< Apart From Love: Chapter 7 >

N Over L

Anita is lying there, folded, in the worst possible corner in this corridor, which is poorly lit and even worse, poorly ventilated. I slip one hand under her back, and another one under her legs, and pick her up. I find myself surprised not only that she has fainted all of a sudden; not only that she is now in my arms, untouchable and yet so close, her head bobbing up and down over my shoulder with each step I take—but more than anything, surprised at how light her body is.

How can she be pregnant, I ask myself, and immediately answer by asking, What do I know. Her heart must be working harder now; working for two, really. No wonder she is light-headed; Anita is off-balance precisely because for her, this must be a time of change.

Once inside their bedroom I lay her down, roll her knees over to the center of the bed, turning her away from the edge, and place a pillow under her head. Then I hurry to throw the windows open. Hearing the squeak of his wheelchair behind me, I turn to my father. I look at him as if to say, Well, what now? And he returns a look with an equal measure of confusion, as if to ask, Look, Ben, can you tell, is she breathing?

I snatch a small, hand-held mirror from the dresser by her side and feeling important—at least as important as a TV brain surgeon—I hold it to her mouth. “Yes,” I report, looking at the glass which in no time, has become clouded. “So? Now what? Shouldn't you call someone, or take her to an obstetrician, just to make sure—”

“I'll call aunt Hadassa,” he says. “She will know what to do.”

I can hear the wheels turning on his way to the hall; then, a dial tone.

“Listen, there's a problem,” says my father, in an urgent tone. “Yes. No, this time it's not me; it's Anita.”

There is a brief pause, after which he goes on to say, “I wish I knew. No. Don't ask me what happened. She was making breakfast, fussing over it in her own, excessive way. Why? Who knows. To her, I guess, it's a labor of love. And she was just fine, I mean she was fine one moment and then, the next moment she is lying there, flat on the floor. Just like that. Yes, like you said, like a pancake. Now listen, stop it, you should be ashamed of yourself. This is no laughing matter. Can you come? I need you here. Why, now what gave you that idea?”

He pauses to listen and then, in a reassuring tone of voice, he promises, “Really, you are. Yes, you are welcome here. Always. And Frida. Yes, of course. And Fruma too,” he says, sounding as if all three of these women have just descended, with a heavy thud, on his shoulders. “Absolutely. Listen, this is no time for games. Seriously, when will you be here?”

The conversation drags on in the background. Meanwhile, I bend over Anita to check her pulse. I place a wet towel over her feverish forehead, and unbutton the top of her shirt, to make sure she can breathe with no obstructions.

I try to avoid looking at her body; but still, my eyes glide to the ticklish point under her chin, and the long line of her neck, which is plunging into the shirt collar, and the jugular vein fluttering there, and the nipple, half of which is peeking out from the shadow, down there under the frayed buttonhole; and her ribcage, which starts flaring up now with rapid, disorderly breathing, as if to escape a nightmare. So I turn away from her and take a searching look around the room.

For the most part, it looks familiar: The same mirror, tilted in the corner. The same four poster bed, which as I recall, was delivered in boxes from a manufacturer in North Carolina, and which took my parents two days to assemble, because the instructions were less than clear, and they nearly gave up. Still, I miss seeing their wedding portrait which, years ago, used to hang quite prominently, in a thick frame, right there above the headboard.

All that remains of it now is some plaster, smeared in a rough, hasty manner to fill in the hole of the nail; also, a rectangular outline up on the wall, where the frame used to be, and where the paint still retains its dark, nearly original tone, while around the edges, the paint has faded a long time ago.

And I miss seeing the white silk sheets, which used to wrap neatly over this bed. They were embroidered in the corner with an elegant monogram, designed, of course, by my mother. It is an overlay, interlacing two glyphs: A slanted, longhand N, combining some of its decorative strokes with an L: Natasha over Leonard.

These sheets have been replaced, recently, with a royal blue bedspread; pretentiously royal, I should say. It reminds me of a storm at sea, because of the folds rising and sinking here every which way, as if a gust of wind has blown across the surface, creating friction between that which is air and that which is fluid, and drawing ripples all around.

And lying on top of them is Anita, the woman who displaced my mother. Her rest, if you can call it that, is agitated—but then, at the sound of my father's voice, coming faintly from the other end of the apartment, she spreads open her hands and her face brightens. She seems to relax, even smile.

“This is Lenny,” he says, starting a new conversation now.

I can see how her eyelashes start fluttering, ever so lightly, over the freckles.

“It's me, Len,” he repeats, to someone out there.

My father talks now with an unusually slow manner, and with clear intervals, stressing every word; which makes me curious. I wonder who is it now, who is at the other end of the line.

“Just listen, dear: It's me. It's Lenny.”

By now Anita is trying to open her eyes, if only by a crack. I have no idea if she has taken a glimpse of me, and if so, does she see my outline against the bright morning sun in the window, and does she recognize, through the narrow interval between her eyelids, who I am.

So I whisper to her, “Anita... I carried you here, because you were dizzy. I mean, you fell. So, how are you feeling? Any better, now?”

She nods her head, mumbling a long sentence, most of which I can barely understand. Anita punctuates it with a yawn and at once, turns over. Before long I can hear her purring softly, and from time to time, shivering slightly in her sleep. So I unfurl the blanket over her, and cover her up to her ears. I listen a moment to the rhythm of her breathing, which is regular now.

I imagine my father standing right here, in my place at the foot of the bed. In my mind I picture him lifting the edge of the blanket, which is still settling over her. His hands go in, searching under it to find the warmth of her feet. They are starting to touch her, to fondle her toes, rolling each one of them ever so slightly between his fingers. Anita is arching her back, stretching out her arms, twisting her body around until she is turned over, on her back, and pointing her toes towards him with a cry of pleasure.

She utters a groan as he applies gentle pressure to the soles of her feet, caresses the arches, the heels, the ankles. Her knees spread open and fall apart, until she takes control of herself and brings them together—only to have them spread open again.

I close my eyes because this way, I can see better. The entire blanket is coming alive, folding and unfolding, stirring with their passionate tangle. From time to time the ripples rise to mark the line of his back, or the circle of her embrace. Waves come and go, crests roll in, followed by deep troughs, all giving a hint here, a hint there of the ways of their bodies, aching for each other, desperate to cling, to hold, to be taken.

Then, in my mind I try, I grasp at the missing presence, which is the hardest to paint: The presence of the forgotten woman. Mom steps in from the shadow behind the mirror, advancing slowly until she is standing right here, where I stand, tired, covered with what used to be a fine layer of dust, the dust of a long travel. By now it has caked on her face, because of the sweat that has already dried up. And in that crust, a crack here, a crack there bring out the crow feet by the corners of her eyes.

There is a stack of sheet music in her hands, which mom lets scatter across the floor. Somewhere out there, someone must be playing, practicing notes which are drifting in through the open window, out of sequence, confused. She is wavering in her mind whether she should stay here, in this bedroom, which is hers after all, or walk out the door.

Finally, her exhaustion weighs in. Mom looks around her for a quiet place, and like a stranger, she tiptoes—so as not to disturb—to the corner of this bed, where she turns her back to the two of them. Her weight makes barely a dent on the mattress. She curls herself, tightening her arms over her knees and interlacing her fingers, which helps her keep loneliness away. Then she starts falling asleep, in the same place where the monogram—Natasha over Leonard—used to be.

It is then that I open my eyes and walk out of the room, closing the door behind me as softly and as gently as I can.