I, the Divine (23 page)

I wake up to the barely audible voice of Bernard Shaw reciting the news on CNN. I had slept slouched at my desk. My neck is sore. I stretch it backward, then bend it down and rotate my head sideways to release the crick.

Fish swim languidly across my laptop’s screen. A red fish eats a blue fish and swims away. Blue fish swallows the red fish. Fish come and go without any discernible purpose. Rain slaps my bay windows, water streaking along thin paths on the glass. I look outside, a dreary, stormy day in San Francisco. Without moving from my desk, I click the remote and mute the television blather. I run my hand along the edge of my mahogany desk.

I consider taking a plate with a piece of half-eaten buttered toast back to the kitchen.

Lightning flashes outside, momentarily brightening my study. I look around at the walls. I am no longer sure I can live with the butter yellow color. Maybe I can paint the trim something other than white. One of my paintings hangs on the wall, a strong one, one of my chosen. Cadmium red bars on titanium white background. The second lowest bar on the right is not a perfect rectangle, which tilts the whole painting. Few people realize that. The eye always fills in the imperfections. Eleven perfect rectangles; the twelfth must be as well. Maybe that is why I feel irritable. I should hang the painting in another room, or repaint the rectangle, or repaint the walls a peach and not butter yellow. I should paint peaceful paintings.

The pigeons sheltered above my window, under my roof, flap their wings in unison. I hear movements, an apparent jockeying for positions. Then softer, and the cooing recommences. This is their home now, I think. Shoo, Fly, Don’t bother me. They coo softly, settle in.

I can paint the walls a robin’s egg blue.

I drag my forefinger across the computer touchpad to eliminate the carnivorous fish. Out pops my manuscript. My manuscript. Mine. I tense, feel a knot building in my right shoulder. I feel about to faint.

I stand up and put on my coat. I will walk across the street for a coffee, something to ease the tension. I stretch my back.

Sarah woke up late, on an early August Sunday in San Francisco, had slept much longer than was necessary. She rose out of bed, stumbled slowly into the bathroom, swaying as if drunk, trying to disentangle her brain from the cobwebs of sleep. She looked out the window, was not surprised to find a heavy, wet fog. Summer in San Francisco. She still felt groggy. She slapped her face, shook her head vigorously from side to side, and sat on the toilet. She noticed the empty toilet roll dispenser. She thought she had gotten a new roll yesterday. She was almost sure of it. She remembered the roll was on the small table in the corridor. She was bringing it into the bathroom when the phone rang. She must learn to complete her projects. She used facial tissues. She stood up, annoyed with herself for being so easily distracted. She would go directly and fill the dispenser.

As she passed by the mirror, she stopped. Her reflection looked good today. Her features were soft, as were her brown eyes. She felt relieved. She put her head outside the bathroom door and yelled, “Are you up?”

From the kitchen, “Of course, I’m up. I don’t need ten hours of sleep.”

“Maybe you should try it. I look wonderful this morning.”

“Go back to sleep then.”

“No, no. Come see and bring me a cup of coffee, please!”

Kamal turned the corner into the corridor, carrying a steaming mug of coffee. He was already dressed, ready to go. “I think you should be the one bringing me coffee. I’m on vacation, a guest here.”

“Shut up and get your butt over here!” He slowed down, began sauntering. She had to admit she loved the way he walked. She thought her son was handsome, with his dark, long hair, and brown eyes. She was thankful again that he did not take after his father in looks. He pretended he was moving in slow motion, every step taking an eternity.

“Get in here,” Sarah said when he was close enough for her to grab. She took the coffee from him and kissed him. “Look at your mother. Doesn’t she look wonderful this morning?”

She held him, made him stand next to her facing the mirror. “You look the same as yesterday,” he said.

“Ah, what do you know? You’re not even looking. You’ll always miss the finer things in life.”

“
This
is one of the finer things in life? I worry about you, Mom. Staring at yourself in the mirror? Hey, looks like there’s water damage here.”

“Where?” she gasped, her hands going quickly to her face.

He bent down to look at the wall next to the bathtub. “You should fix this,” he said. He was right. She should have fixed that five years ago when she first noticed it.

He stood up and walked out of the bathroom. “Well, what’s the point of looking wonderful if you’re going to spend the morning having breakfast with homosexuals?”

