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.
I glance at dad and somehow, he understands the question before it is asked; he smiles at me saying, Tomorrow, son. I will get them tomorrow. It is no good adding fish to the tank the same day you fill it with water. And I look away thinking, How did he do that? How did he get me? Did it happen because I let him?
And in a snap, my mind goes back to that night, the night which I am trying to stop remembering, when grandma lost her balance. And I wonder: when dad found me there, holding up her head, was he surprised? Was he curious to know how I appeared, at that very instant, by her side, just as she tumbled over?
Since then, he has never asked me about it, not even once.
Did he figure it out? Does he know I was waiting there, listening, just about to rush in and save mom, save her from something, perhaps even from him? Does he know that I know that he knows?
I wonder: can I make myself transparent, like those fish? And on the flip side, can I make myself obscure, so that no one—not even dad—can see through me?
That evening he helps me layer the sand, set the rocks and fill the tank with water. I turn on the fluorescent fixture at the top of the aquarium, and leave it turned on, so it glows through the night; and I imagine live plants rising from the gravel, and lots of fish, fish flicking their tail, shooting in and out of their hiding places between the silvery corals.
The call from the hospital comes in after midnight, and I know that the next day I will see grandma again, this time for the last, really last time. A time comes when even a giant crumbles.
I lay there in bed feeling cheated, somehow; cheated by myself, mostly, because I never gave her a chance to hug me, never took the risk to come in, come closer and say, Goodbye, grandma. And now all I can remember about her is that moment, from a distance, just before the door clicked shut. I go back to that place and I see her papery lips, and I know she is asking, That is how you want him to remember me?
Back home after the funeral I cannot find a moment alone. The place is buzzing with neighbors and distant relatives, including my three aunts, each of whom has eyebrows painted in, in place of the real ones. At first they talk in low voices, afraid, perhaps, that grandma might hear what they say, or come out to scold them for their manners. They bend over me and pinch my cheeks so hard that instantly, I forget all about the pain in my foot inside the bandages.
So I am forced to hide from attention. I stand there, very quietly, in the corner behind the tank, and feed the new fish, which dad got for me earlier that morning; just a smidgen between the fingers, like he told me... And then maybe one more smidgen, or two, because I hate learning lessons, and because I am bored and lonely here, in this crowd, and also because of the fish, because they look so hungry for these little specks. You can see them flocking up in a big haste, competing to reach the surface.
Then I go into grandma’s room. It does not smell like her anymore. The bedspread is fresh, and tightly stretched. There is not a dent in the pillow.
The cup is still there—but her teeth have vanished; they are nowhere in sight. I try to imagine that I can hear them clattering. Then I peek into the closet.
It is tightly packed with her dresses, all of which been altered around the shoulders and back, to fit grandma. Most of them are brown. One dress has muddy, vertical patterns, just like the fish, the Kuhli Loaches. By the end of the evening all the dresses would be whisked away, right off the hangers; and my aunts—arms heavily loaded—would find it cumbersome to reach my cheeks again.
I am not stupid; I know that grandma would not need her dresses, ever again. She is not coming back, and so, there is no reason to keep them. Still, I feel that her things are hers—at least for a little while longer—and what do my aunts need with her stuff? Can’t they wait? She was buried only a few h
ours ago, and her dresses are not going anywhere; they are not even the right size for them, and besides, it would be impossible to undo what was done, I mean, that alteration for the hump in the back.
That night, all is still. There is no crying, no moaning anywhere.
I get up and pace back and forth, hobbling between my room and the hall, which is lit by the reflections from the aquarium. I draw closer. A Black Neon comes toward me, turns tail, comes back aiming, it seems, directly at me. I focus at it. Magnified by the water, it is tapping, tapping into the glass until my eyes cross over.
Meanwhile in the back, suspended under the surface like a ghost, is another fish. I forget what it is called. It is white. It has red eyes. And right now, you can tell it is not moving.
