The Color of Home: A Novel (12 page)

“Focus on parts of the wheel that generate feelings of being out of balance.”

After his conversation with Jackie, he gravitated to the west or physical part of the wheel right away. Even though the process required a lengthy meditation on the topic, he already knew he didn’t balance there. He circled east. The trip to Sedona affirmed one of many ways he practiced his spirituality. He balanced there, though there was always room for improvement. He travelled north. He’d always been a strong decision maker, especially with respect to his company. He balanced there. He circled south. He pictured Sassa, smiling at him, her eyes widened by love, her blonde hair flowing down to her breasts, wearing her favorite red summer dress. His favorite snapshot. He couldn’t be balanced in that dimension without her. Where was she? What was she doing? How could he get her back?

Halfa reached over and brushed his shoulder. “Each person has their own wheel. The best relationships occur between people who were in balance before coming together.”

A small plateau lizard entered the circle, stopped for a moment, then raced off behind a rock. Wheel balance. Just another way to say two wholes coming together was better than two halves making a whole. Would he get a chance to tell Sassa she was right?

“How is this working?” Halfa asked.

“Not so well. I like the idea of the wheel, but I’m not feeling anything new. All I can think about is Sassa.”

“Let’s stop then and call it a day. If you’re up for some excitement, we can take a more radical approach tomorrow. Meet me for dinner in an hour and we can talk about the Yankees. You’re from New York, right? You don’t like the Mets, do you?”

“You like baseball?”

“It’s my favorite sport. There’s something Zen-like about men in uniforms mostly waiting around.”

“Do you know anything about ayahuasca?” Halfa asked the next morning over breakfast.

Nick fidgeted with his fork. He’d gone through a phase in high school in which he had experimented with mild drugs, but never hard ones. Where was she headed? “I believe it’s related to LSD.”

“Not exactly. It does contain DMT, which is one of the core ingredients in LSD. Ayahuasca is used by the Shamans in Peru. When I visited the Peruvian rainforest, I spent six months apprenticing with one of the Shaman masters on how to use it.”

“And I thought I was out there,” he said.

“Ayahuasca changed my life. I was able to exorcise all of my demons, and I had lots of them.”

“Isn’t it illegal?”

“Yes, so you need to be sure that you want to give it a try—though, in Sedona, there isn’t much risk of getting into trouble.”

“Isn’t it hard to get the ingredients?”

“I brewed a batch right before you came to Sedona. I had a hunch we might go here. The ayahuasca ceremony I have in mind requires four nights to complete, so if you agree, we’ll start tonight. You’ll need each day to recover and meditate.”

“Do you believe it will help?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll give it a shot.”

“Meet me in an hour at the start of the trail. I’ll bring a couple of tents and supplies. Bring a backpack with clothes and whatever else you need. We won’t be back for four days.”

Ayahuasca. A thick, brown sludge. Liquid dirt. Halfa had mixed something sweet into the brew, which made the overall taste even more repulsive. She prepared a full cup for Nick, given his size and weight. After his first sip, he gagged. Darting away from the camp, he hid behind a large boulder and dry heaved for a time.

After he returned, time slowed. He sat with Halfa by the fire and used a twig to draw circles in the red dirt. The hallucinations started with amorphous colors. Reds. Greens. Blues. Oranges. Yellows. Every now and then a familiar shape emerged for a second. Cries and whispers away from the camp. Another Bergman movie. “Should I investigate?”

“Probably better to stay put.”

He warmed his hands over the fire. The heat was just what he needed. Suddenly, he yanked them back. Had he been burned? Would he ever play guitar again? Ever write another song for her? Beads of sweat formed across his forehead, even though the night air was cool.

“Keep going into the fear, Nick,” Halfa said.

The sky spanned overcast, except for a patch containing the moon and a few galaxies. The weather fluxed. A strong gust of wind blew through the camp, extinguishing their modest fire. He lost sight of the tent, the fire pit, Halfa. The moon melted and the galaxies dimmed to black. His heart began to race. Sweat poured off his face and saturated his “Glass Onion” T-shirt. He’d never been so terrified in his life, not even the night his father had died. Sobbing, he called out to Halfa, but she didn’t respond.

Through the darkness, a man appeared in the distance, backlit and achingly old, reduced by his thinning white hair and slouch. Nick couldn’t make out his face. Edging toward Nick, the man appeared to be burned down to the cheekbone on one side of his face. Stopping within a few feet of Nick, he said, “You’ll never leave here. You’ll live your whole life in this blackness without hope. No one will have compassion for you. No one will love you. You’re already dead.” Nick screamed.

