The Color of Cold and Ice

by J. Schlenker

  “Really?” Mark looked surprised.

  “Yeah, it’s not something that many people, well, tourists, know about. Not something we want to advertise. Do you see the guardrails over there?”

  “Yes.”

  “The city put those up hoping to prevent it, but a gang of strong boys can easily lift the small cars and tip them over into the canal.”

  A rapid dinging sound. Marina grabbed Mark’s arm and jerked him out of the way. “You’re not used to the cyclers I see. Don’t people in New York ride bikes?”

  “Most of the bikes you see in New York are messengers. I have never seen so many bikes in my life.”

  “We have more bikes than residents,” she said, a sense of pride in her voice.

  “People walk and ride the subways. Most of the cars on the streets are taxis. Driving in New York isn’t for the faint of heart,” he said.

  She laughed. “Here, either. As you can see, there is not much room for cars, and they’re all small. I hear you have big monster trucks and cars in the U.S.”

  “There are lots of limos in New York, and delivery trucks, but mostly taxis, and they are small, not as small as the cars here, but small.”

  “So, what do you want to see? Surely not our small cars getting shoved into the canals.”

  “Oh, the usual tourist places. The Anne Frank House, of course, and the Van Gogh Museum, and the Rijksmuseum.”

  “Well, you’ve come at a good time of the year. Late spring and summer is when it gets crowded. At that time, there is a line a couple of blocks long to get into the Anne Frank House.”

  “Oh, and I almost forgot windmills.”

  “We have plenty of those around here, well, out in the country. I’m surprised.”

  “Surprised?”

  “Yeah, most guys would say the first places they’d want to visit is the coffee shops and the red-light district.”

  “Well, I might stroll down that way, if you want to point me in the right direction. Can’t show my face back in New York without saying I’ve at least seen what it was all about. Observation, mind you. That’s all.”

  “Don’t take pictures in the red-light district,” she warned. “Your camera will get thrown into the canal. They wear impossible heels, but they are quick. How do you say? They can maneuver.” Mark involuntary gazed down at the comfortable tennis shoes that Marina was wearing.

  “We’ve already passed two coffee shops,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “Some are more, how do you say, discreet, than others. At night, especially on the weekends, they are more lit up to attract the tourists.”

  “Oh.”

  “Well, here we are.” They went through the doors of the brightly painted establishment. A wooden dancing bear, painted in vivid colors, hung over the doorway. She showed him around. “Breakfast is included. And if you should want a joint, there is a marijuana smoking room.” She said it as casually as the bell boy in New York might point out the mini bar and blow dryer. It had been a while since he had smoked a joint, and considering his parents were bankrolling the trip at John’s bequest, he wasn’t sure he wanted to light up. He might end up blowing off the workshop. No, that couldn’t happen. Maybe after the workshop, on the last leg of the trip. Maybe his whole outlook on life might be changed at that point. As far as Poland went, he had no clue. It was his understanding they would be somewhere secluded, somewhere in the heart of nature.

  The Dancing Bear was nothing fancy, but it was clean. The bunk beds reminded him of the time he spent at summer camp. There was a lot of orange as with most things in Holland, another reminder of the Java Bean Factory and the girl.

  He had planned to go back to the coffee shop, inquire about a gig, but he hadn’t. His motivation no longer worked there. Besides, she was married and had a child. He never saw her again after that time at the ice rink. All he could do was shrug it off as not meant to be. Still, she inspired him to write music again. He almost had the song completed, but he wanted it to be perfect. He placed his guitar case on the lower bunk.

  “My boyfriend plays guitar,” Marina said.

  “I couldn’t see leaving it behind. I read that The Iceman also plays. If he’s game, we can strum together.”

  “Oh, yes, perhaps so.” Her Dutch accent was growing on him. She was young, way too young for him, around nineteen or twenty he guessed. Besides, like the girl back in New York, she was taken. Even if he would run into someone interesting here, there would be no time for romance. He had to keep his wits about him for the workshop. And then, he also needed to go see the long-lost cousin, the main reason for the stop off in Amsterdam. From Amsterdam, he would fly into Prague, meeting up with others who would be taking the workshop with him.

  “So, you must want to freshen up after your trip.”

  “Yes, that would be nice.”

  She showed him the bathroom, or toilet as she called it, and said, “Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

  “Thanks, Marina. And thanks for meeting me and giving me the walking tour.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I think I will hop into a cold shower. I don’t plan on using any of your hot water while I’m here. Have to start practicing.”

  She laughed. “We need more customers like you.”

  Chapter 30

  Emerald and Chad

  * * *

  “MOM, WHAT IS it?” asked Chad.

  “Oh, nothing. For a moment, I thought I saw someone from back home?”

  “Aunt Syb? Uncle Clark? I bet they missed us and decided to come to Holland, too.”

  “No, it was someone who came into the Java Bean once.”

  “Oh. Who is she? Are we going to say hello?”

  “It’s a he, and I don’t know his name.”

  “How can we say hello if you don’t know his name?”

