Aftermath of Dreaming(95)
Life went on, in its way.
26
There is a concept in Buddhism of “No birth; no death.” That all living things continue on in some form. A seed grows into a stem with leaves, then flowers, and dies only to become mulch for new plants in the spring. A cycle of birth and death; everything on the chain continuing, no stopping.
But the Buddhist retreat that I was supposed to go on next week has been stopped. I got a message on my answering machine—after another hang-up—that the Jesuit priest who was going to run it had a medical emergency, so it’s been postponed until they aren’t sure when. I really could have used the break from everyday life after Suzanne’s wedding last weekend, but the Catholic imperative to be forgiving, plus the Buddhist practice of nonattachment are making me feel guilty for my attitude, so I remind myself that the retreat will happen at the time when it will be best.
I have strong faith in Buddhism; I just wish Lizzie played by their rule of continuing. Lizzie probably has not died, but her store, I am sickened to discover, is undeniably, irrevocably kaput. I am standing on a sidewalk under the hot August sun staring at the Closed sign in the door of her store. The empty darkness of the windows is hard to comprehend, so I keep looking up the street and back at them, as if this vision I am having will suddenly change.
“Goddamn you, Lizzie.” I glance around to see if anyone heard me, a woman railing at an empty storefront. I don’t know why I believe that bellowing her name will somehow make her hear my anger. She is not God, able to divine my thoughts; she is human—closer to Beelzebub, frankly—and skipped out on me without paying and with my jewelry besides.
I get in my truck, start it up, and throw it into gear too quickly, causing it to lurch forward and die. I sit for a moment wondering what birth will arise from this death, but all I feel is anger. The five stages of grief flash in my mind like cards dealt during a magic trick. The joker turns up last and has Lizzie’s face on it.
For the first time, I find my way through the Venice streets easily, as if the neighborhood is escorting me out, as if it knows I have no need to go there again. As I get on the 10 freeway heading east to go home, I wonder where Lizzie has disappeared to. In what part of this vast area called Los Angeles is she conjuring a new life. I imagine a trail of fake eyeglasses and packets of red hair dye left in her wake as she discards her store-owner disguise.
And where is my jewelry that was in Lizzie’s store? Is she wearing the pieces? Sold them cheap to a friend or maybe gave them to a relative as a seemingly extravagant gift? I want to slap her and wake up from this bad dream. The jewelry is completely lost, gone, given to her with nothing received back except an invoice—a lot of good that will do—and no idea where she or it went. When my pieces in Rox were sold, I didn’t know who bought them, but I’d already been given a check for the merchandise, the reciprocal evidence that what I delivered had not disappeared into the ether like a scream never heard.
I had thought Lizzie was permanent, one of those people who will always be right where they are. No change in their life, no growth. One nonmoving thing to count on that will always be in the same spot decades from now. Boy, was I wrong. Lizzie is no longer. Just gone, gone, gone. My father did that once, but he didn’t have my jewelry, just my heart. Goddamn him, too.
“It’s your father being absent so long, honey,” Reggie says during our telephonic breakfast this morning after I tell him about yet another scream dream last night. “You feel unsafe in the world, that’s pretty clear.”
“It’s not because of him.” It’s too hot this morning for oatmeal and I can hear Reggie sipping on a straw. In an effort to lose weight, he is only drinking protein smoothies for breakfast, he told me, and the rest of his meals are as rigidly mapped out. He’s been thrilled for the last month ever since I broke up with Michael, and maybe that euphoria has fueled him to resist his normal fare of sausage, toast, and eggs. “Anyway, I just want the screams to end—it’s been six months. Enough already.”
“Have you ever thought about finding him?”
“Who?”
“Paul, your father.”
“Oh. No, I haven’t. Once I did. Years ago when I was still in Mississippi after that dreadful Cousin Elsie woman called, I had daydreams about stealing Momma’s car and running away to Florida and somehow connecting with him there, as if our mutual DNA would illuminate my way to him like radar, but I never did. Not only wasn’t it realistic, but even if I had miraculously found him, I guess I didn’t want to see how he’d respond. Or wouldn’t. Sometimes it’s better not knowing.” I make a point of turning on the water in the kitchen sink. “Can we change the subject, please?”
“I just don’t want you waking up screaming anymore.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t, either.” We listen to each other breathe for a moment. I can tell he isn’t saying anything in case I want to talk about this some more, which I know he thinks I should, but I don’t. “So, what are you up to today?”
Reggie distracts me with tales of his current job. Since I have stopped seeing Michael, my conversations with Reggie have felt more complete, because there is no longer an entire area that I have to leave out. Hanging up the phone, I wonder if or when he will ever start seeing someone.