Outside the Ordinary World (21 page)

My mind kept returning to Wallowa, to Mr. Robert’s jokes and promises, Mom’s hand swinging in his, her face tilted toward the sun while her husband strove to prove himself on the open seas, failed to read all the signs of a fast-approaching storm. I pictured Dad bobbing in the Pacific, almost meeting his end while his crew struggled to cut the rigging and release the mainsail, then begin the agonizing search for their lost captain. In the hospital last week, Dad’s face had gone slack and ghostly as he told the story: how the rain made it impossible to float on his back; how he felt each part of his body go leaden and numb; how he panicked, even prayed. “I thought, you know—that was it,” he’d said, squeezing my mother’s fingers. “And even though I was scared shitless, it seemed as good a way to go as any, out in the water, doing what I loved. But then I thought of you girls, and everything I’d miss—” Here Alison burst into sobs beside me. My own sorrow was jammed in a thick, complicated knot behind my breastbone.

Listening to him sing “How Great Thou Art,” my mind began whirring with questions I didn’t dare ask: Why hadn’t he been wearing his lifeline during the storm? Why hadn’t he lowered the sails? Why had he been so reckless? Did he know where his family had gone—that we hadn’t
really
been visiting Sammy’s parents in Grass Valley?

Now they’d stopped singing and Dad had requested “Clair de Lune”—his favorite, the song that first brought them together. She still played it as if her very heart was beating in the piano’s great heart, all her lost love and longing surging through her fingers into the instrument, shattering the air. Tears gathered in my ears, muffling the music, so I didn’t hear when my father finally left the room.

The next day, Mom and I were driving back from her new office, the traffic piling up around us like dishes in a sink. It was a typical late summer day—we couldn’t see the San Gabriel Mountains, but we knew they still shimmered, breathtaking and muscular behind the veil of smog. We couldn’t see the Pacific either, half a mile to the west, but we knew it turned, bright as a marble, just behind the cinder-block walls and freeways.

Mom pulled to the side of the road, to let the engine cool. Resting her head on the wheel, she sighed long and deep—was it despair that moved her? Exhaustion? Resolve? Then she raised her head. “What in the world should we do, Sylvie?

What should we do?”

“Do about what, Mom?”

“About this mess we’re in.” She stared at me in the passenger’s seat, eyes brimming. “Dad says he’s been changed by the accident. He says he wants to try again.”

“Oh—wow. What did you say?”

“I said I’d have to think about it. Sylvie, he says he doesn’t even care about Robert anymore, that he’s willing to let the whole thing go, and I want to believe him, but—”

“Do you want to make it work?” I asked.

“Of course. Sometimes I want it more than anything. But we’ve tried so many times. Our
whole life
has been about trying, and trying again.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, uncharacteristically smearing her makeup.

I sighed and stared out the window, at the cars creeping like slick roaches, the new housing developments going in along the highway. Suddenly I hated it all so much—this dreary tract-housing world we lived in. I thought of Mr. Robert’s pancake breakfasts, the hikes through fragrant pine groves, horseback rides to alpine lakes, the one-thousand-acre ranch. I pictured Dad in the hospital—blue and bloated, eyes panicky above the plastic oxygen mask. I remembered his ring scraping my cheekbone, the cereal box flying from my hands.

It was an easy decision, really. It took less than a minute for me to look my mother in the eye and say, with all the forced assurance I could muster, “I think we’d be happier with Mr. Robert, Mom. We’d be a whole lot better off on a ranch with Mr. Robert—you’ll be sorry if you blow this chance.” I didn’t say anything about horses, nor did I say aloud that she should divorce my father, demolish our family, but those were the words that came next. I felt them hanging in the air between us. The weight of those words pulled us together, our heads nearly touching in the still warmth of the car. I wouldn’t even have been surprised if she’d asked me to switch places with her and drive, so she could have a little rest. Instead, she just nodded, a sad smile wavering on her lips, and started the engine, pulled back into the snarl of traffic. I knew what she was feeling: she was sad at the knowledge of what she’d have to do. She was terrified, elated and grateful, too. She was thankful and sorry that I’d taken part of her burden. I knew all these things about her in an instant, though I couldn’t have said what I felt, just then.

