing what was on the inside, or the other way around. My arm felt leaded, so heavy. Blot’s face disappeared into the movement of the city. All I could see were his eyes, sparkling like a candle that had just been lit.
“I have to go,” I said. I turned around. I began walking away. I didn’t run. My feet were numb-ish.
I thought of my mother, imagined her covering her face, like I’d done it again. I’d not turned out the way she wanted. She’d be heartbroken, I knew, that I couldn’t be myself. Any good mother would feel the same.
“See you tomorrow?” Blot called after me. “Come by?”
I turned around.
“Why?” I whispered, but he didn’t hear me. He just gave me the thumbs-up again.
“Bye, Lorca!” he yelled.
As soon as I got home and shut the door behind me, I checked my wrist. There were a couple of scars, maybe two scabs, but it was nothing terrible and most of it was covered. It could have been from a kitten. From a burner. From our old radiators. He didn’t know. He knew nothing. I was making a mountain out of a molehill. And yet, something about that broke my heart too.
The feeling of his hand on my wrist came back stronger then. It was an empty kind of pain, but persistent, like ringing in your ears. I imagined him really holding it, not saying anything but knowing. And it felt like the opposite of holding. It felt like all the bone and tissue had been removed and my arm was as light as a kite, just about flying.
There was a note from Lou and my mother. They’d be out late even though it was a Monday. Usually, they were at high-class bars with their legs crossed, or at least that’s what they told me. But tonight, I imagined my mother on a mechanical bull, and dozens of men staring at her, open-mouthed, tugging at the crotches of their pants. I thought of Blot looking at her. I thought of her looking at Blot. I got queasy.
I tried reading Saveur.
I reorganized the condiments.
I flossed.
I put on my pajamas.
I cut up an orange peel and stuck it into the jar of brown sugar.
In some ways, I was being punished for not being successful.
This wouldn’t be happening if I had found the recipe.
I went to my room and took a razor from the bottom of a tissue box, careful not to prick my finger. I rolled up my sleeve and sat on the floor and curled over and took it to the crook of my elbow. I had done this before. At first, I thought of what I was doing. I understood. I reminded myself, I was doing this. I wanted to do this. I thought of Blot, of Victoria, tried to think of them harder. It didn’t matter. It did no good.
There was the slant of the razor, the pressure, my skin, my tissue, my bone, the counting of something like seconds or heartbeats or steps up a staircase or times that my eyes blinked that became the rhythm, the sound, the rhythm, the sound, the song of it. And then, when it was about to hurt terribly—it took a while—when I felt that my body had been thinned out to something like stockings swinging from a clothesline, I forgot everything. Everything forgot me. Everything escaped and convened at the sting, at that one sensation, but it was so much more than that. It was like my body had evaporated and reappeared at that one single spot. I’d condensed. I was a tiny drop of red liquid, shimmering like a butterfly’s wing up close.
I thought of what I was doing until what I was doing took over. I didn’t have to push away thoughts. The thoughts let go of me. I leaned back. I dropped the razor. My arm was across me, resting between my legs. There were stripes of blood like someone had just mowed the lawn. You could still see the tracks.
I closed my eyes. Everything slowed. I was weightless. I was a jellyfish. I was free.
Victoria
THE NEXT DAY, Lorca called—she called!—and I let the machine pick up. I didn’t mean to. I would have gotten it if I’d known. But I didn’t think it was her. I thought, Let whoever it might be think I’m busy. No more telemarketers. No more sympathy calls. It had been just four days since Joseph had passed but somehow every collector, insurance company, real estate agent, and estate attorney from here to the Gaza Strip had been notified. I was sitting and tweezing my eyebrows and that was busy enough.
She left a message. I heard her voice, every sentence like a question, and so badly I wanted to pick up. But I didn’t. What would I have said? I’d been too slow, too pathetic and old to get to the phone on time? She must have thought I was on the toilet. I bet that’s what she thought. Old people are always on the toilet. A little dignity. All I asked for was the tiniest little bit.
Lorca said in her message that she wanted to make something for her mother, who had come down with a cold. Her mother, I thought. Her mother. I told myself to not be berserk and to cut off that line of thinking. “No soup though,” she said. She said her mother was picky about soup. At the end of her message, she said, “I know our next lesson isn’t until next Monday, but I’m wondering if we can do it this evening instead. I only have this one week off and I want to make sure I learn as much as possible!”
My heart flooded. It just flooded over and then I really did have to go to the bathroom.
For a second, I couldn’t believe it. I stood up. I sat down. This young girl, whoever she was, so lovely, so adult, wanted to come back to see me. Despite me, despite our apartment, despite Joseph being gone and Joseph being the one whom everyone wanted to visit. I imagined that somehow this would have made Joseph proud and he would have nodded with his eyes closed. See? he’d have said. I told you all along that you’re a wonder. I smiled and moved into a bit of sunlight near the window, where I lifted my face toward the sky. As if he could see me better there. As if that way, he could see me smiling back.
I needed to decide what we’d make—Lorca and I. And quickly. I needed a recipe. I needed something perfect. No soup. No soup. No soup, I thought. I couldn’t blame her. I liked sweets when I was sick—something light, nondairy, easy to nosh on in bed. So I decided on shakrlama. Delicious little almond and pistachio cookies. I didn’t
even have to shop. I had everything we needed in the pantry and the freezer.
Joseph had loved shakrlama. I hadn’t made them in ages. Toward the end, I had stopped baking. I started buying Sara Lee. If Joseph had known, his heart would have given out. He would have put his hands over his mouth. Let me die, he would have said, just don’t feed me that poison. He didn’t know. He opened up. Said ah.
The Sara Lee cakes had ridiculous names: Chocolate Peanut Butter Thunder, Strawberry Cloud, Seven Layers of Heaven. Absurd. Did they think it worked? People fell for names like that? Did they think we were imbeciles? Apparently. I’d just wanted the calories in him. The more the better. It didn’t matter what it was. Bring on the butter. Bring on the frosting. Bring on the Thunder. In the end, the calories kept him alive. And I told him I’d made the stuff. I know what a horrible lie that was. He couldn’t taste a thing. Chemotherapy had ruined his taste buds. Imagine that. I could have fed him canned meat. He wouldn’t have known. But he just looked at me, smiling. Some nights, I’d find myself in the kitchen trying a bite of each just to be sure. Just to be sure I wasn’t making it worse. I wasn’t poisoning him. How he must have missed the taste of cumin. He never said a thing. Breaks my heart.
It occurred to me that I didn’t have Lorca’s number. There was no way for me to call her back and confirm. It must have been obvious, I thought, and shrugged, that I had nothing else to do but wait for her return. And wait for her I would. She was the only thing I had to wait for except the end.
Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots Page 14