Pushing Upward (33 page)

I forced the beached whale up and jumped off the bed. Gently, I opened the door. On my way to the bathroom I overheard Emma dialing a number from the living room. I walked into the bathroom, closed the door, not quite all the way, and strained to hear what she was saying. Emma always talked softly. But she was speaking even more
sotto voce
this morning. She thought I was still in bed, or she didn't want me to hear.

“Zelda? Yes, dear. I have a ride. I wanted to let you know. Jackson is picking me up, then the bank. Yes, I'll call you when I get back.”

There was urgency in her voice. At least she was going out. In a few minutes she'd be gone.
Slow down, Sandra. Deep breath in, deep breath out
.

I closed the door completely and climbed into the shower, lathered up, and tried not to think about anything but the soap and the way it felt on my hands. The way the hot water beat against my skin, massaging my scalp and my shoulders and breasts. I tried desperately to stay in the moment and not allow my mind to spin off in the hundred million directions I knew it could go. I pleaded with myself:
Be here now. Just be here now!
I rinsed off the suds and dried myself with Emma's pink plush towel.

I pulled on my jeans, slipped on my T-shirt, put on my makeup, and then packed up all the bottles and creams into my travel case. When I cracked open the door, I heard Emma in the kitchen toasting her bagel. I could hear the click from the toaster oven signaling that her quarter piece of bagel was done. I could hear her take out the butter from the fridge … I tiptoed back to the bedroom, my nerves worse than ever, closed the door, and took all the empty boxes—the ones I'd unpacked eleven months ago—back out of the closet and began stacking my books inside them. I pulled my clothes out of the drawers and stuffed them into my suitcase.

I opened the tiny center drawer, the one I'd opened months ago. The handkerchief was still there, inside its plastic bag. The name A
LEXANDRA
still embroidered in blue. I lifted the bag to see if I might have left something underneath it. I turned it over and, tucked inside, found a lock of light brown hair. Underneath was a delicate gold locket in the shape of a heart. Curious, I carefully removed the locket. I opened the clasp and found a photo of two women. One was a youthful version of Emma. Next to her, smiling, was a younger woman, not much older than I was. Who was she? I closed the locket, placed it back in the bag, and shut the drawer.

Then I heard Emma walk into the bathroom and close the door. I stopped packing, and breathing. I heard the toilet flush, the faucet turn on and then off, the bathroom door open again, and the light switch click off. I waited to hear her return to the kitchen. But she didn't. She just stood outside my door, listening to discover if I was moving, still here. We both stood on opposite sides of the door, waiting for each other to move. Not until I heard her walk away did I return to my cautious packing.

I pulled my hanging clothes out of the closet and piled them on the bed. Reaching underneath the bed, I brought up the
I Ching,
the silk pouch, and the legal-size writing pad. Holding the book, my hands began to shake. I was in awe of the power this book still had. Maybe it
was
right about Allen; maybe it
was
right about Emma.

I thought about leaving the book behind. Showing it who was in charge. But the knot in my stomach told me otherwise. I couldn't leave it. It had become a part of me—good or bad, right or wrong. I placed it on top of the other books, and closed the cardboard lid.

I did a final search around the room—every corner, the high closet shelf, the nightstand drawer, the windowsill, under the bed—making sure everything I'd brought here nearly eleven months ago was packed.

The doorbell buzzed, and I jumped.

It was Emma's ride. I heard her murmur a few things to a man, and then I heard the door close.

She had left without a good-bye, without saying, “See you later. Break a leg. Have a good show.” I felt ill. Should I run after her and tell her … what? What was I going to tell her?
What, Sandra? Stop it. Stop torturing yourself. Keep moving. Just keep moving.

I grabbed the clothes from the bed and threw a few more items, whatever could fit, into my suitcase. I picked up the clothes still on hangers and hauled them out to the elevator, then went back and brought out another load, and then one more. When all the clothes and all the boxes were out of the bedroom and outside the apartment, I looked around each room one last time. I was about to close the door, but instead swung it open and went back inside. I had to leave a note. I should have written the sixteen hundred pages that were bursting from my heart, but instead I jotted these words on a napkin I found:

Dear Emma,

I'll call you from the theater to make plans for tonight. I'm so glad you'll be coming. Talk to you later.

Sandra.

Calvin's apartment was off Wilshire Boulevard, about ten miles from Emma's. And although taking Wilshire was the most direct way there, it looked like there was an accident up ahead. So I turned onto a side street, and noticed the sweetest art-deco apartment building I'd ever seen. The wooden sign in front of the small garden read: O
NE-BEDROOM FOR RENT
.
One day!
I promised myself.
One day I'll have a nest of my own
.

I circled the block back to Wilshire, and found Calvin's building. It was a cold, white high-rise. The front entry portico was easy to pull into, and as I parked the car at the front, I wondered if Calvin had remembered to leave the key. I left the Fiat running and ran inside to find the doorman.