FLYING OVER THE GREAT LAKES, MY DAUGHTERS SETTLED
beside me, the portable DVD players that Nana Elaine sent open on their laps, I’m thinking again about migration—the geese that slice through our November mornings, the monarch butterflies Emmie’s preschool is studying. The improbability of traversing such distances on such seemingly fragile wings.

How does it start? Are they gripped by a sudden restlessness, an inexplicable ache born in the breast and shimmering outward, like a rumor, until the whole flock, clan, colony is alive with pain—the only cure for which is flight? Do they fear the oncoming threat of winter? Do they long for their destination, or is it pure movement they’re after?

Do they dread the miles they have to cover?

This morning, as Nathan was driving us to Bradley Airport, I was stricken with dread about this trip.

“I think I’ve lost my homing device,” I told him, and he misunderstood.

“Is that what all these late-night walks are about?” he asked, shooting me a worried look. “Are you trying to get lost—to see if you can find your way back?” Funny, I thought, how for him “home” means our tiny slanting duplex on Eastwood Drive; for me, it’s somehow always meant California—the place I ran from.

I didn’t answer. Didn’t have the heart, so early in the morning, to slice through our layers of dissonance and explain it to him. I couldn’t even explain it to myself. Was I fearful of the flight itself—hurtling through the atmosphere inside seventy thousand pounds of man-made steel and burning oil? Was I panicked by the thought of leaving him, or Tai, or the minuscule corner of the continent that has become my all-consuming universe?

Now the captain announces that we’re over Lincoln, and Hannah jabs me hard in the ribs.

“Ow, Han.”

“Isn’t that where your dad was from? Grandpa Don?”

She’s never called him this before and at the words
Grandpa Don,
a thorn of pain pierces me. It’s as if she’s handed me a brand-new bundle of loss, with its own specific texture.

“Yes, Han.” I finally find my voice. “He was born there.”

“It looks so—
flat.
Did you ever go there, to visit?” I stare at her fine, angular cheeks, the heavily lidded eyes, amazed that this line of questioning would be sufficiently engaging to distract her from
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

“No, I never went,” I tell her. “My dad moved with his parents out to San Francisco when he was just a boy, and his father sort of disappeared a few years later.”

“What d’you mean,
disappeared?
” She pulls off her headphones, presses Pause.

“He went off to law school in Arizona or something—at least that’s what he told them—and never came back. There was probably another woman.”

“That’s so harsh. What did they do, after he left?”

“My grandmother, Virginia Jean, worked in a barbershop for a while before she fell ill. She had diabetes and a broken heart, I imagine. They struggled big-time. I think that’s why my parents married right out of high school—he didn’t have any other family left.”

“He had a tragic life,” she announces in the dignified voice of the adult she so nearly is.

“I suppose.” I shut my eyes for a second, stunned that my daughter doesn’t already have this information, that she’s never heard the story. But, of course, who would have told her besides me? My own mother seldom speaks of him, and she wouldn’t have heard it from Alison, who we rarely see. For my own part, I’ve assiduously avoided passing down my broken family history—at least anything that smacks of the betrayals and losses that I fled. But I suddenly feel I’ve deprived my children of something enormous. I turn to give Hannah more of the details, but she’s already gone back to Harry Potter. On the other side of me, Emmie is singing aloud to Dora the Explorer, oblivious to the stares and chuckles of fellow passengers. I try to lose myself in the airline’s glossy catalog, full of unbelievable contraptions like self-watering houseplants and musical pet-potties. Then we hit a patch of turbulence. Seized by a fresh wave of nerves, I drop the magazine. No one else seems the slightest bit anxious.

Have I acquired a phobia in the years since I’ve been on a plane? Maybe I’m scared to see my family, after all this time, worried they’ll detect my secret life. Afraid of their judgment, estrangement or indifference. Or perhaps dreading how inevitably they’ll have changed—my own mortality mirrored back in their lined and falling faces, their diminishing beauty.

