Under the Same Sun (Stone Trilogy)

by Mariam Kobras

  That prospect alone was daunting enough to shake her out of any melancholy and exhaustion.

  “She’s in the labor room,” Solveigh’s mother said, taking a sip of her coffee. “No need to go into a panic. They just took her in five minutes ago.”

  She gave Russ a quick hug and pointed him in the right direction, and then turned to Naomi. “As I see it, it won’t take her long. She was pacing the lobby up to the last moment, cursing at poor Russ and everyone who got in her way; and she nearly dropped the baby right there. They had to force her into a wheelchair and into the maternity ward. Typical.” A smile softened her features. “I’m going to be a grandmother.”

  Naomi looked around.

  Seventeen years ago it had been, and winter, a bitterly cold night. She had called a taxi and gone by herself, all alone, to have her baby.

  So young, so lonely, and even now she could feel the black sadness of those hours when she had lain in that same room, pain washing over her, and her thoughts had flown all the way across oceans and continents to Jon. She had dreamed herself away while she waited for Joshua to be born, dreamed of walking on the sunny Malibu beach and picking up the debris of the warm surf curling around her ankles, with Jon by her side.

  While the cramps shook her body she had wished for him to be with her, to hold her and whisper soothing words, as their child made his way into life. She had longed for his cool hand on her brow, and then to see the baby in his arms, father and son, as she rested.

  But she had pushed Jon away, left him and vanished, and it had been her own fault that she was alone and desperate that night.

  Cell phone in hand, she walked outside and stood in the driveway of the hospital.

  Jon did not pick up. There was only the voice mail, and it was not even his own recording but something automated, impersonal, asking her to leave a message. Disappointed, feeling deserted, she returned inside and joined the others who were busy raiding Andrea’s provisions. Her appetite had vanished. Naomi watched as they spread out a meal on the low, rickety table in the lounge.

  Her labor had begun late at night, later than Solveigh’s, after they had closed the restaurant and everyone but the night clerk had left for home. She had been alone in her apartment, ready to go to bed, when the first streaks of pain had shot through her back and made her double over in shock. Getting dressed again had been such a chore, but she had managed and returned upstairs to the lobby to call the cab. In the driving snow she had waited for the car, the icy gusts whipping around her legs and stinging her eyes, bringing the tears she had held back for so long.

  Joshua had been born in the morning, just in time for breakfast, the scent of coffee drifting in every time the doctor came in to check on her. She had asked for some, sweaty and weak as she was from the birth, and got a friendly pat on the shoulder in return and the promise of everything she wanted to eat once she was in her own room, washed, and in a clean bed. A nurse had laid her son in her arms: a tight, tiny bundle with a shock of black hair, tiny fists raised imperiously, screaming for his first meal.

  Stunned out of her grief and exhaustion, she had stared at that rosy face and seen the echo of Jon. It had taken all her willpower not to pick up the phone and call him, call Sal or the office and ask for Jon, but she had resisted and instead called her parents.

  They arrived later in the day, directly from Geneva, surprised that she had not alerted them earlier, worried. Her mother had lifted the baby from the crib, a gentle smile on her face, and declared that he looked just like her, just like she had looked as an infant, and she was glad this was so.

  Her father had not said much at all besides pronouncing himself relieved that she was well and everything was finally over. “Now you can forget this entire ungodly episode.”

  And she had retired to the solitude and silence of life in Halmar and tried to forget.

  chapter 8

  Russ presented his daughter just as the church bells across the valley chimed twice.

  “Solveigh wants her name to be Marisol.” His voice shook with emotions. “She says it reminds her of the California sun.” He smiled at Naomi. She took the newborn from him. She was nothing like Joshua had been. Marisol’s little rosebud mouth pursed a little, but she never complained. Her hair was fine-spun like golden candy floss, a promise of wild curls just like her mother’s later in life, and she had the face of a precious porcelain doll.

  A melancholy yearning pulled at her heart as she cradled the small, warm weight, a feeling of mourning and loss at the way her own life had gone. There would not, she was certain, be another baby for her, ever. She would be forty soon, and her body was badly damaged. The price for her happiness was high.

  Naomi handed the child to Solveigh’s mother, Marit, who was hovering beside her, and hugged Russ tightly She kissed his stubbly cheek. “I’m so happy for you and Solveigh. How is she?”

  Russ, his arm still around her shoulder, launched into a graphic and lengthy description of the birth process until his mother-in-law laid little Marisol back into his arms and said, “Shush. Here, take care of your baby and go look after your wife.”

  “She’s asleep.” Russ said. “She fell asleep as soon as they wheeled her into her room. She looked like an angel, my Solveigh, so sweet and innocent; but during the birth she spat curses at me like a New York City cab driver.” He gazed at his daughter. “I’m so happy she looks just like her mother and not like me.”

  “Go,” Marit said, “and take the baby back. We’re all heading home to sleep now. And you should get some rest too.”

  “Oh, I can’t leave them now!” Russ replied, a wild expression creeping into his face.

