My little one curled there on his back, like he’s just about to start bouncing around. There, there’s his face! He’s bathed in light, with a round forehead and plump cheek and the cutest little nose you’ve ever seen. And there’s his lips, which is like, gulping for air, the mouth opening, closing on his own little thumb and then, sucking it.
Aunt Hadassa drops her chin in surprise, and in spite of trying her best to contain herself, she gives a shrill little yelp, after which the sonographer tells her, like, Enough! And to leave the office at once, because she’s had it already, up to here!
And with a sigh, she warns us that she may quit her job right now, right in the middle of this here session, because God knows how she’s even managed to make it to work this morning. She’s so broken-hearted after last night, which was when—without no warning—her husband got up and left her, because she’d tried and tried but no matter how hard she kept on trying, she couldn’t get pregnant.
By now she’s like, on a roll: She can’t stop herself from talking to me, even though she don’t pay no attention to how I’m twisting here, on them fresh sheets, and how I’m biting my lips, which I have to do, ‘cause I need to pee so bad, I really need to go, like, right now.
But what can I do? She isn’t a sonographer no more, just plain Debbie, who talks and blinks, blinks and talks to no end, telling me how he turned, for just a second, and looked back at her over his shoulder, perhaps waiting for her to beg him to stay—but in sheer despair she cried out, Well? Don’t just stand there—go! Go already! And so, finally, he did.
I can see she’s in pain, and she don’t need no advice from me, ‘cause my man isn’t no better anyhow, and who knows what to expect of him now. So I raise myself on my elbow and lean closer and touch her arm to say, like, I’m so, so sorry for you, Debbie. So now she starts sobbing, she’s in tears, which at least stops her from blinking all the time. She says she can’t take it no more, like, looking at them fetuses sucking their stubby little thumbs all day long.
And her parents, she says, they come from the old country, where a divorced woman’s no better than damaged goods, so of course she isn’t gonna to tell them nothing about all this, because like, what will they say? She would much rather talk to a stranger—someone she won’t see no time soon—or just bury it all inside.
Then Debbie wipes her swollen eyes to stare at aunt Hadassa, and to say that this screaming, right in her ears, makes her nervous, because she’s in a delicate state, which you can tell by the sound of her hiccups and from time to time, her sniveling.
Her hand, she says, may turn shaky, which is a sign of bad luck, because that would prevent her from taking them measurements, such as the Crown Rump Length around the head, right here on screen, and the Femur Length, and the Abdominal Circumference, all of which requires great focus and like, complete silence around her.
So without a word aunt Hadassa hangs her head, and beats a path of retreat across the floor, like a wise, old general knowing when to admit defeat on the battlefield. Her two sisters march out the door closely behind her, and together they all wait for me outside. I can hear them whispering excitedly to each other.
When Debbie is finally done getting herself together and taking all them measurements, she tells me to go empty my bladder, which is a lucky thing, ‘cause at this point I’m ready to burst, like, before you can even finish saying sonographer.
Then I get out to the waiting room, eager to get out as quick as I can, to find out if Lenny’s come back home. Along the way I’m trying to put my hands in the sleeves of my winter coat and buckle my pink belt around me—only to discover that it don’t fit me no more, ‘cause my body, it isn’t barely as slim as I thought it was.
Looking down on it, a view comes to me in a flash, which makes me brace myself, like, for danger: Down there on the floor, aiming at me from left, right and center, is the sharp, pointed tips, the tips of three pairs of shoes.
Me, I look up, and can’t barely believe what I see: Aunt Hadassa gives me a smile, as do her sisters. “Wait, don’t just go,” she says, in the most disarming manner. “Stand there!”
Gone is the acid tone in her voice. Gone is that squint of suspicion. Them witches, they look awful friendly this time around. At first I figure that having seen my baby, they simply have no choice but to glow, just because of adoring him—but like, it’s a bit more than that.
“My God, you are fearless!” says aunt Hadassa. “I dare say, you are just like me.”
“No,” I tell her, “I’m tougher.”
“A fighter, is what you are! I mean, you would kill to keep your baby safe.”
To which I say, “You bet I would.”
Then, seeing me feel around my belt, like, to find the next hole in it, Aunt Hadassa offers, “Here, let me help you with that, dear.”
And she draws even closer, and wraps herself around me—mushy, droopy flesh flapping like wings under her arms—and clicks my belt into place, so now it hangs nice and loose around my waist.
Then she takes a step back, letting me lead the way out, which is when I know that she knows that there’s no way I’m gonna let no one stop me.
No one—I swear—no one can draw this story to a close, by telling me there’s still time, like, to end it.
This is week twelve. My pregnancy’s viable, and it’s not to be aborted. So now, as we walk out, we fine women peer straight into each other’s eyes, knowing that at long last, we have a clear meeting of the minds between us.
