Whenever You Call (26 page)

I
WOKE TO A howling wind and rain drumming at the window panes. Turning over and twisting into the sheets and blankets, I tried to fall back to sleep. No luck, yet it was such a perfect day to sleep, so dark and cozy. Giving up, I rolled onto my back and let my eyes open. I lay there, somewhat miffed at not being asleep. Possibly I was more asleep than I realized, though, because I drifted into a dreamy state and found myself remembering, of all things, Christmas morning.

A very particular Christmas morning, the year I was six, the year I didn’t get a single thing I’d asked for, and I hadn’t asked for much. My list had been for exactly three things: (1) the gigantic doll that was as tall as I was, (2) books, (3) a poem.

The doll was my big-ticket item, so I’d deliberately trimmed the list. We always got books, and I’d been trying to flatter my mother by asking for a poem. Although, truthfully, I really
wanted
a poem from her. A six-year-old might not have understood, but now I could see how a poem would have flattered both my mother
and
me, a win-win situation.

That year in Northampton, Massachusetts had already been extremely snowy and cold. We had a family tradition that on Christmas morning, we went for a walk before opening presents or eating breakfast. Everyone in the family appeared to love this, including my brother and sister, but I loathed it. Perhaps it was because I was skinny, with eczema-prone dry skin, and winter weather was torturous for me. That year, I was already sick of my thick, clumsy snowsuit, and the air felt like a threat as I breathed in and out, an adult-sized scarf wrapped around my neck and lower face so that each breath, despite the cold, was moist and sickly. I managed to peek into the living room, where the Christmas tree lights were dark, but shapely bundles could still be seen under the tree. I searched for a large package, big enough to contain my doll. I didn’t see it, but I was sure that she was pushed way back, hidden and waiting as eagerly for me as I was for her.

I loved dolls. I had as many as my parents allowed, which was probably more than they wanted me to have. My own daughter, Alex, had thought dolls were totally uninteresting, and by the time she was six years old, I could see her point. It was hard to remember why I’d found dolls so wonderful, but I had this vague memory of endless cuddling, changing of clothes, constructing cribs and beds, moving them from here to there. The desire for a doll as large as I was different. In the Sears catalogue, the photo showed her standing next to a little girl who was, indeed, exactly the same height. This wasn’t a doll to manipulate—like a baby doll, or even to emulate (the Barbie doll). This was a doll to stand next to, whose eyes would meet mine. I wanted her as desperately as I’d ever wanted anything in my life. I understood now, of course. Hard to miss the obvious symbolism. I wanted a mirror image of myself. I wanted  … ME.

Fresh snow had fallen overnight, so there was a soft covering before my booted foot hit the crusty snow underneath. Neither the soft, nor the hard, was easy for me to walk on. I slipped and slithered, and sometimes all the snow broke and my foot would plunge deep into the cold wet. My father, unable to manage, stayed home and started to make breakfast. It seemed strange that we’d have a tradition that he couldn’t be a part of unless it was a Christmas with very little snow. I suppose our mother wanted us to herself, or both she and my father were determined that something which seemed like a good idea—a cold Christmas morning walk—would happen whether or not one of them could actually do it. Often, he could. Even if there had been snow, the sidewalks were cleared and he’d attach clamps to the undersides of his shoes. He would manage, though I can’t figure it was any fun for him. Then again, it wasn’t fun for me, either. Perhaps it was no damn fun for any of us and we were all simply too intimidated by Mom to say anything. The tradition had come from her side of the family, who’d always had the same walk on Christmas morning, and her attitude was like a 4-star army general who was determined to win the battle, though how, exactly, Christmas morning resembled a battle field, I was never sure.

By the time we returned home that morning, my feet were wet and frozen. Two toes on my left foot have forever since then been quick to go numb in the cold. I plopped down in the center of the entrance hall, and Dad promptly yelled at me to get out of the way because he was coming through to the living room. I literally rolled in my snowsuit, like an awkward puppy, until I came to rest at the foot of the stairs. There was a lot of excitement, and too many high-pitched children’s voices, as we fervently threw off the layers of clothing and rubbed at various cold parts of our bodies. I skedaddled into the living room.

