I, the Divine (8 page)

Sarah wakes up, but does not wish to get out of bed. She turns over on her side, closes her eyes, in hopes of catching a little more sleep. It is too early in the morning. The sun is still not up. It is July 4. Doesn’t the sun come out at some ungodly hour in July? She turns over again, lies on her right side. Where does she put her right arm? Is it too squished? With her left arm, she reaches behind her for her Piggy, her stuffed toy. She hugs it with both arms. Closes her eyes again. She feels herself slipping, the pig pressing against her stomach, her left shoulder attempting to join her right on the mattress. This position hurts her back. She leans over with her left arm again and brings a pillow, places it between her legs. The chiropractor had said a pillow between her legs will prevent her sleeping on her stomach. The pillow feels too sexual. She takes it and puts it behind her. She lifts her head slightly, noting the time on the digital clock. Four twenty-three. Damn. It is much too early. She closes her eyes again. She must sleep, especially today.

Sarah looks at the clock again. Four forty-one. She must have dozed a bit. Try again. Closes her eyes. She curses. She should have taken Restoril. Too late now. She should have taken melatonin even though it makes her feel bad. Should she take a Xanax? This is not an anxiety attack. It may relax her though. No. She should be able to relax herself. She has survived the Fourth of July before. She goes under the covers, just like she used to do in Beirut when it got too noisy, too violent.

Sarah turns over once more. She accidentally kicks her cat, Pascal, sleeping at the bottom left corner of the bed. He jumps, lands back on the bed, and then leaps off. She sits up quickly. Sorry, she blurts; Pascal trots away from her down the corridor. She lies back down, her head on the pillow. Closes her eyes again. No use.

Sarah uncovers herself, sits up, dangles her feet off the side of the bed. Should she get up? If she does, it means she is giving up. She lies back down, fetal position, closes her eyes. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, lamb chops. She’s hungry. Maybe that’s why she’s not sleeping. She pulls the comforter up around her. She realizes she needs new sheets.

Sarah switches on her bedside lamp. She fluffs three pillows behind her and lies down, rests her head on the headboard. Maybe she can read, but she doesn’t feel like it. She looks at the books stacked on the nightstand. Too many. She picks up the top book,
The Age of Innocence
, and throws it in the wastebasket. She always hated that book. She feels guilty. Only last week she had wanted to reread it. She leans over and takes it out of the wastebasket, puts it back on top of the stack. No. She is not going to read it next. She puts it in the middle of the stack. The top book is now
Bridget Jones’s Diary
. Why did she bother picking up that one? She got it for free. She had started it and could not get past page 20. She found Bridget to be stupid, dumbed-down, neurotic, and with an uninteresting career. Worst of all, Bridget is incompetent at being an adult. Every secretary can identify. No wonder the book is a bestseller. She takes it and throws it in the wastebasket. She slides completely under the covers again.

Sarah pulls the bedclothes down. Is it five yet? Looks at the clock. It’s five past five. Five past eight in Boston. She picks up her phone and dials. A groggy voice answers.

Are you up? Sarah asks sheepishly.

I am now, Dina replies.

How come you’re still sleeping? You’re supposed to be going to work.

It’s the Fourth of July.

Oooops.

You forgot, I’m sure.

Yes. But that’s why I’m calling. It’s the Fourth of July.

What are you doing up so early?

I can’t sleep. Woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep.

Sarah turns on her side once more. She reaches out to the clock and moves it closer so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to see it.

So you thought you should wake me up? Dina asks.

I thought you’d be up.

Can this wait?

Yes. Sure. Call me when you’re ready.

Pause. Sarah does not hang up.

Are you all right? Dina asks.

Depressed.

Drive out of town, Dina says. Go somewhere far from the city where you can’t hear the fireworks. That’s what I’m doing. We’re driving to New Hampshire. It’s quiet up there.

I will. I’ll go up to Sonoma.

Why are you anxious?

I’m depressed a little. That’s all.

Are the drugs not working?

I changed. Paxil was knocking me out. My doctor prescribed Zoloft. It’ll take some time before it kicks in, but I’m not sleeping well.

You don’t sound that depressed to me.

I am too.

How come you don’t get depressed like normal people? You know, turn the lights off, draw the curtains, get under the covers and not talk to anyone.

I’m not normal. We figured that one out a long time ago. In any case, I
am
under the covers.

That’s progress.

Oh, shut up. Do you want to call me when you’re really up?

Will do.

Five-twenty. The clock has not moved much. Maybe she’ll run a bath.

Sarah gets out of bed, walks over to the bathroom. She looks at herself in the mirror, freaks. Dark circles under her eyes. She looks ghastly. Begins to rub a Lancôme
fond de teint
on her face. She is startled by Pascal rubbing against her naked legs.

Hi, sweetie.

He meows in reply.

No, no. You can’t be hungry at this hour. I’m never up at this hour.

She ignores the cat and begins to fill the tub. A hot bath will do her good. She looks at her bath paraphernalia. Should she use oils or bubbles? Oils or bubbles, oils or bubbles? Why not both? She dumps in two balls of jasmine oil, followed by some gardenia bubblebath. She sits on the toilet and waits for the tub to fill. Pascal rubs himself on her shins. She picks him up and scratches behind his ears. He gets comfortable, digs his claws gently into her skin.

Let’s hope this is not a bad day, she tells the cat. She looks at what she has on, a haggard T-shirt and satin Victoria’s Secret pajama shorts. She shakes her head in consternation.

She waits. The tub fills slowly. Pascal purrs. She wishes she had a bigger tub. It would make taking a bath more pleasurable. She’ll make do. The cat meows.

