Apart From Love (13 page)

Between one footfall and another I am not here, I am not there: neither at the end of a journey, nor at the beginning.
 

Forced to slow down I push my way through the thick of a crowd, some of which are walking about without a care in the world other than nibbling on candy bars, sipping expensive coffee out of paper cups, chatting loudly about nothing in particular, and checking out the jewelry stores, boutiques, nail salons and massage parlors, all of which abound here, in this affluent neighborhood near Montana; while others, the outcasts among us, are beginning to shrink away, fading stealthily into dark corners, to prepare themselves for the coming of the night.
 

These
others
are lonesome, faceless figures. Right there, where the shadows of one streetlamp crisscross the shadows of another, a panhandler is unfolding his torn piece of cardboard on the pavement, stiffly laying his limbs on it.
In the alley, s
ome distance away, another layabout is arranging a foul-smelling, brown blanket on some r
otting sofa, with the stuffing ripped out of it, which someone has discarded next to the trash cans. In a minute he will be not just covered
—
but entirely erased from view.

My pace has picked up again. I am running furiously, as if chased by ghosts. B
y now I find myself not only drifting, not only lost, and not only short of cash, which I have left back there, in my bedroom—but above all, short of breath; all of which are better, in my opinion, than turning around to find my way back home. I am utterly driven to go astray.
 

So I push myself farther and farther away, sickened at the mere thought of that place, where the whitewashed facade of the two-story apartment building, built in the 50’s, seems to conceal some secrets; where—behind this or that window—you can spot an eye taking a peek, following you through a crack between the blinds; and where inside, the air is stale.
 

Home. That is the place where, ten years ago, the gossip surrounding my family, together with the silence, that sudden muteness between my parents, drove me to despair. So I tried to distance myself from both of them. At the age of seventeen I thought I would go crazy—or else, to escape madness, take my own life.
 

The walls had been closing in on me, and even more so—on my mom. I remember the last time we talked, which was also the last time I was given the chance to hug her—and missed it.
 

It was well after midnight and my homework was still far from complete, when suddenly, inspiration struck: I came to the realization that come what may, trigonometry was not a subject in which I would ever excel. I might as well drop out of school. No one would miss me there.
 

So for a while I sat idly in my bedroom, scribbling and looking blankly out the window, after which I closed my notebooks with a slap. And then, on my way to the bathroom I noticed her door, which was slightly ajar, and through which I could hear some noise. Mom was packing a suitcase.
 

“Ben?” she said. “As long as you are still up, can you do me a favor? Bring me that thing from there—”

“What?” I asked, reluctantly; which made her turn her back to me and say, “Oh, never mind. I will do it myself.”
 

I repeated, this time more willingly, “What, mom?” And a minute later, “I am already here, so let me help,” followed with, “please, mom,” but to no avail. “That’s all right,” she stated. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself. It would be easier than having to explain.”
 

I resented the way she said it, which allowed me to go back to my room—but at the same time, placed a weight on my shoulders, saddling me with the burden of guilt. Back then, nothing was more annoying than, “Never mind. I will do it myself.” I wondered, why would she ask for my help—only to reverse herself immediately, and refuse it? Was it her way to needle me? To show the extent of my weakness, laziness, dependence? To match it with an equal measure, the measure of her sacrifice?
 

Quite often mom would frustrate me by insisting on doing
it
herself—whatever
it
was—and each time, for a slightly different variant of the same basic reasoning: because she wanted the thing to be done right, or because she was afraid it would be too heavy for me, or too hot to handle, or something.
 

Play. Rewind
. All these years I have been playing her voice over and over in my head, rewinding this last conversation, and tormenting myself by focusing on the wrong phrase: the one at the end.
 

“Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”
 

Now—only now, at nightfall—do I realize my mistake. Suddenly, as if discovering a new twist in an old piece of music, I can detect a certain note of stress, right there, from the beginning, the moment she opened with the phrase, “Bring me that thing from there.”
 

So I slow down the replay, and listen carefully to each one of these words—only to wonder about the other words, the unspoken ones, those that were missing, strangely, from the conversation. What
thing
? Where was
there
? Why would doing it be easier than having to explain? And how could I be so dumb as to miss the early, telltale signs, back then when she started forgetting things?
 

Simple things, such as the names of her students, and how to teach music, or play Beethoven's fifth. And later, how to put words on paper, and mail me a letter, and why not call me, why not tell me the truth; and how to talk to him, to my father; and most of all, how to forgive betrayal.
 

So for me, home is where her illness has been buried, up to now, under a thin, undisturbed layer of memories.
 

Or should I call them lies.
 

I think that in the future, I should refrain from talking to my father, and especially, from asking him any more questions about her. Let him not upset that image, which I have been striving so hard to construct, the image of mom, framed by their life together, because if this image collapses, so will I.
 