This time, Mom yelled. “Everyone go upstairs and put on dry socks!”

So we up we went, scrambling through drawers in search of socks, which was one of those items in the winter that disappeared easily. When I got back downstairs, the tree was lit and the lamps were all on as well. I could smell bacon and coffee cake, plus fresh coffee, but none of that mattered to me because I couldn’t see a single package that was big enough for the doll. My heart seemed to tighten and screw together like a rose that is dying, not blooming. I received more presents than I’d asked for, including socks, a sweater, and a puzzle of the human body. Obviously, my parents had had quite enough of my doll fixation. The truly odd part was that I didn’t receive a single book, though my brother and sister did. Finally, no poem.

When all the presents had been opened, I burst into tears. I couldn’t sit on my father’s lap because he wasn’t strong enough to hold me, but he pulled me between his legs and asked what was the matter.

“I didn’t get anything I asked for,” I wailed.

He spoke softly. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“A poem is a thought!”

My mother, across the room, couldn’t help but laugh. “I had every intention of writing you a poem, but I just never seemed to find the right thing to say. You can’t turn the writing of poetry on-and-off like it’s a water faucet.” Her voice, by the time she’d said the word
faucet
, had become as tight as my heart.

I said, “What about the doll?”

“A doll as tall as you are seemed like we’d be adopting a kid,” Dad said, amused.

Everyone started to laugh and Dad patted my arm, as if all was well. “Let’s have breakfast,” he said.

Why was I remembering that doll forty-two years after the fact of not getting her? I scissored my legs beneath the covers and glared at the gap in the curtains hanging over the window. I could see the long, silky drops of rain as they dribbled down the panes. It was a terrible day. Not, as Mr. Poet would say, auspicious. Nor was remembering such an asinine thing.

My eyes closed and I tried, once again, to pretend that I might be able to fall back to sleep, even though I knew I wouldn’t. I had the ignoble thought that I was still waiting for that stupid doll. I threw off the blankets and jumped out of bed. Standing on the icy wooden floor with bare feet, I shouted.

“Ralph!”

I looked around and when nothing happened, I skipped quickly to the closet for slippers and my robe. Warmer then, I looked around the room carefully. I relaxed my eyes, something I’d learned to do without being aware of it, but I couldn’t see any lights, blue or otherwise.

In the kitchen, the coffee was sputtering into my mug when I glanced at the clock on the stove. Assuming it was morning, I hadn’t bothered to look at the alarm clock on my bedside table. I squinted, disbelieving. Three o’clock in the afternoon? Could that be possible?

If I’d finally fallen asleep at five o’clock in the morning, then it was feasible, though unlikely, that I’d slept ten hours. I ran downstairs and checked the clock in my bedroom. Wow. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and I was due to meet Joseph Finder at six. I wasn’t sure that I had time for a run, plus the weather wasn’t exactly cooperating, though I’d had some good runs in the rain. In fact, I even kept a special pair of running shoes for rainy days.

But, yes, I would run. I needed to get outside and
move
. Nothing else, no amount of thinking or writing or talking would work. Nothing except a run and a hot shower afterwards. Then I would dash to the Miracle of Science Bar & Grill, without getting myself all worked up.

Uh-huh.

I didn’t even finish my coffee and, instead, gulped a small glass of orange juice, then hopped down the stairs, and got ready for the run. When I burst through the front door, I almost changed my mind. The rain, far from settling into a steady kind of affair, doubled and tripled in volume the further I moved out into the open until, on the sidewalk, water gushed on top of my head and pelted my face. Last thing in the world I really wanted to do was to go running in this downpour, yet I knew it was what I needed. One of the most annoying things about growing older was this terrible wisdom we possess. We friggin’
know
stuff, whether we want to admit it or not. I ducked my head and began to run, fast and awkward.

I ran for thirty minutes and never hit that effortless feeling. Still, as I burst through my front door, I felt great. Righteous, of course (“aren’t I great to go for a run in the rain?”), but also enjoying the ache of my muscles and the scream in my lungs. In the basement, I peeled off my running clothes and draped them over the washing machine, dashed into the bathroom and turned on the faucet to fill the bathtub, then went to check my e-mail.

Rabbitfish.

