Part 2 (2/2)
”Of course I don't mind,” she said, though I sensed that she did.
I found the key ring hanging inside the kitchen cupboard. The keys made soft metal sounds as I carried them to the second floor, which was warm and stuffy, the doors all closed. When I entered my old room I went from window to window, pus.h.i.+ng up the sashes, struggling with the combination storms, letting fresh air pour in. I put a fitted sheet on the narrow bed, unfolded the flat sheet, and tucked it in, fatigue throbbing through me like a pulse.
It was faintly light still, not quite nine o'clock. I lay down without undressing, punched speed dial, and closed my eyes. Yos.h.i.+ picked up on the second ring, his voice low and smooth, like river stones.
”Mos.h.i.+ Mos.h.i.+.”
”It's me. I got here just fine.”
”Good. I miss you, Lucy.”
”Me, too. What are you doing?”
”Walking to catch the train. It's raining a little.”
I imagined the lane, the river he'd cross before the station. If I were there I'd be lying in bed watching rain drip from the copper eaves, planning my vocabulary lesson for the day.
”I haven't set up the Webcam. Maybe tomorrow. My mother isn't very high-tech.”
”How is she?”
”Okay. Fine, really. But the house is very quiet.”
”You see. I was right.”
”I do see. She's glad you're coming. She wants to meet you.”
”Just a few days. I want to meet her, too. How's your brother?”
”He's good. He says h.e.l.lo. He's having a baby.”
”What?”
”It's true. Top secret, though. I'll be an aunt in October.”
”Congratulations. I didn't know he'd gotten married.”
”He didn't. Not yet. I mean, I don't know if he will. It's all a surprise.”
”Well, tell him h.e.l.lo.”
”I will. Have there been more earthquakes?”
”A few, not so bad.”
”Hey. Did you turn off the gas?”
He laughed. ”Yes,” he said. ”Yes. I turned off the gas. Look, I'm almost at the station now, I have to go.”
”Okay. Call me tonight?”
”I will. Send me an e-mail if you can, okay?”
”I will.”
”Love you.”
He really must miss me, I thought, startled-Yos.h.i.+ wasn't much for endearments, especially on the phone. ”Love you, too,” I said. I thought, startled-Yos.h.i.+ wasn't much for endearments, especially on the phone. ”Love you, too,” I said.
I pressed the b.u.t.ton and there was only s.p.a.ce, all the miles between us filling up with darkness. I put the phone on the bedside table without opening my eyes, remembering the little concrete house we'd shared in Indonesia, its garden filled with mango trees and lush, swiftly growing plants I couldn't name. We always met there when we got home from work, and shared a drink as the moon rose, listening to the rustling sounds of lizards in the tall gra.s.s. I wanted to reach out now and catch Yos.h.i.+'s hand in mine, to walk with him back into that tranquil life. But he was in the middle of a day and ten thousand miles away. I pulled the blankets up and fell asleep to the sounds and scent of water.
The dream began as a long and wearying journey in the rain, full of airports and frustrations, missed connections and clocks ticking, perilous deadlines. I was being followed, through corridors, first, and then through a forest. My suitcase, old-fas.h.i.+oned and made of leather, hit a tree and broke open, spilling everything. In panic, I started crawling through the foliage, the earth damp and loamy. I searched wildly through the velvet leaves of cyclamen, blossoms flaring around me like birds in startled flight. What I'd lost was important, somehow vital to me, life or death, and even though footsteps and voices were approaching, growing louder and more menacing, I couldn't stop, pus.h.i.+ng leaves away and digging in the earth with my hands, until the voices were upon me.
I woke, so frightened and disoriented I could not move.
Gradually, slowly, I remembered where I was. Still, I had to take several deep breaths before I could swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand up. In the glaring light of the bathroom I splashed water on my face, studying my pale reflection in the mirror. My eyes, like Blake's, were large and blue, but shadowed with fatigue.
The house was still, the closed doors in the hallway like blank faces. I unlocked them all. Everything was caught in time, as if the world had stopped the summer after my father died. In my parents' room, the bed was neatly made. Blake's room still had its posters of the moon and the earth, our luminous blue-green planet floating in the interstellar s.p.a.ce of his walls. In the guest room, packed boxes were stacked high against one wall, so perhaps my mother had been up here after all, starting to go through the old things. When I opened the door to the cupola, stale, hot air spilled down the narrow steps, as if nothing had stirred in it for decades. It was like a tower in a fairy tale, where the princess p.r.i.c.ked her finger, or spun straw into gold, or lowered her thick hair to her lover below.
