Apart From Love (19 page)

For now she seems lost, searching for something—perhaps her reflection—in vain.
 

I worry about mom, about the little things, which to someone else—someone who does not know her as I do—may seem trivial, insignificant. I worry she is missing her pearl earrings. I must find them for her. The little hole in her earlobe has shrunk away, turning somehow to flesh.
 

In a whisper I say, “Mommy?” and wonder how the air vibrates over the tender membrane of her eardrum, how it changes into noise, how she gets it when pitch rises, when it falls.
 

Can she sense the change?
 

At what point does it translate, somehow, into meaning? By what path does it penetrate, going deeper? Does it excite the nerves, fire signals up there, between regions of her brain? Does it make
some
sense, at least at times? Is there any point in talking to her? Is she listening? Can she detect the thin sound—scratched like an old, overused vinyl record—which is coming faintly from behind, from the far end of this space? Can she understand the words? Is there sorrow in her? Is there hope?

Then the traveller in the dark... Thanks you for your tiny spark... He could not see... Which way to go... If you did not twinkle so...
 

And before the last sounds tremble away, I turn to look at the direction of that voice, and see an old, seated figure, stooping there over her hands, which are nestled in her lap. She stares at them as if to ask, Why are they empty? What was I holding? When did I lose it? Then her eyes break off. They are rambling now, wandering about, as if to call for help. Why am I here? Who is there? Who are you? And a minute later: tell me, where is home? Would you take me there, take me back, to the place where I belong?

Meanwhile I sense a crisp sound, the sound of fabric rustling here, in my ear, and the staff member, Martha, is leaning over my shoulder.
 

She takes a glimpse of the album and says, “This you?”

And I say, “Yes.”

And she points, “And this, your mom?”

And I say, “Yes.”

And Martha says nothing at first. She rolls up her sleeves, the light blue sleeves of her nurse uniform, and comes over, driving a large mop across the floor, which she ends up pointing at my shoes. So I get the hint, somehow, and lift them in the air, so she can wipe the floor under my chair, after which I can relax. Now Martha rests the mop in the corner, against the frame of that window, and comes back to stand here, in the patch of sunshine in front of me. And with her plastic glove she rubs out the sweat, because it seems to tickle her forehead, and run down the side of her nose.
 

She studies the photographs for a bit, at the end of which she says, “You want her,” meaning, my mother, “to take a look?”

And I say, “Yes.”

“Let her hold it,” she suggests.

And I say, “What?”

And without bothering to explain, Martha pulls the disposable gloves off her plump fingers, and grabs the heavy album from my hold, which makes it close suddenly, with a loud slap. Then she brings it across the divide, so now it rests in my mother’s lap.

“Now, let
her
open it,” she says.

And I say, “What? How—”

“Like this,” she says, and wraps her chubby hand around my mother’s fingers, which are laying there limply, so fragile, so delicate. Martha presses them somehow into the photo album, letting it flip open where it may, which happens to be somewhere there, in the middle. She winks at me and then, turns away. This, now, is where I have to go on.
 

My mother is still. She is looking out the window.

For all I know, by now she might have found an outline, a faint trace in that square of glass, running though it in zigzag, this way and that, like a fine, hairline crack. Perhaps she is dreaming of her double, her other self floating there, pale, nearly transparent, over the fuzzy colors of fall: on the outside, looking in.
 

For a second I wonder if I, too, can spot that mirror image. I search for an eye—but even without detecting it I reflect on what it may see, watching us from a detached, neutral position, out there. It may look carefully into us—or rather, into
them
: a withdrawn, aging woman; a young fool. One has been forgotten, the other—deceived.
 

Something, perhaps a ray of sun, flickers across the floor between them. There they are, hanging at the edge of that pool of light in the corner. Careful not to touch, not to step, not to drown in it.
 

This scene, I figure, can be altered not only by the point of view—but also by the medium, the clarity of the lens. And so I imagine that eye, observing us through the imperfections, through the thick and thin of the glass, trying to account for the distortions, judging what is true and what is false in us: us, who are distorted.
 

The eye is studying, perhaps, the way we—no,
they
—are slumped: two strangers in two chairs across from each other, hesitant, unable to grasp for the real version of themselves, unsure of the bond between them: a mother and a boy.
 

I think I can see that eye. It looks in, unblinking. It can read the signs of our silence. I want to speak—but find myself unable.
 

And she, she is looking out the window. May God help us both.

I bend over to point at a picture, there on the open page, which brushes against her bosom.
 

“Look, mom,” I say, and my voice is choked. “Here,” I try again, “this is my first piano recital. Remember? You had all your students practice so hard, especially me. I was seven years old, and was assigned to play a lovely, cheerful piece:
The Entertainer.”

“
Right there, there I was, coming forward when my turn came up, and bowing to the audience, just the way you had taught me. I had no stage fear back then, because I had never stumbled in public before. And here, see? I adjusted the distance between the piano and the bench before taking my seat, just the way you had instructed, so I may reach the keys. And there, by these pleats in the background you can tell: someone was standing there, unseen, ready to whisper to me, to guide me from behind the curtain, if necessary. This was you, mom.”

