He’s thinking of her when he dives.
PART THREE
AFTER
We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us…
—Marcel Proust
twenty-seven
After the memorial, after the estate business is done and the personal effects distributed, after Skye has left, I place myself back in the bakers’ rotation for the first time in a very long time. I work the early shift because coming in alone and letting the place fill up around me is easier than inserting myself into a room full of people. I congratulate myself for holding things together, satisfied that I’ve metabolized the sadness and completed most of my obligations.
That’s when the wheels come off.
I get my period two weeks early. It lasts for three weeks. Sometimes my heart races for no discernable reason. I have night sweats and I can’t sleep because I’m afraid I’ll stop breathing. I go to the doctor. He authorizes a battery of tests and finds nothing. It’s stress, he says. Or…it could be peri-menopause. He suggests hormones. I decline. He offers a course of Prozac and I stare at him, grasping at a fragment of memory. I tell him no thanks.
I’m suddenly clumsy. I stumble. I drop things. I forget things. Not just where I left my keys or why I came into a room. I forget names of people I know. I forget words. Like book. And telephone. I forget to pay bills. Small problems appear insurmountable. The flat tire I once would have changed myself causes me to sit in the car weeping until I remember that this is why I pay the Automobile Club $200 a year.
I obsess. My thoughts wander down strange paths; anything can set me off.
A passing thought of Skye—she blames me for his death, although she stopped just short of saying it. I know it’s not true. People don’t die from love except in Child ballads. And God knows, Mac was no Sweet William. But that last medication he was taking…one of the side effects had something to do with heart arrhythmia or something didn’t it? And I was the one who pressured him to take it, wasn’t I? And then I left him anyway, right?
An email from Sarah pops up in my inbox, reminding me of the outrage I felt that her husband had left her to deal with the cancer on her own. But didn’t I do the same thing? Didn’t I leave Mac because I couldn’t cope with his depression? So why is Sarah’s husband a heartless bastard and I’m (as CM assures me) brave and strong?
Christmas Eve when he came to see me…was it just a coincidence that he’d decided to make a will? Or did he suspect something was wrong? Why did he suddenly feel compelled to tell me that Liv was out of town the night he went there? He just wanted me to know?
In October a couple from New Jersey makes a full price offer on the house, pre-empting everyone else that’s looking at it. Thanks to the insanity of the California housing market, the shabby little Tudor cottage that Mac and I paid $400,000 for and spent seven years fixing up is now selling for a million, two.
There are complications of course. It never goes like those ReMax ads on TV where everyone is smiling. The inspection has revealed a problem with the roof. Mac was always convinced that roofing companies would say you needed a new roof when all it needed was a patch. Now it appears the roof must be replaced and the buyers want a $20,000 allowance.
My first impulse is to say forget it. I’ll fix the roof and then put it back on the market.
Nancy Holland, our agent, says, “If you want my advice, Wyn, it’s going to be a lot easier on you to just give them the allowance and let them have the work done. By the time you get a new roof put on, we’ll be at the tail end of selling season.”
“Surely the way the market is, we won’t have trouble selling it. Besides, it’s not my decision.”
“Well…” She looks longingly at the pack of cigarettes sitting on her desk. “You just never know what the market’s going to do. And when the monsoons hit, that roof could become a real headache for you. You might want to mention that when you talk to Skye.”
I email Skye and get no response. The couple from New Jersey want an answer yesterday, so I telephone. Gillian answers, sounding harried.
“Hi, this is Wyn. I’m calling to speak to Skye about an offer on the—”
“You’ll have to ring her mobile,” she says. “She’s got a flat in Wellington now.”
“…house. Okay. Well…thanks.”
“Cheers.” She hangs up.
I call the number I have in my contacts and after many rings an anonymous female voice invites me to leave a message. I leave my work, home and cell numbers and wait.
Nancy calls me on Thursday morning.
“I haven’t heard anything,” I say before she can ask. “I’m sorry. I’ve emailed and phoned, but she hasn’t responded.”
Nancy sighs. “The offer expires at 6 tonight,” she says. “Can you give it one more try? It would be a shame to lose it just because we can’t reach her.”
I look at the clock.
“It’s 5 AM there. I’ll call her in an hour and get back to you.”
An hour later Skye picks up her phone and mumbles something unintelligible.
“Skye, it’s Wyn.”
Silence, then. “Christ, what time is it?”
“I know it’s early, and I’m sorry, but I need to speak with you about the offer on the house.”
Another silence.
“The what?”
“The house. I emailed you three days ago. Some people made an offer on the house. It expires this afternoon, so I need to know what you want to do.”
“What time this afternoon?”
My patience snaps. “I need to know now, Skye. It’ll take till this afternoon to get the process started.”
A sigh or a yawn. “Okay. Give me half a tick.”
She sets the phone down and there are rustling, thumping sounds, a male voice, then she comes back on and listens silently while I read her the salient points of the offer—price, terms, closing dates—and tell her about the roof. When I finish, she says,
“I see. Well, okay.”
“You want to make a counter-offer?”