Still, I am unsure if her forgetfulness should be called an illness. Those doctors, they could have made a mistake. Two years in medical school taught me one thing, which is how terribly easy it can be to make an incorrect diagnosis.
I recall a study of
brain autopsies, in which roughly half of those diagnosed with Alzheimer's before death did not, in fact, show any evidence, I mean, evidence of the right degree of brain lesions to support the diagnosis.
 

If there is one illness which—in this case—seems too far-fetched, it would be Alzheimer's. My mother is now in her early fifties: much too young, I think, for anything like that.

Yesterday, arriving at LAX, I hoped this could be a short visit, short enough just to take my father out of the hospital and make sure he is all right. I planned to spend no more than a week—but now, now that I know more about mom, and about where she is, I may have to stay longer and think about my next steps.
 

At this point, the crowd has thinned out to the point of disappearing altogether, somewhere there, in the distance behind me. Looking straight ahead I can see the outlines of two or three runners, jogging along the wide grass median, which is splitting the traffic. And in a few minutes they, too, have receded from view.
 

I look around me and suddenly, I know where I am.
 

This is San Vicente Boulevard, where homes are known to be among the most expensive in Los Angeles County, and the people living in them are so fantastically rich and so content and successful that you, a mere mortal, can never catch even a glimpse of them, because of the barriers of carefully trimmed vegetation, and the towering trees, and the fancy fences, and the locks behind locks, gates within gates.
 

You can only imagine the picturesque views spreading before them out of their back yards, views of the Pacific Ocean or the Santa Monica Canyon, which must give them great joy, and persuade them to stay there, nestled in their safe, secluded existence.
 

The reason I know this place, the reason it ignites such emotion, such passion in me, is not the sight of these homes—but the majestic trees, whispering in the night air. Planted at regular intervals along the median, as long as the eye can see, they are named
Naked Coral Trees
.
Naked
because—according to my father—they shed their leaves annually.
 

I know this because at the age of fifteen I used to come here with him, every Saturday for an entire spring. During that period he worked for the Landmark Division of the City of Santa Monica, reviewing applications for the Landmark Designation of trees. To this day I have no idea what that means.

Dad talked little about his job, and cared for it even less. He was a writer at heart, and during spells of unemployment he would do two things: at night, scribble furiously in his notebook, and during the day, acquire new skills—which he did with great ease—and change his line of work, trying to make do until someday, some fine day when he would strike gold with his yet unfinished book.
 

During our walks that spring, dad would point out the tree: Its fiery red flowers, that looked like fat pinecones at the tips of irregular, twisting branches, and the seeds, which in certain species were used for medicinal purposes by indigenous peoples. The seeds were toxic, he warned, and could cause fatal poisoning. I learned that mature Coral trees should be watered frequently—but not during the summer months. In fact, he said, the less water in summer, the more flowers you can expect the following spring.

I cross two lanes of traffic, come closer to one of those Naked Coral Trees, and
 
with great awe, brush my fingers across the trunk. It is a contorted, elephantine thing, with a roughly textured bark, and thick roots clinging fiercely to the earth. This being early October there are no flowers, no leaves, even. The tree seems to take on a humanoid appearance, as if it were the body of a character, or even several characters, mangled beyond recognition.
 

It is a stunning sight, which has fascinated me since childhood. Above me, the bare limbs—some of which have been pruned recently—are branching apart, and looking at them you can imagine a knee here, an elbow there, someone wrestling, someone in embrace.
 

As you walk past them, the trees seem to tell you a story line by line, scene by scene. In one tree I could see a man and a woman, kissing; in another, a father and son.

I remember one time, during our Saturday stroll, I asked my father for some details about his family. At first he seemed relaxed enough to tell me—at more length than usual—about my grandfather, whom I never met, because he had died long before I was born. I got a distinct sense that dad was, somehow, still afraid of the old man, who had pressed him hard to achieve that which he himself had failed to become: a lawyer.
 

“So,” I asked, “what did you do?”
 

A brief laughter erupted on his lips. “I told him that I had registered at the university, and would be majoring in Law, just as he had always wished—but somehow I neglected to mention that the closest I ever came to registering was flipping through an outdated course catalog, while sitting on the toilet, and dreaming about something else.”

“And,” I hesitated to ask, “did he ever find out?”

“Well,” said my father, and in a flash, his face turned red, “if it occurred to the old man that this might have been a nasty lie, he admirably concealed it.”

I listen to his voice, which is still here, echoing in my head, and all of a sudden I grasp that he grew embarrassed not only because of his obligation to his father—but to me as well. Perhaps a sudden sense of shame caught up to him, shame for falling short of becoming an acceptable role model. Or else he had a premonition—a fear, even—of how I would treat him, not too far in what was then the future.
 

Which makes me realize one thing: up to a certain point, I wanted to become a man just like my father. And from then on, I wanted to be anything but. Which made me spend a whole decade in diametrical opposition to him, so that I wound up living a life based directly on his, as though I had never left home.