Pushing Upward (29 page)

Chapter 25

A crane calling in the shade.
Its young answers it.
I have a good goblet. I will share it with you.

The next morning, I woke up hugging the soft-feathered pillow on my bed, reliving the sensation I'd had when I first arrived at this enclave of protection. It was hard to believe that time had passed so quickly. Emma's home had been a sanctuary for almost a year. There had always been a sense of tranquility that had followed me around the apartment and hovered over me while I slept. It had accompanied me to auditions and classes, everywhere I went. But now … I wasn't sure when it had left, but I wanted it back. I had never experienced that sense of security anywhere else.
And if it stays away, where do I find it again?

I lifted what felt like my three-hundred-pound body off the bed and dragged myself into the kitchen. I needed an orange to feel alive again. On the fridge was a note from Emma: “I'm spending the day with Zelda. I'll be back later. E.”

Oh no! I thought she was going to rest today. I thought we could talk, maybe go for a walk. Maybe she's just avoiding me.
There were no oranges in the fridge, so I swigged some grapefruit juice straight from the bottle. It was fine. She wasn't there. Even when she
was
there, as long as I did my swigging behind the refrigerator door, she would never see me. Today, I could swig all I wanted.

The empty space made me nervous. So I slipped into the shower to wash away the unease. Closely watching the soap form bubbles on my arms and stream down into the small holes of the drain, I realized that Emma hadn't mentioned where she was going today with Zelda. Clearly, the details of her life were not shared with
me
anymore. Every move she made was a surprise.

I got dressed and thought about what to do the rest of the day.
I know. I'll go see a movie. Should I? Why not?

Not even thinking to look at the clock or check the paper to see what was playing, I got into my poor little Fiat, in need of a serious wash, a tune-up, and new windshield wipers. Knowing these fixes would have to wait, like the rest of my life, I took off for the La Grande Theater.

The La Grande was a venerable fixture for L.A. movie buffs, known for its unique selection of noir, classic, and foreign films. They'd mix it up so you'd never know what genre they'd be playing, which made the theater
très
chic and very popular. Rachel and I used to go there last-minute all the time. There'd be at least one film that we'd see, and we'd always be glad we went. I was hoping that would be the case this afternoon. But it didn't matter what I watched. I just needed to get out of the apartment, out of my head, out of my life.

The movie playing today was
Harold and Maude.
I had always wanted to see this film. I'd missed it when it had come out a couple of years before. All I'd heard was that it was bizarre—which enticed me even more. Today, I had my chance. I parked the car in the lot next to the theater, ready to leave Sandra Billings' life and enter Harold and Maude's.

I bought my ticket, a moderate
-
size tub of popcorn, and stepped into the semi-dark theater. The middle of the twentieth row was perfect. There was one seat left.
It's a sign.
I looked around to see if there was anyone I knew. There wasn't. So I sat down and waited for the lights to dim. I couldn't wait to absorb the nuances of the characters, the cinematography, the editing, the directing. I loved critiquing every aspect of film, seeing how quickly I could psych out the director's next move. Just as I was about to launch into my popcorn, I heard someone call out my name from behind.

“Sandra, Sandra Billings!”

I turned around, and there was Carole Saunders from acting class, waving exuberantly, practically jumping up and down. Carole was a perky eighteen-year-old with way too much enthusiasm. I'd admired her chutzpah, but not her incessant need for attention or her loud, boisterous voice.

“Hi, Carole.” I smiled, wiggling my fingers back at her, hoping this would be the end of our tête-à-tête.

“Where have you been?” she shrilled. “We've missed you in class. Are you still seeing Larry? I saw him the other night with a tall blonde at the Troubadour.” The Troubadour was a nightclub in West Hollywood. But since you had to be twenty-one to get in there, I wondered how
she
got in.

Carole went on, “She kind of looked like a guy. The blonde, I mean. Maybe she was.” She giggled. People in nearby seats tried not to listen, without much success. Thank God, the lights were dimming.

I gave Carole another wave and a little half smile. “Take care.” Larry was the last person I wanted to hear about … or think about.

Harold and Maude
started rolling. Not a minute too soon. There were no trailers at La Grande. They'd just go right smack into the film, which I loved.

Harold and Maude.
What a trip! I was so glad I came.

It was a masterpiece! Harold, a death-obsessed nineteen-year-old, and Maude, a seventy-nine-year-old bubbly anarchist, meet, become best friends, and spend most of their time visiting funerals. While Harold's mother enrolls him in a dating service and tries to force him to join the Army, Maude reveals to Harold her quirky, philosophical perspective that totally opens his heart. It's like she takes him on this wild tour of what it's really like to be alive. What a ride! On the day of Maude's eightieth birthday, Harold proposes to her. And in so doing, he finds out the truth about life—at the end of hers.

That's when I really lost it. The film blew me away. It was so iconic. Never had I laughed and cried as much during a movie. I sat there in the empty auditorium, after everyone had left, and stared at the screen as the last credit rolled off and faded to black. While young boys in red vests marched in to sweep the popcorn-kerneled floor, I sat there questioning my own perceptions of life and death … my own understanding of the existential nature of our lives and the reasons we were here.

Why are we here?
Maude seemed to have figured it out. Has Emma? Was
my coming here today a random act, a coincidence? Or did the universe send me here to witness something about my own life?
The film was entirely too close to home.

Finally, I went for a very long walk so I'd be too exhausted to think … about anything.

Tired, but free from burdened thoughts, I walked into the apartment. You can imagine my surprise when I saw Emma sitting at the dining-room table with a fiftyish African-American man I'd never seen before. I stopped in my tracks, watched him lean over the table across from Emma, his massive body shaking with a big belly laugh.