She yelled at his departing form, “Your uncle doesn’t have breakfast, he has brunch.” Pleased with herself, she began to get ready. Happy.

Sarah went into the hardware store. “Your uncle asked us to get him a pitcher. He broke his.” Kamal followed, dragging his feet. On her way to kitchenware, she stopped in front of an ugly fake plant, bright plastic fuchsias dangling from dusty synthetic leaves in a tattered woven pot. Sarah began tearing. Her hand covered her mouth and she wept silently. She knelt on one knee to look closer.

“It is awful, isn’t it?” a man asked her.

Sarah glanced up at him in surprise and quickly wiped her tears away. “It’s terrible.” She tried a weak smile.

He hesitated. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” He ran his hand though his hair, raking it back.

“Oh, yes. This thing just reminded me of someone.”

The man looked both ways, tying to gauge if anyone was watching, then with wrists on hips, arms akimbo, he whispered, “Well, you know what, hon? If this thing reminds you of him, believe me, you’re better off without him. I mean, come on, a plastic fuchsia?”

She giggled.

“Anyway,” he went on, “like I always say, ‘And this too shall pass.’”

She stood up, noticed her son was standing back observing, bemused.

The man, no longer looking at her, but up at the ceiling, sighed. “And sometimes it doesn’t pass, which is why I’m on Paxil.”

“Paxil?” Sarah asked. “Doesn’t it make you sleepy? I couldn’t deal with it. I was sleeping all day. I prefer Zoloft.”

“Zoloft works for you?”

“Oh, yes. Quite well. I love it.” She looked at her son, who pursed his lips, trying not to laugh. “Thanks so much, dear,” she told the man as she grabbed her son by the arm and began moving away. “You’ve been a great help.”

Sarah dragged her son along the aisle. She could not help but chuckle with him. “No, I don’t always discuss my medications with strangers,” she said. “So don’t you start.”

“You attract homosexuals.”

Kamal seemed distracted as they walked. She put her arm in his. “Do you still think of him?” he asked her.

He still wanted to be her confidant. Her ex-husband told her a couple of years earlier that Kamal had ceased to confide in him. Would he still confide in her? One benefit of her son growing up thousands of miles away was that he did not have to rebel against her, or so it seemed.

“Do I still think of whom? David? Not often. Every now and then something will remind me of him, like that stupid fake plant, but for the most part I no longer do. It has been so long.”

“But why do you even bother?” He asked this sternly, looking at her. She noticed the left corner of his mouth twitch momentarily, and then go slack.

“I don’t know. I guess I just loved him.”

“But you loved a lot of people. You always say you loved Dad.”

“I still do. It’s different, that’s all.” She slowed down. They were getting close to her brother’s house, and she wanted to enjoy this walk a little more. “Who is your girlfriend?” she asked hesitantly, careful not to let her eagerness show. She ran her finger across his cheek.

“Well, if you know I have a girlfriend, then I’m sure you know who she is. Dad must have told you.”

“Well, why the subterfuge?”

“Because it’s nobody’s business.”

“Oh, my. This is serious.” She watched him begin to redden, even his ears changed color. “Is this love I see before me?”

“Cut it out.”

“So is it true what your father said, that your lips and hers seem to be sewn together?”

“Glued together. The metaphor is glued together, not sewn.”

“I can use whatever metaphor I like. I’m the writer.”

“You wish.”

“Oh, my, my, my. This
is
serious.” She could not help smiling. She had heard about what was going on, but had not expected to find him so smitten. “This is love. I can see why you’d have a fight with your dad over her.”

“Is that what he told you?” He shook his head in consternation. “He told you the fight was about her? He didn’t tell you about FreeCell, I assume.”

“FreeCell?”

“The computer solitaire game. That’s what all politicians in Lebanon do. They drink coffee and play FreeCell. Dad doesn’t let anybody use his computer. You know why? He doesn’t want to fuck up his FreeCell ratio. Can you believe that? I sat and played the dumb game and I lost. I broke his record of eighteen straight games. He freaked. He started screaming I should leave his FreeCell alone.”

She started laughing again. “That wasn’t about FreeCell, you know.”

“Don’t start with psychoanalysis, Mom. Please. FreeCell isn’t a metaphor for his penis. I don’t care about his FreeCell or his penis.”

