Just Like a Musical (5 page)

“We are so messed up!” I said. “I’ll bet we are the two most messed up people in this town.”

“Luckily, it’s a small town,” he said, taking my hand.

When we got off that rooftop, everything looked different. The pavement was softer, the air was mellower, and I was feeling a lot calmer.

I love the tranquility of small-town nights; they are like oases tucked into the safety of permanence. Joshua was reading my mind.

“Isn’t this town just perfect at night with its sleepy windows and motionless alleys?” he said. “But you’re going to leave soon, right? Every girl dreams about leaving a small town.”

His voice wasn’t judgmental, but rather distant and dreamy.

“I’m not every girl, and I’m not actually dreaming about leaving just because this town is small,” I said. “But yes – I’m supposed to go to college next fall. I’m going to study in Los Angeles.”

Hearing myself say that injected a splash of doubt into my blood. All of a sudden, LA didn’t seem so appealing.

“How come you’re not at college?” I asked.

“I think it just isn’t my thing. I have always had difficulties holding attention, and I despise formal education. But I’m not sure which one came first,” he said and pulled his ear.

A shooting star lit up the sky.

“Don’t make a wish!” he shouted. “It’s a fraud! Shooting stars take away good kids’ wishes to other galaxies so they can never come true. They’re pure evil, I tell you!” He turned to me, grinning.

I will never forget that moment. The train was passing behind his back and his light brown hair was blowing in the wind. I thought to myself that he was nothing like those other boys I knew. Not that I knew many of them. But he was nothing like I would expect any boy to be.

He walked me home and kissed me on the forehead. That little piece of my pale skin touched by his lips burned all night long.

Mrs. Wheeler recovered soon after her daughter’s birthday, and only an almost translucent shade of melancholy on her face indicated the suffering she’d been through. We were spending lovely hours in her backyard again among tulips and white daffodils. Even my mother joined us once, and when we got home, she had to acknowledge Mrs. Wheeler’s charm and subtle sense of humor. Sometimes my mother’s past personality, the one that she used to wear long before I was born and that Grandma Julie always talks about, glows below her tired and worried eyes. I loved these moments of brightness and calm, and they were so frequent these days.  But I didn’t tell her about Mrs. Wheeler’s daughter, of course. I didn’t even speak to Mrs. Wheeler about it again. The door behind the secret was left ajar, but none of us was willing to peek inside any time soon.

I saw Joshua twice after Tanya’s party. The first time was when I somehow managed to pluck up my courage and went to the upholstery shop where he worked, just to say hi. I thought that I was going to faint when his boss went to the back room to call him. He showed up in a working uniform, which made me feel proud of him in some weird way; my brain works strangely when I’m nervous. It was half an hour till the end of his shift, so I waited for him in the park, feverishly rethinking all the charming things that I would tell him. I said zero of them, naturally. We spent that afternoon in the pine forest behind my house, talking about music, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and digital photography. When we both pledged allegiance to the analogue world and he said that he had never met anyone like me before, we almost kissed, but I stumbled upon a fallen branch and ruined the moment.

The second time I saw him was three days after that, or two days before my absurd confinement. We ran into each other at the library. I didn’t have much time because my mother was waiting for me in the car as we were on our way to Aunt Anna, who lives on a ranch outside of town. Those few minutes, however, were enough to keep me briskly cheerful for the rest of the day, not only because every moment in Joshua’s company was like enjoying the creamy taste of Three Musketeers multiplied by a thousand, but also because we had finally exchanged our phone numbers. Finally! And he called me a couple of hours later to tell me that
Cabaret
, one of my favorite movies, was on TV that night.

Life was pretty good until the second week of April awarded me with a sore throat. My mother freaked out and automagically transferred herself from relaxed compliance to military rigidity. To make things even worse, she heard (or made up) a story about the flu spreading around, and no one was allowed to enter our house without a medical mask. Even Mrs. Wheeler had to wear it. I was so embarrassed! I wasn’t even running a fever, and she was checking my temperature five times a day, forcing me to drink some stinky
magic potions that which supposed to strengthen my immune system. She even called in sick to make sure that I wouldn’t sneak out.

Fortunately, James came to visit me on the third day of my imprisonment. I hadn’t realized how much I missed him until I saw his friendly face. James had been my tutor since my mother signed me out of school, but since I turned sixteen he started coming only once a week or even less frequently; he claimed that I was perfectly capable of learning by myself, with him as an occasional guide only. That was an unwelcome change for me, since he was more than a teacher to me, but I had to play mature and accept it. Most of the time, James was the only person I could share my thoughts with. And he was always so optimistic and witty. We used to play this word-of-the-week game in which we would come up with one word and construct silly sentences around it during that week, like, “After eating a piece of a poisonous pie, the dragonfly joined his ancestors.”