“Hello!”

The black man looked up. He was surprised, but smiled. Emma jumped. Silence, then she recovered: “Oh, Sandra, hello. Come meet my friend Jackson.”

I put my purse on the sideboard and walked over to the table. I reached out my hand to Emma's guest. “Hi, I'm Sandra.”

“Jackson Parker.”

“Nice to meet you, Jackson.”

“Jackson is an old friend from New York. He's recently moved to Los Angeles,” Emma said. Her voice was restrained, but it was sweeter than it had been.

“Well, welcome to L.A.! What do you do here in this lovely city, may I ask?”

“I'm a trumpet player. Jazz mostly.”

“Really? Jazz is my all-time favorite music. Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, John Coltrane.”

I did love jazz, and I would have talked with Jackson for hours about all the musicians I used to listen to. All the jazz festivals I used to go to. I wanted to ask if he played at the New Orleans Jazz Festival, or at Newport. Had he ever played with Yusef Lateef? But I could hardly stay on my feet.

“You look tired, Sandra,” said Emma. “What time is rehearsal tomorrow?”

“Nine,” I said. I wasn't sure if she was really concerned or if she wanted me to leave. Either way, I was about to keel over. I was ready to excuse myself when a beautiful girl, about eighteen, with gorgeous light brown skin, big brown eyes, and a killer smile, emerged from the bathroom and sat down next to Jackson.

“This is Jackson's niece, Sharleen,” Emma said.

“Nice to meet you, Sharleen.” I leaned over and shook her hand.

“Sharleen is staying with Jackson until she finds a place to live. She's offered to help out with some cleaning.”

I looked at her in disbelief.

Why hadn't Emma talked to me about this? Had she planned this? There were so many words not being said. I didn't know whether to stay, or leave, or pull Emma into the hallway and ask her what the hell was going on. My stomach knotted. I decided to take a deep breath and sit for a minute. Maybe I was overreacting, blowing this out of proportion. Maybe the freeze-up was with me.

Struggling to find my bearings, and a little humility, I calmed down and turned to Sharleen. “How long have you been here?” I asked.

“A week.”

“How nice. How long are you staying?”

She looked at her uncle and then at Emma. “I don't know yet.”

My acting teacher used to say, “There are volumes in that line”—I now understood what he meant.

“You know, I think I
will
turn in early. Jackson, it was nice meeting you. I'd love to hear you play sometime. And Sharleen, I guess I'll be seeing you. Good night.”

I picked up my purse and walked into my room.

I grabbed my robe and went into the bathroom, turned both faucets on full force, and ripped open a package of lilac bath salts. Pouring the contents into the yellow tub, I watched each bubble bounce up to the surface. After stripping off my street clothes, I let myself down into the pale lavender water. I slipped deeper and deeper into the warm bubbles, until only my chin rested on the foaming surface and the rest of my body melted into the hot, liquid womb. The water wasn't hot enough; I turned the knob with the engraved
H
and felt a liquid blast of heat hit my toes.

The water was really hot now. I closed my eyes. It was my intention to burn away all feelings of abandonment, to steam out the lifetimes of torture I obviously must have caused others to endure. Why else did I have to suffer like this now? Rachel always talked about the debts we had to pay for our previous lifetimes. No doubt I'd been an Egyptian queen who'd spent her days ordering people around. Or maybe I was a prince who'd neglected his responsibilities and jet-setted around the world. After lifetimes of greed and leisure, it must be my time to repent.

All I wanted was for the scalding water to steam away all the past, present, and future I'd ever have to face so when it came time for me to reemerge from this pool of memories, there'd be nothing left but the experience of rebirth—permanently and forever.

I poured in another packet of lilac crystals.

God forbid anything good should happen to me for more than a day, a week, a few months. I felt nauseated. My whole body was trembling. Lying there in the purple water, I watched my childhood parade in front of my closed eyes: there was my father kicking me out of his den, my mother shooing me out of the kitchen, Steven wanting me out of the solar system. Steven, the bastard! I began to kick my feet in the water until it rained onto the floor tiles.
Why did I just lie there? I was such a wimp. How could I have let Lenny tear me open and throw me out the door?

Reclaim what you've lost! Maybe that's what the memory was all about.
Reclaiming my self-respect. How do I even begin to do that? Where do I start? And now Emma was pushing me out. Worthlessness leapt up full-blown. All I could think about was a pint of vanilla ice cream.

I left the tub and wiped the drops from my face, toweled down my body, grudgingly mopped up the shallow lake that had flooded across the floor, pulled on my pajamas, and headed to my bedroom. Not mine, Emma's, Josef's. Feeling like a caged animal, I lit a match, the candle, and a stick of sandalwood incense, and sat down on the bed.

Did Emma want me to leave?

Without thinking, my hand moved to the
I Ching.
I pulled it out from under the bed and began groping for the silk pouch with its coins, and then drew back.
No. I'm not going to throw it. Why should I?
It'd been wrong about Allen. Our relationship was far from Youthful Folly. He adored me. Anyone could see that. I wasn't entangling myself in empty imaginings or unreal fantasies. He cared for me as much as I cared for him. There'd been no humiliation, as the
I Ching
had predicted. It was off, way off. I was never going to throw the coins again.

I opened my eyes and settled myself firmly back against the pillows. I rummaged through the pile of books on the night table and picked up an old Tibetan pamphlet. At random, I opened to the question-and-answer session between one of the Buddhist monks and his students, hoping to find some words of wisdom or just to settle the spin going on in my mind. I read:

There is no such thing as a feeling of happiness that is permanent and everlasting.