Language Arts (43 page)

I heard her words. I understood that she was upset. And even then I knew that the person your mother was, and is, would never, ever understand.

But it cannot be that, Emmy. Emerson Faith, can it?

You and I; it cannot be a pathology.

I used to think that it just happened; there wasn't a specific moment when it started.

But I know now: it began the day your mother boxed up your things with the intention of giving them away.

From then on, you began inserting yourself into my consciousness. At odd and unexpected moments, you'd materialize in my imagination. Scenes would present themselves; conversations would arrive fully formed, as if they were memories, not fabrications. It seemed to be out of my control.

And when I first brought your box down here and laid eyes on that never-to-be-used tea set (a gift from your other grandmother), suddenly, you were there:

“Would you care for a cucumber sandwich, Mr. Charles?”

“Yes, indeed, Miss Emerson. Thank you ever so much.”

As for that movie I watched at Cody's tonight, the videotape that was part of your mother's Discard pile:

It has no title, no musical soundtrack, no opening credits, no RKO tower emitting Morse code signals.

This movie begins and ends with a master shot: the interior of a small room in the neonatal intensive care unit of Seattle Children's Hospital.

The view is of a bed on which a newborn baby is lying. The baby is intubated. Her eyes are closed; if there is a question to be answered in this film, a narrative engine powering the plot, it is this: Will she ever open them?

Beyond that, the movie has no dramatic arc; its unedited footage shows the parents and sibling of this babe—floating in and out of frame—along with a succession of friends and family who are coming to both meet the baby and say goodbye.

Propped-up and brave-faced at the start, the visitors offer the gifts they have come to deliver—hugs, flowers, words of well-intentioned comfort—but soon, whatever inner scaffolding they've erected for the occasion gives way, and they make their exits housed in broken bodies, features buckled by grief.

Many of the visitors comment on the baby's expression—“She looks like she's smiling,” they say, or “She looks like she's about to laugh”—and the baby's mother takes a photograph of her at one such moment.

It is not until the film's final act that the parents and sibling insert themselves into the center of the action.

Mother, played by Alison Marlow.

Father, played by Charles Marlow.

Mute Child, played by Cody Marlow.

The father settles by the bedside and begins reading the baby a story, “On the Day You Were Born.” He succumbs to a wordless assault of tears long before the story ends.

And then, in the final minutes, a cameo appearance by the pediatrician; she enters the frame and speaks to the gathered threesome, including Mute Child, who is being held between his parents, in both sets of arms. He has been seen previously in the film, initially a scene-stealer (thrashing and screaming whenever someone tries to remove him to an offstage location), but eventually a quiet, pacified, mostly ignored presence at a corner table, where he has occupied himself with an assortment of non-toy items that the rotating cast of kindly nurses bring for him: waiting-room magazines, plastic containers and lids, craft and office supplies.

“Say goodbye, Cody,” Mother whispers, “say goodbye to your baby sister, can you? Goodbye, Emmy. Goodbye, Emerson Faith Marlow . . .”

The baby is extubated.

Her eyelids quiver briefly—two small, shimmering aspen leaves—the color drains from her face, and then she is still.

Father sobs.

Mother weeps.

Over Father's bowed head, Mute Child gently drapes a paper-clip necklace.

THE END.

Dear Emmy. Emerson Faith Marlow.

I've given the six-word-short-story assignment to my students often enough over the years, modeled on Hemingway's “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

I could not allow the story of your life to be so brief.

After the video ended tonight, I went into your brother's room and watched him sleep for a while.

I do so wish that he could have known you.

But maybe he did. Maybe he does.

Maybe he dreams of you.

Maybe the two of you communicate in some way, and during those frequent times when Cody lifts his eyes to the sky, he sees something I don't.

On his bedside table, in the album he keeps to help him communicate, there is that single photograph of you, the one your mother took before you were extubated: your face pink, your small mouth bowed into what looks for all the world like a smile. Sometimes your brother points to this photo, as if asking to see you, expecting to see you; I believe as much as I believe anything that you are still alive for him as well.

Is that a pathology?

Is writing and reciting your name a pathology? Do not the observant recite Kaddish? Do not the faithful attend the Funeral Mass?

Dear Emmy. Emerson Faith Marlow.

You, in truth, are my greatest fictional masterpiece.

My one comfort is in thinking that perhaps you chose to leave us. Maybe you wanted to be born into a different family, one in which you wouldn't have so much to bear. Maybe you knew, as your mother seemed to, that your brother would require all of our strength. Maybe your choice was for yourself.

Still, I am left with these questions:

If I stop talking to you, will you cease to exist?

Or:

If I stop talking to you, will you finally be free?

Charles was not, by nature, a partygoing type.

Which was a shame, in a way, since the city of his birth and lifelong residence is enthralled by celebrations of the large-scale variety.

Seattle's two oldest, biggest, and most established blowouts—Folklife and Bumbershoot—bookend the summer, the former a high-octane, bare-midriff marathon of dance and world music that takes place over Memorial Day weekend, the latter an only slightly more sedate lollapalooza of literary and cultural offerings that stretches over Labor Day weekend, the last huzzah before the rainy season sets in.

Charles was a regular no-show.

