He stayed the entire night—I heard him slip from bed to pray—and we alternately slept and woke each other up, returning to a dream state of nearness after intimacy upon intimacy.
* * *
“I’d better get home,” he said as first light radiated over the water, reflecting pink and gray shadows shimmering across my bedroom walls.
“I have work,” I said dreamily, my head in the crook of his arm. I didn’t want to wake just yet. I wanted to stay afloat in this feeling of timelessness. It was like breathing underwater, something impossible but something that came as easily as if I always had done it.
“We are taking a boat ride tonight,” he whispered against my ear. “Yes?”
“No,” I said, drowsing off, unable to fight against the tide of sleep.
“Yes,” he whispered into my ear. When I awoke again, he was gone. The kitchen was immaculate—he apparently had done a bit of garbage control—and there was a note on the table telling me that Vincent had been out. There was also a fresh pot of coffee on the stove and a paper napkin twisted into a heart.
* * *
Mrs. A had the Galley already open and was casting what I thought was a judgmental eye upon me. She knew, of course, that Sam had been with me all night. It may not have mattered so much to her before, but every moment Sam and I spent together, our relationship grew stronger and I don’t think she wanted that. She said nothing except, “Good morning,” and continued getting the Galley ready for the day. Though she was usually friendly and chatty, describing her life in Jordan, talking about her husband’s family and how she faithfully cared for them in their later years, I knew, by the set of her lips, that she had something on her mind. She finally turned to me while she was making the coffee.
“Sam woke me up this morning when he came in,” she said matter-of-factly.
I had a rebuttal in my head. That Sam was an adult, a former veteran, and quite capable of having an independent life without his mother’s interference. But all I did was make an umm sound and take over the next customer.
About an hour later she said, “You know, in my day, a proper woman would not let a man spend the night.” I just nodded, biting my tongue so that I would not feel compelled to point out that things were different now and frankly, I didn’t care if I were a proper woman.
We were working together stocking shelves when she turned to me and said, “I am trying to accept that Sam needs to have his own life, but I am worried that you are not right for each other.”
“That’s something Sam and I need to figure out,” I said.
An hour after that she stopped mopping to tell me, “You know, Sam prefers the food he grew up with in Jordan.”
I wanted to mention the astounding amount of pizza that he put away during the week but still kept my lips sealed. That seemed to be the end of it.
* * *
The rest of the morning was slow and, caught up in routine work, we spoke very little. We had customers—not as much as I would have liked; I could see by the Baconometer, that business was slow, but Larry had predicted there would be a dip after the broken-window episode. “People don’t like to step into where there’s been trouble,” he had said. What he hadn’t predicted was how long it was going to last, and though I had been thrifty over the years and had managed to accumulate a nice little nest egg, I was still worried.
Business ground to a halt after lunch and I made myself a Sandwich, even putting on the marinated artichokes that Larry had suggested, which took it in an interesting direction. Mrs. A made herself a cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee with three sugars and we sat down behind the counter to eat together.
She put her hand on my arm. “I didn’t mean to speak harshly to you earlier. It’s just that I don’t want ideas to develop between you and Sam unless the right things are in place.”
“What things?” I asked.
She took a sip of her coffee and seemed to be collecting her thoughts. “You know, you have to share the same values. Family is very important to Sam. He misses his father and his brother very much. Nothing can take the place of family.”
“True.”
“And the woman he marries has to know this.”
I hadn’t thought about marriage. Okay, that was a lie. But it wasn’t something I had planned to do for a very long time.
“And,” Mrs. A continued, “she has to meet my approval.”
* * *
Sam came in later in the day to invite me to a launch party—he being the one getting launched—given by his mother and his aunt. He was going to test out the new leg in the bay. He had just come back from his CP—the Certified Prosthetist—for his final fitting. His face was flushed with excitement as he rolled up his pants to show it off. I could see right away that it looked different from his walking leg. It was black and made of special material with a more triangular foot that had small holes in it. For drainage of water, Sam explained. He lifted his leg up and extended it to show it off.
“That’s an awesome leg,” I said.
“Yup. Come to the pier later.” He paused. “Wear your bathing suit and swim with me.”
“I am sorry I forgot to invite you,” Mrs. A, who was right behind me, said. “I was planning to leave the Galley early. We’re all so excited.”
“Please come,” Sam said.
“I’ll be there,” I said. He reached over to give me a hug, glanced at his mother, and stopped short, ending with a friendly pat on my shoulder.
* * *
Three o’ clock and Mrs. A was out the door. “You are welcome to come!” she called to me as Miss Phyllis’s pink Cadillac pulled up to the Galley door. “You can celebrate with us.”
I wanted to go, but I felt guilty for shutting the Galley so early. Then I thought, Who appreciates that anyway? I shut the door behind me and locked up.
* * *
Vincent and I walked along the shore to the pier. The day was quiet. Ahead of us were the cars belonging to Miss Phyllis and Sam, along with a car or two belonging to some Fleeties, who were beachcombing despite the protests of nearby seals.