By the time they reached the door, she was convulsing with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes.

Sarah’s half-brother, Ramzi, lived with his lover in an old Victorian across the hill from her flat. The house, like everything in their life, was meticulously kept. The garden, which was small even by San Francisco standards, had a tropical motif. In the northwest corner stood a miniature fountain, shaped like a giant seashell, with water spouting from the mouth of an “authentic” black-lava Tiki god with red, faux-ruby eyes. In the northeast corner sat a hot tub, barely seating two, built to look like a miniature volcano, including a lava flow fit to scale. The plants were mainly giant birds of paradise, ferns, and even a new mutation of a banana tree, which produced inedible fruit full of seeds.

The brunch was in the tiny gazebo dominating the center of the garden. Sarah sat on the chair—the color of all the patio furniture was forest green, which was also the color of the gazebo—and felt dew seeping through her skirt.

“You know, Sarah,” Peter said when Ramzi was back with the drinks, “it’s always disconcerting to see you with your son.”

“Why’s that?” Sarah asked.

“Simply thinking of you as a mother is disconcerting.”

“Thanks, Peter,” she said. “I can always rely on you to say just the right thing to make me feel better.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Peter said. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I just meant it’s difficult to see you as a mother since you never seemed to have developed any competence at being an adult.”

“Fuck you,” she hissed at him. “You’re such a stupid asshole sometimes.”

“And she didn’t mean
that
in a bad way,” added Kamal.

“Now, now.” Ramzi squeezed himself next to Peter. “Let’s talk about more important things. What’s this thing I hear about you being in love?”

Kamal stared at his mother. “I can’t believe you,” he said. “Don’t you have anything better to talk about?”

“Your mother wasn’t the one who told me,” Ramzi said. “I think the first to mention it was my mother. When I talked to your father, he told me as well. Then both my other sisters told me. Come to think of it, only Sarah hasn’t told me.”

“That’s because Sarah has better things to talk about.” Sarah gave her son a raspberry, beginning to feel the two mimosas. “If I wanted to talk about you, my dear, I would have told everyone how you were having an affair with Mrs. Hatem last summer.”

“I can’t believe you said that,” her son yelled.

“Did you say Mrs.?” Peter asked in mock seriousness.

“Oh, settle down, Kamal,” Ramzi said. “Did you think we wouldn’t know?”

“Everybody knows,” his mother said, sipping her drink slowly. Kamal looked more and more glum. “You’re part of the family. You can’t escape no matter how hard you try. Trust me. I tried.”

Ramzi glanced at his sister, a look of concern. “Was that a little bitter?” he asked. “You doing all right?”

“I’m fine. It’s not bitterness as much as confusion. I was just wondering how I could’ve been so gullible. I’ve been thinking about it all recently. I mean here I am, the black sheep of the family, yet I’m still part of it. I tried separating from the family all my life, only to find out it’s not possible, not in my family. So I become the black sheep without any of the advantages of being one, just the disadvantages. It doesn’t seem fair!”

“How do you mean?” asked Ramzi.

“So, Kamal,” interrupted Peter, “what do you think of our summer weather?”

Sarah stood up and stretched. She walked over to the volcanic hot tub. “You want to go in,” Ramzi said, standing right behind her. She smiled.

“No,” she replied softly. She sat down on the edge of the volcano, above the lava, and faced her brother. “I just wanted to get away from your boyfriend. He treats me with a certain condescension, which I do not like. It has to stop.”

“I know.” He stood in front of her, slightly embarrassed, hands in pockets. “Don’t think it’s personal. He just has trouble with my family, and with his for that matter. He’s terrified of anything coming between us.”

“Well, tell him if he doesn’t stop, something
will
come between you. I will fucking kick his butt back to Minnesota and he’ll never see you again.”

“Look, I’m sorry. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it. I’ll talk to him. I promise. Anyway, I’m interested in what you were saying about being part of the family. I’d like to hear what you have to say sometime.” He bent over and kissed her.

“Hey, Mom,” Kamal called, turning around in his chair. “Did you watch the women’s World Cup?”

“Of course, I did,” Sarah replied. “I loved it.”

“Hey, your mother was way ahead of her time,” Ramzi added. “She was damn good too. I can vouch for that. She was better than anybody on those teams.”