Chapter 22 Dead Man's Fingers
As Told by Ben
A minute ago I would have cut my wrists, hoping, that way, to win his tears—but already, my attitude has changed. Now, it is one of defiance: I throw his arms off my back, and in one big step I break his embrace, getting myself out of it, now getting entirely out of his reach.
In a quick reversal of mood, I feel completely swamped by his attention. At the same time, I am dying of thirst. I mean, really: a thirst so burning that I start wondering if it can ever be quenched.
My father just smiles, pouring me one cup of milk after another. “Well, now,” he says, once I have gulped down the last one. “Lets get some fresh air.”
And so, an hour or so later, the old man and I are down at Venice Beach, which is nearly deserted, barely a soul around.
There in front of us, closing in on an unclear horizon, is an autumn sun, reddening every ripple out there in the ocean, every little wrinkle here on the shore, and casting endless shadows, shadows made of vapor and dust, which seem to be flowing along, right over the surface.
We stand side by side. We smell the salt in the air. We step off the paved boardwalk and into the soft sand. All the while, I am listening to myself thinking. Slapped by a sudden backwash of emotion, I realize that just now, for the first time in years, something has changed in me: I have said something quite unusual, which came about without planning—but also, without regret. Three times I have named him and me, bringing the two together into a single word: becoming one, as in We.
For just a minute I lean on my father, to fold up my pant legs, take off my shoes and roll my socks in them. Then he leans on me, to do the same.
We cross the border between the wind-blown mounds of dry sand, and the saturated, nearly flat seaboard, trounced by the tide. The waves roll in, threatening to swallow us whole. With a roar in their widening mouth, they are leaping ahead, then lapping the sand angrily, foam on their lip.
And scattered here all around us—going away this way and that, across moist and dry land—are traces: footprints of things big and small. You can figure out what they might have been, by that which they have taken away, by what has gone missing, and how.
Here, these must have been flip flops, and those over there, tennis shoes. They have come and gone, leaving behind them dents in the sand, clear, neatly arranged dents, pressed in by some rubbery bumps, within the perimeter of each sole.
There, a barefoot child must have passed; farther out, an adult. Five
toes and the ball of the foot, then again, five toes and the ball of the foot, boring round, shallow hollows, little basins, where water starts welling up now, in the wet sand.
And here, tiny webbed feet must have hopped and landed, hopped and landed, opening sharp, three-pronged holes in the sand, where a gull has sunk in its claws. Each set of footprints is distinct. Each is stamped, you see, with its own design, each with its own sole.
And all of them seem to be traveling with a certain purpose, which is unknown to me, criss crossing each other, forging ahead towards some unclear target, pressing on steadily—but in a zigzag fashion, left, right, left, right, as far as the eye can see, until all of a sudden, a high crested wave breaks ashore, rubbing out part of their path; and thus, erasing from the surface—and soon from memory, too—that which only a minute ago was still here, could still offer some clues, and let you jot down some notes of the journey.
“I wish,” says the old man, “we would never forget this hour.”
And I think, Why, what a grand sentiment! I wish you could just be quiet.
And he says, to himself this time, “Winter is coming. The day is shorter, it seems. And the shorter it is—the more precious each minute.”
And I think, No. Not for me.
My father says, as if he could hear me, “Maybe not.”
He stumbles over some piece of trash, and, having to steady him, I think, Too bad. He is too heavy for me. So is his talk.
He says, “You think I do not understand how hard, how painful it must be for you, coming here to a new reality: a home without your mom. I wish you would talk, Ben. Talk to me about it.”
And I think, Who the hell wants to do that.
He waits for an answer, but after a while he seems to give up. “My God!” he says then, gazing straight ahead. “This place! This place, it is almost too beautiful for words.”
Indeed, it is. I fill my lungs with air, and my spirit swings so high at the thought of wetting my toes, that I laugh out loud at what he is saying, whatever it is. Let him talk all evening if it makes him happy.
He says, “I wish I could write it, Ben.”
In place of an answer I run along the beach, the old man trailing farther and farther behind me. For a minute I stop, and stoop down to pick what at first I thought was a dead butterfly—but no, this is just an empty shell, the two halves of which are hinged together, bringing to mind a hardened pair of wings.
I touch it: dark-blue and rough on the outside, slick and pearly inside, it housed a mussel once. Now there it lays, far from the sea, no longer able to keep itself closed—nor can it attach itself to others out there, on the distant wave-washed rocks, from where it came.
I feel a strange affinity with this thing. It has been left here, to fill with dry, barren grains, now that life has left it. How did it arrive here? By what thrust, what rush of wave? Maybe, it loosened its shell—just a crack—waiting, waiting for high tide, for seawater to come through, to revive it. I imagine its flesh quivering there, inside its broken enclosure: so soft, so vulnerable. So much like me.