I watch it for a while, and the longer I watch it, the more I realize that—quite strangely—the body is starting to tilt. By now it is nearly on its side; and the tail, which is so fine, so tender that it looks like it is made out of pure light, responds to little ripples coming from the other fish—but makes no motions of its own.
Before I know it my hand cuts into the water; it comes out dripping, with the fish lying there, helpless, between my fingers.
It seems to be gulping for air. Maybe it forgot how to breathe. I know I can fix it. First I rub the mouth, delicately, with my finger. Then I try to massage the entire body. I am doing my best, my very best to be gentle—but in the end, some scales tear off the body, and a tiny fin flakes away.
At this point, I must do something, and fast. Just like dad: he did what he could for grandma, and blew his breath into her; and his breath was magical, because it lasted in her, somehow, for the next two weeks. I can do better than that for this little body, even with a few scales or a fin missing. So, I take a deep breath, put my lips to the fish—but then the smell, the touch... It makes me pause for a minute.
Still, I cannot give up: I must be brave, just like dad—or else, the spell may be broken. So again I gasp, and with frantic hope, I give a full-blown puff. The red eyes seem to be looking at me, and the tail is hanging over my finger, and it looks limp, and a bit crumpled.
I cannot allow myself to weep. No, not now. So I wipe the corner of my eye. Now if you watch closely, right here, you can see that the tail is still crinkling. I gasp, and blow again. I blow and blow, and with a last-gasp effort I go on blowing until all is lost, until I don’t care anymore, I mean it, I don’t care but the tears, the tears come, they are starting to flow, and there is nothing, nothing more I can do—
Then I feel mom, the smell of her skin. Here she is, wrapping her arms around mine. Softly, gently, she releases the fish, and takes me to their bed, and dad says nothing but makes room for me, and I curl myself in the dent between them, and it feels so warm here and so sweet that at last, I can lose myself, and I cry myself to sleep.
Lighter and faster than anything here I come, soaring again through the air as if there is no gravity. From time to time you can see a school of fish flying dreamily overhead, rising to reach the little specks up there at the surface. Something with muddy, vertical marks comes ruffling towards me in the stream of things. At first I cannot tell what it is.
It scrambles over my foot, spreading fine, transparent ripples all around me. And it is at the very last moment—a heartbeat before it flutters away—that I can see it was nothing, only an empty dress.
A Price Would Be Paid
Chapter 14
And on the other hand, something must be done to take care of me, because my stomach is growling. This morning there is no breakfast waiting there, on the kitchen table—not even a morsel of food. Instead, tucked in a wrinkle of the white tablecloth are a few peculiar specks.
Wiping the sleep from my eyes I get closer, and discover a pair of pearl earrings and a matching pearl necklace, with a silver fishhook clasp. There are also a few bunches of hundred dollar bills, which must have poured out of that large manila envelope. They are tied with rubber bands, and scattered in plain view.
I lament my misfortune, realizing I should have risen from bed much earlier, because there she is, already counting some of them, holding them close to her chest, as if trying to rearrange a deck of cards without being too obvious about her game plan.
At my age, having to ask my father for pocket money is an embarrassment. As for Anita, I suppose it is no fun for her, either. At stake here is independence, at least for a time—for one of us. Oh, money! Sweet freedom! I figure it is not only on my mind, but on hers too, so naturally, it is the one thing neither one of us is quick to mention.
I stare at Anita. She stares at me. I have no idea how much cash we are not talking about—except to know it is a whole lot. It could pay the rent for a whole year, maybe.
Somehow this big heap of money—the likes of which I have never seen in my life—changes things between us. At this moment I am watching her with the eye of a rival, realizing that I must stop wasting time blowing hot and cold. This is war!
I must fight, must make a move—if only I knew what it could be—or else, she will soon plunder what I believe to be rightfully mine. And yet, I find myself wavering.
I wonder how it came about that she got her hands on those pieces of jewelry, which in a flash, look terribly familiar. One thing seems clear: I have been looking for mom’s pearl earrings in all the wrong places during the last few days.