  It was just too funny, Naomi thought, how Russ’ hair always seemed to stand on end when he was agitated.

  Marit laughed. “This isn’t the Stone Age anymore; you don’t have to fear wild beasts. Take Marisol back, and then come home and get some rest.”

  The hotel was unchanged, as if it had held its breath, waiting for her return.

  Naomi stood in the lobby—dark and empty at this time of night—and listened. She saw herself and Solveigh, behind the counter, talking to guests, drinking coffee, discussing the menu for the day with Andrea, watching the post ship come up the bay.

  Tired now, she slowly made her way down the stairs to her apartment, to the place where she had lived for so long.

  Here too everything was as it had always been. On her baby grand, the music sheets still lay where Jon had left them; and she went over to shuffle them around, remembering the quiet days they had spent here before his life had claimed him back.

  Her fridge had been stocked with food; everything neatly stored in containers and labeled, her favorite dishes, ready to be popped into the microwave. Andrea had even supplied some bread and butter, and refilled the coffee tin. There was also a note on it saying they expected her to have breakfast with them, up in the kitchen, and that there would be fresh cinnamon rolls.

  The bed had been made with fresh sheets. Someone had thought to place a bottle of water by the bedside, had even turned down the blankets; and in the bathroom were towels, soap, everything she might need.

  She fell asleep quickly, the scent of lavender from the pillows lulling her into dreams of open meadows and a purple sky, and of running along a beach with white sand and a gentle, light blue surf. Wind was blowing in her hair, the sun warming her skin, and she felt young and whole. There was no pain in her chest, her breath was not short and ragged; she was free again.

  Her dream took her into a dark forest where she lay on soft moss, the trees above moving in a breeze, casting dappled light that touched her softly, caressed her skin, kissed her breasts and throat, stroked her naked thighs. Someone was with her, whispering, touching her; and she closed her eyes to listen. Breath tickled her ear, lips brushed her c
heek, another body lay down with her on her bed.

  “You’re mine,” the voice said, “and I’ve come to claim you.”

  She felt the dream slip and fought to keep it, struggled to stay in that place and play out her fantasy, knowing it was Jon This was just like one of her dreams while they were apart, where he would come to her and say nearly the same words over and over again.

  The familiar weight came down on her, the arms she knew so well caught her in an embrace, and she opened her eyes.

  “Don’t wake up,” he said. “Let me be your dream lover.”

  He had not, Jon said later, been able to resist the temptation. She lay in his arms and listened to him with her eyes closed, let the beloved voice lull her into drowsiness.

  “I pictured you alone in this bed, asleep, dreaming of me, and I just had to come after you. As soon as you were gone with Russ, it was all I could think of: you, back here, where we spent so many wonderful nights, where we got married. Only two hours on a jet, and it was just too much to bear. I had to come. On the flight I dreamed of waking you up with my kisses, and you, so warm and sweet, so soft, I’d drown in your embrace and fall asleep at your side. After being without you for so long I couldn’t stay away.”

  “But you sent me away,” she mumbled. The sun was bright now, its light laying warm fingers on her face, painting designs on the inside of her closed eyelids.

  “I did not send you away, you silly chick.” His hand tangled in her hair. “I thought you’d like to be here for Solveigh, and you’d never have gone if I hadn’t pushed you. But then, as soon as the car took you away, I knew it had been a mistake not to go with you.”

  Reluctantly, Naomi opened her eyes.

  It was just like before. For so many years this had been the first thing she had seen every morning: the slate-gray water of the bay, the mountains in the distance, the trawlers coming back home from their night out on the sea, some yachts getting ready for a day of sailing. Across the little inlet behind the hotel the trucks were even now pulling up to the depot to take on their load of fish and prawns. The gulls escorting the fishing boats, danced around them, screeching, their calls mixing with the voices of the fishermen and the sound of the tart breeze.

  Longing pulled at her heart, homesickness, and the wish to gain back at least part of her old life.

  The pain of tears stuck in her throat. She tried to speak, but the words felt like marbles in her mouth, cold, smooth stones she couldn’t swallow.

  Several minutes passed before she could manage an answer. “I thought life would be brighter for us. When we got married I believed our future would be easy and full of laughter. But I was wrong; it was an illusion. For so long my life was small, and bitter, and lonely; and when you found me and…” Gently, she kissed his face. “And made me yours again, I hoped that like in a fairy tale everything would be a ‘happily ever after.’ Only it wasn’t.”

  “No.” There was no way he could deny it.

  “When I said I did not want to come back here, that I was done with Halmar, on our wedding night, I really was convinced we’d leave here and sail away into the sunrise or something. And for a brief while it was like that. Only then…” There was no need to finish the sentence, he knew.

  Jon, his face in her locks, listened to her breath.

  “If you want,” he began slowly, “why don’t you stay here. You don’t have to go with me. The tour has just only started, love. We’ll be on the road for months. If you feel better here, then stay. And I’ll try to join you as often as I can. It’s okay.”

  Her shoulders shook a little, but there was no reply.

