Miles
June 5th, 2009
Friday
They hired me.I’ve been having trouble writing the full arrangements for this movie.A beautiful, intense romance.The producer turned out to be an intense character himself.He made it very clear that heintendsto “hold back tears” when listening to the movie’s final soundtrack.No images, no video.He wants the “excruciating power of music”, as he puts it.
There’s so much pressure on my shoulders, being crushed by the weight of my blank, nonexistent inspiration lately.
Today’s going to be one of those days when I’ll be alone in the studio for the whole afternoon.
My phone buzzes.It’s a text from my mom.We haven’t seen each other in a while.It feels like she moved out of the country ages ago.These days, she spends her time caring for animals at a shelter owned by her partner: thedifferent man.A man who has clearly lived through his own struggles and looks at life with a quiet wisdom, shaped by experience and kindness.And I believe her when she says he has taught her a lot.
She’s been going to therapy for three years now, with the same psychologist and psychiatrist, and I do notice a different light around her.It’s visible through her voice, lighter, steadier, as if she’s finally standing on solid ground.
We don’t talk every day, but we check in every month.She texts me often.I told her about Miss Amara a few days ago, and she was the most supportive, present, and real mother figure she has ever been.
I exit a Thai restaurant with a paper bag in my hands with takeout dinner for Asher and me.We have a few favorite restaurants we always go to, when neither of us feels like cooking.
As I cross the street, I face the Mexican place Ella and I went to in December.My heart still squeezes, as if trying to squeeze the emotions out of me.
“C’mon.You’ve lived in New York for six years now.Two days with Ella and everywhere attaches memories of her?”I murmur to myself.
The street is crowded.New York is very much alive on this warm June night.A few meters ahead of me, I notice an older man trip and fall on the sidewalk.Some shoes move past his fallen body, but no one slows down.A guy in a suit and earbuds doesn’t even notice him.A woman sidesteps him without even looking.I hurry to get there.
I reach the man and crouch down beside him, but his eyes are distant.He waves me off with a weak hand, muttering, “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
The hustle of the city continues around us.People walking, rushing, without so much as a glance in our direction.I offer him a hand, but he shakes his head, pulling himself up slowly.He doesn’t wish for my help.He distances more than our bodies.
The sound of the city is louder now, but it all feels distant.We are all distant.
I stand there for a moment, watching him shuffle off, his gait slow.He’s carrying more than just the weight of age.And as I turn to leave, something gnaws at me.A hollow space whereconnectionused to be.
Back in Evermere, the first person to come close to him would have stopped.They would have seen him.A hand would have been instantly offered, a kind word given.Here, he was just another invisible soul on a crowded sidewalk.And I can’t help but wonder if that’s the price of living in any busy place like this: you stop noticing one another.
Chapter 61
Ella
July 1st, 2009
Wednesday
There were these beautiful flowers, still, on my wooden kitchen table.In front of the half-open window, bathed in bright sunshine.Half in the light and half in the dark, the blue of the tiny petals is mesmerizing, reminiscent of the shade of blue on the horizon sea at the end of a summer day — the one I used to say would be the color of my wedding dress one day.
The light passes through the white petals, and they offer no resistance in their transformation to transparency.
Often, too often, life speeds us up.It makes the outside blurry.We end up making little stops between the passage of one thought and the embarkation on another.I always took a lot of notice of everything and everyone around me.That’s how I used to be.
Two months ago, when I moved away from Verryn, I found myself with months missing from my so-called “daily journal”, and it was a frightening realization.I hadn’t even been paying attention to my own thoughts.
But here I am, focused, as immobile as the flowers, simply writing about them.Finally.
Yesterday I bought a few things at Evermere’s local fair to make this country house even more of a home to me, my sister helped me pick them out.Although now I realize that I already used the words “going home” before when I was referring to this space of mine here in Evermere.For some reason, I never referred to Bill’s apartment as “home”.
Thisis home.I’m not in Evermere because Ihaveto be.I’m here because I want to.Not for a man in my life, not for a parental figure, not for a boss in some job, not for any duty imposed on me.For me.It’s for me.And it feels liberating to make a decision like that, for myself.
On Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays I catch the train back to the city to spend the day at the Research Institute, and at the Elmwood Center.I had a conversation with my boss, Dr.Curie.She was truly supportive.I assured her that I was willing to come in as many days a week as she would consider logical.She said that our jobs require constant learning, a lot of discipline, and commitment to the patients, and that she believes more in votes of confidence than in extreme control.By the end of our conversation, I wasn’t sure if I was asking for her permission, letting her know, or sitting there listening to her convince me to do it.