“Hey, what’s your word for this week?” James said when he entered my double-sterilized room.

“Numbness,” I replied, wrapping my arms around his neck.

He kissed my cheek through the medicine mask.

“You have such rough lips,” I said.

“And you look healthy as hell.”

“Oh, I feel just fine, but you know Mom,” I answered. “I almost feel sorry for not having a fever when I see how perfectly she plays the role of a nurse.”

“Don’t be hard on her, Ruby,” he said. “She worries, that’s all.”

“But medical masks, James? Oh, come on, give me a break!”

“It will all change in a couple of months anyway,” he said. “Be patient for just a little longer.”

“Do you know that I’ve been reading a lot of psychoanalysis lately?” I said.  “Mom’s behavior is a textbook example of some rather quirky stuff.”

“You’re too young to read psychoanalysis, brat,” said James teasingly, slightly pushing my shoulder. His eyes were sunny and vigilant. James has never treated me like a sick kid, despite my mother’s frequent remarks about my sickness. He hasn’t even treated me as a kid, for that matter. I’m so thankful to my mother for choosing James to be my tutor. Knowing her, she might have chosen some rigid, melancholic spinster instead – a charming forty-two-year-old miss in an A-line skirt and a modest blouse – and I would be lost. I would turn into the kind of girl who complains about being bored, or some creature of an even worse breed. James must have had a bad day when he had come to talk with my mother about giving him the responsible job of being my tutor. Poor thing – when I think about it more, I am sure that he must have had diarrhea or a bad hangover, otherwise my mother would certainly have seen through his laid-back attitude and unconventional teaching methods. Okay, I admit – I had a minor crush on James when I was fourteen; it was after I had read
Pride and Prejudice.
A fourteen-year-old girl has to slightly fall in love after reading her first Jane Austen novel, doesn’t she? I could easily foresee our happily-ever-after for more than a week, but it somehow diminished and finally disappeared. The truth is that James doesn’t have anything in common with Mr. Darcy. I couldn’t lie to myself.

“Hey, I have something important to tell you,” James said, interrupting my thoughts. “Molly and I are expecting a baby.”

Now that was good news; they had been hoping for a baby for so long. They even planned a little outdoor celebration with paper garlands and lanterns, and James invited me to help them decorate the yard.

Right after James left, my cell phone rang. It was Joshua, who asked me if I was feeling better, and I was too embarrassed to admit that my mother was keeping me locked up for no reason; my sore throat was cured two days before, but she didn’t want to hear about me taking even a short walk. So I told Joshua that I still felt a little tired and that I hoped to be able to get outside in a day or two.

“If you don’t come out until Friday,” he laughed, “I’ll have to stop by and tell your mother that she’s a moron. Surely you don’t want that.”

He also told me that he had the most brilliant movie idea, but he needed my assistance since it involved an old Hollywood actress.

When I hung up, I was somewhere between heaven and despair. It was so good to hear his voice, despite that monstrous throat clearing that almost made my ears fall off. But that sweet voice also made me lust for freedom even stronger. I looked around my room and suddenly hated every single inch of it. All those dear little things that I used to love and cherish seemed hostile and obnoxious.  My little room with lilac walls and old movie posters was nothing but a dull prison.

That was another of my many sleepless nights. My feet were restless, my skin was itching, my mind was overloaded. I did my best to fall asleep so I could look fresh when I got up and possibly cadge a morning
in the open, but the sleep was light years away. I eventually crawled out of my false sickbed and tiptoed to the window. It squeaked as I cracked it open. Luckily, my mother sleeps like a log; that must be some kind of repayment for all her tense moments during the day, especially with me lying so terribly sick. The air was rejuvenating. I looked at Mrs. Wheeler’s house. The lights were off. Then I took a deep breath and pictured Joshua sleeping in his bed with his heel peeking out from under the blanket. Another breath gave me a picture of James’ future child with James’ eyes and thick black hair. It seemed to me that life was a giant ice skating rink, and I was the only one who didn’t have skates. Most people fear death. I don’t. I’m only afraid of not living. I don’t want to be the one behind the ice rink fence, watching other people having fun.