Sam was already on the pier. He was in swim shorts and doing stretching exercises. Miss Phyllis and Mrs. A were sitting on the last bench at the end of the pier with a pile of beach towels on their laps. I hadn’t put on a bathing suit since I was not a major fan of the bay and wasn’t planning, in the least, to join Sam.
Sam saw me and waved. “You’re just in time!” he called to me, grinning.
Vincent and I made our way to the end of the pier. I sat down and watched as Sam stretched his arms over his head, then shook them out, then stretched each leg carefully.
“Be careful,” his mother warned. “The pier gets slick.”
“The new leg is slip proof,” he reassured her and continued warming up.
His body was beautiful. Lean and muscular and strong. His arms and his good leg were sculpted with large, strapping muscles, while the other leg looked like just a natural part of him. When he turned away from me, the tattoo seemed to stand guard over his body. He turned back and caught me staring at him.
“It’s been over two years since I’ve been in the water by myself,” he said. “I hope I haven’t forgotten how to swim.”
“You won’t forget,” I reassured him. “The sea never lets you forget.”
This is true. How many times have I been tempted to dive in, then had to remind myself that this was a grudge match that I could never win?
He stretched some more, then walked to the end of the pier and stared down into the water. I rose from the bench to watch. I knew what an important moment this was for him. The last time he swam, he was whole and both his legs had propelled him naturally through the water. How hard it is to find mechanics to imitate what comes so natural to our bodies! He stood there, mesmerized. The bay was calling to him, I knew, summoning him, coaxing him to follow it and be enveloped, promising it would carry him to another world. It wanted to hold him like a lover and lead him someplace secre
t and mysterious. I also knew it was something his body craved, maybe as much as sex.
He raised his hands and sprung off his feet, curving high and graceful into the air, then forming a downward arc into the water like a rift had opened just for him, closing behind him and taking him into its core.
I gasped before I could catch myself. His mother and Miss Phyllis jumped up and down and cheered, then danced with each other, crying with joy. His head emerged within seconds and his face was ecstatic. He had a natural affinity and strength. He bobbed up and down a few times, testing his power against the pull of the bay, then lay on his side and began swimming with long, elegant strides that carried him away, almost to the buoys that marked the deeper water. A few seals turned lazily to watch him, wondering perhaps if he were one of them. His head turned from side to side with each stroke. It looked effortless, though I could hear his breath, raspy and struggling, as his lungs fought for air. He was safe, I told myself. He was safe.
Vincent stood on the pier and barked, his tail wagging madly. He started running the length of the pier, back and forth, watching Sam intently. Sam was meant to be in the water; his every move proved it. And Vincent wanted to join him. I was jealous. I wanted to swim, too. I wanted to feel the water surround me, its cool silkiness, its undulating caress. I suddenly wanted to feel it more than anything. I watched hungrily as Sam floated, then disappeared beneath and emerged, wet and joyful, water cascading from his head and shoulders.
He swam back to the pier and called to Vincent, “Come on, boy!” He slapped the water. “Come on!”
Vincent jumped in and dog-paddled out to where Sam was. They played in the water, Vincent barking happily and Sam laughing, coughing, laughing.
His mother and aunt watched him for a while. Mrs. A still had tears in her eyes.
“The new leg is a blessing,” she declared. “Praise be to Allah.”
“I haven’t seen him this happy in years,” Miss Phyllis agreed. They gathered up their things.
“We’re going home. Make him dry off when he gets out so that he isn’t chilled,” Mrs. A instructed.
I promised I would.
“Remind him not to overdo it,” she continued. “He isn’t as strong as he thinks.”
I promised I would remind him.
They left in the pink Cadillac and I sat in the sun, my hands around my knees, feeling its warmth on my back, half dozing, half watching Sam swim, letting the bay swirl around him, encircle him, letting its small, tender waves envelop him, tease him to swim with them more and more, greedy, it seemed to me, to claim him.
He climbed the boat’s boarding ladder onto its deck several times to catch his breath before he dove again. Vincent followed him faithfully.
I dozed off, my head warm and muzzy. I was swimming. The water was my best friend now, teasing me to let down my guard, to follow it to the beginning of all the oceans.
I was awakened abruptly by a few drops of cold water on my face and looked up. Sam was standing over me with Vincent, who was shaking himself off.
“You’ve got to jump in with me,” Sam said. “I’m good. I can watch over you.”
“I’m not afraid,” I said. “I can swim. I just don’t want to.”
“You’ll feel different about it after you go in,” he said, then bent down to take my hand into his sea-cold hands. I pulled away.
“Don’t overdo it,” I said. “Why don’t you towel off and come back another day. Give yourself a chance to recuperate. I hear you whistling while you breathe.”
He recognized the truth of this. “Okay,” he said, “but the next time you are coming in with me.” He grabbed one of the towels and began to dry himself off. Then he took another and toweled Vincent.
“It’ll change your life,” he said.
I looked away from him, out to the sea, past the buoys, past the glimmer bay, past the horizon and the boats and the delicate, clinging white foam and the undulating waves, and said, “It’s already done that.”
Chapter 33
When the Royale Pavilion calls, my world stops. It’s my mother’s nursing home and the call is usually to report some new catastrophe involving my mother. The last important call I got from them was when she broke her hip.
