Apart From Love

by Uvi Poznansky

  He breathes, “Here—now—I could not have written it any better.”

  And a moment later, “This is the most important day, the most important hour of my entire life. I can see things clearly, more than ever before, as if from a distance. You,” he takes a pause, “you have made your share of mistakes—but the whole thing started with mine.”

  “Sorry, dad,” I say.

  And he says, “It is my fault, and we both know it. Both of us have been paying the price. Don’t—don’t worry, son. I am going to fix it.”

  These few words between us do me good, and my lungs expand and suddenly I can breathe so much easier than before—even though I am left wondering what he means by the whole thing and how exactly can it be fixed.

  The cab comes to a stop in front of Sunrise Assisted Living at ten minutes past five, early in the morning.

  I have expected to see the doors locked for the night—but to my surprise they are thrown open, and someone is being carried out on a stretcher, soon to be loaded into an ambulance, which is parked slightly ahead of us. As the medics pass by my side I glance at the stretcher, and recognize the head lolling to one side, peaking out of the white sheet. I recognize it because of the black, utterly toothless mouth, which is open in a long O, as if in the middle of singing.

  I help my father out of the cab. He is having some trouble balancing on his feet, so I practically carry him past the medics, past the young, unfamiliar woman dressed in a nurse uniform, who is darting this way and that around them in great confusion. She must be in charge of the night shift crew. We are inside, barely noticed by her.

  Martha, the care giver, has not arrived here yet. Outside, outlines of the medics can be seen, shadows rushing to and fro. The flashing of emergency lights comes in through the windows, and starts strobing around us in the empty dining hall as the ambulance moves away.

  Without saying a word, my old man points his finger at the third door in the raw of doors along a long corridor. It is the only door that is open, perhaps because the old, toothless patient has just been lifted out of bed from there.

  I bring him in, knowing in my heart that this is where he has been heading all night along. I wonder if he can find the words, if he can even explain—to himself most of all—what possesses him to come to this place. There are two twin beds in the room, one of them unoccupied, just as I expected. In the other, lays my mother. In her deep slumber, she looks as if she is smiling.

  “Now,” says my father. “Lay me down.”

  My old man seems dizzy as I lower him into her bed. From time to time he is given to uncontrolled shaking, so I pull the blanket over both of them.

  Then I go back and close the door to the corridor, which at once darkens the room. It is a vacuous black, a nothingness that is falling in upon us. I have to feel my way around, as if my eyes have suddenly grown blind. Finally I reach the corner of the room and crouch down there, on the floor, and I hear him panting, panting in distress. The one thing that seems to help him relax is listening to the sounds around him, especially to the sound of my mother breathing, and to my voice saying, I am here, dad. I am right here if you need me.

  After a long while the room starts to take shape. You can slowly discern the folds, the faint folds of the curtains, and the light seeping in under the wavy edge. And there, in the bed, you can see his outline, combined with hers.

  By now my father must have forgotten, somehow, that this is not his place. His eyes wander in confusion, trying to decipher the shadows of the room, and his hand jerks searchingly around him. The more I watch him, the more I become convinced that he is trying hard to control it, to reach out and press some key, which only he can see. But he cannot guide his hand quite where he wants it to go—nor can he stop it from trembling.

  At last, he lifts his head to me and whispers, Record.

  By which I think he means, Remember. Or maybe he means, Talk to me, Ben.

  So I start describing this room to him, especially the light poking a hesitant finger through the slit between the curtains, and stripping the darkness away from the empty bed next to them, a bed which is bare, because the sheets have already been taken away, to be cleaned and sterilized for the next person to lie here.

  I go on to tell him that I knew the old woman who used to occupy this bed. He seems to be listening, so I start drawing from memory how, on my first visit here, she would hunch her shoulders over her empty hands, and lift her head to gape at me, and how her mouth would breathe slowly into the air:

  Then the traveller in the dark... Thanks you for your tiny spark... He could not see... Which way to go... If you did not twinkle so...

  I sing these words for him, with a voice that is thin and barely audible, just like hers used to be. And I hope that it brings to his mind the musical mobile I have seen, in the window back home, hung between one blind and another. I hope he can fall asleep now, dreaming of reaching up, of pulling that string, to make the plush animals turn around, and go flying overhead faster and faster till all is a blur, to the sound of that silvery note, which is chiming, chiming, chiming, as if to announce a moment of birth.

  Afterwards, I cannot figure out for certain at what point my voice has trailed off, leaving me lost in a jumble of memories, fearful to open my eyes, fearful to glance at my watch, to figure out the moment, the exact moment when I have realized that I am alone.

  All I know is that somewhere along its arc, the light has crawled across the wall and leapt onto their pillow, and it is resting there now, on his open eyelids.

  It is a fairly strong light now, a glare that can blind you if you look directly into it, which strangely he seems to be doing. So I rise to my feet to pull the curtain shut, and then, in spite of myself, I glance at him. His chest barely rises.