I finally broke my mother’s barricade on Wednesday morning. She decided that I was well enough, so she could go back to work, and she even told me that I could spend an hour outside as long as I dressed properly and didn’t walk too fast. I told her that I would go for a walk later in the afternoon, waited exactly seven minutes after I heard her Ford engine moan, and then rushed outside. Even though I didn’t walk slowly, I was dressed properly – in black pants, my darling gray tunic with printed Charlie Chaplin silhouette, and a yellow blazer with padded shoulders. It was great to walk again and feel the April breeze in my hair. When I arrived at the White Oak Park, I sat on the same bench where I was sitting when I met Joshua. The image of him giggling on the bench across from mine made me think of butterflies and ice cream and thunderstorms. I dipped my hand into my bag, searching for my phone.

“Hey, do I hear traffic? Are you somewhere outside?” he said.

He came within ten minutes.

“You saved my day!” he said, sitting next to me. “I tried to write, but I couldn’t come up with anything that resembled good. I was already beginning to feel hopeless when you called.”

He told me about the screenplay for a short movie that he was working on.  It was a story about a silent movie actress who died a violent death that was declared a suicide. Her ghost haunts her daughter and guides her toward the murderer. I liked the story, and I was particularly thrilled because some parts of it were inspired by my stories about Mrs. Wheeler, so I gave him some shy suggestions.

We went to the lake. The air smelled like melted chocolate. I thought to myself, “It has to happen now… my first kiss.”

“Would you like a sandwich?” he asked, sitting under the willow tree.

“You brought sandwiches?”

“Just one, actually.
I wanted to make two, but I rushed to see you.”

We shared a sandwich. We shared our thoughts. But we didn’t share a kiss. Anyway, it was great. It was magnificent. And just like in a well-known fairy tale, the magic was broken by the clock. I had to go home and meet my mother who had probably come home from work already.

When my happy feet stepped on the Sunny Lane Street sidewalk, they got stuck to the ground by the image of an ambulance car parked just between Mrs. Wheeler’s house and mine.

“Don’t worry, honey,” my neighbor Joanna said, “It’s not your mommy.”

Hospital smell reminds me of childhood and hard candies. I can still feel the texture of their nylon wrappers on my fingertips when I pass by the hospital. Nurse Amy, the one with round brown eyes and soft palms, used to give me strawberry hard candies every time I went for medical examinations, which was more often than necessary, thanks to my mother.

Mrs. Wheeler was the only patient in a spacious, light room with powder blue walls. I took a deep breath and stepped toward her. She looked weak and fragile under the pure white bed cover.

A nurse removed the oxygen mask from her face and softly whispered, “Eleanor, you have a visitor.”

Mrs. Wheeler’s wrinkled eyelids trembled for a couple of seconds before she slowly raised them as if they were struggling under some kind of unwieldy burden. Her eyes lingered on my face, examining my features with tired interest. It crossed my mind that she didn’t recognize me, but I quickly pushed the notion away.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” said the nurse and gently touched my cheek. Her palms were not as soft as Nurse Amy’s palms, but I was grateful for this act of kindness.

“Hi, Mrs. Wheeler,” I said, fighting tears.

She smiled with bloodless lips.

“You came, dear,” she said, barely opening her mouth.

“Of course I came,” I said.

“I knew you would,” she exhaled, closing her eyes again.

I took her by the hand. Her skin was dry and paper-like.

There are situations when all words seem to be trivial, but the silence threatens to suck you up like a vicious vacuum cleaner, and you just have to say something. Anything.

“I saw
Bande à part
the other day,” I said. “I liked it, just like you thought I would. And Anna Karina… she’s so sweet.”

Mrs. Wheeler didn’t seem present. The thin, crumpled shell of her body was there, but it appeared empty.

“And I bought some new tea yesterday. We’ll try it when you get home.”

She sighed deeply. A wince crossed her tight lips. I kissed her cold hand, and started walking toward the door when a doctor came in.

“May I speak to you, miss?” she asked.

I followed her into the hall. She was a dark-haired woman with thin lips, big amber eyes, and a smooth, calming voice.

“Are you Mrs. Wheeler’s relative?” she asked, pointing her finger toward four lonely aluminum chairs at the end of the hallway.

“I am.”

“Let’s talk,” she said, looking sternly into my eyes.

I followed her without a word. Somehow I already knew what she was going to tell me.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mrs. Wheeler has suffered a massive heart attack,” she said, sitting down.

The alumin
um felt cold against my skin.

“We are doing our best,” she continued, “but this can be very dangerous at her age. The prognosis is far from good. You must be prepared for the worst.”

I felt the lump growing in my throat.

“She won’t be feeling any pain, I promise.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, looking down at the floor tiles.

“I assume you’re her granddaughter?”

