Apart From Love (32 page)

Stop
, I tell myself. Stop thinking now.

I remember: when I was six, we strolled together one morning along the beach. The tide was low, and dad picked up a shell, an empty, twisted shell of a sea snail, that had washed up on shore.
 

He handed it to me, saying, “Here, Ben. Keep it. It is a gift.”
 

My father taught me then how to hold it to my ear and listen, listen with all my being; because, he said, the sound of the waves had been caught, somehow, inside it, which is a secret only few people know, because it only becomes clear if you stay there, very still, and forget everything else for a while. The sound, dad promised, would always remain—even if you took the shell far, far away from here, say, to the city, or to Santa Monica Mountains, out there. Even so, you would still hear it.
 

I remember doubting him. I thought, Oh well. High tide, low tide. Nothing stays. Nothing is forever.
 

I admit, in the past few days I have judged him harshly.
Now I know, I can tell where I might have gone wrong. When the old man says, “
The day is shorter, it seems. And the shorter it is
—
the more precious each minute,”
it is not
his
life he is thinking about. Perhaps, it is mine.
 

My father is doing his best to hold things together. Memory is a fragile thing. So he is trying to capture the moment, perhaps for my sake. At least, the sound of it. One day, if—if like my mother, I shall start losing it, my memory, I mean—I want to believe that dad will be there, as close to me as once he was, holding it to my ear.
 

Time in a fold of brain. The ocean in a shell.

I pick the papers from the floor, which is where they have been trampled on, and I flatten them under the golden lamplight, which warms the tips of my fingers. This is my story, I tell myself. This is me, fifteen years ago. Here is my voice. Here is his gift to me.

And so, I begin reading.

There it is, that sound again. And again—just like last night—it is only a whisper...

As Told by Ben, Fifteen Years Back

T
here it is, that sound again. And again—just like last night—it is only a whisper. No, not now, mom... Just a little bit longer. If I open my eyes, if I open them now, for sure I will fall—

Lighter and faster than anything here I come, traveling through the air, hovering as if there is no gravity. The toy-sized houses below me are floating away; so are the trees. Here and there they catch a ray of light, then dim away. After a while they fall back into the stream of things.
 

From time to time I can see my shadow: there, there it is, fluttering dreamily over the land, like a fish wiggling across a vast, sandy bottom. The shadow is spreading as I leap over the valleys, shrinking as I drift down toward the hilltops. From here I can almost see, see over the summit, even over the highest, sharpest rocks. They reach up to me, lick my toes and then, in a flash I kick, I rise over them until—

I sit up in my bed with a start. The blanket has fallen off and there is my foot, bandaged. Some boys are clumsy. Some boys fall from trees, they get all bruised up and never learn a lesson, is what grandma says. Everyone knows who she is talking about.
 

She is right, too. I hate learning lessons. I hope I never will.

I try to pull back the blanket and suddenly, here is that sound again—only clearer this time. How can I describe it? It is faint, like a moan, going up, down and then up again. Just listening to it sets my nerves on edge. Can you make any sense of it?
 

I remember asking mom about it. I said, “You feeling all right?” And she said, “Yes dear, why?” And I said, “I heard you at night.” And she paused for just a second, but then went on, combing her hair. And I said, “So? What happened, mom? Were you hurt?”
 

And she waved her hand, the way she does to dismiss what I say, because to her it seems to make no sense. Then she smiled at me from the mirror.
 

But I pressed on saying, “Well?” And immediately noticed a change in her: the forehead was stitched with worry, and a little pleat was forming there, between her eyebrows, which meant she was doing the grown-up thing, trying to think of something to say in order not to say a thing, after which she said, “Oh that! I guess I was having a nightmare. Sometimes,” she added, “I talk in my sleep.”
 

And I came close, right behind her, and gave her a hug, and said, “So, if it happens again—then what?” To which she shrugged. I looked up at her, at her reflection really, because that was where I could find her eyes, and I said, “Should I come in, then? Should I wake you up?”
 

“Oh no,” she answered, blushing a little. “Dad can do that.”

So now, shivering a bit, I find myself cuddling the pillow, swaying back and forth, hypnotized by that moan and becoming angry, very angry with dad. How can he go on sleeping? It should not be that difficult to touch her, to have her snap out of that Oh, Oh, Oh mumble—I mean, really! If he did what he is supposed to do, I would not have to pop open my eyes, smack in the middle of my dream, right at the moment when I am at the top of the world, and wonder how to take care of things.

There is nothing I wouldn’t do for mom, I mean it! Waking her from a nightmare is the least I can do. I will wake her—and no one else but her. So I slip off my bed. The floor is bare. It has a cold, stony touch. What you call darkness is really not all that dark. Faint moonlight seeps through the blinds, puddles over the sheets, spills all over the folds, and then crawls, with some hesitation perhaps, across the room.
 

I find the door handle and lean into it. I know exactly how much pressure to apply, especially around the rusty spot, so that—without a screech—it swings open.
 

Once outside my bedroom I make an effort to avoid limping, for fear of making a sound. So I slide across the hall, past the empty aquarium, which grandma bought me after my injury.
 