“Your mother isn’t feeling very well,” her nurse informed me early one morning. “You might want to visit today instead of your usual time.”
“I’ll come this afternoon,” I replied.
“She just seems weak,” said the nurse. “The doctor checked her this morning and said she might be in congestive heart failure. He’ll call you later, but he put her on oxygen and that seems to be helping her with her mental status; she’s clearer than she’s been in a while.”
I was impatient to go. My mother’s mind had been obscured by clouds on previous visits and I looked forward to seeing her improved. I instructed Mrs. A to close the Galley at a reasonable time, knowing reasonable might just be ten minutes after I left. I packed a small cup of chocolate ice cream in a bag of ice and left for the ocean side of Fleetbourne.
It takes only fifteen minutes or so to drive from the bay side of Fleetbourne to the ocean side and I drove it filled with anxiety. I wasn’t ready to lose my mother. Though I knew I had pretty much lost her, I wasn’t ready to have no one left. Just the act of visiting her gave me a connection to her, and I didn’t want to relinquish it.
* * *
The facility sits on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and its white Victorian structure starkly contrasts against the deep blue of the bay and the brighter blue of the sky that rises over it. The sun sat warm lemon yellow at its post in the sky, the waves rolled toward the rocky beach, sending blankets of effervescent white foam across the sand that quickly bubbled away like champagne, and the sound, the sound mesmerizes and comforts with its hypnotic rhythms. Someone was standing on the beach in a bright yellow jacket, feeding the gulls as they flew low over the undulating water and crisscrossed one another’s flight path. They swooped in great curling loops with their sharp-angled wings carrying them on the sea breezes. The braver gulls hovered in place, letting their webbed feet dangle while they snatched up pieces of bread from the person’s outstretched hand. Several elderly residents were sitting out on the porch wrapped in plaid blankets and cheered the gulls who flew down for food. A few other gulls, maybe not so brave, marched in unison along the beach, the breezes ruffling their pale gray feathers.
I love watching the gulls. They are tough and practical and everywhere there is water. I turned toward the building and opened the gate to the front yard. There was a chorus of friendly greetings from the residents sitting on the porch and I waved to them. Though they were all calling hello, no one remembered that I had been coming here for years; I knew that. They just sat, tucked in their blankets, insulated against the breeze and their memories.
“Hello, Miss Aila!” one of the nurses called out. “So glad you could come today.” She was the nurse sent to supervise the porch dwellers. “Your mother is in the Memory Garden.” She pointed left. “She wanted to sit in the sun. She has an aide with her.” The rule here was that no resident was ever left alone, and I was thankful for it.
I crossed the front walk to the Memory Garden located on the opposite side of the building and went through the special swinging gate. My mother was sitting in a wheelchair, her eyes closed to the day. An oxygen tank sat next to her with a small, delicate filament bringing oxygen into her nose. An aide sat on a nearby bench reading a book.
“Hi, Mom!” I called out, as if it were any ordinary day and I was fourteen and just coming home from school. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at me.
“Aila,” I announced.
“I know,” she said.
My heart burst with gratitude. She recognized me! I pulled the ice cream from the bag, and the small white plastic spoon, and sat down on the bench next to her chair. “Brought you your favorite ice cream.” She looked at the cup I was holding up. “Chocolate.”
“I l
ike butter pecan,” she said. I sighed.
“You’ll be here for awhile, won’t you?” Her aide stood up and stretched. I allowed that I would be.
“Just push this button when you want to go,” she said, pointing to a silver button clipped to the back of my mother’s chair. “And I’ll come back so you can leave. Or if you want to bring her in, you have to unlock the wheels from this side and make sure her feet are on the foot stand.” I thanked her. She bent over to make sure the chair was locked before she left. She didn’t have to instruct me, I thought ruefully. Almost everyone I knew used a wheelchair.
“Would you like some chocolate ice cream?” I asked my mother.
“I like butter pecan,” she repeated.
“Okay,” I said. “Do you want ice cream?”
She didn’t answer me, just looked confused. “I don’t have any ice cream,” she said, her voice taking on the singsong rhythm of a child.
“I have some for you,” I replied.
“They took my menu away,” she said.
Oh, how could I ever have thought she would understand me? Keep it simple. Keep it simple.
I showed her the spoon and the ice cream. “Would you like some?” I asked. She nodded. I took a little bit on the spoon and she opened her mouth like a hungry baby bird, with the plaid blanket wrapped around her and the sea breeze blowing her white hair off her face. She opened her mouth for ice cream. I forced myself not to cry. It broke my heart, watching her take spoonful after spoonful when I brought it to her mouth as she opened it, leaning toward the spoon, trusting, vulnerable, innocent, waiting for me to place the ice cream on her tongue, her mind going so far back in time that she was eating like a baby.
“Do you like it?” I asked. She nodded and opened her mouth for more. There were maybe one or two teaspoons left—I wished I had brought a gallon, to prolong this moment. I fed her again and once more, then showed her the empty cup. “All gone,” I said, hearing those words echo forward from my childhood. Someone had said that to me so long ago. All gone.
And All the Phases of the Moon Page 20