“No, let’s just have it done.”
“Alright, then, I’ll call Nancy.”
“Sweet as. I’m going back to bed.”
“Skye…”
“What?”
“I have to fax you the offer and you’ll have to sign it and fax it back.”
“Now?”
“As soon as you can get to a fax. And you’ll need to email me or call me with the number.”
“I will.” And she hangs up.
I’m doing the job I said I would do. It’s for Mac, not for her. Still, a “thanks, Wyn” wouldn’t have been out of place. Is it too much trouble to say goodbye before hanging up? Is having any kind of relationship with her asking for too much?
I replace the receiver in its cradle, brushing off my floury fingerprints.
July
It’s been a long week.
I had an excruciating blind date with Nathan’s newly divorced squash partner, who, in the middle of dinner at the Border Grill, burst into tears and started telling me how his wife left him for another woman. Then one of the bread bakers quit abruptly and now two people are out sick. I’ve been working a double shift because I’m reluctant to ask anyone else to do it. The good part is it keeps me focused on bread, on baking.
In the cool, gray light just before dawn, I’m enveloped by the familiar smells of wheat and yeast and coffee, the hypnotic rhythms of Bach, the radiant warmth of the ovens. And the dough—its resilience and the pebbly texture of whole grains against the palm of my hand—that’s when I feel safe. And most myself.
That’s when the borderline softens, becomes a permeable membrane letting me pass freely between past and present. I might be Jean-Marc’s apprentice at the Boulangerie du Pont, washing bowls and pans, shaping clumsy beginner’s loaves and learning to make levain. Or working nights at the Queen Street Bakery in Seattle with the ever-obnoxious Lind
a, teaching Tyler to bake, experimenting with different flours and techniques, testing, searching for the ultimate loaf of bread.
Of course there is no such thing. Or maybe there are many ultimate loaves, not just one.
But even more troubling than hassles at the bakery and scarier than the thought of blind dates, is the fact that Charles is sick. He’s not coughing or barfing or anything obvious, but he’s pretty much stopped eating, which for a Corgi, goes totally against the grain. When I put down his supper dish, he sniffs disinterestedly, takes a halfhearted nibble, then lies down with his chin on his paws. I try sprinkling grated cheese on top, then a few dollops of pumpkin, spoonful of peanut butter, all his favorite things. He manages to hoover off some of the good stuff and leave the rest. I buy a different, very expensive brand of kibble, but he turns up his nose like it was old broccoli.
So tonight we have an appointment with Dr. Karen, who took over Chuck’s veterinary practice when he retired. She’s one of those people who doesn’t just love animals, but seems to communicate with them on some cellular level. Probably because she doesn’t relate well to her own species. She looks like the kind of girl who carried a briefcase in high school, tall and skinny, wispy brown hair forever escaping from her long braid, serious expression, not given to wanton smiling. I don’t think much of her bedside manner, but Charles adores her. Today, however, he seems indifferent even to her charms.
She takes his temperature, listens to his heart and lungs, checks his mouth, nose and ears. Then she looks up.
“Would you mind going outside for a minute?”
“Me?”
She sighs. “Unless there’s someone standing behind you.”
That scares me. “What’s wrong?”
“I just want to be alone with Charles for a minute. Do you mind?”
I pace in the waiting room, watching the staff clean up and leave, one by one, till it’s down to the receptionist and me.
“Can I get you some water?” she asks. “I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but by this time of the day it’s usually like India ink.”
“No thanks.”
She gives me a weary smile. “It’s natural to be worried. But Karen’s the best vet I’ve ever known. And I’ve known a lot of ‘em. Why don’t you sit down and watch the aquarium or something?”
Just as I ease into a chair, the examining room door opens and Karen calls me back in.
“Sit,” she says. As if I was a patient.
I obey, gripping the edge of the plastic chair, prepping for the worst. “What’s the matter with him?”
“What’s the matter with you?”
I give her my most annoyed look. “Nothing. What do you mean?”
“You know, Wyn, Charles is totally dependent on you. You are his world. He mirrors your feelings, your thoughts, everything. I don’t know you very well, but I do know Charles. He’s totally stressed out. And I believe it’s your stress that’s doing it to him.”
I fold my arms. “So what am I supposed to do—put him on Prozac?”
“I don’t know what to tell you about your problems, but until you get your life under control, here’s what I suggest. Sit down with Charles every day, twice a day if you can. Touch him and talk to him. Tell him you love him. Tell him you’re okay, just going through a hard time. Tell him everything’s going to be alright. Can you do that?””
“Okay. Of course. But what about the not eating?”
“Try not to obsess about it. He picks up on the anxiety you project at every meal time. Just put down his dish and walk away. He’ll start eating when he gets hungry enough. If he doesn’t, try him on rice and chicken broth. Call me next week.”
She sets Charles on the floor. He gives her one quick glance before he runs to my side, and I nearly lose it right there in the examining room.
I drive home and sit on the patio with a wine spritzer and my laptop, checking email. Nothing from Skye.