“And for a second there, I closed my eyes—see?—thinking about what you had told me: to draw a difference, a sharp difference, between my version of this piece, and the cheap version which could be heard, from time to time, in our neighborhood: it was meant not to delight in the music for its beauty—but to announce, with a chirpy, irritating repetition, the arrival of some ice cream truck.”

“And so, I began. I touched the keys and incredibly, from the first note I felt my hands flying, in full control, over the keyboard. On the repeat, I played the melody an octave higher; after which I glanced at the audience and could spot grandma, looking up at me. Here,” I point her out. “You can tell how my music delighted her, and set her feet in action, because look: they went tapping under her, all over the floor.”
 

“And mom, my heart was so light! I felt happy and at the same time—reckless! There was no need, really, for you to be there, to watch over me. I hope that did not disappoint you, somehow.”

“For the first time in my life, the piano came alive under my fingers. I was Wild! Strong! Invincible! Which reminded me how, around my third birthday, I had assembled a drum set of sorts, with trash cans and lids and pots and pans. I had rung and slammed and beaten them with all my might, and with full abandon—until, mom, you stopped me.”
 

“Now I took my bow, and to the sound of cheers, my heart swelled big inside of me. I thought: I had brought them joy and in return, they were giving me a long, loud round of applause. My God, I could reach out to them! I could touch them, which was an entirely new revelation to me.”

“But I was worried, mom, because you would not say a word, let alone pay me a compliment. Perhaps you were afraid of what it might do to me. ‘Let it not go to his head,’ I heard you tell dad that night, after you had tucked me in. ‘Anything,’ you said, ‘would be better than an inflated ego.’”

“So out of respect to you, dad, too, refrained from giving me a pat on the back. Next morning, Grandma said nothing, not a single comment—but she gave me a piece of chocolate under the table. I gave it back. A good word, a little encouragement, that was all I wanted. It would have made all the difference.”

“And yet—under your guidance—I would react with polite humility, denying myself any sense of pleasure, when someone praised me. I was trained so well, mom, to keep running on empty. Even so, despite my humble mumble, I was dying to get more.
 

After a few more years of this, I knew that by now, no word would ever be good enough. If someone said, Good work, Ben! I wished they would fall to their knees and touch their head to the floor, and give praise to the Lord for having looked upon my face, and listened to my music, because after all, I was The Entertainer! I was an Idol, no less!”

She is looking out the window.

I lean back, no longer referring to the photographs, talking now out of blind pain. I talk freely, as if in front of a stranger I have just met in a foreign place, perhaps in some airport; a stranger whom—beyond any doubt—I shall never see again.
 

“Mom,” I say, hoping she cannot hear me. “Mom, I became so greedy, so eager for admiration that for me, the only escape was to quit playing altogether; which I did, mom, just before turning thirteen. Still, I admired you, and looked up to you, praying that you would give me more things against which to rebel. I remember that. You called it
misbehaving
. Stop it, you said then. Stop being so immature.”
 

This is when I hear the clap, and when I sit up I can see that the album has been pushed shut, perhaps by accident, between her hands. My mother has closed it. This is a simple fact—but to me, it is startling. I consider it, wondering: does this mean what I think it means?
 

Has she been listening all along, taking in my long-winded whining? Has she grown tired of it? Would she want me to describe something else—something about her, for a change?
 

So I lift the front cover, even though her hand is still there, on top of it, close to the metal clasp. This time the album falls open to the beginning, or rather, to the second page, where something is amiss. Something is not right, not quite right—but at first, I cannot put my finger on it.
 

At the top of the page, there is a picture of mom smiling at the camera, which means she was smiling at my father. She is young—perhaps in her early twenties—and you can tell she is pregnant.
 

At the bottom, there is a picture of a little boy with long lashes. You can tell how excited he was, how fascinated by that single, twisted candle in front of him, on his birthday cake. And if you look closely in his eyes you can see a twinkle, and that flame right there, reflected twice.
 

She is looking out the window.
 

And it is not until she lays her hand flat right here—between the two pictures, in the middle of the page—that in a flash I realize: there is a picture missing.
 

There is a picture missing.
 

It is a simple fact, which makes me uneasy, anxious even, as if my heart has just skipped a beat.It feels as if the story of my life depends, for its completeness, on having a record for that moment—a moment back then, at the beginning—when my father snapped this picture.
 

The only record left to me, relating—in some way—to my birth, is an image of a loaf of bread: a braided challah, weighing exactly as I did as a newborn baby, which leaves me now with a lump in my throat. Where is my first baby picture? Was it taken? By whom, and why?
 

Did my mother take it with her, in her suitcase, when she left home? Or did my father tuck it in his purse, so he could take a peek from time to time and see me, and remember that moment, even when I traveled far, far away from him? What has been lost here, lost to memory—and what has been gained?