Apart From Love (14 page)

At daybreak I wake up, snuggled there between the roots at the foot of the tree, to a sharp pang of hunger; which drives me back home.
 

After a brisk walk I turn into 10th street, and the moment I spot the apartment building, the sprinklers in the garden come alive: first with an intermittent stutter, and then with a full-throated singsong; which makes me take a step back, and notice a rainbow hovering, trembling there, in the spray of water.
 

It brings back a moment, an unforgettable moment of that morning, ten years ago, when my mother walked out slowly—with her head held high—as if she was blind to the splash.
 

Now I wonder if mom knew where she was going. What was her goal, her direction? Where, in God’s name, was her
there
?
 

I remember how her wet dress clung to her body, and how she receded into the distance with her packed suitcase, which seemed to become soggy after a few steps, never once stopping to wipe it, or to turn her head back.
 

Her tears are still here, in the rainbow. I wait for the nozzle to go through its circular motion, and then slip past it, sensing the last of the mist, right here on my skin. At that moment I imagine myself crossing right through her ghost. Perhaps there is a touch, a light touch between us.
 

I feel a breath of air as she fades away and I come in.
 

Without asking a single question, my father opens the door and to my surprise, he wraps his arms around my shoulders. The old clock starts ringing its alarm. It startles him, brings him to a halt for a minute—but then, with great relief, he kisses me; which makes me mumble, “Were you waiting up for me? Really? Oh. Sorry, dad. I guess I was lost.”
 

“Lost?” he says. “Here, in Santa Monica? How do you manage to do that? This city is no bigger than two miles in any direction—”

“It takes time,” I have to admit. “It takes concentration. And above all, it takes some kind of effort.”
 

As Told by Anita

T
he bleeding was real bad last night, and there wasn’t no one there I could call for help—or so I thought. I’ve managed to slip off the bed, and go wandering around the apartment, supporting myself, somehow, along the walls.
 

I get myself a drink of water. At first, all’s black around me—except for the two luminous tips, which mark the hands of the alarm clock down there, in the hall.
 

Me, I can’t hear no breathing and no snoring nowhere in this place, which makes me shudder, shudder at the thought that what I’ve feared all along is happening, perhaps, right at this moment: I’m trouble, I mean, too much trouble for him, so Lenny must have gone. He’s left me here, so now I’m all alone in this place. Abandoned.
 

Them blinds, they’re flapping, beating against each other in the breeze, down there across the sliding glass door, which is slightly open, and lets some cold air into the living room. And sneaking in, between one blind and another, come thin streaks of moonlight, which fill me with fear.
 

They look just like swords, advancing stealthily across the floor, giving a sudden, silvery flash when you least expect it, and like, aiming their blades at that hateful, monstrous thing, which seems so much bigger in the dark: her piano.
 

I drag myself away from the light of the moon. Exhausted, I flop onto the bench. I stare at the polished top of the piano, which seems to radiate from the shadows, and where, I know, there’s a long, twisty scratch. For sure Lenny blames me for it. He’s cross with me, most of the time. And I bet he won’t never forgive me, on account of that mistake, which I made nearly three weeks ago, at the wedding:
 

I should’ve kicked off my high heels, or at least, pointed them away, so they would hover, like, just above the surface, when—in front of everyone—I laid myself down on top of the damn thing.
 

And maybe it wasn’t a mistake exactly, ‘cause for Lenny, the piano is so much more than a musical instrument, which makes me hate it. I really do. Me, I can’t exactly explain it—but like, I wish it would disappear, or break down, or something.
 

I remember the first morning I spent here, in this apartment, a month after his wife had left him. I sat down right here, on this bench in front of her piano, which looked whiter than white, because it was displayed against the background of a silvery blue wallpaper, which buckled at the seams, here and there.
 

With great caution I brushed my fingers lightly across them keys. And from the belly of the beast a sound came, shaking the air, a soft, low grumble ending with a hum; which startled me.
 

Facing me was her notebook, with a beautiful signature, which had plenty of twists and turns across the cover, and which was kinda hard to read—but at last I could make it out as
Natasha
. Next to the notebook was an old picture of her. I could see right away that she could easily be mistaken for my sister: her face was just like mine, and so was the red hair.
 

A majestic bust—the bust of Beethoven—perched above me. At the time I didn’t hardly know who or what Beethoven was. Anyhow, I was so scared that it made my hair curl. The bust seemed to gaze fiercely at the air with them marble eyes, eyes as intense as they was vacant. I turned around and could see Lenny, right there on the sofa, looking at me strange like, as if he was seeing some ghost.
 

He came over and sat down on the bench right here, beside me, and turned the photograph over, to hide his wife from me and perhaps, from himself. I thought he would put his arm around me, so we could start kissing—but instead, he took a long time to explain about them keys, and studied my fingers carefully, which made me feel awkward, and sorry, too. Sorry that my fingers wasn’t longer, and sorry that I couldn’t spread them apart no wider, the way Natasha could, being a pianist.
 

I was real sorry that my thumb looked kinda thick, which meant I was a simple, earthy girl. This, according to my ma. She ought to know: years ago—before being hired as a cleaning lady—ma had worked in Venice Beach, down at the boardwalk, as a fortune teller.
 