No breath in that tiny rooftop room. Here, too, I opened all the windows, sweeping away the dead flies that had collected in the sills. When the room was full of the lapping sounds of the lake, full of wind, I sat on one of the window seats, breathing in the fresh air. The lake was calm and smooth, almost opalescent. I watched dawn come, the sun catching on the ring of keys I'd left splayed out against the painted seat: new keys and ancient keys, formed for locks that no longer existed, kept because they were beautifully fas.h.i.+oned, or because no one could remember what they opened and thought they might be needed someday.
My father's lock-picking tools hung from the ring, too, folded like a Swiss Army knife into a compact metal case. They were a kind of inheritance, pa.s.sed down from my great-grandfather, Joseph Arthur Jarrett. I opened them, wondering when my father had used them last. As a girl I would sometimes go to his office at Dream Master after school and do my homework in the corner, happy to be near the swirl of conversation and the scents of metal and sawdust, customers coming in for nails or tools or chicken wire or a special order of tile. Sometimes they came with their secrets, too, stored in metal boxes from which the keys had been lost. My father's expression was always intent and focused as he worked, his scalp visible beneath his cropped hair in the harsh light, his face breaking open in satisfaction, finally, as the tumblers clicked and fell into place. He charged five dollars for this service, ten dollars for house calls, and people paid happily, so eager that they almost never waited to open their boxes in private: Bonds or jewelry or wills; a few times, nothing at all.
My father had taught me what he knew, letting me sit in his chair and press my ear against the smooth wood or metal of a shuttered box on his desk, instructing me how to listen to the whisper of metal s.h.i.+fting, something like a wave, smooth and uninterrupted, until suddenly the frequency changed slightly, became weighted, suspenseful. What was or wasn't inside never really mattered; it was the whisper of metal on metal that he wanted me to hear. The first time I succeeded, the box springing open beneath my touch, he'd let out a cheer of delight and lifted me up in a hug.
Beneath the lip of the window seat, almost hidden beneath layers of paint, but visible now that the cus.h.i.+ons had been stripped away, was a little keyhole. I slid down and squatted on the floor amid the dust motes and the carca.s.ses of flies, slipping a thin metal tool into the keyhole and pressing my ear against the wood. I closed my eyes, imagining my father on those long ago days, making the same motions I was making now, listening in this same intent way. When the last tumbler clicked into place I exhaled a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, feeling a relief so intense it was almost like joy, and pulled open the cupboard door.
The s.p.a.ce seemed empty. In the soft glow of sunrise, I reached inside and felt along the floor, worrying about dead mice or, worse, finding nothing but grit. Then my wrist grazed a stack of papers and I pulled it out. Dust streaked my hands and permeated the papers. At first I felt a rush of excitement; surely, if someone had taken such pains to hide these, they must be important. Yet aside from the mild scholarly interest they immediately evoked-they were mostly flyers and little magazines that seemed to have been written by or for suffragettes-the pamphlets were disappointing, more like insulation than a true find. I closed the cupboard, the lock clicking back into place, and carried the keys and dusty papers back to my room. I lay down on the bed, meaning to read through them, but I got caught in the mysterious tides of jet lag, and fell asleep instead.
Chapter 3.
MY MOTHER WAS ON THE PATIO WHEN I GOT UP, WEARING A dark purple jogging suit and drinking coffee; her silver hair was pulled back in a purple scrunchie. She had moved the vase of glads with their supple pink throats to a shady spot beside a low stone wall. The lake was as smooth as gla.s.s, silvery blue. It felt good to be outside, in so much s.p.a.ce and fresh air after the density and bustle of Tokyo.
She pushed the list she was making out of the way and poured me some coffee from the thermal pot, the rich scent drifting over the table.
”Did you sleep okay?”
”Thanks.” I took the cup, sipped-it was strong, very hot. ”That's good. Thanks. I slept okay, I guess. I was up a lot-jet lag.”
”No wonder. Such a long trip.”
”Not so long. At least I didn't have to walk.” She laughed, and I missed Yos.h.i.+. ”What's that-a grocery list?”
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