High Tide (3 page)

What's the reason for her restlessness and desire? It's simple to the point of cliché. She's once again overcome by this wave and doesn't know if the wave is crashing over her, or if she's the wave itself. Respectively, what's putting her through her paces: destiny or free will? The reason is ridiculously simple, the same reason why she doesn't like or read those so-called “books on relationships.” They're garbage and dangerous. As soon as the words “she” and “he” appear on the page she slams the book shut and throws it into the corner with a crash because it'll probably be the same old story about that maternal instinct that makes women get involved with jackasses. It could just be Ieva's own miserable experience making her rebel. Because love has once again come down on her, but not a relationship, God no, there's no sign yet of that swampland called “a relationship.” She's been overcome by a clean and pure love, and she'd like to reduce this fire to embers as soon as possible, so everything would once again be ruled by calm and the quiet crackle of coals deep in the ashes. This peaceful state is her favorite: cinders on the outside and a quiet movement in the depths, the hidden smoldering of the coals. She likes it, but it's not possible to burn anything out faster than it's meant to, life is fire, love is fire, days are sprouts of light on the stem of an evening primrose, light is fire, and time is fire and warmth. And then comes the high tide, then comes the ninth wave and, if you're the only one who can't hold her breath long enough to dive to the next low tide, then grab hold of him and soar over it all.

The reason is so cliché and simple that she's angry with herself and cries, but she doesn't want pity. No destiny but her own, no advice, no help. She wants her own experience. Why try to avoid it—so she won't make mistakes? She needs mistakes, needs them! Fear of mistakes has been stitched into the spacesuits of astronauts and launched off to Mars for years and years. The need to make her own great mistakes surfaced as she trudged through her detached years. She wants the forest and silence, and to see how it'll all end. And how they'll start, if they'll start at all. What she does know is that after the beginning comes the end, and after the end comes the beginning. But whether or not something will outlast her—that she doesn't know. The most valuable thing she owns is an old Chinese Book of Changes. It hasn't lied to her a single time. She only turns to this book in rare cases, when it's no longer possible for her to go on like she usually does. And she's not looking for keys to the past or future in this book, no. She's noticed that the most significant thing lacking in a person's life, and a frightening habit at that, is the ability to be aware of the present situation. She often asks the Book of Changes one question—where am I? And the book has never lied to her, it tells her the place like a well-drawn topographic map: Breakdown.

Observation.

Justice.

Or something else. Defeat turns into assault, structure into debris. And the characters, they're the same ones you see in your dreams. Now that she's in love again, she asks the book and the book answers: Swan. It's the truth. But unfortunately, she's not a swan when she's in love. She's a cat. And the swan never reaches shore. She laughs at herself—look! She's in love. But does she need it again, she's so tired and knows all the horrors of it from start to end, like she knows her multiplication tables, so why, and for what? Again with this sighing feeling of existence, this diploma of life. This stream that pulls her forward and makes the pit of her stomach flutter.

She catches cold so she has time to weigh her options. So she can sit motionless by her kitchen window for hours and watch the landlady, the pigeons, the veins in her hands, the creases at the corners of her mouth in her reflection in the window, her thoughts and feelings, all before she jumps to her feet, calls him, runs and throws her arms around him. Because… is there value in anything without love? Woman has always been and always will be the strength in what's weak and the great in what's small, but of her own volition—don't forget that.

Outside, coincidentally, is the harsh Baltic seaside climate. When she was little she believed it was the only world that existed. There, by the sea, three months of sun and nine months of darkness seemed as natural as being in her own skin. The change of the seasons, the velvety tips of budding flowers, drawing sap from birch, or the patter of green, wet leaves against the roof of the house in fall—she was so close to it all, though her head was no higher than the ferns and her fingertips could just reach Gran's knobby knees. Granddad Roberts sometimes brought his wrinkled face down to hers, coming into view like a piece of brown driftwood the wind had slowly unrolled from a skein of waves. He'd sing:

 

Over the fields sweeps

a low spring wind,

a violin cries sadly along.

The violinist plays,

he once was young,

the heart in his chest was once full of love…

 

And then he'd play the same melody on his silver harmonica.

Back then Ieva had asked:

“Granddad, does that mean your heart isn't full of love anymore?”

“Always,” he laughed, “my heart is always full of love.”

Roberts smoked by the stove and told Ieva that the glowing rolls of paper he always held between his fingers were also lit by the flame in his heart. Pipes are for those who like breathing in fire, he'd laugh. Then Gran would scold him, call Roberts a smokestack and to stop feeding the child nonsense. But there was no real reason to scold, Ieva had eyes enough to see that Granddad lit them by picking out an ember from the grate.