But when we arrive in Oakland, I see that Alison’s face has not fallen one millimeter in the past half decade; her beauty is anything but diminished, though she has a sort of stretched, surprised look—clearly one of the perks of marrying a plastic surgeon. She struts across the terminal like an ambassador in her cropped chartreuse jacket, black pants and spike heels, her bleached blond hair twisted in a sleek knot at the back of her head, lanky adolescent boys galumphing behind her. She stares straight at me for twenty seconds before the recognition creeps across her face. I wonder how much
I’ve
changed since the last time she saw me, four years ago when she came to visit following Emmie’s birth.

“You’re so thin.” She looks me over as if unsure I’m the right passenger off this flight.

“Well, haven’t just squeezed out a baby this time, have I?” I reach to embrace my nephews, Donny and Ben, ages fifteen and eleven, who hug back half-heartedly—do they even remember me? Donny’s grown at least a foot—he’s black-haired and lanky as a yearling colt, his hands huge at the ends of scrawny forearms. Ben is stocky and fair, a sarcastic twist to his chapped smile, cheeks glazed with pale freckles.

“And where are your girls? You didn’t leave them home with Nathan, did you?”

“They’re just over there, looking for the bags. For some reason they find this whole air travel thing entertaining,” I say.

“Jeez—I can’t imagine,” Ali concedes, and without warning, she grabs and hugs me tightly—the same old vise grip around my neck that I’ve always had trouble managing. Even in her most affectionate moments, Alison is an abrasive woman, but I suppose that comes from serving as Assistant D.A. for ten years, and being married to Kurt even longer.

Now Hannah’s calling from the moving belt—she’s toppling with my enormous bag. Ben and Donny sprint off to help and Emmie’s wandered away again.
Where is she?
I’m clutched by momentary panic, but when I turn around again, my sister is holding her on one hip. Ali’s eyes are moist and her voice buckles. “So this is the gorgeous little niece you’ve been keeping from us. How could you, Sylvie? How
could
you?”

So begins the six-day parade of guilt. Dragging our baggage to the sidewalk, I learn that it’s been hell here, absolute
hell,
that Gram’s hanging by a thread—that Poppy’s in one of his deep, Biblical funks and Mom’s had to upend her entire life because Uncle Peter is useless,
useless.

“And Sylvie’s gone and run off to the east coast,” I add, trying to smile.

“Yeah, well—” She arches her perfectly waxed brows. “Thank God Robert didn’t mind moving back here. He’s been a saint, actually. He’s out playing golf with Kurt right now. They barely have room for us in the apartment but I wanted to let you and the girls stay at Orchard Hill. I’ve been here so much. I’m doing half my job through faxes and e-mail!” All this as we’re standing curbside in the breathtaking California day—this fragrant golden air unlike anywhere else I’ve been—waiting for Mom to collect us in her aqua Suburban.

I sit up front with my mother. Ali has insisted on sitting beside Emmie so she can “get acquainted.” As I fasten my seat belt, Elaine appraises me over her dark glasses, then squeezes my hand. “It’s high time you came,” she scolds. At sixty-seven, she’s still elegant, though a bit more careworn than the last time I saw her. She pulls away from the curb just as the police officer is coming to move us along.

“You look tired, angel,” she notes, veering onto the freeway. I laugh.

“I guess I’m the only woman in my family who ages. Must be something about the east coast winters.”

“You won’t say that when you see poor Gram.” She bites her lip.

“So I hear. Sorry it’s been so hard, Mom.”

“Well—it’s just life.” She sighs. And then, “That’s quite a getup your eldest has on,” she delivers with a wry smile, as if Hannah’s ripped jeans and cropped
Wicked
T-shirt don’t bother her in the least.

“It’s just a T-shirt and jeans.” I brace myself.

“Yes, but why all the rips and safety pins? Did she do that herself or did you buy the pants that way?”

“Ah. The jeans come that way, believe it or not. Nathan and I have decided to choose our battles.”

“I’m surprised Nathan’s not here,” she says a few minutes later, as we shoot through the Caldecott Tunnel. I glance behind at Alison, who is good-naturedly reading Emmie’s pony book for the third time. Hannah and the boys are swapping iPods in the back.

“He might come Christmas eve,” I answer, knowing he probably won’t.

“So then, everything’s
good
with you and your husband?” Mom whispers as we enter Happy Valley Road. She’s tap-tapping her nails on the steering wheel, obviously onto something. It’s so
like
her to launch right into this, to start probing and criticizing in the first five minutes of my first visit in five years.
She still has no boundaries with me.