  “I’d have Sal send you your stuff,” he plodded on, “and you could spend the summer here, get some rest, find your balance. Heal. And then, after the tour, I’d come to you.”

  “No.”

  “No, darling? You say that just like that, so sure of yourself? Just no?”

  Naomi pushed herself up on her elbows. “No. Do you really think I’ll hand you over to all those greedy fans? If I don’t watch out they’ll be crawling all over you.”

  “Ah, and would you mind that?” His fingers followed the trail of her spine.

  “Indeed I would. I’m the only one allowed to grope you.”

  Over breakfast She told him she wanted to live in New York, at long last, and not languish in Norway anymore. Andrea had brought down a tray for them, just like after their wedding, with the cinnamon rolls Jon loved so much and pickled herring for Naomi, and set the table for them on the deck outside the apartment, just above the water. The morning air was fragrant with the sea breeze; it was warm and light.

  “When we were there,” she said, “and I went shopping on my own, when I walked up and down the streets alone, and not only on Park Avenue but also down on Canal and in Soho, I realized that I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the whole wide world—and I’ve seen many places, Jon. But there, right there among the noise and the dust of Manhattan, I felt life sing to me. I want to be there with a yearning that almost hurts.”

  He stared at her over his coffee cup, speechless.

  “I want to hear that hum from the city and walk in the shadow of the skyscrapers. Have lunch at Carnegie’s with the tourists and drive over to Flatbush Avenue to buy cheesecake at Junior’s, and I want to go to the Met every weekend.”

  With a sigh, she looked out across the bay. “For the first time in a long while, when I was in New York I felt alive. If I could, I’d live in a tent on Times Square.”

  “My wife is crazy,” Jon stated slowly. “I’ve married a raving lunatic. Next you’ll say you want a house in Jersey City.”

  Her eyes were bright and curious like a bird. “What’s in Jersey City? Do we have to go and see it? Did I miss something?”

  That made him laugh. “Ha, totally not. You don’t want to go there, baby. Don’t even think about it.”

  Naomi, still in a hotel bathrobe, pursed her lips. “Now that you say it like that, I think I’ll have to go and take a look. Is it pretty there?”

  Jon, smirking, got up to get more coffee from the kitchen. “Yeah, it’s pretty. As pretty as the devil’s armpit. Oh, no fear, I’ll take you there. I’ll even take you all the way to Newark and shock you properly, my dove.”

  It felt almost like when they had lived here a year ago, but only just.

  So often during the long time she had needed to recover from her wounds, Naomi had thought of fleeing and returning here, had dreamed of finding peace and healing in her old life; but now that she was here, she knew she had left in more than one way. She watched Jon as he moved around in the confined space of the apartment, recalling how he had come here to find her and how, for a brief while, they had hidden themselves away from the rest of the world here. She shook herself out of her reverie. It was time to get dressed and visit Solveigh.

  In the wardrobe she found some of her old clothes, jeans and a couple of shirts, things she had not thought to take with her when she left for good, things she would not need in her new home in glamorous LA. They were a little loose—she had lost weight during the time she had spent on the roof garden of Jon’s mansion recovering—but good enough to wear. In fact they made her feel younger and somehow, as if she had put on a magic cloak, a lot more carefree. Her hair back in its usual braid, in a white cotton blouse and faded jeans, she returned to where Jon was waiting by her Steinway, bent over some music sheets, studying them.

  “Hey,” he greeted her, “look at these. I forgot all about them. Why in the world did we leave them here?”

  Because, Naomi wanted to reply, they were old and sad and had nothing to do with the musical they were working on, because they were from a time in her life she did not want to think back on.

  “Those are stupid,” she said instead, a
nd took them from his hand. “I don’t want them anymore, Jon. Just let them lie here and gather dust.”

  He snatched them back. “Ah, no, not stupid. Sad, yes, stupid, no. None of your lyrics are stupid. These are lovely.”

  She had written them, Naomi knew, after a trip to the supermarket, a spur-of-the-moment thing when she wanted ice cream late one evening and did not feel like wrestling with the huge containers in the kitchen. Standing in line to pay, watching the rain beat against the picture window of the store, she had listened with one ear to the music coming over the loudspeakers; and there he had been, the voice she knew only too well, the song he had written with the words she had given him so long ago. The ice cream had ended up on the counter, not bought; and she had driven home, tears and rain blurring her vision, alone.

  It had been cold and silent in the apartment, and she had sat down at the desk where she kept a picture of him in a frame and dashed down the lyrics: a plaintive, heartbroken lament, a statement of loss. The next morning, reading her own words, she had been on the point of throwing them away but then stopped. Somewhere in the world, she was sure, there were people feeling the same way, feeling just as deserted; and maybe, someday, they would read them and relate.

  “All your songs have this underlying sadness,” Jon was saying. “They break my heart, make me want to cry every time I read them. All those songs you wrote while you were alone are a tapestry of loneliness.”

  “Well, I was alone,” she admitted softly, “it was a lonely time.”

  When he didn’t reply she looked up to see him gazing steadily at her, all the regret for the lost time in his eyes.