I emailed her yesterday because it was already today in New Zealand, a concept I only understand intermittently. I haven’t heard from her since we closed on the sale of the house, and that communication consisted of an email that said,
Wyn—thanks for your help. Skye
Lately I’ve wondered how she was getting along, whether she’s decided what to do with her inheritance, if she’s still with Trevor and if Gillian’s still on the farm. Once or twice I started to write an email, but halfway through I began to feel like my questions would be seen as intrusive, so the messages are still sitting in my drafts file. I shut down the computer.
It’s seven P.M. and the air is warm and still. Charles ate some of his dinner tonight, but now he walks in restless circles, scratching and pawing at his towel. Maybe there’s a fire out in one of the canyons and I just can’t smell it yet.
I lean my head back and close my eyes and before I know what’s happening, tears are sliding out from under my eyelids. I can’t seem to make them stop. Soon I’m sobbing great, heaving sobs, trying to catch my breath. I sit forward and lean my forearms on my knees. I bite my lip, I clench my fists till my fingernails leave half-moons in my palms, but it will not stop. What the hell is the matter with me? Am I having some kind of nervous breakdown? Or is it just that it’s been one year and tonight, for whatever reason, I finally understand that he’s gone? He’s not just in a different house with another woman. He actually no longer exists, and it feels like a hole in my chest.
Suddenly I remember the little green bottle of Valium that’s been lying untouched at the bottom of my underwear drawer for over a year.
An hour later I’m feeling better. A bit muddled, but calm. The sobbing has stopped, leaving me with a scratchy throat and swollen eyes. I lie on the chaise lounge, too exhausted to eat. Thank God I’m off tomorrow. When the last light is gone I lock up and head upstairs to bed. The Valium has made me drowsy, but every time I close my eyes they flutter open.
Eventually I fall asleep, and it truly is like falling. Or diving maybe. A long, slow pitch into a cold lake, somersaulting through clear water, going on for so long, I want nothing more than to hit bottom.
It feels like I’ve only slept a few minutes, but the room is pearly gray and the clock says ten till six. Charles lies on his side against my legs, snoring softly.
And Mac is sitting on the end of my bed. For whatever reason, this is not alarming to me, or even surprising.
He grins, the familiar slow grin. “Is this a bad time?”
“Of course not. Are you okay?”
“Not too bad. Considering. How about you?”
“Fine. Except I miss you. More now. Why is that?”
“Yeah. I miss you, too.”
I hesitate. “What’s it like? Being dead…”
“Takes some getting used to.”
“Was that you in the parking lot at Gelson’s?”
“No.” He laughs.
“He sure looked like you. I should have gotten his phone number.”
“Listen,” he says, abruptly serious, “I need to tell you something…”
“What?” My hand tightens involuntarily on the blanket.
“You need to drive the truck more. It’s not good to let it just sit in the garage.”
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t think about that…”
At that moment my alarm goes off and I reach over to silence it. When I roll back down on my pillow, he’s gone.
When the brain fog clears, I get up, reaching for my terrycloth robe, pulling it around me as I go barefoot down the stairs with Charles right behind me.
I flip on the garage light.
The Elky sits undisturbed, its turquoise and cream paint covered with a fine, nearly invisible layer of dust.
I let Charles outside, scoop some kibble into his dish and go back upstairs to shower and dress. In the bedroom, the secondary alarm has gone off and the radio is playing. I stop in the doorway, listening. It takes me a few minutes to recognize the song, haunting and familiar.
Baker’s Blues.
/> I enter the bakery through the front door because everyone else is in back, and slip quietly into my office. I close the door behind me and boot up my laptop. When I hear the discreet tapping, I don’t bother to say come in because I know who it is and I know she will, no matter what I say.
Tyler opens the door just enough to stick her head in.
“What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be off today.”
“Thank you. I know that.”
“Can I come in?”
“I think you already are.”
She’s balancing a tray, which she sets on the desk. Double shot latte, extra hot. Festival Scone. Clotted cream. The scent makes me forget I had breakfast at home.
“My jeans are getting too tight.”
She sits down across from me. “So? Charles doesn’t care, and he’s the only male that ever sees you naked.”
I ignore her, take a sip of my latte and break off a piece of the scone. It’s still warm from the oven, with crunchy edges, full of tiny bits of dried fruit, toasted pecans and candied lemon peel. I dip a corner into the clotted cream and take a bite. It nudges my mood thermostat upward.
“I needed to get out of the house—”
“Pretty pitiful that all you could think of to do was come to work.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on my desk. “It’s summer. The sun is shining. The birdies are singing. The waves are crashing. Why don’t you put the top down and go for a ride? Why don’t you take Charles to the park? Maybe you’ll meet a single stockbroker with a female Corgi.”
“If I could interrupt the comedy monologue for just a minute…? I came in because I wanted to talk to you about an idea I had.”
She helps herself to my latte and makes a face. “Eeeuw. Burned milk fat. I need to give Tiffani a refresher course in latte 101. So talk to me.”
“I’ve been thinking I might go up to Orcas for awhile.”
“Seriously?”
Baker's Blues Page 33