  He lays there, having wrapped himself in my mother’s arms, his eyelashes still somewhat aflutter, his hands still shivering slightly over his heart, his face pale, nearly blue, and I know that if I would leave him at this moment to go look for Martha, the care giver, it would be over. Dad would be gone by the time I rush back.

  So I draw closer and stand there, behind the head of the bed, over my sleeping mother. From this angle, his ribs seem to move—but I think it is because of her body clinging to him, and because of her breathing, which is so deep and so peaceful. I lean over her arms to take his hands in mine, absorbing his shiver, taking it into my flesh, until finally it dies down.

  And the light, growing even brighter, washes his face, till all that is left is a smile, frozen.

  Chapter 36 Play. Stop. Eject

  As Told by Anita

  Next morning I’m sent home empty-handed, while my baby must stay at the hospital a few more days, to get something called colored light therapy, ‘cause like, he’s been diagnosed with jaundice. But does anyone care? Hello there? I try to call home, for Lenny to come pick me up—but as usual I end up just managing, somehow, to get back on my own.

  I open the bedroom window, and feel warm spring air coming in, blowing gently into my face, which feels like a promise. Like, it’s gonna be good. It’s gonna be a beautiful day.

  I rewind the musical mobile, and listen to it chiming, chiming, chiming over my head for a long while. And there I stand listening, not knowing what to do, not wanting to admit to myself how I feel. Anyhow I’m glad you can’t see me sniffling, and blotting the corner of my eye, ‘cause like, there isn’t no one here I can hug, and no one to hug me right back.

  Lenny isn’t back yet, and neither is Ben. The place seems kinda empty to me—more so than usual—like a spirit has left it, on account of the piano, which is gone, and the shattered mirror. And it’s messy, because of the glass, which is strewn all around me, crushing underfoot as I move around the floor, until finally I stomp off to the corridor.

  Then I’m empty. Exhausted. Can’t bring myself to hold a broom straight, like, to sweep away all them broken pieces. In a daze I wander into Ben’s bedroom, and within moments I’m asleep in his bed.


  When I open my eyes again, it’s already the next morning.

  I wake up to a sound, an annoying sound of knocks at the door, and a sudden fear squeezes my heart as I open it, to find two grim-faced cops. It almost feels like I’ve read this story before.

  When they hesitate to say, like, what they’ve come in to say, I make up my mind I ain’t gonna scream. Instead I stick my thumbs in my ears, ‘cause I don’t want to hear, don’t want to learn that my husband’s been found lifeless. And for sure I don’t want to be asked no questions, ‘cause like, I don’t hardly have answers.

  I cup the palms of my hands over my eyes, ‘cause I don’t want to see the snapshots they’re trying to show me, which was taken right there at the scene, snapshots that show him lying there, curled, in Natasha’s arms. How he got there, no one seems to know—not even them cops. They want me to tell them, like, how it happened.

  So in spite of myself I can’t help peeking, between one finger and another, only to find that in some of them pictures, his face muscles seem awful relaxed. I bet it’s just a trick of the camera, some flash, which makes him look like he’s laughing, almost—even though the crease on his forehead hasn’t barely smoothed up.

  Which reminds me of my pa, who left me such a long time ago, that I can’t remember nothing of his face no more, I mean, nothing but a crease just like this, in the middle of his forehead. And even that’s turning into a blur now. I swear, it’s because of them tears. Damn, I miss him. I miss him so.

  No, Lenny. I ain’t gonna cry.

  A week after the funeral, which I couldn’t attend because of a sudden fever, I get a call from Lenny’s attorney, Mr. Bliss. Which is a sure sign—if you didn’t know it already—that this is a time of misery.

  He coughs up something like, “Mrs. Kaminsky, I hope you shall know no more sorrow.” And I go, “Really? That makes two of us.”

  Then Mr. Bliss goes on to say he’s stunned, simply stunned to hear what’s happened, and congratulations are in order, Mazel Tov for the baby, what’s his name? And he can’t find Ben, do I happen to know his address? A phone number, at least? No? And to come to his office just as soon as I can, because of the will, which Lenny has changed again only three days before his passing, and because of a key to some secret drawer in his desk, both of which must be handed over to me.

  I don’t exactly bother to tell him that I’ve known about that drawer for quite some time now, and that I’ve managed to pry it open—right after them cops finally left—with a kitchen knife.

  It’s like, I had to stab something, someone. If Lenny was gonna pop in right then, I was gonna kill him right on the spot.

  What I found in the drawer was like, confusing. There was no way for me to read the whole thing clear through to the end, ‘cause it was way too long, and anyhow, from the beginning, them letters was too small, and the writing too dense or something, which made me start yawning right away.

  Even so, I know one thing: for Lenny, this must have been a labor of love, something he did for his son, for Ben to remember him by. I must find him, and let him know that.