“Things are as good as can be expected, Mom,” I snap. Does she really think I’m going to launch into a treatise on my marital issues right here, with my children in the back and my sister now leaning over the seat, ears poised?

As we start the ascent up Orchard Hill, Mom says quietly, “That’s fine, Sylvie—you can keep your secrets.”

Who was it who taught me about keeping secrets? I’m thinking a few hours later, standing in the narrow kitchen with its familiar cracked yellow tile, its custard cups full of buttons and peanuts, aspirins and safety pins. Nothing here has changed, including my mother, who trained me in duplicity early and well, making me what I am today—a woman who can walk this line, inhabit parallel worlds, carry a lifetime’s worth of guilt without flinching, hold a secret as exquisitely as if it were one of these Wedgwood teacups Gram still insists on using, though one seems to shatter every couple years. This one has tiny roses painted on the sides, reminding me of Tai—of that first rose he offered, of his weakness for these extravagant transplants.

Only a dozen hours into my trip, I’m missing him more than I want to, shocked by how insistently my mind wanders back—to the thick, resonant voice in the cave of my ear, his thumb stroking the fleshy part of my palm, the disquieting shards of light in his eyes. As I face my family’s accusations—that I’ve abandoned my heritage, failed to stay in touch, become a liberal Easterner—I’m continually warding off these illicit thoughts, or drawing them close like the threads of a protective cocoon. I keep reaching into my pocket, fingers curling tight around the rough blue agate.

The last time I saw him, he’d appeared during the annual Open Studios that our building hosts before Christmas. I’d decided at the last minute to participate, opening my doors and displaying a dozen of my landscapes, along with a sampling of student art. Eli’s work was represented, of course—I’d hung two of his best watercolors on the center wall—and part of me was anticipating father and son, watching the crowds, feeling a tiny explosion of disappointment each time someone
else
walked through the door. Still, I was somehow unprepared for the moment when he finally entered in his chocolate-colored tweed blazer and worn jeans, Eli close behind.

I was talking with the director of development and a board member from Smith College—a conversation that should have mattered to me. They were asking if I’d ever considered teaching in an academic setting. One was saying she’d like to send two artistic nieces my way, the other asking how much for that piece with the harbor? I should have given them every molecule of my attention and salesmanship, but all I could do was steal glances over their shoulders, wondering when I’d get away. He was sipping wine in the corner, laughing with my petite friend Jules, who owned the studio across the hall. Was he
actually
flirting? So convinced of his appeal? Was there a shade of cruelty I’d never noticed before in that sensuous smile? I was blazing with jealousy, regretting the moment when the world became divided into Tai and Everyone Else. When was it that he hijacked my wits?

The Smith women introduced me to the art museum curator, who had the audacity to take my time talking about Lesser Known Impressionists. I thought I would die of agitation and longing as the curator droned on about Berthe Morisot and Mary Cassatt—a topic I normally would’ve found interesting, had my lover not been walking toward me, jump-starting my heart.

And then he was taking my elbow, mercifully, saying, “Would you excuse me, ladies?” Flashing a radiant smile. “I just need to speak with Ms. Sandon about one piece before I go.” I was muttering my apologies, dissolving into the solid warmth of his shoulder as we traversed the perimeter of the studio.

“I can’t stay,” he whispered. “I’m taking Eli to the movies tonight, but I wanted to see you, before you go west.”

“You smell yummy,” I said.

“Do you think people would suspect anything if I bought
all
your paintings?” he asked. “Well, except that one with the boats.”

“Oh? Why don’t you like that one?” I pulled away, feigning offense.

“Too cheerful,” he remarked. “It feels like a facade—doesn’t have the intensity of your other ones somehow.”

“Well, I’m not
only
gloomy, you know.” We had stopped before the paintings and were standing a few feet apart, pretending to talk shop. He’d trimmed his beard closer and was wearing the sagey aftershave that I loved. My head seemed to float several feet over my body, though I hadn’t had any wine. I handed him a business card, just to be cute. He looked at it, pulled out a pen, and scribbled a few lines on the back, then slipped it into the pocket of my black silk jacket just as Eli sauntered up.