Apart From Love (4 page)

I look at him, utterly in confusion, because this is different from what I wanted, which was some trace, some admission of guilt. It seems that—as usual—he has none.
 

“Mom can play,” he insists, “even without the piano. Yesterday,” he says, “in the hospital, I woke up. It must have been well after midnight, and for the first time in a long while my heart was pounding with such force! I was so alive and could hear everything with great clarity. Everything, son, was as clear as a dream! And then, then I could hear her. I am so blessed. She let me hear it.”
 

And I say, “Mom let you hear
what
, exactly?”
 

“Music,” he says dreamily. “Do you remember her fingers, when she played for us, how they looked?”
 

“I do,” I whisper in return. “I remember. It was a total blur.”
 

And he says, “Exactly. That’s how it was, last night. I could feel her presence. She came close beside me, right there by the bedside, and held me, touching me softly, caressing my arm, stroking it slowly, all the way, right down to the wrist. And I turned the palm of my hand, and opened it to her, to receive her.”

Which suddenly brings to mind a long forgotten moment, when they sat on this sofa, which was brand new back then, its pillows still puffed up and firm. I bounced on it for a while, then got off, leaving a space there between the two of them.
 

And dad looked at her over the divide, and said, “Play for me, Natasha.”
 

And she said, in a tired voice, “I can’t. You know I haven’t practiced. It’s been such a long time. I think I’m losing my touch.”
 

And he looked away, saying, “Just say it. You’re blaming me for all this.”
 

There was a long silence, which left both of them worn out—until she reached out. Mom passed a finger along the back of his hand, and his hand turned over, so that she could tickle him.
 

And to my great relief, their hands joined. If not for the glint of her ring, you could no longer tell which were his fingers—and which hers.

With a vague stare, my father mumbles, “And then, as she touched me, the air stirred... It was reverberating, vibrating with music. And I—I noticed the fingers, the blur—a total blur, just the way you said—which is how I knew it was her.”
 

Uncertain what to make of this I ask him, “And her ring? Did you see it? Did it glow when she played?”
 

Which makes him, all of a sudden, come unglued from this memory of last night, and snap at me. “Ring,” he says, grumbling. “What ring? It was lost! She threw it, threw the thing at me, the day she left. You know that very well, don’t you.”

He looks at me with outrage. Perhaps I remind him of something in her, and he rambles on, “What a difficult woman. Whatever I did for her, it was never enough. I mean, not ever! She always had to lean on me, and she leaned so hard.”
 

But then, with some effort, he overcomes his anger and he says, “You may not trust me, or what I say, but all the same there she was, playing for me. Her fingers,” he says, “they were flitting, all across my skin, and I closed my eyes, just to be focused, to feel her. With such speed she played, such fury, even.”
 

“And you heard it?” I ask, not really wanting to believe him, but remembering suddenly how, every night before bed, mom would tell me to practice my fingering, to play notes in the air—without touching the keys at all—because that was the method passed in her family, from generation to generation: the method of committing a long piece of music to memory.
 

“What do you mean, did I hear it,” says my father. He seems to dislike the question, because he never doubts himself. “I sure did. I sure as hell heard it.”
 

“What was she playing, then?” I inquire.

“The left hand,” he recalls, “it was playing broken chords. And it alternated, you know, between two scales, where the notes were sharp and rising. And the right hand, it was playing a melody, which hovered in the air, trembling up there, over the left hand chords. After a while the music became wild... It became agitated, and so did I; which made me see things—”
 

“What,” I ask, “what was it you saw?”
 

And I note that he is listening—but not to me—trying, perhaps, to steady himself, to find, somewhere inside, at the core, a constant tempo. Perhaps, like me, he can hear a beat, the distant beat of a metronome. I wonder if he, too, is counting time.
 

Then, in an odd tone of voice he says, “I saw the top, the shiny top of her piano. It flashed as it opened. And there, in that surface, which looked almost glassy, as if it were a mirror, you could see her eyes.”

At this point I am ready to berate him, because anyway, what is so special about the top of that piano, other than the dent, and those marks and scratches? And who, in his right mind, can see it appearing there, out of thin air, right next to a hospital bed?
 

And the eyes, where did they come from, the twilight zone? He must be insane, don’t you think? Insane—or totally out of his mind!
 

So I say under my breath, “Fat idiot!”
 

And he snaps again, as if he could hear me, and he says, “Don’t call me fat!”

Startled, I glance at him. “You never question yourself, dad, do you.”
 

“I do not,” he says. “I know that top was not there—but still there it was, and I saw it.”

I wave my hand at him, which annoys him. He seems saddened by my disbelief.
 

“It was lifting,” he insists, “just like that, lifting open before me. Like a wing, you see, with the edge sweeping up over you.”
 

“Don’t you tell me, I know how it looks,” I tell him.
 

“Like a wing,” he repeats. “A wing, held in place by a crutch. And
that
,” he says to himself, with no further explanation, “
that
was the way we were, your mother and I. A wing and a crutch.”
   

