Apart From Love Read Online Free Page B

he, too, is counting time.  
Then, in an odd tone of voice he says, “I saw the top, the shiny top of her piano. It flashed as it opened. And there, in that surface, which looked almost glassy, as if it were a mirror, you could see her eyes.”
At this point I am ready to berate him, because anyway, what is so special about the top of that piano, other than the dent, and those marks and scratches? And who, in his right mind, can see it appearing there, out of thin air, right next to a hospital bed?  
And the eyes, where did they come from, the twilight zone? He must be insane, don’t you think? Insane—or totally out of his mind!  
So I say under my breath, “Fat idiot!”  
And he snaps again, as if he could hear me, and he says, “Don’t call me fat!”
Startled, I glance at him. “You never question yourself, dad, do you.”  
“I do not,” he says. “I know that top was not there—but still there it was, and I saw it.”
I wave my hand at him, which annoys him. He seems saddened by my disbelief.  
“It was lifting,” he insists, “just like that, lifting open before me. Like a wing, you see, with the edge sweeping up over you.”  
“Don’t you tell me, I know how it looks,” I tell him.  
“Like a wing,” he repeats. “A wing, held in place by a crutch. And that ,” he says to himself, with no further explanation, “ that was the way we were, your mother and I. A wing and a crutch.”    
I wish to tell him No, I don’t think so—even though this time, his words find an echo in me, and I can almost hear that wing, flapping in the air above us, and then coming down heavily, and leaning hard, right on top of its support, its crutch, with a jolt and a creak.  
Then suddenly—in the shadow under his wheelchair, where the sofa used to be before I pushed it over—right there, I think I see something: a few traces... Can you see them? Shaped like little loops, pressed lightly one after the other, into the dust.  
I crawl out from under the belly of the piano, and there I find it, after all these years, buried in layers of dirt: my mother’s lost ring. Only now it is a bit stuck. It seems to be frozen in place, and it has no halo.  
I dig it out and I shiver, because here, in my hand, is a token of my family, the way it used to be; the way it had better be. Whole. Perfect. Ideal. Worthy of all that pain, the anxiety, the longing. Now, if I open my hand—even a little—it may slip away. Here is my past. I would like to think it was in harmony. I must keep hold of it, so I can keep my grip.
My father is watching me. His eye, the one I can see, is set in its socket, and from there it discloses a hint, just a hint of suspicion. I rise up over him and at once he clenches the armrests, and steers the wheelchair away, not knowing what I hold in my fist, not aware of the cold, metallic touch, or of how much it can make you hurt, in here—but noticing, perhaps, the tears streaming down my face.  
Here is that thing that, once upon a time, would light up and zigzag in the air with such spark, such energy, when she played for us. And then—after mom threw it away—nothing was ever the same again. No one would believe me if I told them. And now that I found it, I am at the point where I begin to doubt it myself.

Chapter 3
No Omelette For Me
As Told by Ben

F or the last hour, two things have been happening, each causing its own type of discomfort. I will them to go away, go away already. Still I can sense them, one becoming stronger, the other—more distinct, even as I try to recover the ghost of my dream, or at least find my sleep, which has receded, like floodwaters under a relentless, blazing sun.  
I recognize then that my sleep has become as shallow as a plain puddle, and wish I could immerse myself back in it, calm myself down, and not pay attention to these things, one arousing unease, the other—hunger. At this point my eyelids are so heavy, and if I keep them shut I could still sink