I glared at the screen. Was this really Rabbitfish, or Joseph Finder? It appeared to be from Rabbitfish. I clicked to open the e-mail even while another part of my brain listened to the thundering noise of the water filling my gigantic bathtub.

Scientists reported that ichthyoallyeinotoxic fishes–such as mullet, goatfish, tangs, damsels, and rabbitfish–could produce LSD-like hallucinations in those who ate them.

I think, but I can’t be sure about this, but I think, time stopped. Well, the physicists say there is no time, or that’s my understanding of what they say. The non-existence of time, when you try to wrap your mind around it, is singularly difficult to grasp. But, yeah, time stopped. Then, when time kicked back in, I allowed the threat to hit me. Because it
was
a threat, an intimidation, a warning:
go in the direction of meeting Joseph Finder, and you will find true craziness, if you haven’t done so already, which was an open question
. Confusion jabbered through my body and head with such speed that nausea overwhelmed me. I pushed away from my desk and tore into the bathroom where I crouched over the toilet bowl, retching. I had nothing much in me, except that small glass of orange juice, so it was short-lived, but definitely nasty. I wiped my mouth with toilet paper and turned to check how full the bathtub was. Full enough. I crawled over and twisted the faucets to OFF. Standing up, I held carefully to the side of the tub.

The water, despite all the rain that had thoroughly soaked me, soothed me for a moment. Then, as I thought about LSD-type hallucinations being produced in someone who ate a rabbitfish, I kicked my legs wildly. Water splashed over the sides of the tub. Decision made, I slid under the water, wetting my hair completely.

I would not meet Joseph Finder at six o’clock. So it was okay to let my hair get wet. I kept my eyes closed under the water and lifted my hands to rub at my scalp and free-floating hair. Whenever I went under the water in this gargantuan bathtub, I felt like a mermaid. Sitting up with a rush, I tried to decide whether to e-mail Joseph Finder. Politeness would dictate that I should, but then, I’m not sure that even the wise Miss Manners would have advice for how to handle this sort of social interaction. I washed my hair, ducked under the water again for a good rinse, then quickly scrubbed myself all over. Out of the tub, I wrapped my terrycloth robe around me and walked to the computer.

No new and surprising e-mails had arrived. I wrote Joseph Finder a note.

Dear Mr. Finder:

After due consideration, I’ve decided that it would be unwise to meet you.

Sincerely, Rose Marley

Then I reread Mr. Rabbitfish’s most recent e-mail. I had to wonder, was I hallucinating everything? Was I, in fact, mad as the proverbial hatter? Was I Alice, tumbled down the rabbit hole, and this a dream? I pushed back in my desk chair and thought about the way my still damp bare feet felt on the thick carpet. I wiggled my toes. I tapped the desk with my knuckles. I sniffed and smelled the damp from the rain and a basement buried under the earth. Finally, I reached for the telephone and pushed the number one preset number.

“Jen, it’s me, Rose.” I took a deep breath. “I need you.”

Her voice, distinctive with its high girlish cadence, was so familiar that I almost gasped.

She said, “I’ll come right now.”

“You’ll come here?”

Because of Jen’s disability, she had only rarely visited me in this house.

“I forget if you have handrails along the steps leading to the front door. “

“On one side—,”

She interrupted. “I can do that.”

After we hung up, I pulled on sweats with no underwear. I laid a fire in the living room, which began to burn with a satisfying roar. Back down to the basement, I checked through my meagre wine collection and discovered a very good red, a 2001 Angelo
gaja barbaresco
, which I opened and put out on the coffee table with two wine glasses. It looked inviting. I glanced out the window and saw that it was still pouring, so I grabbed an umbrella, stuck my feet into boots, and went out to the road where I waited for her.

Jen had improved her walking technique in the time since I’d stormed out of her apartment. She seemed, most of all, comfortable in moving about, as if it wasn’t a big deal, one way or the other. We said hi only briefly because the rain forced us to hustle into the house. She peeled off her long yellow raincoat and I ran upstairs to hang it in the shower stall.

When I got back down to the living room, she was settled into a corner of the couch, a glass of wine in one hand. She smiled with one corner of her mouth tipped up like flower aiming for the sun.