Apart From Love (42 page)

Gazing at the pavement, the old man seemed lonely and withdrawn. Over a month had passed since our quarrel. The memory of it swung there, in the space between us, like a double-edged sword: ready to cut in both directions.
 

I needed to believe dad was thinking about me, imagining me someplace else, perhaps traveling abroad, this time on my own dime, having refused his offer of support. Was he worried about me? Did he go back to regarding me as a son, instead of a rival? I wanted to be on his mind, now that I was out of his way.

Cloaked in my black scarf I felt close to invisible, secure in my new identity—but at the same time an urge came upon me, a strong, undeniable urge to be discovered. There was no fighting it.
 

I hurried over, and—quite abruptly—stepped into his path, and crossed him.
 

Coming against me he raised his face, and was looking far out there, perhaps at the stormy sky over my shoulder. For just an instant I dared look directly into his eyes. In my heart, anger clashed with something I had trouble naming: maybe love, maybe not. If he were to touch me right then, I had no idea if I would break his arms or fall into them, sobbing.
 

The moment came and went. Not once did he show any sign of recognition. Absentminded, my father passed me by as if going around some thing, some inanimate object. An empty suit, for all he cared. An obstacle.
 

Even so, I was hopeful. With every step my father had taken along the way, I could not wait for him to take a second look at me—but then remembered he had neglected to take even the first one.

I stood there, hidden from him in plain view. Being unnoticed should not have shocked me so—but somehow, it did. As if planted in the pavement I froze, looking at his back, which was growing smaller and smaller, obscured by one passerby, then another, until at last it faded out into the distance.
 

His gait never slowed down, nor did he turn around.
 

Since that day I followed in his footsteps—I mean, literally—even in broad daylight. I trailed him, usually at a safe distance, about half a block behind him, and could feel the sweat welling up in my armpits, and running down my spine, even in cold weather. When necessary I took cover behind parked cars. If it became evident that he was distracted I moved a little closer, and so, learned everything there was to know about him, every habit that had escaped me before:
 

What time my father would leave for work. How he would raise his head to see Anita up there, leaning her elbows on the windowsill or combing her red hair. Where he would spend his lunch hour. How he would run his finger across the laminated menu, straining his eyes under his ill-fitting by-focals. His manner of nodding to the waitress to ask for his bill. Her manner of flirting with him. The slant of his pen, the way it rested on his fingers as he scribbled something, hastily, on his napkin.
 

Perhaps it was some expression that came upon him, some words that were just right, and could be put on the lips of this or that character in his book—or else, it was her name and phone number.
 

I was envious of him, and had no doubt he could get any woman he wanted, because my father was a strikingly handsome man, still, and the pomade in his sleeked-back hair could detract nothing from that, nor could the gray. Besides having Anita, he could get any other woman, which from time to time, he did—except, of course, for one woman. The one I had blamed him for losing.

Which brings me to what I see, having followed him just now into Sunrise home. He has just entered the dining hall through the heavy double doors.
 

I am holding them slightly apart, as if they were two parts of a fractured shield, and with one open eye I am trying to watch, as best I can, through the chink.
 

Seated at the head of the long Formica table, there he is, gazing at her. I mean, at my mother. Here is my family, the way it used to be, almost.

If I were to focus strictly on my parents, ignore the entire background of this place, and let the clutter and the smell of it just fall away, this could take me back to a different time, a time in my childhood, when our kitchen table was set for the Passover meal. What comes back to me first is the tinkle, as my father finished blessing the wine, and clinked his glass against hers, against mine.

I remember: the table was draped, all the way down to the floor, with mom’s best, rarely used tablecloth, made of the smoothest ivory satin you ever touched. Dad sat at the head of the table, mom to his right, I opposite her.
 

All day long she had been cooking, which infused the air with a wonderful aroma. In it you could detect a sharp whiff of horseradish and of gefilte fish and sweet brisket and red cabbage and roasted potatoes, all of which made my stomach growl. It went on growling until he finished reading the long, archaic text in the Hagadda, which meant little to me, except a vague notion of the utter futility of patience.
 

I remember: my mother ladled the clear, golden chicken soup and set it here, steaming before my eyes, with three matzo balls floating inside, which was her way of giving. “It’s hot,” she said. “Make sure to blow on it first.” Yes, the smell of her cooking was good, but then, the taste! Just wait till you took the first bite—

At this point I must snap out of my thoughts, because I can sense—even from this distance, through the interval I hold open between the doors—a subtle movement inside. I put my eye to the crack: yes, it is him. My father dips a tablespoon in a bowl, which is set directly in front of her, and raises it. Some kind of thick soup can be seen rolling in it, dripping over its rim. From here, I can see his lips moving, and guess at the words.
 

“Here, Natasha,” he leans over to her. “You must be hungry.”

She stares at it, not saying a thing.

Then he brings the tablespoon ever so carefully under her nose, so she may first smell the food, while he is keeping a napkin ready right there, under her chin.

I have not seen them together for ten years, so what he does in these circumstances surprises me. Even more so, what he says.
 