However, on those weekends, inevitably hunkered down at home in his Maple Leaf neighborhood, he could almost hear the drums, smell the kebabs, visualize the profusion of swirling colors, absorb a diffuse but palpable energetic wave generated by hundreds of thousands of people congregating near and around the base of the Space Needle, that Seattle icon, standing alone on the horizon, the vestige of an imagined architectural future that never came to pass.

Odd but true: Charles did not attend the 1962 World's Fair, possibly because his parents weren't festival-going types either. Just as the maximum occupancy of their social life was the size of a cocktail party, the largest population Charles could comfortably tolerate was fifteen, the average class size at City Prana, a school that prided itself on its low student/teacher ratio—that being, of course, one of the reasons he'd applied there in the first place, and why he'd remained so long.

As far as Charles could remember, all the other students he'd mentored over the past twenty years had fulfilled their final senior-project requirements by giving classroom presentations.

Today, however, thanks to the unusual nature of Romy Bertleson's project, he was obliged to vacate the metaphorical comforts of his beanbag chair for a very different kind of finale: the annual Art Without Boundaries exhibition fundraiser, which was scheduled to take advantage of a monthly neighborhood event known as the Capitol Hill Arts Walk.

•♦•

He left much later than he should have. Even though it was Thursday, not even a holiday weekend, southbound I-5 was a grinding mess; he'd had to exit the interstate and make his way via a series of surface streets, clogged with freeway escapees like himself, so by the time he got to the church, the exhibition had been in progress for almost an hour and the parking lot was full.

What if Romy thought he wasn't coming? What if she'd already left?

Charles drove around for another ten minutes before finally finding a spot a few blocks away, and then he had to weave in and out of the dense, leisurely parade of urban art seekers strolling the sidewalks and the barricaded cross-town streets.

The mood was celebratory but not frenetic, and in addition to the edgy, single, fashion-in-extremis types Charles expected to see in this part of the city, there were lots of parents with young children. True, many of the mothers and fathers were heavily inked and/or liberally pierced, but besides that, they and their offspring looked like typical migratory family units charged with safekeeping their most vulnerable members; they transported their young in strollers, wagons, backpacks, nestled in body-hugging slings (either kangarooed in the front or caboosed in the back), hoisted on shoulders, cradled in arms.

Watching them, Charles experienced a rare sense of commonality:
I've done that,
he thought, smiling.
I've had that gift, that privilege.

The weather was cloudy and cool; the temperature hovered around sixty; shops and restaurants, with their doors and windows flung open, seemed to be smiling.

On the sidewalk outside the church, a large sandwich board advertised the
ANNUAL ART WITHOUT BOUNDARIES EXHIBITION FUNDRAISER
. Charles slowed his pace and allowed himself to be carried along by the crowd toward the entrance.

Once they were inside, another sign directed them around a corner and into a huge open space with gleaming wood-plank floors and a bank of enormous west-facing windows.

Charles's recent feelings of ease and community quickly began to evaporate; the sensation of intruding into a situation where he didn't belong was an all-too-familiar one.

He stepped aside, adhered himself to the wall immediately to the left of the large double doors, and allowed other, more confident partygoers past.

A long table was situated nearby. Charles began perusing the spread of written materials on display: informational literature about church programs, e-mail sign-up sheets, colorful brochures that advertised the Art Without Boundaries mission and offered ways to get involved.

“Would you like an exhibition guide?” he heard a voice say.

He looked up to see a young woman holding out a large, glossy catalog.

It was Romy, seated, smiling impishly. “Hi, Mr. Marlow,” she said.

As unrecognizable as she'd been at the start of the school year, her transformation today from the gawky young person who'd come through the doors of City Prana six years ago was even more remarkable.

“Romy,” Charles said. “Congratulations.”

She stood, walked around the table, and drew him into a hug.

“Thanks for coming,” she said graciously—as if his presence weren't mandated by article 18, paragraph 25 of
The City Prana Senior-Project Guide for Teachers.
“Let me find someone to man the table,” she said, stepping away. “There are some people I want you to meet.”

She'd assembled a look that combined vintage and modern elements in a sophisticated, balanced way: a 1940s jacket and wool beret, loose pleated trousers, a soft rayon shirt, a colorful scarf. The ensemble suited her, reflecting the inside-out expression of a young woman who was starting to know herself and beginning to put her personal style in the service of an authentic, inner substance.

Charles wished he could comment on her appearance but feared that would violate the contract of teacher-student relations, especially when the teacher was male. Pam Hamilton could say it, but not Charles; the words
You look beautiful
belonged to Romy's father, wherever he was. Still, Charles could
think
them, and he did:
You look absolutely beautiful, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you.

When she rejoined him, taking his arm, Charles realized that the biggest change in her appearance was the absence of her camera; in place of the wide, bandolier-slung strap that usually crossed her torso, she wore a lanyard with an ID badge that read
ROMY BERTLESON, AWB VOLUNTEER AND EXHIBITING ARTIST
.

•♦•

The room was set up as a large exhibition hall: the walls were densely hung with two-dimensional pieces that were expertly illuminated by track lighting; standalone stacked white cubes displayed pieces of sculpture. It was all very polished-looking, which made sense; in his brief perusal of the AWB materials, Charles had learned that much of the work and the program support came from professional artists with ties to the gallery world.

The event itself had clearly been designed with elegance in mind, but although there were a few people who were dressed up and obviously here specifically for this event, most of the crowd was part of the drop-in Art Walk group, and—typically for Seattle—dressed down.