I remember her eyes. They looked downright stunning under the false eyelashes. As part of her gig, she would read the palm of my hand and like, shake her head with great concern for my future, so the hoop earrings would tinkle, as would the beaded necklaces and the jangle bracelets. Then her fake crystal ball would light up, at which time she would take firm hold of my hand and like, raise it up inside her fist, to show the crowd gathering around us how my thumb looked, how stubby it was, and how my lifeline, there on the palm of my hand, had an unusual, split end.
 

This scared me, really—because me, I was only seven years old back then—and it made some of the onlookers drop their jaws, like, in great awe.
 

They would come even closer, and press around us, eager to gain some insight into their own fate, and into each line on their palms and each little mark, and what all of them things could possibly mean. For a good price, ma would give out advice—mixed in with some warnings—which she crafted, like, in vague, immensely puzzling phrases.
 

But then, she didn’t explain what the trouble was, exactly, with the split end of my lifeline; which left me kinda wondering. For sure ma couldn’t tell, back then, that I would hook up with someone like Lenny: a married man who had a son a year older than me.
 

Now, in spite of sitting right next to me, Lenny didn’t notice no problem with the shape of my thumbs; which was lucky, ‘cause he raised his eyes for a second to the bust of Beethoven, and then, with a sudden spunk, like he was about to take a long, difficult leap, asked me if I wanted to learn how to play music.
 

And I said yes, ‘cause I was sixteen, going on seventeen, and so I hoped that my hands could still grow a little, and maybe with some practice, my fingers could kinda stretch out, and become as long and as nimble as Natasha’s. And then, perhaps, he would stop comparing us to each other all the time in his head, and—to my relief—he would give up trying to mold me, like, in her shape.
 

Let me be me, Lenny. Just let me be who I am.
 

During the next few days, I toyed with the idea of enrolling in a Beginning Piano class in Santa Monica College. Lenny was real eager about it, and he even paid the tuition fee for me, and promised it was gonna open me up to a world of wonder, and inspire me, and teach me about them notes, and about rhythm, chords, and pedaling, and how to apply them basics to classical music.
 

But then, a few weeks later, when I came back from the first class session, he changed his tune, perhaps because I made the mistake of testing my power over him:
 

I told him that I’d met two young students in class, one of whom had said, “So what d’you say, let’s have some beer after class?” and the other had offered to carry my books, which immediately sparked a big fight between them.
 

And the music professor, he tried to pull them apart, and by accident, he got in-between them—in the line of fire, so to speak—which left him with a big bruise right there, under his eye. And sadly, he couldn’t explain things as clearly as I’d hoped, on account of having to press a big icepack to his face.
 

Lenny tightened his lips, and when I saw his face my heart fell inside me.

I told him, real honest, that I’d ended up carrying my own books, and never had no beer with anyone but him, and that I didn’t need no handsome boys when I already had him, that he was a grownup, a smart, accomplished man, and that—no matter what happened—I would be his, only his, if only he would have me.
 

And while saying that, I opened my arms to him—but still, Lenny remained kinda distant, and he had an unfamiliar look on his face, which I couldn’t figure out, like he didn’t want nothing to do with me. The pleat in his forehead deepened and then, all of a sudden, he burst out with, “It is over, Anita.”
 

Me, I didn’t cry, didn’t beg, didn’t ask for no explanations, or hit him on the chest, even. Instead, I just froze there for a moment, with my arms still hanging, like, wide open in the air, and something went—boom!—exploding in my heart; after which I finally stirred, and went to the bedroom to collect my things, and looked for my hot pink high heels, which had rolled there, deep under the bed.
 

I stuffed them shoes into my backpack, along with my low-cut blouse and a pair of jeans and the course catalog, without wasting no time—not even once—to wipe my tears with my sleeve.
 

Lenny came right after me and leaned on the bedroom door, to stop me from bolting out. And he said, now in a changed voice, “Wait, Anita. It is not what you think.”
 

So I slapped the backpack over my shoulders, and got up and rose to the tips of my tows to kiss him—long and hard—on his mouth, so he would have something to remember me by. And then I stormed past him, pushing my way out.

He rushed to the balcony, and from there, leaning over his desk, he cried after me, “Anita, stop! Just stop, will you? Let me explain...”
 

And running to the street I cried back, for the whole neighborhood to hear, ‘cause I wasn’t the one who had something to hide, “Forget it, Lenny! I don’t want no explanation from you—not now, not ever!”
 

Which was the moment he said, and his voice sounded pretty painful, even from the distance, “She is back. That is why it is over. It just has to be over, now.”
 

This marked the beginning of turmoil, of several years full of doubts and suspicions, with more ups-and-downs than the Ferris Wheel, down there on the Pier, and the Roller Coaster, combined. His wife, Natasha, came back, and she stayed for a while. Then she went away, finding a place to live here and there, perhaps with one of her girlfriends or with aunt Hadassa, or elsewhere.
 

And each time I moved back in with Lenny, she managed, somehow, to return. And me, I had to leave, ‘cause like, I didn’t want to have to face her. So I went back home to ma’s place, swearing I won’t want to see him no more. Finally, about five years ago, she left, this time for good, but like, who knows. And since then I haven’t heard nothing about her—not from Lenny, not from anyone else.