“No,” I answered, defeated by her words. I stared at the white wall before me. “I’m her friend.”

“Oh, but I thought you said…”

“She really means a lot to me,” I said, feeling the tears welling in my eyes.

***

I came out of the hospital trying to find an argument that would somehow justify this unexpected outcome. I kept telling myself that she was old, that she had lived an eventful life, that she wouldn’t be suffering. But there was something wrong, something terribly wrong about this situation. I felt trapped, outplayed, and ridiculed. I finally met a true friend, and now she was lying in a hospital bed, helpless and reduced to a cold shell. Death really has no shame.

When I came home, I told my mother that Mrs. Wheeler had a cousin in Oklahoma. It was my second lie for that day.

“I think we should find her and inform her about Mrs. Wheeler’s condition,” I said.

“But how are we supposed to find her?” she asked. “Do you even know her name?”

“Her name is Sarah,” I said, remembering once again the breeze of the night when Mrs. Wheeler told me about her long lost daughter. “I’m sure her phone number or address is in Mrs. Wheeler’s phone book. Joanna gave me her keys, so I can go there and check it out.”

“Oh, but wouldn’t that be inappropriate,” my mother said, “to snoop around her house like that while she’s not there?”

My mother was talking about appropriateness. I unconsciously laughed.

“But I’m sure it would be,” she said in her distinctive high-pitched voice. It’s her alert voice – red and sharp.
“We can’t be that rude.”

I know my mother much better than she knows me. Despite her clumsy and not-at-all-convincing arguments, I knew that she was trying to spare me the suffering. I was certain that she would do anything to repress the image of Mrs. Wheeler to some dark, far-away piece of my brain, so I would be less affected by her death.

“No, I won’t approve that kind of behavior,” she said. “Now, how about some french fries and a movie marathon?”

I couldn’t believe my ears.
Oh, Mother, french fries cannot heal a broken heart!

“I think I’ll have dinner later,” I said.

***

It was 7 p.m. when I decided to call Joshua. I told my mother that I was going to take a look at Tanya’s prom dress, just to avoid silly questions.

He was waiting for me on the street corner, across the hospital. The sky was fiery red, just like in
Gone with the Wind.
But I wasn’t Scarlett O’Hara. I wasn’t determined. I wasn’t strong.

“Look, that’s Mrs. Wheeler’s window. And she’s dying… she’s dying.” I burst out crying, feeling rather sheepish about my blubber. “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping away the tears.

“Your hands are shaking,” Joshua said.

I looked at him wordlessly. Grabbing my hand, he took me to the coffee shop. He said I needed sugar and ordered two big hot chocolates with marshmallows. He never looked and sounded so grown up before. The place was half empty and the sound of rockabilly
music was wafting from the speakers. I told Joshua everything about Mrs. Wheeler, including her daughter.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked.

“Of course I’m not,” I said. “Maybe it would be trampling on her wish since she never wanted to interfere in her daughter’s life, but still… that woman’s birth mother is lying there, dying… I could at least call her. Or not. Oh, I don’t know, Joshua, I don’t know!” I leaned my elbows on the table, pressing my palms over my ears and closing my eyes. My mother told me that I used to do that when I was little. It was my way of shutting the world down. After a couple of colorless, noiseless seconds, I let go of my ears and looked at Joshua.

“Okay, let’s go to her house,” I said, still a bit reluctant.

***

“It feels strange being here… considering that I’ve never met her,” said Joshua.

Mrs. Wheeler’s front door creaked behind us.

“I’m the one who feels even stranger, believe me,” I said, turning on the lights. “And I’m still not sure whether we should do this.”

I tripped over Mrs. Wheeler’s yellow sandals.

“Old people’s homes always smell a little bit… I don’t know how to describe it exactly. Bleak, I guess.” Joshua said.

“Smell?” I frowned. “Don’t tell me you’re an ageist!”

“A what?” he asked, dropping the magazine he was holding and winking irresistibly.

“You know, someone who hates old people.”

“Of course not.
Hey, don't get grumpy! Let's get to work. Where should we start?”

I guided him to the living room.

“I hope my mom won’t go to my room or the upstairs bathroom and see the lights in here,” I said.

“Your mother seems to be very strict.”

I don’t like to be reminded about my mother’s upbringing methods. It makes me feel weak. Besides, everyone would like to have cool parents, right? I believe that once upon a time, in another life, my mom was cool, too. She named me after the Rolling Stones song years before I was born. What’s cooler than that? That was before all the mess with the mysterious man, though. She’s much different now. I wish I had known her when she was my age. Maybe we would have been best friends, who knows.