Maybe Anita can see all that—the doubts, the suspicions—in my face. Her cheeks turn, all of a sudden, as red as apples. I should have ducked, because out of the blue, here comes a rubber band, vibrating, singing in the air, missing me by a breath.
She tightens the oversized cotton shirt, which used to belong to my father, around her waist, trying to tidy it up by smoothing the crinkles. And something wild seems to flicker in her eye when she looks up at me, while plucking at another rubber band.
“As usual,” she says, “you’re acting like a child.”
And I say, “What did I do?”
And she says, “You want others to make decisions for you.”
And I say, “Why, what did I say?”
And quite sharply, she counters, “Exactly.”
And I say, “Exactly what?”
And she says, “You didn’t say nothing exactly—so you think I don’t get it?”
For lack of an answer, I shrug.
Anita fixes me with a bright gaze. This time it is all but sultry, which immediately makes her seem so effortlessly irresistible. “I bet I can tell what you’re thinking, like, right now,” she says.
And then, in a tone that mimics mine, she acts me out, as if she could tell, somehow, every thought that has crossed my mind just now, as if it were etched on my forehead.
“The jewelry,” she says in that lowered tone, a tone that is just like mine, “it belongs to my mom; the money—to my father. So I guess, if I wait long enough, I should get it. I mean: All of it!”
I shrug again, so on she goes, mocking me uninterrupted, speaking from deep down in her throat, as if in my voice.
“Yes, it is entirely mine, well, almost—even though I am not at all greedy, no, not at all! So like, despite not having a penny to my name, I am in no hurry to grab it already. And anyway, what is it doing here, just like that, out in the open, instead of in a safe or something? That woman, she should keep her hands off it, because really, it don’t belong to her, and never will! It belongs to my family! And she, she comes from outside. She should not even come close enough to breathe on it—much less, touch it! Her being married to my father? That’s nothing, really. Nothing more than a sad mistake!”
I make up my mind not to show her how embarrassed she has made me feel, and when that fails me, there is always Plan B, which is this: to avert my eyes.
So I keep lowering them till they fall right there, on the manila envelope—only to discover her name writ large on it, in his handwriting.
“It is just that I wonder, I mean, about my father,” I mutter. “What on earth made him give you all this? Not th
at you don’t deserve it—but why—why now?”
“You mean, he must have gone nuts,” she says. “I swear, he’s out of his mind, that’s for damn sure.”
“I mean, something must have happened to him, all of a sudden.”
“Something did happen,” says Anita, “but I ain’t exactly sure what to make of it. Lenny cried in his sleep last night.”
“Really? My father? I cannot believe it. Are you sure? Maybe he just snored, or sighed, or whistled from his nose?”
In place of an answer, she goes on to say, “Then, way before dawn, he got up, and trust me: He looked plenty strange. Frantic! Searched every drawer in his desk. Said he’s gonna be late coming home tonight, and I said, What, again? And like, what’s your excuse this time? And he said not to worry, ‘cause like, he needs to look at some docs and some papers and stuff with his lawyer.”
“Mr. Bliss?”
“You know him?”
“Yes,” I say. “When I was away in Europe, my father wrote to me once or twice about consulting him. You see, Mr. Bliss always pops up at times of misery.”
“Misery? Like what?” asks Anita.
“Ten years ago,” I say, “He put together the divorce papers for my parents.”
She says nothing, but at the mere mention of the word divorce, her skin turns papery white. She seems to be weighing some odds in her mind, as if to compare her version of the past against mine—or else, to project it onto the present.
According to my recollection, Mr. Bliss provided legal advice one more time, five years later, after the divorce had already taken place. He helped my father transfer some assets into his name, assets which up to then, had belonged to mom.
My parents had been leading separate lives at that point, so to me, this whole transfer business seemed more than a bit odd: It seemed utterly confusing, to the point that I did not know if to laugh or cry—but now, with the secrecy about mom’s condition lifted, at long last, I think I have gained some clarity, with which I can try to reconstruct the timeline of events.
The White Piano (Still Life with Memories Book 2) Page 12
