Pushing Upward (36 page)

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Mr. Cahill.” I pulled myself together. “You gave a fine performance.”

“Wait a minute, Sandra … come here! Please.”

Screaming silent obscenities under my breath, I stormed out of the bedroom, pounded up the stairs, grabbed my purse, my overnight bag, and slammed out the door.

Thank God I brought my car.
Grinding the gears, I drove down the hill. I could hardly see. Tears poured out furiously. I kept wiping my eyes, but the tears wouldn't stop. My whole body trembled.
How could I have been so stupid, so naïve, as to think he was in love with me or that I was the only one? How could I have fallen for his fake sincerity?
“Opening night is too far away,” he'd said. “I can't wait that long. There isn't anyone else I'd rather be with!”
Lying, two-timing …!

I kept driving. Halfway down Sunset, I found myself pulling up to the curb at La Fontaine Bakery. It was automatic, like the Fiat had driven me there. I got out of the car and headed for the door … and stopped at the entrance.

What the hell am I doing?
But the pull to go in was
so
strong. The desire to numb these emotions was
so
intense. I paced … first around my car … then back and forth in front of the store.

I didn't
want
to go in. But the starch and the sugar would make me feel so much better. I kept pacing.
Look at you, Sandra. You're like a wild animal.
I kept walking in circles.
You're like a mouse in a maze. That's what you've become … a goddamned mouse in a maze.
The realization hit me.
It's so true. Break the friggin' cycle, damn it! He's not worth it!

I got in my car and peeled away. I drove to the Santa Monica Pier, and made a quick right into the parking lot. Only a few cars sat empty at the end of the pavement. I stopped the car, put my head against the steering wheel, and screamed.

The
I Ching
was right. Our relationship
was
Youthful Folly.

I got out of the car so I could inhale the sea air, and walked down the sandy slope toward the ocean. I looked out into the vastness and knew that as long as I was here, I was safe. I reached the water and turned, along the shore. I kept walking, more briskly now, to shake off the tension, the anger, the humiliation. The agitation was pushing my body into a run, but I pulled it back to walk. The thought of pounding my body on anything, including sand, was too abrasive.

I kicked off my shoes, needing to feel the crystals of sand on my soles, the particles filling the spaces between my toes.

What a joke! I had our whole future figured out. He'd be directing; I'd be acting. We'd be traveling. How could I have been so blind? How did my intuition fail me?

I needed to talk to someone. I was bursting at the seams. Emma, of course!
Emma—how could I have forgotten? I should have called her first thing—found out how she is
. I turned around and sprinted toward the pay phone back at the pier.

I inserted a dime, dialed Emma's number, and counted the rings before she picked up. One ring, two rings, three …

“Hello?”

“Oh, hi, Sharleen.”

“Yes, who is this?” She sounded upset.

“It's Sandra; can I speak to Emma?”

“I'm so sorry, Sandra …” She hesitated. “Emma … Emma died this morning.”

“What?” I heard the words, but they didn't sink in. “What?” I asked again. I couldn't have heard that right.
There must be a mistake
.

She repeated, “Emma died this morning.” Her words made my body go limp.

“What? What happened?”

“She was sitting in her chair, reading the paper. I went to the kitchen to make some coffee … I came back, and her bifocals were hanging on her chest, and her eyes were closed, and the newspaper was on her lap. I … I thought she was asleep. But she wasn't.”

Oh no. No, no. This can't be happening. Not now! Not today!

“What—what did you do?”

“I called my uncle Jackson. He called the ambulance, and Zelda. They just picked her up, a few minutes ago. I didn't know how to reach you.”

They took her away without me saying good-bye, without giving her a hug, without telling her how much she meant to me.

“Are you all right, Sandra?”

“I don't know …”

“Do you want to come over? I'll be here for a while.”

“I don't know.”

I hung up the phone and sat there. I was so cold. Where was my jacket? Was it at Allen's? Did I leave it at Emma's? I thought about getting up, but I had no strength. I sat there trying to think of a reason to move. I sat there until the walls of the booth began to close in on me, and then I stood up, slowly, cautiously, like I'd just aged a hundred years. Bracing myself against the glass, I got out the door and started walking back toward the water.

The sun, the fog, everything looked filmy. My feet couldn't feel the ground. Clasping my hands around my elbows, hugging my body, I tried to stop the shivering. I really wished I had my jacket. At the waterline, I came to where my shoes were still lying, where I'd kicked them off. But they didn't look like my shoes. They looked like lifeless marine creatures that had been tossed up and abandoned by the sea. I sat down on the sand next to the foreign objects, looking out as far as I could, into the pallid sky.

As the waves slapped the posts of the pier, I knelt down, hunched forward, my forehead resting on the sand. I could feel the blood rushing to my brain. And then guilt and shame rose up with a vengeance.
I killed her.
The words pulsated inside me.
Why did I go? What made me think I had to pack up and leave?

The
I Ching
was right:
It is not cowardice but wisdom to submit and avoid action
. It
was
cowardly of me to leave. Why hadn't I listened?

I'd been so selfish. No wonder she didn't want to go to the play.

I dug my fingers into the wet sand, digging deeper until my fingertips turned cold. Maybe if I kept digging, I could bury myself in the sand, dissolve here, and be washed away by the sea. Who would care? Who would notice?

I kept digging. Around me, the incoming waves hissed up on the sand, the seagulls wheeled above the sea.

The slapping of the waves and the sweet, salty air reminded me that life would go on whether I died here or not. I stopped digging, sat up, and placed my hands around my knees.
What do I do now?

