Conundrum (26 page)

His eyes were what
had
captured me ten years ago. A hot September Indian-summer day at the county fair. Raff and Kendra sitting on the bleachers in the tent, listening to Steppenwolf. Neal off wandering the crafts booths, looking for the perfect gift for his girlfriend
-
flavor
-
of
-
the month. The heat
had
made me woozy, and the closest food trailer was the
lemonade slush—which, in sizzling temperatures topping one hundred, was the nectar of the gods, as far as I was concerned. Even
inside
the
open-air
performance tent
,
the heat sweltered and drained—and the music was too loud, compounding my growing headache.

I got in line for my slush and fingered the change in my pocket. I had stuffed coins and bills in there as I rushed out of my apartment in the city,
having
hear
d
Raff’s insistent honking below my window.
I knew he’d never find a parking spot.

Maybe it was the heat that put me in a fumbling stupor. I struggled to pull money from my
shorts
pocket to pay for my drink
,
and it all tumbled out onto the be
aten-down grass. I didn’t
notice that
the man in line behind me
had
stooped to help until I raised my
head
, annoyed at myself for my clumsiness, and found myself gazing into Jeremy’s eyes. You could laugh all you want at those corny sayings, but I felt a jolt of electricity, and yes, it was love at first sight. His face was so
beautiful, comforting. The kind of face I would carve out of marble, were I a sculptor. Angelic, innocent, gentle—I read it all in less than a second, and the reading smacked me hard, like a
blow
to the
head
.

Before I could turn into a blathering idiot, I clamped my mouth shut and nodded thanks as he handed me the random change he had gathered from the ground. Bits of grass tangled with the coins and, with a careful touch, he pulled the withered strands from my handful of
money
and then smiled at me.
I rallied my concentration and paid for my slush, eager to run back to hear the tail end of “Born to be Wild,” but reluctant to end a moment that seemed marked with a bright yellow highlighter pen.

Jeremy made the decision for me. “Hey,” he said in a voice that suited his face and stature. “Don’t you just love that classic?” He tipped his head, inviting me to walk with him. We listened to the last verse of the song
while
standing in the
rear
of the tent, peering over the heads of the cheering crowd.

I don’t remember what we talked about for the next hour as we strolled the rows of arts
-
and
-
crafts booths. I drank in his voice, mostly looking around, careful not to let myself fall into those smoky eyes too often. I was afraid I would never find my way back out.
Finally, we sat at a table, under a stand of oaks, face-to-face. Jeremy talked of his family in Montana, his plans to open a feed store in Petaluma. I told him about college life and the classes slated for my senior year
at SF State
. When he asked me about my dreams, my plans after graduation, I didn’t know how to answer. For years, the words would come out by rote: grad school, emphasis in studio art,
a minor in
botany
. The more I spoke, the less certain I was of this clear path I had delineated for my life. I found myself asking questions, and as Jeremy answered, my future shifted and erased lines I had
thought were
drawn in indelible ink.

By the time Raff and Kendra found
me
,
stating they were
tired and want
ed
to
head out
, even my final school year
loomed
nebulous and puzzling.
Panic rose as I stood to leave, as my brother introduced himself, as Jeremy rested a hand on my shoulder, such a light touch but so potent and charged. I spun to meet his eyes a last time, almost painful, anticipating parting from him, feeling something tear inside. I already envisioned him giving a slight wave of his hand, a warm smile, and turning his head and forgetting me, forgetting we ever sat and talked
—w
hile I would mull ov
er what I
must have
said to
make him
lose his interest
,
as I rode in silence in Raff’s car back to his house for dinner.
Th
ose
predictable
scenes that clicked into place
shattered as Jeremy slid his hand from my shoulder to my forearm and stopped me—stopped my self-deprecating thoughts, stopped my heart.

“Let me take you to dinner Saturday. It’ll give me a chance to come into the city, put on some nice clothes.” He pulled a pen out of his short-sleeved shirt pocket and, to my amusement, poi
s
ed to write on the back of his hand—something I hadn’t seen since my elementary school days. He raised his eyebrows in a sweet concession. “I clean up pretty nice—for a hick.”

Raff and Kendra had politely backed away, engaging in polite quiet conversation to allow me this moment. No doubt, they had seen the march of emotions so readable on my face—the disappointment
followed by
surprise, then
the
self-conscious blush I knew was heating my
cheeks
. I couldn’t bear to disturb this moment by reaching in my purse for a scrap of
paper;
his actions were
just too precious. I rattled off my phone number, repeated it to be sure I still had all my marbles intact. Jeremy shook the ballpoint pen, no doubt having trouble with the ink on his sweaty skin. I worried that he would accidently rub it off before the day was over, before he had a chance to copy it down on something more durable. But he managed to get it written, although I suspected at that moment he put it to memory, envisioning the same scenario of
the numbers
rubbing
off
.