  Several times over the last few months, Ben would come in here—but only when I wasn’t home. Like, he was invisible. He hated this place, but couldn’t do without it. Them memories in his head, they would play tricks on him, pulling him back here. Also, I figure he wanted to stay close to his father. And to me too, I bet.

  I could always tell, later, that I’d just missed him, because there was a trace of his smell, like, still hanging in the air, and because he’d moved things around: a pillow’d been squeezed into the corner of his bed, or there was a new footprint in the dust. I swear, he must have wanted to be found out.

  But not anymore—or else he’d be here, to talk to them cops. So I find myself saying what needs to be said—not directly to him, but to the tape recorder. I’m careful to sound as dry and cool as my voice would let me, ‘cause you don’t never know who’s out there, listening.

  When I’m done, I place the tape in its plastic case, and tuck it down there, behind Beethoven’s bust, which I turn around to face the balcony, so the tip of its nose kinda shines in the daylight, which can draw your attention. I hope that sooner or later, Ben’s gonna notice it. My voice sounds pretty formal—but it’s too much, now, to do it over.

  Your father left you a stack of pages here, in a secret drawer in his desk. It’s his story, which he finished—or at least, was close to finishing it. I bet he wanted you to read the thing.

  Where shall I mail it to? Let me know.

  For two days I wait, and there isn’t no answer.

  Then, on the third day, I come in from my daily visit to my baby at the hospital, and the moment I unlock the door, I see that Beethoven has turned around, somehow, so its face is totally in the shade, but like, them marble eyes seem to glare pretty hard—this time at the entrance, at me. Tucked behind it, I spot the same tape I’ve used—except it isn’t in the plastic case no more.

  So my heart starts to hammer, inside. I put the tape in the tape recorder, and Play. My voice isn’t there. It’s been erased. Overwritten. His voice sounds drier, and even cooler than mine. It says:

  Burn it.

  Which sets me back on my heels. At once, I go ahead to Record:

  It don’t belong to me. You do it.

  This time, a whole week passes by until Beethoven swings around. Ben’s voice says:

  I can’t. This story has our voices in it.

  So I say:

  I bet he tried to write ‘us’—but them characters ain’t who we are. Now, the thing I’m worried about is not his story—but the tapes, which I’m about to destroy. Unless you tell me not to.

  It’s just, I don’t want them to be found, ‘cause the cops were here twice already. It’s like, they ain’t exactly sure what to look for. They don’t seem to get how Lenny hit his head on the mirror and still managed to get to Sunrise home, with no one seeing him coming in. They don’t really believe that’s what happened.

  I bet they suspect I might have killed him—but like, why would I stash his body in someone’s bed, let alone Natasha’s? Then, there’s Mr. Bliss: he tells me now he wants to visit, to give me his condolences or something.

  So by tomorrow, our voices is like, history. Gonna be erased. Or, if you wish to keep them, I can mail them tapes to you. Just tell me where to.

  A week drags by—seven sleepless nights—during which I find myself missing my ma so much that it hurts, because now that the little one is finally here, I don’t even get how she did it, like, how she managed to take care of me all these years, all on her own. No wonder she ended up being grumpy, which is one thing I’d rather forget.

  Between feedings I go through the process, erasing one tape after another. I do it by recording stuff over them. What kind of stuff? Just anything.

  Like, my baby crying at night. The way his whining turns into a giggle as I touch my nipple to his lips, just before he settles into his rhythm, like, suck, suck, swallow, breathe; suck, suck, swallow, breathe. The way I lay him over my shoulder and pat his back, to ease the hiccups. The distant sound of a door sliding along its track, as the neighbor comes out to her balcony—the one opposite us—to water her pot of geranium. Some kid out there, practicing his piano. Stuff.

  Then, late one evening, I notice the tape’s changed place. This time, it’s out in the open, right under Beethoven’s nose. It’s like, a hint that there isn’t no need to hide what we say to each other.

  Ben’s voice says:

  I happened to be out of town for a few days, so did not get your warning in time, about the tapes I mean, nor could I stop you.

  As to my father’s story, I still do not know what to do with it. I glanced at it, lying there in that secret drawer, and even read a few passages, some of which were too painful for me—and others which I cared nothing for, as they seemed overly fictional.

  At one point the whole stack fell out of my hands, and the papers spread out. I picked them up and stuffe
d them back in the drawer, as best I could—but they are totally scrambled now. I doubt I can rearrange them so they will be in the right order, I mean, his order, the way he wrote it. Can you?

  I wish I had the tapes, but what’s gone is gone.

  I say to myself, Oh shoot, and let a week go by before responding:

  I did give you time to stop me.

  Ben’s silent, no sign from him for more than a week. I ain’t even sure if the tape’s been touched, like, if he’s got my message. I don’t want to wait no more, so this morning, before going out for my walk down to Santa Monica beach, which I do every day with my baby, I record over my previous message: