“Shall I fix your car now?” he asked.
“Yes. I should get out of here. It’s not safe.”
He stood up and came toward me. He held my hand as he went through the hole. I followed, the harsh sunlight blinding me. I took a deep breath. The cleaner air was disorienting. I could smell cordite and smoke. I tried to breathe again, but felt myself blacking out. I looked at the boy before I lost consciousness.
I wake up to the barely audible voice of Bernard Shaw reciting the news on CNN. I had slept slouched at my desk. My neck is sore. I stretch it backward, then bend it down and rotate my head sideways to release the crick.
Fish swim languidly across my laptop’s screen. A red fish eats a blue fish and swims away. Blue fish swallows the red fish. Fish come and go without any discernible purpose. Rain slaps my bay windows, water streaking along thin paths on the glass. I look outside, a dreary, stormy day in San Francisco. Without moving from my desk, I click the remote and mute the television blather. I run my hand along the edge of my mahogany desk.
I consider taking a plate with a piece of half-eaten buttered toast back to the kitchen.
Lightning flashes outside, momentarily brightening my study. I look around at the walls. I am no longer sure I can live with the butter yellow color. Maybe I can paint the trim something other than white. One of my paintings hangs on the wall, a strong one, one of my chosen. Cadmium red bars on titanium white background. The second lowest bar on the right is not a perfect rectangle, which tilts the whole painting. Few people realize that. The eye always fills in the imperfections. Eleven perfect rectangles; the twelfth must be as well. Maybe that is why I feel irritable. I should hang the painting in another room, or repaint the rectangle, or repaint the walls a peach and not butter yellow. I should paint peaceful paintings.
The pigeons sheltered above my window, under my roof, flap their wings in unison. I hear movements, an apparent jockeying for positions. Then softer, and the cooing recommences. This is their home now, I think. Shoo, Fly, Don’t bother me. They coo softly, settle in.
I can paint the walls a robin’s egg blue.
I drag my forefinger across the computer touchpad to eliminate the carnivorous fish. Out pops my manuscript. My manuscript. Mine. I tense, feel a knot building in my right shoulder. I feel about to faint.
I stand up and put on my coat. I will walk across the street for a coffee, something to ease the tension. I stretch my back.
~ ~ ~
Sarah woke up late, on an early August Sunday in San Francisco, had slept much longer than was necessary. She rose out of bed, stumbled slowly into the bathroom, swaying as if drunk, trying to disentangle her brain from the cobwebs of sleep. She looked out the window, was not surprised to find a heavy, wet fog. Summer in San Francisco. She still felt groggy. She slapped her face, shook her head vigorously from side to side, and sat on the toilet. She noticed the empty toilet roll dispenser. She thought she had gotten a new roll yesterday. She was almost sure of it. She remembered the roll was on the small table in the corridor. She was bringing it into the bathroom when the phone rang. She must learn to complete her projects. She used facial tissues. She stood up, annoyed with herself for being so easily distracted. She would go directly and fill the dispenser.
As she passed by the mirror, she stopped. Her reflection looked good today. Her features were soft, as were her brown eyes. She felt relieved. She put her head outside the bathroom door and yelled, “Are you up?”
From the kitchen, “Of course, I’m up. I don’t need ten hours of sleep.”
“Maybe you should try it. I look wonderful this morning.”
“Go back to sleep then.”
“No, no. Come see and bring me a cup of coffee, please!”
Kamal turned the corner into the corridor, carrying a steaming mug of coffee. He was already dressed, ready to go. “I think you should be the one bringing me coffee. I’m on vacation, a guest here.”
“Shut up and get your butt over here!” He slowed down, began sauntering. She had to admit she loved the way he walked. She thought her son was handsome, with his dark, long hair, and brown eyes. She was thankful again that he did not take after his father in looks. He pretended he was moving in slow motion, every step taking an eternity.
“Get in here,” Sarah said when he was close enough for her to grab. She took the coffee from him and kissed him. “Look at your mother. Doesn’t she look wonderful this morning?”
She held him, made him stand next to her facing the mirror. “You look the same as yesterday,” he said.
“Ah, what do you know? You’re not even looking. You’ll always miss the finer things in life.”
“This is one of the finer things in life? I worry about you, Mom. Staring at yourself in the mirror? Hey, looks like there’s water damage here.”
“Where?” she gasped, her hands going quickly to her face.
He bent down to look at the wall next to the bathtub. “You should fix this,” he said. He was right. She should have fixed that five years ago when she first noticed it.
He stood up and walked out of the bathroom. “Well, what’s the point of looking wonderful if you’re going to spend the morning having breakfast with homosexuals?”
She yelled at his departing form, “Your uncle doesn’t have breakfast, he has brunch.” Pleased with herself, she began to get ready. Happy.
Sarah went into the hardware store. “Your uncle asked us to get him a pitcher. He broke his.” Kamal followed, dragging his feet. On her way to kitchenware, she stopped in front of an ugly fake plant, bright plastic fuchsias dangling from dusty synthetic leaves in a tattered woven pot. Sarah began tearing. Her hand covered her mouth and she wept silently. She knelt on one knee to look closer.
“It is awful, isn’t it?” a man asked her.
Sarah glanced up at him in surprise and quickly wiped her tears away. “It’s terrible.” She tried a weak smile.
He hesitated. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” He ran his hand though his hair, raking it back.
“Oh, yes. This thing just reminded me of someone.”
The man looked both ways, tying to gauge if anyone was watching, then with wrists on hips, arms akimbo, he whispered, “Well, you know what, hon? If this thing reminds you of him, believe me, you’re better off without him. I mean, come on, a plastic fuchsia?”
She giggled.
“Anyway,” he went on, “like I always say, ‘And this too shall pass.’”
She stood up, noticed her son was standing back observing, bemused.
The man, no longer looking at her, but up at the ceiling, sighed. “And sometimes it doesn’t pass, which is why I’m on Paxil.”
“Paxil?” Sarah asked. “Doesn’t it make you sleepy? I couldn’t deal with it. I was sleeping all day. I prefer Zoloft.”
“Zoloft works for you?”
“Oh, yes. Quite well. I love it.” She looked at her son, who pursed his lips, trying not to laugh. “Thanks so much, dear,” she told the man as she grabbed her son by the arm and began moving away. “You’ve been a great help.”
Sarah dragged her son along the aisle. She could not help but chuckle with him. “No, I don’t always discuss my medications with strangers,” she said. “So don’t you start.”
“You attract homosexuals.”
Kamal seemed distracted as they walked. She put her arm in his. “Do you still think of him?” he asked her.
He still wanted to be her confidant. Her ex-husband told her a couple of years earlier that Kamal had ceased to confide in him. Would he still confide in her? One benefit of her son growing up thousands of miles away was that he did not have to rebel against her, or so it seemed.