I wish to tell him No, I don’t think so—even though this time, his words find an echo in me, and I can almost hear that wing, flapping in the air above us, and then coming down heavily, and leaning hard, right on top of its support, its crutch, with a jolt and a creak.
 

Then suddenly—in the shadow under his wheelchair, where the sofa used to be before I pushed it over—right there, I think I see something: a few traces... Can you see them? Shaped like little loops, pressed lightly one after the other, into the dust.
 

I crawl out from under the belly of the piano, and there I find it, after all these years, buried in layers of dirt: my mother’s lost ring. Only now it is a bit stuck. It seems to be frozen in place, and it has no halo.
 

I dig it out and I shiver, because here, in my hand, is a token of my family, the way it used to be; the way it had better be. Whole. Perfect. Ideal. Worthy of all that pain, the anxiety, the longing. Now, if I open my hand—even a little—it may slip away. Here is my past. I would like to think it was in harmony. I must keep hold of it, so I can keep my grip.

My father is watching me. His eye, the one I can see, is set in its socket, and from there it discloses a hint, just a hint of suspicion. I rise up over him and at once he clenches the armrests, and steers the wheelchair away, not knowing what I hold in my fist, not aware of the cold, metallic touch, or of how much it can make you hurt, in here—but noticing, perhaps, the tears streaming down my face.
 

Here is that thing that, once upon a time, would light up and zigzag in the air with such spark, such energy, when she played for us. And then—after mom threw it away—nothing was ever the same again. No one would believe me if I told them. And now that I found it, I am at the point where I begin to doubt it myself.

As Told by Ben

F
or the last hour, two things have been happening, each causing its own type of discomfort. I will them to go away, go away already. Still I can sense them, one becoming stronger, the other—more distinct, even as I try to recover the ghost of my dream, or at least find my sleep, which has receded, like floodwaters under a relentless, blazing sun.
 

I recognize then that my sleep has become as shallow as a plain puddle, and wish I could immerse myself back in it, calm myself down, and not pay attention to these things, one arousing unease, the other—hunger. At this point my eyelids are so heavy, and if I keep them shut I could still sink back, still lose myself. Yes, I would float, like a baby in the dark liquid of the womb, and it would feel so good, and as cool and shady as nighttime...
 

It must be late morning, because outside, in the garden below, the sprinkler has begun its singsong. Which confused me at first, because I thought I heard something else. Then by small, imperceptible degrees, it became nothing more than background noise, so that the thing, the voice I have been hearing, could become clearer, and claim my full attention.
 

So first: I can hear a tune.
 

How shall I describe it? It is a monotonous repetition, like that of someone who knows only one song, and is committed, for no good reason whatsoever, to go on singing it.
 

And so she goes on, and on she goes, never stopping, never growing tired—no matter how tiresome that tune may be, or how quickly it manages to drain the joy, or any remnant of anything close to pleasure, from the life of anyone around her.
 

So I cover my ears with the pillow, with the thought of how content I would be, at long last, to sink my head into the soft material, and stick my nose deep, deep into it, breathing nothing, and thereby ending this torture, ending it for good and forever.
 

Then Second: before I can move, I can sniff trouble. Here it is, the smell of bread baking.
 

Tinged with vanilla and honey, the scent has come in, perhaps sneaking around the door, finding its way through a crack, or puffing through the keyhole. It is forming, even now, into a channel, an invisible channel floating somehow in midair, right above me, swelling up there as if it were an extension of my nostrils.
 

By now, my stomach is growling, so I have no choice. Up, up and away flies the pillow, off come the blankets! I walk out of my room—hair uncombed, chin unshaven—and find myself waking up to hunger. Or at least, to an undeniable craving.

Framed by the kitchen door, standing there with her back to me, she cranks open the oven. Fume comes out of its gaping mouth, inside which lay two freshly baked loaves, shining with the gloss of egg wash, and sprinkled generously with crispy, toasted sesame seeds.
 

With a large oven mitt, this woman—my father’s new wife—puts her hand inside, and takes hold of the baking pan. I can hear a slight sizzle. Now her thighs tighten. One foot is rising behind the other as she pivots, bringing the loaves right under my nose.
 

“Ben!” says Anita. “There you are. You hungry?”

And without waiting for an answer she lays the pan down, and lifts one of the loaves onto a wooden cutting board. Then Anita sets it down next to the egg salad, which is heaped on a large, oval china platter, which is entirely new to me. I suppose she has gotten it recently, perhaps as a wedding gift. The platter has ruffled edges and—quite ridiculously—it stands on one leg, as if it were a fossil of a stork.
 

It is part of a large assortment of china bowls, in which dips and spreads are artfully presented: garnished with chopped parsley, and decorated by thin cucumber slices and plump cherry tomatoes, they are displayed right here, on the tablecloth. And there, behind the table, slumped in his wheelchair, is my father.
 

With great exuberance, Anita sets down the salt and pepper shakers, fills a glass jug up to the brim with orange juice, and another with grapefruit juice. She keeps bringing more stuff, more food to the table. Why she does it I have no idea. It is fully loaded already.