“It’s okay, Nick. You’re back and safe with me now. You held your ground,” Halfa said softly.

“I was terrified.”

“That’s exactly where you need to be. Tomorrow, I’ll help you get the demons out of there.”

The second day’s ceremony started at the same time and in the same way as the earlier one. Nick downed another full cup of ayahuasca, and within thirty minutes he’d returned to blackness. Out of the corner of his eye, Halfa stood, arms folded across her chest, smiling. Where did she get so much strength? At such a young age. Dozens of men were whispering and marching toward him. Shit. No time to smile.

Over the whispers, she said, “Throw them out one by one.”

As the men came into full view, their faces were different from the man Nick had seen the day before. None had burn marks and all morphed between youth and old age. He recognized some of the men, though he couldn’t place or name them. Paralyzed, he tried to scream but nothing came out. Raising his hands, he shot two bolts of electricity toward them, but each bolt petered out after only travelling a few feet. The men sped up and closed in.

Sometime later, he opened his eyes. He was lying face up on the ground. His face, covered in sweat and red dirt, caught the cold. Halfa, sitting next to him and holding his hand, cupped his cheek with her free hand.

“I can’t do this,” he said softly.

“You did well, Nick. You’re doing dark work. Fear and pain are where you need to go. Trust the process and you won’t regret it.”

“It’s too much. I want to stop.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“That’s up to you. We have two days left in the desert. If you want, I can pack up and you can stay here a couple more days by yourself, in retreat. That will give you time to reflect on what happened this week and whatever else you want to think about. Or we can stop. Your choice.”

“I can’t do this. Anything else.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

Early April reunion, After Sassa Year One, New York City: The muffled theme song from
Mad Men
sounded mid-chorus. Nick catapulted out of his chair, leaped over an open guitar case, and pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. “Hi, Sassa.”

“Hi, Nick.”

Her voice jumped out of the phone into his ear and rushed through his body, into every extremity, every organ, blood vessel, and cell. A billow of joy rose up after a year of absence and engulfed a tinge of nervousness.

“Ready for the year one report?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“I know the chef at Esca. Eight? I’ll make the reservation.”

“Sure.”

Right after Nick hung up, he visualized one last time the deeper conversation. The past year was important for both of them. They’d learned a lot, and now it was time to put what they had learned into practice. He loved her. He wanted to be with her. He didn’t want to wait any longer. If she needed to search more, they would do it together. He’d rehearsed his speech so many times that he’d gotten it down to the inflection points. He took a deep breath as he finger-combed his hair. The response? She’d apologize for putting him through so much pain. He’d forgive her with the right amount of selflessness. She’d tell him she loved him. They’d dart out of the restaurant, arm in arm, and catch a cab to his apartment. There, they’d make passionate love and agree to never part again. It was in the bag.

At close to eight, he approached the restaurant. Sassa stood waiting for him outside, as beautiful as the images that had possessed him the entire year, but different. Calmer. Stronger. A little closer to whole?

“Hey.” She took a step toward him, arms wide open, and hugged him.

“Shall we go in? This is the best seafood restaurant in the city.”

“I’ve never been.”

“You’ll love it.”

They occupied a small table at the front of the restaurant with a view of Forty-third Street. The chef, tall and scruffy, came over immediately to welcome them. Clearly happy to see Sassa, he chatted with her about old times and new ingredient combinations. Every now and then, Nick nodded politely. On the chef’s recommendation, they ordered scorpion fish and pink snapper appetizers, and then branzino for two as their shared entree. As was their tradition, they stuck with red wine.

“Do you remember our three questions?” Nick asked right after the chef scurried off.

She smiled. “You’re not wasting any time, are you? Let’s see. . . . What did you learn this past year? Do you feel whole? Do you know where you belong?”

“That’s them. Do you want to start or should I?”

“I will, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure.”

“I had a good year, Nick. I settled into my apartment in Cambridge, I landed a chef position, and I learned a lot.”

“Where in Cambridge?”

“Right in Harvard Square. Brattle Street.”

“Cool. What restaurant?”

“Sirellina. High-end Italian. I rode my bike to work most days.”

“I’d love to ride again.”

Smiling, she picked up the wine glass and spun the stem back and forth between her fingers for what seemed liked a long time. The wine whirlpooled and lightened until her smile went flat. “Since we’re getting right to it . . . I met a man in Cambridge . . . Brayden. He’s older, forty-eight to be exact. A professor. We became lovers.”