Ieva hadn't yet learned to read when Roberts told her all about the nature of clouds. How clouds, this everlasting gloom from fall to spring, were a second sea above the real sea. That up there where birds live, above people's heads, was another lead-grey surface, which the wind constantly swirled about and chased into waves. It was lit by the sun and the sky above it was just as clear and blue as in the summer. Now, many years later, she's been to the desert and has already felt that the door is open—she could escape from the swamp to the equator by myriad paths. She just doesn't want to. She wants to feel like a child again—to be in the depths of the clouds. To be at ease in the depths around her heart.

The screenplay she's just started is sitting on the table, but right now, as far as she's concerned, it could be on the surface of the moon.

And what is she looking for? Can she ask anything more of life than the privilege to trust a single living person, and him alone?

And what can she ask of everyone, of the one and only God, of outer space, the Universe, but the desire and basic hope to never betray or hurt another?

On a shelf she finds letters she wrote to her brother as a teenager. And sends her brother a text message—an entire forest of exclamation marks. He responds with a single question mark.

Turns out—we've lived, she answers.

There's proof, you can touch it. A little black notebook filled with words. If you have one free week, an unpaid vacation, or are part of a stay-at-home clinical trial during which you can afford to spend time in a dusty closet, digging through ink-stained, aging pieces of paper, or to look through photographs of the deceased that still retain some kind of discernable contours—you can touch it, this feeling.

Turns out—we've lived.

Mother

 

 

Mother
tries to remember where she's seen it before.

Faces peering at her from a glaring brightness.

Big eyes. Lips that are saying something, smiling, cooing, scolding. Faces that pull her from the comforting darkness and into the light.

 

An avenue.

For a moment she sees her father; he points out the leaves overhead. She is a child in her stroller, a child absorbing every single detail. She sees the leaves and becomes them, submerges herself in them and their silky movement.

 

The faces in this narrow room are like the leaves. They form a canopy high overhead, full of rustling movement and a teasing wind. The faces look at her as she lies there like a dried-up worm, wedged between the body pillow and the wall. A pair of hands throw open the curtains—a window fills with light.

“Good morning! Time to get up,” a light voice says.

The face leans in very close—it's a woman's face.

 

Mother opens an eye. The other is crusted over with pus. She looks at the faces and her toothless mouth whispers a few syllables in greeting. Mother is afraid of the daytime, afraid of the daily routine. She'll be rolled over, picked up, moved, washed—it hurts and it makes her uneasy. Mother wants to tell them she doesn't understand why she needs to get up anymore. She's tired, but they won't leave her alone.

“And the worst is she somehow gets in there with her left hand. She grabs and tears at the diaper and then smears shit all over the place. She's out of her mind. I've got to change the bedding twice a day—all of it.”

Mother closes the one eye and pretends this talk isn't about her. For several years now her good eye has been covered by a film, a rapidly swirling fog with tiny black spots.

“You have to figure something out. You can probably do something like tie a shirt over her chest,” says a second voice that's lower, infused with darkness.

Mother likes that voice better.

“She doesn't get in from the top, but from the bottom along her thigh. The entire bed is flooded by morning. She pees so, so much. And if there's shit I can't even come in here without gagging. You wouldn't believe the smell,” the first voice complains, white and clear as a ray of light.

You can't hide from that voice, so Mother just shuts her eye tighter.

“Maybe like something for a baby. A onesie that buttons up the sides.”

“Won't work. Since the last treatment she's completely lost it. Look at how small she is—but she's heavy, as heavy as a rock. She's dead weight, ten times heavier than me. I make her stand up so her legs won't totally atrophy. A few minutes a day. When I come home from work I have her sit up. You can't believe how hard it is. I've sprained my back—it hurts. No, no, no. No onesies, no pants. She can't even lift her legs. It would just mean extra clothes for me to wash. No, no, no. I had an idea yesterday—I'll secure the diaper with electrical tape. Or a wide strip of duct tape. What do you think?”

“You can't do that, Mom. Her skin'll get infected.”

“You think so? Well, then I don't know.”

Mother pretends she is dead. Pretends this stupid conversation isn't about her. People only talk like that about children who misbehave. She's not a bad child, never has been. No, no, no.

 

The light voice disappears and the door closes.

Something warm slips under her neck, she feels warmth. Mother feels a soft, youthful breath on her cheek and opens her good eye.