“I guess you’re right,” I said, pushing the thought away. “Let’s start our search now.”

I took a little faded phonebook from Mrs. Wheeler’s coffee table and turned the pages until I found the letter “S”. She had three Sarahs – Sarah Meyer, Sarah Campbell, and Sarah Dobrowsky. No addresses, only phone numbers.

“How could I possibly know which one is her daughter? Or is she even one of these?” My enthusiasm suddenly subdued.

“Did she even say that she had her phone number?” Joshua asked.

“No. But even if she had it, I doubt she would keep it in her phone book,” I said. “No, she didn’t mention a phone
number; she only said she had her address, or at least the address of the family that adopted her. But that was more than a half century ago.’

I collapsed on the floor. Mrs. Wheeler’s home did have an unusual smell – Joshua was right. I wondered whether it was the smell of incoming death or just a heavy dreg of memories. I looked at her
belongings. For the first time, they didn’t disclose anything of Mrs. Wheeler’s alluring personality and her exciting life. Her distressed Victorian desk was just an old, battered piece of furniture. Her gilded lamp shade appeared kitschy. Even the paintings on her walls looked boring. And her pink feather slippers! Oh, her pink feather slippers made me want to run headlong! They still held the shape of her knotty feet! I couldn’t wait to get out of that house. But we still had to find Sarah’s address.

I wrote down the three phone numbers, and then we searched among the books hoping to find some clue.
We looked through every one of them and found nothing but two beaded bookmarks and a recipe for key lime pie. I turned her drawers topsy-turvy, feeling like a thief. Nothing. Her lonely hairbrush made me wistful. She was away from her home for less than a day, but everything looked sadly frozen in the distant past. I even checked the bathroom, frowning at my silliness. Who keeps an address of a long lost daughter in a bathroom? It wasn’t there, of course.

“I guess that’s it,” I said after we’d ransacked the whole house. It was 10 p.m. and I felt dismayed.

Joshua suggested that we call those phone numbers the next day from his house while his father was at work.

“My mother is a ghost, anyway,” he said. “Even if she sees us, she won’t bother to pay attention to us.”

***

When I got home, my mother was sitting at the kitchen table. Taking a bite of cheese pie, she asked me something about Tanya’s boyfriend. She saw them in the shopping mall a couple of day ago. Although he seemed nice and polite, she couldn’t help thinking that Tanya was just too young to have a boyfriend. According to my mother, a girl should have her first relationship about five minutes before menopause.

“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t say that a girl your age shouldn’t go out and meet boys,” she said, “but a steady relationship – that seems a little too much.”

I tried to ignore her bizarre words
. A vivid picture of Joshua’s face popped up before my eyes. What was he to me? Certainly not a boyfriend, although I was hoping that he had felt at least a microscopic part of the fever and captivation that I was feeling when I was near him. Was he a friend to me? Sure he was, but was our relationship dead-ended at friendship? Or is that where it started?

With thoughts like these, I went to bed. I was lying covered with my marigold blanket when a blurry picture started to become clearer under my closed eyelids. It was something flowery, old, and precious. “Of
course!” I said to myself, “The trinket box!” The “S” on Mrs. Wheeler’s trinket box wasn’t for secrets – it was for Sarah, I realized. Or secrets relating to Sarah at least. I have inherited so little of my mother’s social perspicacity; otherwise I would have been better prepared before I went to Mrs. Wheeler’s home to dig around her things so shamelessly.

***

My hands were shaking as I inserted the key into Mrs. Wheeler’s door the next morning. Unlike the day before, I was sure I had the clue that would lead me to her daughter. The certainty strengthened my formerly loose decision to call Sarah. I tried to see the whole situation from Sarah’s point of view. Although it was difficult to be her even for a couple of moments, I knew that I wouldn’t want to be absent from my biological mother’s last days on Earth. So that was it – I was determined to find her phone number and call her.

Finding the trinket box was an easy task. It was hidden under Mrs. Wheeler’s bed, a place I hadn’t even thought of the night before. Who was she hiding it from, I wondered. Maybe herself. Finding the key to the padlock, however, was a bit harder, but I finally found it in the inside pocket of her white cashmere coat. I unlocked the trinket box feverishly. What I found there was heartbreaking: a soft lock of golden brown hair, a yellowish love letter signed by Thomas Slade, and a folded piece of paper with an Oklahoma address. I carefully put the precious piece of paper into the safety of my pocket, knowing that I was holding the whole history of one tragic romance in my hands.