Perhaps, it tried to roll its way back, to cross the border between that which is bone dry, and that which can still nourish it. Snatched and quickly consumed, its shell has been picked clean by a bird of prey, or—when the waves finally came—by a starfish.
Then its armor was carelessly spit out by the water, having failed to serve its purpose. So much like me.
I throw it back, in the direction of the old man. I think I can hear him, calling me from afar, “Wait...”
A sudden gust has shaken my father and he falls, abruptly, out of sight. A second later, the top of his head reappears behind a mound of sand.
“Ben,” he cries, “wait for me!”
So I am standing there a long while, long enough for my father to have overtaken me already—but then, nothing. Finally I rush back, and there he is, in shallow water, wrapped in his black wool coat against the wind, collar flapping, hem dripping. He takes it off, and thrusts it into my hands.
Then, precariously, he takes a step deeper, and points, “Look, over there!”
Which is when I spot a beam of sunlight caught, somehow, by a grain of sand. It is shining there, as if through a diamond. Under that sparkle, protected from the surge by a jagged wall of rocks, is the pool: the tide pool, in which I used to splash my feet a long time ago, when I visited here as a child, with him. Dazed by the sight, and by the visions it brings out, in layer after layer of memories, I open my mouth and close it again, like a fish out of water.
Meanwhile, my father wades out to the rocks, leans over the edge, and waves his hand to me with something cupped in it, part of which is dangling down. I am reluctant to ask, Well, what is it? So I glance at this thing, this seaweed which is dark green and somewhat fuzzy, because of the hair on its swollen fingers. One finger wraps around a second one, which twists around, coiling over itself, creating a loop through which a third one feels its way, nicking here, pricking there, trying to penetrate.
“See?” he indicates. “Dead Man’s Fingers! Remember?”
“No, I do not,” I say.
He can tell I am lying, because really, how can I forget? It was he who, years ago, during our frequent strolls here, along the beach, taught me about algae and stuff.
“You forgot,” says my father, “about that summer? About us?”
“There is nothing I care to remember,” I say. “Not a thing.”
Now he avoids looking into my eyes. My father squints, facing the glowing horizon, where the sun is bleeding, so slowly, into its own reflections in the water.
I was nine, back then. Dad was employed—for nearly a year—by some organization, some nonprofit environmental thing. It set out to produce a report card of sorts, grading the coastal waters at various locations along the California coast, to indicate some risks, I mean, risks of adverse health effects to beach goers.
As a child, a sentence like that would seem like a mouthful to me, so I never asked what actual work he did there—but somehow, his knowledge about aquatic plants and creatures showed through; as did his enthusiasm, which swept me along.
And so, it was from him that I learned about this seaweed, called Dead Man’s Fingers. It can spread far and wide—which ignited my imagination—simply by attaching itself to ship hulls, oyster shells, and drag nets, or by floating along with ocean currents. Or, it can stay put. Dad showed me how it anchors to the surface of the rocks, upon which it lives.
Now the old man is spreading the fingers of this thing over his own hand, letting it rise and fall, rise and fall with the flow and the ebb; plunging it even deeper, as if trying to fish something out of the water; something that escapes him, comes back for just a second, and escapes him again.
“I so wish,” he says, “I could find the words. You know, I hoped to become a writer, when I was your age. I used to think I had it in me.”
To which I say, “It should come easy for you. You are so good with words.”
His smile is rather brief.
“No, not really,” he says. “Ask Anita. For the life of her, she cannot string together more than two syllables in a word—but if she could, she would tell you how devastating, even excruciatingly painful it is to read, or even just listen to my book.”
“Book? You’re writing a book now?”
“Yes; didn’t I mention it?”
“No, you did not,” I say indignantly. “Not to me, anyway.”
Which he tries to shrug off. “Anita cannot bear listening to it. She has a reluctant admiration, I think, for the fact that I keep at it with such patience, such dedication, even, keep crafting something which is so incredibly protracted, and in her mind, pointless. Somehow, I have managed to bore her to tears. Too fragmented. Too many words.”
“I guess you do not care to entertain her,” I taunt him.
“Exactly,” he says. “I do not aim to bring her to a quick climax, or to satisfy her with a happy end, either, because for me, the end—th
e end is rarely happy, and at this point, it is still obscure.”
“Then,” I glance at him slyly, “no wonder she is bored—”
He cuts in, “You must think me an old man. A man easily deceived.”
“No,” I say hastily. “You are reading me all wrong. She is not what I am interested in. It’s your writing. Tell me more about that.”
“For a time,” he says, “I tried to write in ways that would give her pleasure, but now, something must have changed in me. No longer do I wish to sweep her off her feet, so to speak. Instead, I wish to open myself—”
“Open yourself?” I cannot help but laugh out loud.
Apart From Love Page 20
