< Apart From Love: Chapter 23 >

A Wall. A Space. A Wall

That night I lay there, wide awake, annoyed by the creaking of their bed. I cannot help thinking, Oh no, not again; not like last night! 

Well, what do you expect? The walls are so thin here, in this apartment building, that you can easily hear snores and sighs—not only of the old man, but also of the next door neighbors. And if not for the wind outside my window, which is sucking the blinds in, sucking them out, you could probably hear what some kid—out there, in the next building down the street—mumbles in his dream.

Unable to fall asleep I clap my hands over my ears, trying to ignore these sounds; trying to stop thinking. Stop it now, I tell myself. Stop thinking about that woman, Anita, separated from you by a wall, a space, a wall.

She is lying there, in their bedroom, next to my father, in that large, creaking four poster bed, that used to belong to my mom. Maybe—like me—Anita is tossing off her blankets right this minute, and shivering there, in the dark. I rise up. I lie down. I imagine looking into her eyes. Does she close them, so as not to take in the faint, colorless moonlight, which is thrown back from the walls? I imagine touching her curls. In what shade are they glinting there, on the blue pillow?

And through the wall, the space, the wall, can Anita hear the pounding, the loud pounding of my heart? Can she feel me, breathing her name? Does she whisper back to me, Stop it, stop it right now?

Does Anita, then, turn away from me, to his side of the bed? Is she staring at the dark outline, the outline of his heavy back, set against the crushed, blue sheets? Does she move over, and try to cuddle him? And then—having done so—does she feel lost, even more than before, in that place? If not for this home, this roof overhead, for which only he can provide, would she, perhaps, prefer me to him?

I wonder if at this point, Anita is removing her arms and legs from around the old man, thinking, perhaps, that to cling to him is like clinging to a fish, because really, he is much too slick for her. Now that they are married, he may take his affairs elsewhere; which is exactly what he did when mom was here.

My father may never give up his secrets; never be fully open, fully intimate with a girl like her. Perhaps he thinks her too vivacious, too young, too simple. Perhaps there is no woman to whom he can really connect.

Here is one thing I hope she knows: She deserves better.

Again I can hear their bed. The sound starts by squeaking and ends by creaking. My father must have rolled over, out of her reach. Is she closing her eyes, so as not to see, not to take in the light?

There it is, that sound again.

At last I can no longer take it, and get the hell up. I walk in the middle of the shadows, step out of the corridor, into the hall, the living room, around the white piano, heading in the direction of the balcony. I slide open the glass door, and then, cross the threshold. I lean over the railing, breathing, breathing the night air, and no: Not really thinking about her. Not at all.

*

His desk, taking nearly the entire space of the balcony, is a massive old piece of furniture, made of solid wood boards, which have been beaten by use, and by the weather. My father refuses to bring it in—not only because of the lack of room, but because here, only here in the open, his mind is at peace. It can roam free, he claims, without interruptions, and without clutter.

A thick glass has been floated on top of his desk, to protect it from the elements. In the center of the surface is a small desk lamp, turned off. The tape recorder is here, on the left side. It is shrouded with a plastic cover, which is reflected, rather faintly, in the glass. I remove the shroud, and find a tape already loaded, so out of an old habit, I start recording my voice, which is how you can hear me, eventually.

And this here is some of what I say—

*

Reflected on the right side of the desk is a cloud, moving slowly, veiling and unveiling the moon. Under it—I mean, right there, under the shine of the mirrored cloud—I notice something else, lying flat: A bunch of lined, yellow papers stapled together, written in his hand.

For a minute I hesitate, because what my father has written, what he has protected here, under the glass, with such care, must be private—but then, I find myself so curious, and the hell with privacy! I am his son, after all...

So I lift the edge of the glass—just a bit—and take hold of the stapled corner, and slide the papers out. Now they swish in my hand.

Which is when I hear a soft voice behind me, asking, “Who’s there?”

To which I whisper, “It is me: Ben.”

“You shouldn’t do that,” she says.

Trying to deny, I ask, “Do what?”  

And Anita says, “Read his stuff.”

“Oh, that,” I say. “I was just bored.”  

“Bored?” she says, yawning, “I ain’t surprised. His writing will get you that way in a big hurry.”

Anyhow, she can see for herself that the papers are nearly unreadable, because the letters are small, and drawn in blue ink, which seems blurry in the starlight. Leaning closer, she turns the lamp on for me. And as soon as the first sentence becomes clear, I curse him, curse, curse, curse him, because how dare he.

“Oh hell!” I cry. “These words, they are not his—but mine! My words—stolen!”

“You sure? This here, it’s his handwriting.”

“It is,” I say, “but this is my story, which I recorded long ago, when I was twelve years old, maybe.”

“Then,” she says, “You must, from now on, be careful. Like, think twice about what you say.”

Somehow, what she means is clear to me, and there is no need to ask for an explanation, which is this: Better be careful about the words uttered, the words spun.