No, no. No food yet. I can’t have you getting used to eating at this hour.

Sarah puts Pascal down. The tub is almost full. She undresses, steps into the bath. Her foot almost slips from under her. Too much oil. She settles in. The water is a bit hot. Using her left foot, she turns the cold faucet a touch. When the tub is full, she turns the faucets off with both feet simultaneously. Ambidextrous feet, years of soccer. She keeps her feet up and dunks her head in the water. She rubs her face underwater and realizes she has forgotten that she had begun putting makeup on. Fuck. She lifts her head, opens her eyes, is shocked to find Pascal staring at her, his black-and-white face close to hers. His paws are on the edge of the tub and he is looking in. The minute he realizes her eyes are open, he lets loose a loud meow.

No, no. No food.

He meows louder.

No food. I will not have it.

He meows louder still. She turns her back to him, pretends to ignore him. He meows again and again. She sighs, begins to stand up.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. You run my life, you know that. I have to interrupt my bath just to feed your majesty.

She puts on her bathrobe. Pascal begins to lick her calf, always had a taste for fancy soaps. She walks to the kitchen, leaving water puddles along the hardwood floors of the corridor. Pascal follows, scampering between her feet. She decides to go down the stairs to make sure the front door is locked. Pascal whines as she comes back up. She turns on the kitchen light. Turns the small television on. CNN, maybe she can catch up on some news. Sarah stares at the screen. Pascal bites her calf.

Oh, sorry, she tells him.

She opens a can of turkey and giblets, pours it into his bowl, puts it on the mat. His head goes into the bowl. It will not reemerge until the dish is wiped clean. She changes the water, cleans the litter box.

I do all this for you, but are you grateful? Fuck, no.

She pets him, but he doesn’t stop eating. She decides she needs a cup of coffee, decaf, doesn’t want caffeine, which might bring out her anxiety. Turns on Mr. Coffee and waits.

It’s almost six, four in the afternoon in Beirut. She can call her son. She’ll worry him if she calls. She’ll send him an email telling him she’ll call and then call. She goes into the room to get her laptop. Comes back into the kitchen, sits at the breakfast table, and turns on the machine. Mr. Coffee announces he’s ready. She pours herself a cup. Pascal, just finished eating, jumps on the counter to be petted.

No, no, no, she says. I told you not on the counter. Get off. Get off. How come you don’t listen to me? I should trade you in for a dog.

She takes her cup back to the table and writes.

Dear Kamal,

It’s early in the morning here and it’s the Fourth of July. I wanted to call, but I thought you might worry that something is wrong if I called now. So I am writing to tell you I am about to call. And I hope you get this before I call. Well, maybe I will wait a little before calling. How are you doing? Look forward to your coming here. Is Saniya doi

Pascal walks across the keyboard.

No, no. Get off. Why are you being a bad boy today?

He doesn’t budge. She lifts him onto her lap and begins to pet him. She sips her coffee.

You’re such a spoiled boy, you know that.

She looks at the television. More commercials. She gets up, still carrying her cat.

Let’s go into the room. Dina will call soon.

She walks down the corridor and, as she passes the bathroom, drops Pascal.

My bath, she exclaims.

She walks in and tests the water. It’s barely tepid. She shakes her hand dry and walks into the bedroom. Gets under the covers. Pascal follows, jumping on her stomach. She should leave town, rent a room in Sonoma or Napa, some out-of-the-way place. She doesn’t want to hear any explosions. She wants this day over with already.

This city is cold, slushy, and gray. It is only November, but the people have already journeyed inward. The never-quite-familiar labyrinths of city streets overflow with people going somewhere else, a sea of moving humanity. The trees are bare, forcibly divested of honor. Autumn carpets the ground in colors of decay. Ominous clouds dress the solemn pedestrians in gray-colored spectacles. With lonely eyes, she notes the subtle images of death and destruction. Here, she may be the only one with eyes to see.

In Beirut, death’s unremitting light shines bright for all to see, brighter than the Mediterranean sun, brighter than the night’s Russian missiles, brighter than a baby’s smile. An interminable war rages. The city is warm, fall still hesitating at the gates. The brutal winter winds are still dormant, but drafts of deadly violence permeate the air. The city braces for the upcoming winter without its heart and blood, no electricity, no water. She wonders how her child will endure.

She feels alone, experiences the solitude of a strange city where no one looks you straight in the eye. She does not feel part of this cool world, free for the first time. But at what price? How can she tell the difference between freedom and unburdening? Is freedom anything more than ignoring responsibilities, than denying duty? She walks the morose streets, circular peregrinations that leave her soul troubled. Lost afternoons. Yet she cannot go back there. She does not feel part of that world either. She never did. The family she abandoned is there. Her husband. Her child. She will put it behind her. There will always be
there.

In New York, she can disappear. What is the purpose of a city if not to grant the greatest of gifts, anonymity? Beirut offered no refuge from unwavering gazes, no respite from pernicious tongues. But her heart remains there. To survive here, she must hack off a part of herself, chop, chop, chop.

In America, a colorful national newspaper is born in time to report President Reagan’s declaration of the war on drugs, while the war in Lebanon is shown in prettily colored pie charts. Snipers shoot innocents with cyanide-laced bullets, while here they lace Tylenol capsules with cyanide. She walks to class confused, tugged on by both worlds.

Can there be any
here?
No. She understands
there.
Whenever she is in Beirut, home is New York. Whenever she is in New York, home is Beirut. Home is never where she is, but where she is not.