A short, stocky man with bifocals sat on a stool reading a dirty girlie magazine. I was about to say, “Excuse me, your tenant Calvin Schreiber was supposed to leave me …” when the doorman looked up and said, “Hi, you must be Sandra,” and handed me an envelope. “I've been expecting you. The key's inside.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “Sorry to be in such a rush, but I have an opening tonight!” I ran back to the Fiat and grabbed my suitcase and some bags. The doorman followed me out to the car and grabbed a few, too; he led me to the bank of elevators and showed me the elevator to take—the one that would take me to the ­twenty-sixth floor.

I slid in the key, turned the bolt, and opened Calvin's door. Before me was expensive furniture—luxurious rugs, glass-and-chrome tables, glass-and-chrome chairs, glass-and-chrome mirrors. The place was huge, and sterile, and a mess. Dishes were piled high in the sink; days-old cold, congealed pizza was still in its open box on the couch. Clothes were scattered everywhere. I wanted to go back to Emma's. I wanted to cry. I wanted to die, but there was no time. It was already ten-thirty.

I took the elevator back to the lobby, made a few more trips up with the doorman's help, and then grabbed the overnight bag that I'd packed for later, for Allen's.

“Good luck,” the doorman said to my back as I got into the car. And as I drove like a madman, I repeated a prayer:
Dear God, give me strength. Just let me get through the night.

I ran to the dressing room, placed my overnight bag in the closet, made sure all my costume changes and wigs were in place, and then darted back to the stage. Everyone was there, receiving notes. Our director wanted to run through the play twice—once without costumes, once with costumes. So that's what we did. The first rehearsal was done at lightning speed, a clever technique to see if we knew our lines without thinking about them and remembered the blocking. Then we rehearsed the play again. This time with costumes and corrected scene changes.

Everyone was on cue. We knew our lines, when to come in, when to exit. Everyone looked radiant—particularly our distinguished director, decked out in a tailored suit. Allen's hair, slicked back, made his expressive dark eyes stand out. Just thinking about going home with this man at the end of the night made me pinch myself.

Marlene was focused and deliberate. Perhaps this would be her comeback debut after all. Bill Fleishman had the comedic timing of a masterful clown, and Kevin Hawthorne, who'd replaced Bob Driscoll, played the rich owner of a manor with dignity and defiance. Frank Geraldi's sardonic sense of humor would have the audience in stitches. Charlie, the stage manager, made sure the props were in place and the curtain calls went smoothly. Other than stopping for a few snags in the scene changes, and a few minor fixes in the blocking, dress rehearsal went well. Mr. Cahill announced his appreciation.

We were given a two-hour break to eat and rest up. Everyone left the stage except Allen, who asked me to stay. He came over to me, glanced around before making his move, and then gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You're going to be great. How's everything with Emma?”

“It's all … okay.”

“You are coming home with me, right?”

“I suppose. Unless I get a better offer.”

“Let me know if you do.”

“I gotta go.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “See you later.” I looked around for Charlie, the stage manager. I needed to reserve the best seats in the house—for Emma, Bert, and Sharleen.

“Charlie!” I yelled, but he didn't answer. “Charlie!” I yelled again.

“I'm over here, in the back,” his voice hollered back.

I found him fiddling with the pulley. “How's it going?”

“I dunno—these new curtains,” he said. “We shoulda stayed with the old ones until after the show.”

“You'll make 'em work. You always do. Charlie, I have a favor to ask. Would you let me reserve some seats?” I pulled out a five, smiled, and waved it around.

He looked at the five and said, “You don't need to do that.”

“Yes, I do. You deserve more.”

He caved, but made me swear not to tell. I raised my three fingers, Girl Scout–style, and handed him the five.

“Fifteenth row, down center, smack in the middle of the auditorium.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Charlie.”

“You better go get some ribbon and mark those seats; otherwise they'll be gone.”

I ran out of the theater, sprinted four blocks to the five-and-dime, purchased some yellow ribbon and a black Magic Marker.

I ran back and wrapped the ribbon carefully around the three seats in the fifteenth row, and wrote: RESERVED FOR EMMA. After all, no matter what was happening between us, it was her opening night as much as mine.

I rushed back out to the phone booth to call Emma and go over the details. Thank goodness she was home.

“Listen, Emma.” Out of breath. “If Bert could pick up Sharleen at six-forty-five, and you at seven, then you'll all be at the theater by seven-fifteen, which is perfect. You need to be in your seats when the curtain opens; otherwise the seats I reserved for you will be taken.”

Emma responded with a distant voice, “Yes, dear. I'll call Bert to make sure we're all there.”

“It means a lot to me that you'll be here. You have no idea how much.” I hung up the phone, relieved that she was coming
and
that she'd used the word
dear.