He worked the knob and the hum and clicks of Chava Norma tuned in strong. These sounds began three thousand light-years away, traveled to space spreading out and losing energy, but a tiny bit arrived at the space station, was gain-boosted there and rebroadcast over the earth.
He watched Ruth crawl back in bed on all fours, roll over, and put her hand on her belly. She held her breath.
He clicked the radio off.
“You’re hearing it now?” he whispered, using his eyes to indicate her belly.
She put the other hand on her stomach. “You can’t hear that? It’s as clear as day to me. Music.”
“Is it a song?”
“It’s just. . like music-box music,” she said.
He waited for her to tell him to come over and listen to her stomach. She waited for him to say he wanted to listen. Neither happened.
CHAPTER 25
I don’t remember the first words I spoke. Recovery happened too slowly. What was a loud breath, or what was a syllable? One week I was flexing fingers; the next week there was movement at my wrist, the tingling, like an occupying army, decided to pick up and retreat, and the elation of the vivid dream that night had long faded though the memory was there, and I did not anticipate the coming of December 12 because it wasn’t in my mind.
After six weeks and two days Elizabeth pulled the December 11 off the wall calendar in my hospital room, and suddenly there was December 12 staring me in the face, and I remember Randolph telling, and the memory flooded in. I had the sensation of falling, heart palpitating and my breath short. There was nothing to grab but the bed’s railing. Time imploded, and I had the sensation that one second ago Randolph had told me this date when I was standing in the doorway waiting for Elizabeth to get me a glass of water, and in a blink of the eye here I was seeing Elizabeth crumbling up the eleventh and dropping it into a wastebasket, but I had all memories of what had happened here at the hospital. It was like waking from anesthesia, thinking not enough time had gone by for everything to have occurred, but yet all the memories were there, including Ursula reading, the experience of the vivid dream, the elation of having believed.
Elizabeth kept talking as she walked around the room, but I wasn’t listening. I was dizzy with fear, hand to my chest. The sensation was terrifying. I knew then that I didn’t ever want this to happen again, my life leaping forward. I opened and closed my hand; I moved my fingers, watching the tendons in my wrist flex.
I heard about the disaster on the space station when we were on the old plum-colored shuttle going back to the hotel. Of course I didn’t know this had anything to do with my life.
When I finally went back to the Grand Aerodrome, when I finally pushed the door open to my room, I hobbled to my dresser and found everything exactly as I’d left it six weeks ago: my watch, my wallet, my money clip, the hardcopy of The Universe Is a Pair of Pants, and Barbie, and my phone. It was like I’d left it yesterday.
I plugged in my phone and waited for it to get enough charge to power on.
Elizabeth stood in the door watching me. I angled the phone so I could see her reflection in its black screen.
“Sandeep, there are things that I don’t understand, and you can explain them to me.”
I turned to her. “Did something happen?”
“I have my violin,” she said. “How did that happen? And then you got sick.”
I waited for the phone, adjusted Barbie’s arms so that they were down beside her and not reaching out as if she wanted me. I sat her on her bottom and loved that smile of hers that was like a smile that was beginning to blossom, as if she were about to face some life-altering happiness.
“I know,” I said. “I don’t understand it all either. Charles will know. He’ll tell us when he gets here.”
“What does he have to do with this?” she said. “We don’t know for sure he’s coming.”
I watched my phone finally come alive. “Can you play now?” I said to Elizabeth. “Please.” She looked to see if I were serious and turned to her room. There, I heard the latches on the case open.
My screen turned a light gray, and the home screen came up. I scrolled to my text conversations and found nothing there from Randolph. It was as if it had never happened. I had no proof that he existed other than that the violin was in our possession. Then a text dinged in:
Hello Sandeep. Welcome back.
Elizabeth began Sarasate again just as she’d played the night I’d gotten sick, the night she first got the violin back. I texted:
Was that you in the MRI?
:)
Did you do all this to me?
Please don’t be one of those people who blame me for everything. The universe is chaotic.
Are we ready for Raye?
Will I have to go through this all my life?
If we realize the future, we will only jump to that point. It’s better not to skip the journey.
But I didn’t skip it. I have all the memories.
But doesn’t it feel like I just gave you the answer?
Don’t do that again.
Do you want me to believe you’re God?
LOL!
Elizabeth was at the point that the bow was drawn slowly. I knew if I went to show her this conversation, it would disappear.
Why can’t I show this conversation to anyone?
We must handle this in a delicate way.
Do you want me to believe you’re an alien?
:)
Are you?
:)
Why can’t you find him yourself?
It is best that you introduce me to him
He has called your mother. If he calls again tell him it is important that he look after the dog
Dog again? What dog?
You think you’re God?
;}
You are not God
I am not God.
When Elizabeth’s music changed to the next movement — sad and slow — I typed and sent:
You are God
The answer came quickly:
I am God
You did this to me
I did not do this to you
Can you stop it from happening again?
No.
I thought of ways to trick him, try to run to Elizabeth and show her the text, try to copy the text.
I used my cane to go to the bathroom and I ran water in the glass, drank it, refilled, indulged myself by spitting it in the basin and drinking more and more, no longer thirsty now that I could drink all the water I wanted. I splashed it on my face. There was me in the mirror, wearing a tracksuit a size too big for my body, my hair over my ears. I got the old tinfoil sheet of pills out of my shaving kit and punched out two of Dr. Ahuja’s antidepressants and looked at the medicine’s box where a dancing figure spun as if in a fit of euphoria, and I thought about Elvis movies, musicals, and happiness. I was ready for the musical based on my life to begin.
CHAPTER 26
In the middle of the night, Van Raye and Ruth left Palo Alto. He felt good behind the wheel of his old Jaguar, headed out on the nearly deserted causeway to the interstate.
“He smells awful,” Ruth said.
Van Raye glanced at the light crossing over her closed eyes. The dog was in the backseat making snotty noseprints on the window, the smears twinkling brighter.
On the dashboard, the alien statue stared back at him. “Do we really need this?” he said.
“Yes,” Ruth said. She’d drug it out of his suitcase the other day. “Because,” she said, “I can tell you hate it. Whoever gave you this, you fucked her.” He saw her rubbing her own belly. “Let’s call it therapy,” she said.