“Drink some coffee, Gran,” says the dark voice, “while you can. I'm visiting. So you can have your coffee before washing up.”

A white cup enters into view. It moves closer. The hand firmly grips the back of her neck and lifts her head. Mother's toothless mouth and pale, slug-like lips suction to the rim of the cup. Something white, warm, and sweet fills her mouth. It flows over her tongue, which has dried out overnight and rattles inside her head. The drink is heavenly. Mother wants more and watches the cup eagerly as it's moved away from her lips.

“See, it's good. More?”

Mother gives a sharp nod with her pointy chin—almost like she fears the cup will stay out of reach. But it comes back. This time the slug-like lips don't let go of the white cup. Mother gulps down two mouthfuls and sinks back into the pillow. She tries to smile and make out the face. But she can't. The effort clouds her vision even more.

Mother speaks:

“Sweetheart.”

“Yes, Gran? What do you want?”

Mother wants to tell her, but there are no words.

 

A yard divided up by the bright sun and a shadow cast by the roof. Gravel and tufts of grass. In this yard, she is a cat crouching close to the ground on the edge of the shadow.

The cat jumps into a flock of birds sunning themselves in the hot sand.

The birds scatter and the scene crumbles away.

She doesn't call up these scenes; they just come and go. There's the damp smell of moss, a cool spring wind on her face, the breaking of the last layer of ice underfoot and boots splashing into mud.

She sees a clearing and catches the scent of resin.

She sees railroad ties, up close—pitchy wood ties, iron tracks covered in red rust and tiny yellow flowers—so lifelike.

She sees a newborn child, slick with fluids, and they place it in her arms.

She can see everything except the chance to experience it all over again.

She thinks a lot about this.

 

But right now Mother doesn't want scenes; Mother wants what is right next to her. That warm, innocent, dark voice.

Mother speaks:

“Sweetheart.”

“What is it, Gran? More coffee?”

Mother slowly sticks out her chin.

“What then?”

Oh, if she only could say.

 

Mother wants heat.

 

The kind that can't be bought with money.

 

Mother wants someone to lie down next to her. Right next to her, pressing side to side.

Like her own mother used to sleep next to her.

Like her grandmother used to on winter nights.

Like her husband used to once she had overcome her cold, distant teenage years—once she had been grown up enough to sleep with a man. The return of the nights when their separate warmths would join to become one.

Like when her own children used to climb into bed next to her.

And wasn't this one here—the one with the dark voice—wasn't she her granddaughter?

 

A country home in the July swelter. The window is open and not a single blade of grass moves in the stifling heat. She is exhausted from this heat and reclines on the large sofa in the kitchen. They call it the “lyre”; it's covered with a faded, striped cotton blanket that smells faintly of dust. She calls to her granddaughter:

“Sweetheart! Come lie down!”

Like a tiny flame, her granddaughter nestles against her broad back; the flame turns this way and that until it is overcome by sleep. Flies buzz around the brown wood of the curtain rod. Life is so incredibly vast.

 

Mother wants to say to her granddaughter—sweetheart, come lie down!

Mother wants to say—to hell with bathing, to hell with all the pissing and shitting, the eating—what does it all mean? Coldness, coldness is seeping into her from all sides. Lie down next to me, sweetheart, so I can feel your warmth. Take my frozen body into your arms. Let's look out that far, faraway window for an hour. Two.

Live a moment of my life and you'll feel like a year has passed.

Let's look at our hands against the light, you can read so much in them.

Sweetheart, do you have a little time for me?

Just one night—in the heat of your embrace.

Sweetheart—Mother tries to say it, but only a sigh comes out. So many words in one sentence just to convey one thought. Mother just can't string them together anymore.

Please don't deny me warmth, she wants to say. It's the worst thing one person can deny another.

 

Sweetheart, Mother wants to say, your face is a beautiful canopy of leaves. Full, soft, alive. That's a good thing, Mother wants to say. It's important for a woman to be attractive.

“Gran,” her granddaughter speaks suddenly, close, close by. “Gran, do you remember back when you said that a person is beautiful only once they understand themselves? Gran, right now you're very beautiful. Yes you are, don't shake your head, you are! You are.”

 

The light voice returns above them:

“I went to the Red Cross earlier and got one of those cheap toilet chairs. See, that white thing. They rent them out, but I paid for only a month, since it's not worth paying for a half a year. The man said so—if they're dying, it's not worth it. They're dying.”