Coming dimly into view, as I enter the corridor, are the closed doors ahead of me.
 

I remind myself to sidestep the two squeaky floor tiles: one lies in wait right there, next to the toilet, the other—next to grandma’s room. I don’t want to wake her. She always has some boring old lesson to teach me.
 

So I move slowly, carefully, around those floor tiles, halting to listen after each step, one foot on tiptoe, the other—dragging along. You think this is easy for a boy, a tense, jumpy twelve-years old boy? It’s not—but I cannot go back.
 

At last I am closing in on my target: the door at the end of the corridor. The handle is within my reach when, once again—

Oh, says my mom from within. Her voice rings so sweet, so melodious—each Oh coming to a higher peak than the last one—that all of a sudden, I am in awe. I step back, trying to make up my mind: is this a nightmare she is having—or perhaps something different? Should I rush in to save her—or perhaps not?
 

And as I stand there, utterly in confusion, I hear, as clear as can be, a little, distinct note, a squeak really: the squeak of a floor tile being stepped on, coming from the shadowy corridor, directly behind me.
 

I glance over my shoulder: outlined against her door, which is now flung wide open, there she stands: a small, hunched figure, raising a wrinkled finger at me. Grandma is short, but formidable: she is the real power in our family. No one is allowed to forget the fact that every month, the rent is paid for with her savings.

Which is why dad keeps telling me we should be grateful, very grateful. His face droops every time he says that, and his voice becomes strained. Really strained. So there it is. We have her to thank for the roof over our heads. In addition I have her to thank for the empty aquarium.
 

Somehow Grandma looks even smaller than usual, so I have to remind myself that in this family, she is the giant. She opens her mouth; but without her teeth—which are probably swimming in that glass of water, right next to her bed—you know it would be next to impossible to figure out what she is trying to say.
 

An intense look passes between us, without a single word.
 

I cannot imagine why she is still holding her breath. For some reason I get a funny feeling, a feeling that she is about to crumble, that she is trying, somehow, to call my name.
 

Her finger trembles in the air and then, I cannot believe my eyes, it is such a shock: like an old, broken doll, she comes crashing to the floor.

Mom cracks open the bedroom door and takes a peek from behind. I’m afraid that perhaps, she is wearing nothing but perfume; and so I avoid looking at her. “Oh my,” she cries out, “oh my God!” Out comes dad and upon seeing me there, crouching down beside grandma and holding her white head, he goes back in and calls 911. Why I keep holding up her head I have no idea.
 

Because of the hunch on her back, the head is hanging in midair even as she lies there. Dad brings out a pillow and sticks it there, under her neck. Then he takes a deep breath, puts his lips on hers, and—to my amazement—he blows, which is the first time I see anyone doing something like that.
 

With each puff—I get it now—he tries to give her some air, so she may breathe again. Between one try and another you can take a look at her. She still seems to be looking at me, ghastly pale, and her finger is still quivering.

Mom visits her in the hospital every day for the next two weeks, then decides to bring me along. So I see grandma again, one last time; that is, if you don’t count seeing her later, in the casket, when she looks even less like herself.
 

In the hospital, mom tells me she will go in first, and so I am left waiting outside the half-open door. From that distance, through the crack, I can see grandma. She is wearing a crumpled gown, which looks too big for her and too awkward, perhaps because they did not bother to alter it, the way all her dresses are altered, to account for the hunch. She looks white, like porcelain—but then, gripping the iron bar of the bed, gripping it with all her might she manages, somehow, by the power of pride, to wait there standing, so that mom can come up to her, and bend before her to give her a kiss.
 

Grandma notices me; for an instant we stare at each other, and I can see her papery lips move as she says to mom, irritably, “What on earth possessed you to do that?” And mom says, “What?” And incredibly, grandma answers by asking, “What did you bring
him
for?”
 

And mom looks dumbfounded, so grandma turns her back on her—but from where I stand I can still see her forming the words, “You think the boy should see me like this? In this state? That is how you want him to remember me?”
 

And at last mom understands her, and she goes back and gives a slight push to the door until it clicks shut, cutting me off.
   

And when mom comes out and we leave the hospital, she can see how angry I am, because I start kicking things all along the path, I mean stones, and cracks in the asphalt, and tires of cars, kicking them hard with my injured foot. If you would ask me, right there and then, why I keep doing it, I would not know what to say.
 

Who cares about pain! I kick, kick, kick everything in sight, and it is not until later that day—when dad says, “Want to come with me?” and I say, “No, no way!” and then ask, “Where?” and he mentions the Aquarium Supply Store, where we can get a bag of sand, and even a few rocks, fancy rocks from a real coral reef—that I kick myself for being so silly, which is when, finally, I stop kicking.

The store owner, a stout man with bulgy eyes, shows me the most beautiful fish I have ever seen. Some are transparent, some—colorful. He points out the Lemon Tetras, with a shimmering stripe all the way to the fin; the Black Neons, with a red band over a yellow band over their eyes; and the Kuhli Loaches, with muddy, vertical marks over their backs.