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 had 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 geraniums. 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 stuffed 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:
Where are you? Me, I know you can’t be too far.
You angry with me?
Later, like, twenty minutes into my walk, I figure I need a sweater for me, and a blanket or something for the little one, ‘cause I reckon it’s turning kinda windy. So I go back, and I think I see someone, some passerby running the other way, into the back alley.
I climb up the stairs, turning over my shoulder once or twice, to see if I can tell who it is, ‘cause like, something about him looks awful familiar. But like, he’s already gone.
Then, as the door opens, I see that the tape recorder’s been moved, and I tell myself, Look! It’s still recording! So I hurry in, Stop, Rewind, Play, and then I close my eyes, and like, I take him in, because I so enjoy the sound, the deep sound of his voice.
No, not angry.
How can I be? I will never forget what you did for me.
And later, I could not believe it when you pushed the yellow manila envelope into my hands, with all that money in it, the day dad threw me out. I only used a small portion of it, that first week. By now I’ve nearly replenished what was spent. I am working now, and plan to give you back the amount in full.
Oh, and another thing.
I’m so glad that in addition to that envelope, you put the photo album in my suitcase. I barely noticed when you did it, nor did I realize what it was that I carried out with me, as I left this place.
Since then, I cannot tell you, Anita, how many times I have taken the album out, and opened it to that one page, on which a picture used to be missing.
You must have noticed it: at the top, there is a picture of my mom, from the time she was very young—perhaps your age—and pregnant. At the bottom, there is a picture of a little boy fascinated by that single candle in front of him, on his birthday cake. In between these two pictures, there used to be another one, which—try as I may—I cannot remember. Strangely, it has gone missing.
In its place I find, to my surprise, a small, black-and-white ultrasound image. It shows a profile of a baby, curled in the womb. I know, of course, that it could not have been me. The photo paper is much too fresh, and hasn’t even begun to yellow. Even so, that picture—which you must have inserted there—has filled a hole.
Somehow it makes
me feel as if the first stages of my life have been fully recorded.
What can I say to that, except:
Don’t look back, Ben.
Like, don’t Rewind.
Play.
To which he answers, later that night:
Stop.
It is your turn now to find me.
Eject.
To be continued with the next book:
The White Piano
Volume II of
Still Life with Memories
Or better yet:
Apart from Love
Volume I and II plus two new chapters, woven together, of
Still Life with Memories
About the Story
Ten years ago, when she was seventeen, Anita started an affair with Lenny, in spite of knowing that he was a married man. Now married to him and carrying his child, she finds herself condemned to compete with Natasha’s shadow, the memory of her brilliance back in her prime, before she succumbed to early-onset Alzheimer’s. Despite Anita’s lack of education, her rough slang, and what happened to her in the past, Lenny tries to transform her. He wants her to become Natasha.
Faced with his compelling wish, and the way he writes her as a character in his book, how can Anita find a voice of her own? And when his estranged son, Ben, comes back and lives in the same small apartment, can she keep the balance between the two men, whose desire for her is marred by guilt and blame?
Note: My Own Voice and The White Piano are woven together into my novel, Apart From Love.
About the Author
Uvi Poznansky is a California-based author, poet and artist. Her writing and her art are tightly coupled. “I paint with my pen,” she says, “and write with my paintbrush.”
She earned her B. A. in Architecture and Town Planning from the Technion in Haifa, Israel. During her studies and in the years immediately following her graduation, she practiced with an innovative Architectural firm, taking part in the design of a large-scale project, Home for the Soldier.
At the age of 25 Uvi moved to Troy, N.Y. with her husband and two children. Before long, she received a Fellowship grant and a Teaching Assistantship from the Architecture department at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, where she guided teams in a variety of design projects; and where she earned her M.A. in Architecture. Then, taking a sharp turn in her education, she earned her M.S. degree in Computer Science from the University of Michigan.
During the years she spent in advancing her career—first as an architect, and later as a software engineer, software team leader, software manager and a software consultant (with an emphasis on user interface for medical instruments devices)—she wrote and painted constantly. In addition, she taught art appreciation classes.
Her versatile body of work can be seen on her website, which includes poems, short stories, bronze and ceramic sculptures, paper engineering projects, oil and watercolor paintings, charcoal, pen and pencil drawings, and mixed media.
In addition, she posts her thoughts about the creative process on her blog, and engages readers and writers in conversation on her Goodreads Q&A group.
Uvi published a poetry book in collaboration with her father, Zeev Kachel. Later she published two children’s books, Jess and Wiggle and Now I Am Paper, which she illustrated, and for which she created animations. You can find these animations on her Goodreads author page.
Apart from Love combines two threads—My Own Voice and The White Piano—woven together (along with two new chapters) around the same events in 1980, when Ben returns to meet his father, Lenny, and his new wife, Anita. It is then that he discovers a family secret. The Music of Us goes back a generation to 1941, when Lenny, a young marine, fell in love with Natasha, a pianist. These volumes in Still Life with Memories offer an intimate peek into the life of a family dealing with losing a member to early-onset Alzheimer’s. Overwhelmed by passion, guilt, and blame, they find their way to forgiveness.