“What?” He tightened all over. What about the three questions? How could she have done this to him? He pushed down tears, pushed down screaming, pushed down running away. Fuck. A spin out was on the way.

“The romantic part of my relationship with Brayden is over. I wasn’t so sure at first, but leaving was the right thing to do.”

“This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”

Her eyes softened and rounded. Calmly, she reached over, covered his hand, and stroked it with her thumb. “Didn’t you once tell me that the important thing isn’t about whether something is hard or easy, but whether it’s true?”

He barely nodded.

“I’m sorry, Nick. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m being honest. We weren’t together this year and we both knew something like this might happen.”

He sipped his cappuccino. There was a thickness in his throat. Why was truth so much harder to handle when flipped in his direction? No need for his speech. All of his preparations, wasted. All of his expectations, gone. “I know . . . but it’s still hard to hear.”

“I felt safe with Brayden, and I was happy. He has a daughter, Chloe, and the two of us became close.”

“Did you love him?”

“I did.”

“More?”

“Weren’t you the one who was always telling me not to compare?”

He barely nodded.

“Brayden knows himself well, and he understood more about what I needed than I did myself. He taught me about seeing another person without putting myself first. Overall, he helped in ways that I’m not sure I can fully explain.”

The heat behind Nick’s face amped up and beads of sweat prickled his forehead. His hands and legs started to shake. Spittle formed in the sides of his mouth. Like nitroglycerin. Boom! He would go off on Sassa in front of the entire restaurant. He had an urge to run out into the street to protect her. Instead, unsure that he could hold back any longer, he drew in a deep breath. “I need a break. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time.”

In the bathroom, he washed his hands over and over. Shivering, he rocked back and forth, trying to stop, until he punched the air dryer so hard that, for a moment, he suspected he’d broken his index finger. In a stall, he sat down, locked the door, and practiced a slow breathing exercise he’d learned in therapy. Pain out. Peace in. Pain out. Peace in. Fuck. He pulled the toilet paper roll off of the holder and dribbled it off of the front of the stall. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

“Everything okay in there, buddy?”

“Fine. Women.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Did he want to go back to the table? Still shaky, he emerged from the stall, washed his hands, and gathered himself in front of the mirror. He had to do better.

On the way back to Sassa, he noticed a door that opened into the alley behind the restaurant. At the door with both hands on the exit bar, he looked over his shoulder for a few seconds before sneaking out. Walking briskly, at first without aim, he eventually headed toward his apartment. A few minutes later he texted Sassa: I’m sorry. I can’t do this.

She replied immediately. I understand. Can I call you tomorrow?

I don’t know. Do you have money to pay for dinner?

I’ve got you covered.

Back at his apartment, in bed and still dressed, Nick clutched his pillow. Images of Sassa and an older George Clooney-like man making love caught fire and raged. He imagined sitting in the corner of their bedroom. The pain, unbearable, conspired to move him off his spot, away from his vigil, but he held firm and witnessed every movement, every caress, for signs of hope. Struggling to focus, he took in the expression on her face after she came. Had she found home? Yes. No. What did that expression look like anyway? Could he change their history, or at least redefine it? She was restless with Brayden. The pull was only about sex. She didn’t love him. After a few hours, he had nothing left.

Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed her number, only to hang up before her phone rang. Instead, he bugged out of his apartment, and rushed toward her hotel. About halfway there, he whirled around and sprinted back toward his building. Out of breath, he sat down on his building stoop. As his thoughts spun like a top, faster and faster, out of control, with no end in sight, he took off his sneakers and pulled off two newly formed blisters. He craved snow.

Back in bed at around 5:00 a.m., after swallowing a few sleeping pills, he lay face-up and waited. Spinning out of control, in one form or another, birthed all of the pain in the world.

Nick’s phone rang. He glanced over at his alarm clock. 11:00 a.m. “Hey.”

“How are you?”

“A little better.”

“Want to meet at Joe’s at 2:00?”

“Sure.”

“Good. See you then.”

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. A crack in the shade glimmered. Why hadn’t he been strong enough to handle the truth the previous night? Why did he run out? At Joe’s, no matter what, he would remain calm and composed; no matter what, he would stay in the conversation.

After arriving early, he ordered Sassa’s favorite green tea and waited for her at their old table. The café buzzed that afternoon, full of patrons who, like his closest friends, had no idea what had happened the night before. It was better that way. When Sassa joined him, he gently slid the tea in front of her. “I’m sorry.”

She reached across the table and placed her hand on his forearm. “It’s okay. I know it was hard to hear about Brayden. Do you feel up to talking about last night?”