“Here,” says the old man, holding out the tablespoon. “Open up, dear.”

And he touches it gently to her lips. Which is when she parts them, and you can see her licking, tasting, head coming forward, hungrily now, for more.

“Now, now! Wasn’t that yummy,” he says, as if to cheer up a child.
 

And he smiles at her, a painful smile that tells me one thing: he knows that—unlike a child—she is bound to forget this moment, and unlearn the little that is left in her, I mean, the little that is left of her skills.
 

He knows—how can he not?—the futility of his efforts, of his care. Still he goes on, wiping the dribble from the corner of her mouth. Which suddenly brings back to me a memory of how she would do this for me, once upon a time.
 

“Wait,” he tells her. “Not so fast.”

One spoonful after another he feeds her, with boundless patience. I cannot imagine where he finds the strength in himself to go on.
 

Every time she swallows, he tilts a bit closer, looking up at her face as if, hoping against hope, he is still trying to find a glint, maybe of some recognition, some awareness—finding none.
 

“There, there,” he says when at last, the bowl has been scraped clean.
 

It becomes clear to me that in spite of their divorce, in spite of his remarriage, things here stay the same. In sickness and in health, my mother is—and will remain—his responsibility. Here is my family, the way it is.

And yet, where she is going, he cannot allow himself to follow. Nobody can.
 

My father pushes the bowl away and gets up, looking tense, and older than usual. His expression makes me forget, in one instant, all his flows, and the reasons for the quarrel between us. It must be incredibly hard for him. Is there any point in him being here? How would he know if she can still receive what he gives? Has the last line been crossed?
 

I recall what I learned in medical school about Alzheimer’s. By a strange twist, it makes me imagine the disease spreading, over time, from the neocortex part of her brain all the way down to the reptilian one, which inevitably forces her to go back, way back in time from who she used to be. Her mind is receding, step by step, on its rocky journey, a journey to a different place, where she is no longer a middle aged woman, no longer a girl, or even a toddler, and who knows at this point if she is a baby, still.
 

Then, on a sudden impulse, my dad bends over her, so his cheek is suddenly right there, next to her face, only a breath away from her lips, and I know, I just know what he wants, what it is he is waiting for.
 

And this, this is the moment when the truth comes to me, clear and naked in its full ugliness, and I cannot deny it, cannot ignore the horrific meaning of what she who used to be my mother does next:

Sensing a presence next to her, she stirs back, as if by instinct, and for a split second smacks her lips. He may think this is a sign, perhaps of gratitude. I can see the sudden relief, the surprise in his smile. His eyes start closing, as if in anticipation of a kiss.
 

And then, then she opens her mouth, like some animal—a lizard comes to mind—hungry for its prey. She stays there, seemingly lazy, utterly motionless, jaws dropped, chin hanging, waiting for her feed. Waiting, waiting, waiting for more. Waiting without a word. Waiting with a need that can no longer find its satisfaction, the need of a body, an empty shell of a body whose mind has finally left it. Waiting, because mom will never be able to give.

At once I let go of the double doors so they swing, and come to a close. And I turn, and I run, run out of that place as fast as I can, so as not feel her eyes, looking at me without taking me in.
 

I am still running. I have to, because I find myself held still in that moment, when the truth has come to me, damn it. Who can be so brazen as to deny it, and who wants to take a second look.

As Told by Anita

H
e’s been so busy, punching away at the machine and crumpling page after page into the trash bin, that lately I can’t get a word through to him no more. Oh, he’s replacing this tape with another and like, listening to my voice all the time—but not to me.
 

Which makes me wish sometimes that I was some written piece, some character in his book, ‘cause I would be more real to him that way. I see myself as
her
, a thing of fiction springing to life, like, right out of them letters—which are so dense, so crammed on that sheet of paper, that there isn’t no space to breathe—and smoothing all them creases in me with a slight, crispy rustle, which for sure, would win his attention right away.
 

I bet he would let himself stretch the truth about me to create her, ‘cause like, the paper can take it. His story would draw the longest legs and the sexiest ass and the most perfect pair of boobs you could ever dream up. What’s more, she would become a mouth, like, for things that go on in his head, things so fucking raw and intense that they frighten him.
 

Them words he writes, they would all come out of her lips, stained with ink and scratched out here and there, to say the things that in real life Lenny wishes he could blurt out, yet holds himself back, as best he can, from doing so. But then, that Anita won’t be
me
.

By now I’ve learned my lesson, I learned it good: I won’t leave no more pieces of me laying around. When I’m done with the tape recorder I pop my tape out, and stash it away at once, like, behind Beethoven’s bust or under it or some other such place, and I cover it with papers and stuff.
 

This way Lenny don’t get it in his hands, to listen to my voice, to study the way I
enunciate
things, so he don’t have no excuse to ignore the
real
me. And what’s more, he can’t get hurt by what he don’t hear, by what wasn’t meant for his ears in the first place, so he don’t feel so jealous no more, and like, he don’t try to forget it, to blank out how hurt he is.