I listened intently, but there was nothing, nothing but the sound of the waves. As I sat there motionless, images arose, one after the other: every person I had known in my life. I watched myself walking away from each one of them, slamming doors, storming out. Like I'd done with Allen. Leaving Larry with no explanation. Never confronting my father, my mother. Steven, Lenny, Emma. I realized I'd never completed anything.

Oh, Emma. You left too soon! Dear God, show me what I need to do, where I need to go.

I sat there looking out into the ocean, into the restless movement of the waves. I closed my eyes. I waited to hear an answer. Nothing. There was only the sound of the waves. I kept listening.

And then, a wave surged within me, a wave of inner resolve. It rose up inside me like a fountain of light, coursing through every atom of my being. Energy poured through me with a lightness and freedom, as if the desire to lie down and dissolve had never been there.

I didn't fight or resist this energy, but allowed it to move on its own and propel me. I found my legs and the strength to stand up, wipe my tears, and face the ocean. Only a hint of sadness remained. There was an openness now, a vulnerability, and a new kind of humbleness. I liked it. It made me feel rooted, grounded.

The veil had lifted from inside, and outside the fog vanished. The water sparkled with the reflection of the sun. With the sun on my back, my feet firmly embracing the sand, I walked back up the beach toward the car. I wanted to go back to the place where I'd started this journey, to the place I'd never really wanted to leave.

I knocked on the door. Sharleen unbolted the lock. Her eyes were as red as mine surely were. She took hold of my shoulder, gently, and escorted me into the kitchen. The warmth there that had once embraced me had since vanished; it must have left with Emma's soul. There was no smell of chicken soup or evergreen air freshener, no crumbs on the counter, no peels of orange in the sink. Two apples sat waiting on the counter. And they'd have to go on waiting, like the rest of us.

Sharleen let me wander. I smiled, and moved on toward Emma's bedroom. Her bed was made. The bedspread was pulled up high over the feather pillow, the sides not quite even, and the crocheted blanket, the one she'd made for Josef, was placed neatly at the foot of the bed. She'd told me that there were six mistakes in the blanket; I'd never seen even one of them. I wondered when they'd take her bed away. What would happen to her dresser, her clothes? Turning back to the door, I noticed her blue dress and her white shawl laid out neatly on the chair, her matching shoes placed next to each other on the floor.
When did she know she wasn't coming to the play?

I walked into my old room and found Sharleen's clothes scattered everywhere. Shoes were strewn across the floor, pants flung across the bed. The pictures on the walls had been rearranged. What would happen to Josef's paintings now?

I came back to the living room. Sharleen was gone, but she'd left the door cracked open. Emma's chair stood there alone, the throne now deserted. I paused, hesitant. A shaft of light appeared from the window, lighting the back of the seat. I sat down with my back against the plush green satin and placed my arms along the rich mahogany armrests, breathing in the remainder of her presence. Secretly, I hoped that Emma's wisdom and strength would seep into me. I took a deep breath, looked around, and noticed her glasses were sitting on the side table.

I put them on.

How differently Emma saw the world. The lenses, distorted for me, were clear to her. She no doubt saw
me,
like the rest of her world, quite clearly. I picked up the newspaper that lay close to her chair and saw that it was the
Los Angeles Times,
not the
New York Times.
It was open to the review.

Last night, the Los Angeles premiere of The Turning of the Century opened at the Windmill Theater to a sold-out performance. This wonderful, thought-provoking Clifford Thorne play was endearing and delightful … The real enchantment for the evening was watching Sandra Billings perform the dual roles of the medical intern and the actress … She stole our hearts. Keep a watch for this little lady …

She'd read it. She saw it. I hoped she was pleased.

I removed the glasses and lay them on the table, folded the newspaper, and placed it under my arm.

I moved to the dining-room table and saw that my cookbooks were set out there. A package sat next to them. On top of the package was an envelope with my name written across the top. Surprised and curious, I picked up the envelope, opened it carefully, so as not to rip the flap, and removed the paper from inside.

Dear Sandra,

Since the moment you entered my home, I knew I had received a gift. Your vigor, talent, and sense of humor uplifted me and brought purpose into my life again. There were many times I wanted to tell you this, but the words never found their way.

I want you to hear them now.

About a month ago, I had a vision of when and where I was going to die. Knowing this, I distanced myself from you so you would become detached, and learn to stand on your own. The closer the time came, the harder it was to be around you. I knew my departure would be easier with Sharleen. So I arranged for her to stay.

Sandra, everything that happens to us is a necessary part of our growth. Every encounter, every experience, teaches us something: forgiveness, compassion, strength.

Remember this and move on.

Being with you rekindled the relationship I had with my own daughter, Alexandra. She was about your age when she died in Germany from polio, a horrible disease. She too would have achieved greatness in her life, had she lived. It was her nature.

When the time is right, when you are ripe, all opportunities will reveal themselves. The same will be true with love.

It was an honor to know you.

May you walk into your destiny, with great faith.

Love always,

Emma

P.S. May this gift connect you to your spirit.

Between tears, I read the letter three more times. How could she be gone? How could this be? Why couldn't she tell me? I would have understood, and I wouldn't have left. But at least she wasn't mad. She didn't hate me.

I looked around the apartment, knowing that I would never see her, these things, this place, again. I gazed for a long time at Josef's paintings hugging the walls, the paper plates peering through the glass of the armoire, the plastic rug runners, Emma's high-back.