As these words are spoken a wet towel is scrubbed back and forth over Mother's face. Mother pulls away, squeezes her eyes shut—both the good one and the one that's crusted over—but it's impossible to escape the towel. It's wet and rough.

“Mom, don't say that around her.”

“Her hearing is bad. And what does it matter anyway? That's life. The day we brought her home from the hospital, another patient in her ward died. She was this tiny old woman, swore at everyone, complained, was never satisfied. That day they'd supposedly pumped a ton of fluids into her—you know, eight of those huge bags. Well, and she died anyway. She didn't suffer long, maybe ten minutes. Her daughter had just arrived and was standing by the bed. The doctors rushed in and wanted to resuscitate her, they even brought the gurney, but there wasn't anything to resuscitate anymore. They opened the window—for the soul to leave—and then cleared her away, bed and all. And that was it. That morning I'd even told the women working the ward—look how she's holding her hands, crossed over her chest, she's going to go soon! And she did.”

Two strong hands wedge under Mother's shoulder blades and sit her up.

“Oh,” Mother cries, “it hurts!”

“Nothing hurts, you lump. I rented the toilet chair for nothing. She doesn't understand anything anymore. I sat her on that chair and kept her there for an hour. Nothing. No pissing, no shitting. She doesn't get it. Just sits and dozes. For nothing! She's lazy, just takes care of everything in the diaper. And at night she scratches at the walls, fidgets. One night around three I heard this loud thump. I wondered what it could be, so I come look and find she's fallen out of bed. Flat on her face. Once I'd finally gotten her back up I couldn't fall asleep until morning. I went to work completely out of it. Now I put the toilet chair against the bed so she won't fall out. At least it's good for something. It's heavy, see, made of metal. It's like having iron bars.”

Toothless Mother smiles from behind the bars. She smiles at nothing in particular, something melted, sweet, and white beyond that faraway window. But the here and now just won't let her be. Her palms press down onto the bars and force her to push herself up. Her body is crumpled, it doesn't want to move. Her muscles are knotted at the thighs, her legs don't want to stand. It's hard for her, she doesn't understand why she has to stand if her body doesn't want to. But she's propped up with her hands on the bars and is stretched like a piece of leather across a frame as the bottom of her nightdress is rolled up in the morning light. They wash her back. She puts up with it. There's a throbbing and pulsing in her temples. She feels her blood slosh through her bony body and pool at her feet, she is a glass of corked wine balanced precariously high over the emptiness and the white of daylight.

“Good thing Pāvils gave me these yellow rubber gloves. They're really good, see? Before my hands would smell so badly I couldn't go to work—piss and shit get under your nails and the smell sticks to your skin no matter how hard you scrub your hands. It's more hygienic with the gloves. They work! I put a hat on before coming in here, too. Your hair soaks up smells in a second. I can't talk to anyone at work about any of it. I never dreamed it would be like this. She's been strong as a horse her whole life—she worked as hard as a horse and was as proud as a horse. Wouldn't let anyone or anything get to her. And look at her now! How long will it be like this? Could be years. The doctors said her heart was like a horse's. Strong. Her mind's gone, she doesn't think or feel anything, but she's still got an appetite.”

Mother hears these doubts about her mental capacity and smirks, then smacks her gums, which are again as dried out as the desert. But right away she winces as a rough towel digs into the skin behind her knees.

“Mom, what you're doing is admirable—you're great. You amaze me. You'll feel good about it afterwards, right?”

“Will I feel good about it? I don't even know how to respond to your little cheer.”

“Cheer? Mom!”

“I don't know. I don't know about anything anymore. I try not to think at all.”

They put a new diaper on Mother and sit her back onto the bed with a pile of pillows behind her back. A napkin is tucked in under her chin. A spoon of something red is brought to her mouth. She opens it like a mechanical beak and swallows.

“Have some fruit, Mother!”

“You should cut it up—she doesn't have any teeth.”

Mother nods and swallows the piece of fruit whole.

“She can mash it up with her gums.”

“Maybe it would be better to put her in a home. You yell at her. And one time when I called you were in tears. Sometimes you drink and cry.”

“I don't just yell at her, m'dear, I hit her too—with a towel. She's totally shameless. And yes, I yell. She shits all over the bed and pisses all the time. But she still has an appetite. I stand next to her and watch my life fall apart—or what's left of it. An hour with her sometimes feels like a year. I'll drink her medicine, it happens a lot. It's human nature! Don't shake your head, that's life. You don't believe me and that's fine, because you don't know anything about life yet. Think what you want, but I'm not putting her in a home. She's my mother.”