We said our good-byes
,
and he watched me walk away. Even after I reached the far end of the fairgrounds, I looked back and he was still there, standing with one foot on the bench, making sure I knew he had his eye on me.
I felt discovered, like some unknown country happened upon by an intrepid explorer out to find adventure and something magnificent, something no one had ever seen before.

That’s what I read in those smoky eyes that day. Nothing like what I saw
only this morning
when those words, those unbearable words, had spilled from his mouth
:
I’m done
.
 
.
 
.
I’m outta here.
A dying flash, an ember flickering out.

Jeremy
had written
me a note
before he crashed his truck
. Something he was going to mail to me as he skipped town?
Or leave for me to find in the wreckage?
I pressed my lips together and forced back tears. He wouldn’t have been headed west if he
was
leaving town. I knew instinctively what that not
e said
, but I didn’t want to face it
.

For a moment, as I stood at the
kitchen
counter, I saw my father with the same resignation in his eyes, turning to my mother, and voicing those identic
al
sentiments
. What
had
my mother fel
t
when those words hit her
and he walked out the door
?
Had
she hurt?
Had
she even care
d
?

A growl grew in my chest—something animal and maternal.
Jeremy was hurt
, and t
his was my mother’s doing, her work, her symphony of betrayal. She was like a madwoman on a rampage, mowing down one victim after another, the fathomless sea that vomited out all who dared
ply
her waters with too heavy a hull.
She had to be stopped.

Anger rose in me like an errant wave, lifted me and carried me to the door to my car. Anger fueled me across roads, onto the freeway, down to Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, and
in
to the parking lot of Marin General
Hospital
.
Time lost cohesion; I stormed through it as if a vapor that parted in my ire.
I marched in to the reception desk and learned my husband was barely alive. He’d been taken to surgery on the eighth floor. I could wait up there, in the waiting room. The nurse said she would tell the doctor I had arrived.

Oh, yes. I had arrived. Like Sir Francis Drake himself, commanding the English fleet against the Spanish armada.
I would make no concessions, take no prisoners. I didn’t dare think about Jeremy lying in an operating room, hooked up to tubes and sensors, fluids dripping into his arm, scalpels cutting into his flesh. Instead, I
strode toward
the stairwell, then stopped.

I
caught the gleam of metal in the corner of my eye. I
turned my head and looked over at the elevator.
I watched the silver doors open and close, watched people step in and out without a thought, without breaking a sweat.
I loosed a deep breath.

In that instant, I remembered my dream—of being in the elevator with my frozen family. Of the freefall as the elevator car sped unattached, about to crash at the bottom.
No one else aware of the danger, no one else feeling trapped.
My pounding the doors, pulling with bloodied fingers to pry them open, but to no avail.

I closed my eyes and saw my small fists pounding
on
another door. I
was
hunched
over
, squatt
ing
in the dark, hemmed in, panicky.
I was yelling, crying out, but I couldn’t make out my words.
Something brushed against my head, my hair, making me scream more. I tried to see, but it was too dark. I couldn’t breath
e
well—the air was thick, hot, stifling. I had no room to stand. I batted at the clothes hanging over my head. I fell back against a hard wall, jumped forward against the door
, tripped over shoes
. There was no handle inside, only narrow slats that let in slivers of light.

My eyes jerked opened.

I knew exactly where I was
—i
n my bedroom closet
, back at the house I grew up in
. My breath came out in quick pants
.
I tried to slow my pounding heart
as I stood in the foyer of the hospital
.
People hurried by me without a glance. I felt invisible
in a swirl of revealing memory
.

The slats were the gaps in the louvers on the door
. This wasn’t a nightmare I was recalling. This had actually happened—and more than once. My being trapped in my closet had been no accident on my part. I knew just how I got there—and who put me there.

With a big exhale, I faced down the elevator doors
—my own personal Jabberwock
. I pressed the
U
p arrow and watched the red numbers
—like fiery eyes—o
n the wall count down to one. No one else wait
ed beside me
to go up.
Every human being on the face of the earth vanished. I was alone.
My skin tingled and my stomach lurched. Bile rose in my throat and I fought it down.

I refused to let my mother have any victory—not even this one. Not anymore.

The elevator pinged
. T
he doors slid open
with a soft whoosh
.
Every muscle in my body shook as I stepped over the threshold into the brightly lit,
spacious
elevator car
, a line of demarcation
.
I pressed the button for the eighth floor and braced my legs.
I knew in that moment
that
if the elevator cables snapped and I
fell
to my death
,
I wouldn’t care. Not one bit.

W
ith that truth planted in my mind, all the terror and anxiety fled—in an instant. A calmness washed over me as the elevator ascend
ed
.
The gentle whirring of the motor soothed me.

I grunted wryly, remembering the conundrum.
“
I’m free,
”
the man said, as he bit into his albatross.
I watched the doors open and stepped out into the corridor.
I
felt oddly giddy. I
had opened a door—a closet door—and freed myself.