Rise to Power, A Peek at Bathsheba, and The Edge of Revolt are volume I, II, and III of The David Chronicles, telling the story of David as you have never heard it before: from the king himself, telling the unofficial version, the one he never allowed his court scribes to recount. In his mind, history is written to praise the victorious—but at the last stretch of his illustrious life, he feels an irresistible urge to tell the truth.
A Favorite Son, her novella, is a new-age twist on an old yarn. It is inspired by the biblical story of Jacob and his mother Rebecca, plotting together against the elderly father Isaac, who is lying on his deathbed. This is no old fairy tale. Its power is here and now, in each one of us.
Twisted is a unique collection of tales. In it, the author brings together diverse tales, laden with shades of mystery. Here, you will come into a dark, strange world, a hyper-reality where nearly everything is firmly rooted in the familiar—except for some quirky detail that twists the yarn, and takes it for a spin in an unexpected direction.
Home, her deeply moving poetry book in tribute of her father, includes her poetry and prose, as well as translated poems from the pen of her father, the poet and author Zeev Kachel.
Most of these books are available in all three editions: ebook, audio, and print.
Follow her on these sites:
•Blog
•Books
•Uvi Art Website
•Goodreads group: The Creative Spark with Uvi Poznansky.
•Amazon Author Page
•Amazon UK Author Page
•Goodreads Author Page
•Twitter
•Google+
•Pinterest
•Facebook
A Note to the Reader
Thank you for reading this book! I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, I invite you to check out more books from the same pen. There is always a new project on my drawing board, so come back to check it out.
I would love to hear what you thought of this book. You have the power of bringing it to the attention of more readers, by posting your own review. And another thing you can do to help me spread the word is this: please tell your friends about my work. How else will they hear about the story? How else will the characters, who sprang from my mind onto these pages, leap from there into new minds?
Bonus Excerpt: The Music of Us
My son, Ben, has been gone for a month now, staying in some youth hostel in Rome. If I call him, if I stumble into revealing how scared I am that his mother is losing her mind, he may listen. He may heed my fears, grudgingly, and come back here, not even knowing how to offer his support to me. Should I ask for it?
The last thing I wish to do is lean on him for help. He is not strong enough, and whatever the problem may be with her, I can grit my teeth and handle it, somehow, all by myself. Besides, I pray for a spontaneous change in her. I mean, her memory may take a turn for the better just as quickly as it has deteriorated.
Given this hope I decide that for now I will not schedule the head X-Ray that her doctor recommended for her. I figure she has been through so many checkups, so many exams to rule out depression, vitamin B deficiency, and a long list of other possible ailments, all of which has been in vain.
So far, the results have failed to produce a conclusive diagnosis, and this new X-Ray will be no different, because from what I have read, Alzheimer’s disease can be determined only through autopsy, by linking clinical measures with an examination of brain tissue. So this new medical hypothesis is just that: a hypothesis. One that cannot be proven; one that cannot go away. An ever-present threat.
Perhaps all she needs is rest. Time, I tell myself. I must give her time. Meanwhile I resolve to keep her condition secret from everyone, especially from my son. Let him enjoy his time away from home, his independence.
Since his departure I called him only once, three weeks ago, and said little, except for blurting out the mundane, “How’s Rome?”
“Great,” he said vaguely, adding no particulars.
I could not help myself from asking. “So, what about your
plans?”
“What about them?”
“D’you have any?”
“For now I have none,” he admitted, and immediately changed the subject. “How’s mom?”
“Fine.”
“Is she?”
“She is,” I lied, hoping that the sound of my voice would not betray the tensing of my muscles, the tightening of my jaws.
“Oh good,” he said. “Really, really good.”
There is only one thing more difficult than talking to Ben, and that is writing to him. Amazingly, having to conceal what his mother is going through makes every word—even on subjects unrelated to her—that much harder. I find myself oppressed by my own self-imposed discipline, the discipline of silence.
And what can I tell him, really? That I keep digging into the past, mining its moments, trying to piece them together this way and that, dusting off each memory of Natasha, of how we were, the highs and lows of the music of us, to find out where the problem may have started?
To him, that may seem like an exercise in futility. For me, it is a necessary process of discovery, one that is as tormenting as it is delightful. If the dissonance in our life would fade away, so will the harmony.
Sometimes I go as far back as the moment we first met, when I was a soldier and she—a star, brilliant yet illusive. Natasha was a riddle to me then, and to this day, with all the changes she has gone through, she still is.
I often wonder: can we ever understand, truly understand each other—soldier and musician, man and woman, one heart and another? Will we ever again dance together to the same beat? Is there a point where we may still touch?
My Own Voice Page 13