She presses the Stop button on the tape-recorder, and whispers in my ear—what, I am not going to tell you. And I am not going to tell you the smell of her hair, either. But a moment later I forget all about being on guard.

I find myself angry, so angry at my father—but even more than that, surprised. I have told him a thousand times already: My thoughts are mine, and mine alone! How dare he pretend to agree with me when I state it—and later, ignore it, and invade my privacy, exposing, in the process, some of my most painful, most intimate moments? This is a line he has never crossed before.

Anita gives me a look, which I take to be a warning. Then she places the shroud back in place, over the tape recorder. “The way I picture it is like, this is his desk. He’s always here,” she says, “even when he isn’t. So just, don’t say nothing you don’t want him to hear. You must be careful, Ben. The words you leave behind you, they ain’t yours no more.”

And with that, she turns away.

I shut the glass door behind her. I murmur, “Good night,” knowing that no one can hear me inside. If she answers, I cannot detect it—and so, neither can you. I do not even wish to look at her, because I aim not to see, and not to tell you what I see. As I told you before, go! Go away! Or else, if this is where you must stay, just stop listening. My thoughts are mine!

The rage swells in my chest. I want to burst into his bedroom, even before she gets there, and—slap!—punch the unsuspecting, heavy-eyed old man in the face. Instead, I just crumple the papers, and throw them to the floor and stamp, stamp, stamp my feet on them.

Which is when the glass door opens a crack, and she says, “Ben—”

“What now?”

“If I was you, I would burn that tape.”

“I cannot,” I say, utterly frustrated. “It has my voice on it.”

And she comes back with, “Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless,” she says,”like, you want him to know what you think. I bet you want to draw blood.” And with that, she slides the glass shut, so instead of her face, all I see is a reflection of mine.

I look down at the mess I have made, thinking that perhaps, this is all a mistake. I may be wrong about him. Yes! I am. He is no worse than me. He may have found himself curious, and the hell with privacy! He is my father, after all...  

He used to be my hero. I nearly forgot: When grandma collapsed, it was dad who saved her. He breathed life into her; and it lasted in her for two whole weeks. Now, I suppose, he wants to save me. From what, I have no idea. Recently I noted the look in his eyes; they are so full of pity, as I have rarely seen in them before. He seems worried, unusually worried about me. At this point I no longer resent it—but still, it makes me uneasy.

At first I figured, maybe he is worried about my future: I mean, about my drifting aimlessly, and dropping out of medical school, and failing to get a job, and being unable to support myself—but no: Never once since my return has he even come close to touching any of these subjects. I must admit: He is rather careful with me. If I am silent—so is he.

And even when we talk, there is a distance between us, perhaps even more than that: A separation, which he seems to respect. A wall, a space, a wall.

And so, I am left to wonder. Why is he worried? What can it be? Was it something else, something about which we talked? Perhaps, mom? According to him, she was diagnosed five years ago, with Early Onset Familial Alzheimer Disease. At first I thought, it could be worse, and thank goodness it isn’t a brain tumor—only to realize that during my studies in medical school, I heard of some people with brain tumor who got better, but never once did I hear of anyone who got better from Alzheimer’s.

Now for the first time I consider the full meaning of that word: No, not Alzheimer's, the one immediately before it, which up to now I have ignored, perhaps deliberately so: Familial. Which means, Hereditary. It is a slow decay for mom, and the threat of one for me, as well—but far as I know, the only way to be sure of not developing it is to die young.

Stop, I tell myself. Stop thinking now.

I remember: When I was six, we strolled together one morning along the beach. The tide was low, and dad picked up a shell and handed it to me, saying, “Here, Ben. Keep it. It is a gift.”

He taught me then how to hold it to my ear and listen, listen with all my being; because, he said, the sound of the waves had been caught, somehow, inside it, which is a secret only few people know, because it only becomes clear if you stay there, very still, and forget everything else for a while. The sound, dad promised, would always remain—even if you took the shell far, far away from here, say, to the city, or to Santa Monica Mountains, out there. Even so, you would still hear it.

I remember doubting him. I thought, Oh well. High tide, low tide. Nothing stays. Nothing is forever.

I admit, in the past few days I have judged him harshly. Now I know, I can tell where I might have gone wrong. When the old man says, “The day is shorter, it seems. And the shorter it is—the more precious each minute,” it is not his life he is thinking about. Perhaps, it is mine.

And he is right, too. Memory is such a fragile thing. Dad is doing what he can to hold it together. He tries to capture the moment, perhaps for my sake. Capture, at least, the sound of it. Time in a fold of brain. The ocean in a shell.

One day, if—if like my mother, I shall start losing it, my memory, I mean—I want to believe that dad will be there, as close to me as once he was, holding it to my ear.

I pick the papers from the floor, which is where they have been trampled on, and I flatten them carefully, under the golden lamplight, which warms the tips of my fingers. This is my story, I tell myself. This is me, fifteen years ago. Here is my voice. Here is his gift to me.

“There it is,” I begin reading, “that sound again. And again—just like last night—it is only a whisper...”

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