“I’ll try.” He sipped his cappuccino and collected his thoughts. It was time for complete truth. That was their agreement a year ago. Truth with no masks. She’d kept her end of the bargain; now it was his turn. “I felt a huge surge when you first told me about Brayden.”

“I saw it on your face.”

“When you finished, I had to leave because I was afraid that I might blow up in front of everyone.”

“I’m okay if you need to blow up now.”

“It’s passed.” He didn’t want to ever feel a surge like that again. What exactly was it? Fear. That she’d moved on. That they would never be lovers again. Jealousy. More than he’d ever experienced. A professor? An older man? Disappointment. “The thought of you with Brayden was hard to hold, and at the same time, I was disappointed in myself for not being able to handle the truth.”

“I know it was hard to hold.”

“Anyway, I didn’t fall asleep until a little after 5:00. I kept spinning and replaying our conversation. I tried to make sense of what you told me. I looked for a way out, some lapse in my logic, some magical power that might change history.”

“I think I can help.”

“That would be good.”

“Let’s check in often as I tell you the rest of the story.”

“This is hard.”

A couple—one blonde, one black-haired—entered Joe’s holding hands, and joined the line to order. The man, standing behind the woman, rested his hands on her shoulders and whispered something in her ear. The woman leaned back and smiled. With his hand on his thigh, Nick splayed out his fingers and pressed down.

“Ready?” Sassa asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“The universe knew exactly what I needed, to paraphrase one of those books you gave me last year, and sent me Brayden. What he gave me, I’m certain I couldn’t have found from anyone else.”

“How come?”

“Because he helped me take an unforeseen step toward myself.”

The couple sat down at the table next to them. The man reached across and stroked the woman’s hand. Their wedding bands, intricate and handmade, matched. With his free hand, the man placed two cubes of sugar into the woman’s coffee and stirred for her.

“You really care about him.”

“I do.”

“I was so jealous last night.”

“Do you know that the average emotion lasts ninety seconds?”

“Really?”

“What we do after that time is what gets us into trouble. We give ourselves—sometimes for years—to emotions that were meant to last no more than a couple of minutes.”

“You’re not mine,” he said.

“True. I don’t belong to anyone.”

“Nor do I. So . . . why did things end with Brayden?”

“Because he was a teacher more than a partner. Because he was learning how to see another person after a lifetime of only caring about himself. Because he knew I needed to search more and that I had to finish by myself.”

“I’m so sorry for last night. Do you want another green tea?”

“No need. Tea would be great.”

Calm for the first time in twenty-four hours, Nick approached the counter and ordered more coffee and tea. What had just happened? She’d sat with him, leaned in, and together they blasted away the wedge. She wasn’t moving away. Neither was he. When had she become a lifelong relationship, no matter what? When had he decided that he would always stick by her side? When he returned to her, he softly placed her tea on the table and slid it over. “How do you feel about Brayden now?”

“Check-in time. How are you doing?”

“Better. Calmer.”

“Good. Me too. I’m grateful for Brayden. He’ll always have a piece of my heart.”

Brayden really had helped her. Nick could see it in her face, feel it in her touch. One person wasn’t enough for her on the way to whole. That was much easier to accept when it was just an idea, just part of a conversation from two years ago. Flesh and bone, time and distance, ego, whatever, had complicated things. “The hardest part is accepting that I can’t give you everything that you need.”

“I know.”

“I clearly haven’t even accepted that we aren’t together anymore. Entering last night, I had this fantasy that we’d get back together.”

She loosely clasped the spoon and stirred her tea for a long time. The fractals in her eyes seemed to float as her gaze went weightless. “Some things are unknowable, Nick. We won’t be able to say for sure how and when we’ll get where we need to go. About all we can do is let it happen and try to stay connected as everything unfolds.”

“This conversation is a good start, don’t you think?”

“Yes. It could have driven a wedge between us, but it didn’t. There’s something about telling the truth and then staying in the conversation that’s, well, generative.”

A grin spread across his face. What to call a relationship that was generative for a lifetime? They were lacemakers. Their job—create vulnerable, fragile works of emotional beauty that, with care, morphed anew time and time again. And do it in a world that seemed destined to tear things apart. “I do feel closer to you now.”

“A little closer to whole. So, tell me about your year.”

“Are you up for a short walk?”

“Sure.”

“I need to make a quick call, then we can go.”

Nick and Sassa exited Joe’s and headed toward Bleeker Street. He didn’t tell her where they were going until they crossed an intersection about a block away from the studio, and even then, only divulged that he wanted her to meet a friend.