  “Well, I guess we can’t. Besides, he is with someone.” Emerald did know his first name — Mark. She remembered it from the morning in the coffee shop. How could she yell it out? It might seem strange, as if she were some kind of stalker.

  Emerald watched as the man in the leather jacket accompanied by a young tall blonde neared the entrance of the Anne Frank House. That was definitely him. The same black spiraled hair that reminded her of licorice and the same worn leather jacket. Maybe he was married. Or maybe she’s his girlfriend. She was younger than him. Looked to be around college age. They couldn’t be related. They were as different in looks as night and day. Possibly if she ran into them again, she might just say something to the effect like she heard he got his key. Would that sound stupid? He probably didn’t remember her at all. Maybe he didn’t even live in New York. The key might have been a hotel key although she thought they all used cards. Was he Dutch and just visiting New York? He hardly said two words. So, how would she know if he had an accent? It was so strange, seeing him again, and of all places, so many miles away from New York.

  “Chad, what do you say we eat first and then come back to the Anne Frank House after lunch?”

  Yes, that was a better plan. She might catch a glimpse of him coming back out after lunch. It was a long shot, but possible. Why was she was so interested? He obviously was taken. But something compelled her to try to boost her odds of running into him, for the sake of curiosity if nothing else.

  * * *

  “Mom, it’s spooky.”

  “Yes, it kind of is. Although I’m not sure if spooky is the right word. Eerie would be more like it. You can feel her essence here. It’s like all of her feelings are frozen inside this room, all those thoughts she recorded in her diary. Would you like the book, The Diary of a Young Girl, in Dutch?”

  “Why? I couldn’t read it.”

  “Because that was her language, the one she wrote her diary in.”

  “But I couldn’t read it.” He gave her a puzzled look.

  “Still, wouldn’t it be neat to have? You could take it for show and tell.”

  “Yeah, that wo
uld be cool.” He lit up at the suggestion.

  “Tomorrow, we will go back to the Van Gogh Museum.”

  “Again, Mom? Aunt Syb said you would do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Go to the Van Gogh Museum every day.”

  “Well, we did get a pass. We have to get our money’s worth.”

  “Ugh,” he groaned.

  “How about we do one of the boat excursions down the canal afterward?”

  “Yes!” He jumped up and down.

  Chapter 31

  Mark and Marina

  * * *

  “DO YOU HAVE a girlfriend, a wife?” Marina asked.

  “No, well, I did, a girlfriend, that is, but we recently broke up.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.”

  “No, don’t be. It was for the best.”

  “You mentioned that you had a boyfriend.”

  “Me, I recently met someone. I am hopeful.” Mark loved the way she used American words.

  “And he doesn’t mind you spending your free time with me?” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. He was close to being as old as her father might be. Might she think him some kind of pervert?

  “Oh, no, he is not the jealous type. Most people here aren’t.” She said it as if the statement didn’t faze her in any perverse way. New York was cosmopolitan, but the people here were more laid back, more accepting.

  “Then you differ from most Americans.”

  “But the Dutch settled New York.”

  “Well, they must have changed somewhere along the way.”

  “And your name is Jewish?”

  “Definitely Jewish. Not my first name. My family doesn’t practice the religion, not like some. We are basically Jewish in name only.”

  “So many lives lost during the second world war. Amsterdam had one hundred thirty-nine thousand Jews before the war. Afterward, there were only thirty-five thousand. You will see all of that in the museum. You plan to visit, no?”

  “Yes, if there is time. We have a distant relative here in Holland, just on the outskirts of Amsterdam. I am supposed to go see him before leaving for Poland.”

  “You said so in your email. That will be so nice.”

  “He’s old, ancient.”

  “Ancient?”

  “Very old. He had a twin sister, along with other family, who died during the Holocaust, but my immediate branch of the family was in America long before the war. I remember my grandparents talking, and someday, I want to see the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C.”

  “Just now are we accepting the Germans. We are still waiting for them to return our bicycles. We are naive, aren’t we?” She laughed. “Well, we are finally up to the front of the line.”

  “If they gave them back, I don’t know where you would put them.” He looked as far as his eyes could see, a string of bikes lining the streets, in some instances, on top of each other, like a tangled metal ball of yarn, something a gigantic power transformer feline might swoop down upon. They reminded him of Jackson Pollock’s work, only three-dimensional. How could they even tell them apart?

  “You are right, and you have to watch out. Most Americans don’t know to get out of the way when they hear the bell.”

  “Yes, you saved my life earlier. Perhaps I will rent a bicycle.”

  “That would be nice. We could ride out to see windmills if you want.”

  “That would be great.”

  Chapter 32

  Sybil, Dr. Gray and Clark

  * * *

  WAS THE COLD weather never going to end? It was fifty degrees out, but it seemed colder. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck. The doctor told her to relax, take long walks, and be sure to take her vitamins. That was on the first visit, along with the news she wasn’t pregnant.

  Every muscle in Clark’s face sagged when she announced there was to be no baby. He wanted this as much as she did. He fought to bounce back, a slight smile mustered to reassure her as he reached for her and held her close to his chest, but an avalanche of water works shot from her eyes embodying their joint disappointment.

  “We’ll just keep trying,” he reassured her while touching her quivering lips. The real news, she hadn’t been brave enough to tell him. That news came with her second visit.

  * * *

  During her first meeting with Dr. Gray, he spoke about stress and worry and how it was a huge factor in what was going on in most patients. This was after a series of questions and just letting her talk in rhythm with the low volume classical music playing in the background, almost subliminal, as she sunk back into the lush blue chair, and drank a cup of chamomile from a white cup. Was that Mozart? She needed to brush up on her classical. A hint of lavender was in the air. She first noticed the aroma in the examination room where the same music played in the background.

  Dr. Gray asked her if she wanted to wear her cardigan over the gown. The whole scene was surreal. She remembered examination rooms as cold and stark, the protection paper on the table always fighting against the thin, backless, white and faint blue, threadbare gown. She was in his office for a good half hour, and the examination room just as long. He let her take her time. She had never remembered a doctor making her feel so cared for.

  On the first visit, he discussed a remote possibility of perimenopause. He had seen it in women in their late thirties, but he said it was rare, something they would explore.

  How could she not be stressed? There was to be no baby, no baby ever, unless she could reverse perimenopause, if that were indeed the case. How could this be happening? She was only thirty-eight. Her mother was still having babies into her forties. Emerald was a menopause baby. She had to think positively. Dr. Gray said missing a couple of periods was no need for alarm, and that stress was not conducive to making babies. So there was still hope? Was he saying that?

  * * *

  When she went in for the second visit, the blood tests showed her to be borderline anemic. Along with the vitamins she popped iron pills and B-12 like they were Tic-Tacs. But being anemic was just the tip of the iceberg of what the blood tests showed.

  “Sybil, there is no easy way to put this.” Those hazel, caring eyes, a sadness in them, looked into hers as he placed his hand on her shoulder. “You have cancer — colon cancer, a small tumor in the early stages in your large intestine.”

  She took a step back. Dr. Gray’s hand on her shoulder took a tighter grip.

  “It’s treatable.” He said it with a deep voice, a strong affirmative sentence that took the path of optimism rather than doom.

  A long list of options was materializing from his mouth in slow motion, a background noise like the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon. The room swirled around her. Dr. Gray was somewhere in the distance, off in a gray fog. Her father died of cancer. Why had the thought never entered her mind? The growth in her dream?

  “Here, take this water.” He was holding a glass out to her.

  “Thank you,” she said in a weakened voice. She held out a trembling hand.

  “We’ve caught it in the early stages. The prognosis for catching the cancer this early is good. The first order of business is to quit worrying.”

  The worrying. Dr. Gray had seen it right away in her. It was something she tried to hide, but she wore it like Hester Prynne wore her scarlet letter. Even Chad knew it. Once by his bedside while he was recovering from the accident he had seen it in her eyes and said with the grin of a five year old, “Don’t worry, Aunt Syb, it’ll be okay.” Then he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  She liked Dr. Gray. He was sensible, logical. On her first visit, he said he wanted to find the root cause. He sat undistracted and listened as she talked. He asked questions. “I don’t want to put a Band-Aid on whatever the situation is and just write you a prescription,” he said. “In fact, we will hold off on anything except vitamins before doing tests. The tests first. Then we will sit down together, establish our best course of action, and conquer. We will def
eat whatever is going on,” he reiterated with a smile. His smile had reassured her on the first visit, and it reassured her on the second visit after hearing the C word.

  * * *

  In her mind, doctors had always been someone to avoid, not much different from the sickness itself. Perhaps, if she had discovered him years ago, she might have prepared for this or have avoided it altogether. She mentioned this to him. He told her that if she had discovered him any earlier, even a few weeks ago, he would have loaded her up with pills, along with a zillion tests, many more than what she was going through now, whatever her insurance could handle.

  * * *

  She and Clark should have started sooner. She had never dreamt of holding a baby. That should have been a sign. But she had felt the pregnancy in her gut. Her gut — her intuition was off. Could cancer do that to her? She had felt something. It was a growth, not a sublime happy growth, but a foul cancerous growth. She guessed she should be thankful it wasn’t early menopause. Should she be thankful for such a thing?

  Dr. Gray didn’t want to give her false hope but said getting pregnant wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibility, that is after chemo, if that was the route she chose. “Then again, chemo might not be needed. At any rate, just enjoy life. We beat the cancer.” He said it like beating or winning was the only option. “Then you try to get pregnant. Have fun trying.” He winked. “But don’t make getting pregnant like a business venture. These things happen when you least expect it,” he said.

  “But there was morning sickness, dry heaves,” she blurted out to Dr. Gray.

  “Possibly you wanted to be pregnant so badly. I’ve seen similar things happen. Just think, if your mind is that powerful, what you can do to beat this cancer. And the type you have is very beatable. And if you don’t quit worrying, you are in danger of developing an ulcer. We don’t want to add that on top of everything else.”