The Color of Home: A Novel (18 page)

“That’s hard to believe.”

“I know.” Sassa looked directly at Rachel. “I love him, so I have no choice but to let him follow his heart.”

Rachel crunched on a piece of bacon. Then another. She took a long sip of espresso. “Don’t you want him back, like yesterday?”

“Yes, but the timing is off. I guess timing is a much bigger piece of the puzzle than I originally believed.”

Nick doused a few pieces of French toast with whipped cream and slowly ate them. On the way to the restaurant, a shiny, multi-colored rock had caught his eye. An amulet. He’d stopped to pick it up and slipped it into his pocket. He wanted to give the rock to one of them. But which one and when?

Sassa rose from her chair, slid it closer to Rachel. Perched on the edge of her seat, she folded her hands on the table. “Thanks for being honest. I wish you were easier to dislike.”

“Must be my hair.”

“Your make-up.”

“Yeah, yeah, unfortunately, I get you too. Too bad. I was looking forward to acting like one of those girls in a Quentin Tarantino movie,” Rachel said.

“As long as I get to be Uma Thurman.”

Nick studied them as they bantered back and forth. They were so different, and at the same time they shared a common source of strength. Sassa was a little more reserved in her use of it and wasn’t always consistent. Rachel was a little more flamboyant and sometimes unintentionally alienated people. But their strength came from the same place. Someplace deep. Someplace well below the loss line. Someplace where love was more important than trust.

Sassa reached out and placed her hand over Rachel’s hand.

A fraction of an inch later, Rachel held her ground. “Okay, let’s do this.”

“I’ll continue to love Nick, but I’ll treat him as unavailable.”

“Are you sure that’s how you want to play it?”

“Yes.”

Rachel downed the rest of her espresso. She glanced over at Nick and smiled. With her fingers laced behind her head, she stared at Sassa for a long time. “Takes a lot of strength.”

“And trust.”

“Are you absolutely sure this is how you want to play it?”

“Yes.”

“Okey dokey, I’ll give you a shot.”

He was bowled over. What had just happened? They’d reached an agreement in a few minutes on how they would be in his life and he didn’t have to say a word. Better than anything he could have hoped for. Were there any provisions for three wholes in the model? “That was amazing.”

“We know,” Rachel and Sassa said at the same time.

The three chatted naturally for the rest of brunch, with little trace of the awkwardness that had permeated the conversation an hour earlier. On their way out, they passed a large floor-to-ceiling mirror in the hotel lobby. He waved into the mirror, conscious of the strange bond that had formed among the three of them. Sassa waved back at him. Rachel rolled her eyes.

Sassa offered to drop them home in the taxi she’d reserved. A moment later, the three of them settled into the back seat of a cab, Nick in the middle with his legs propped up on the floor hump. Rachel gathered his hand on her lap, and stroked it with her thumb.

“Sassa, what time are you leaving?” Nick asked.

“My flight is at 4:00. I’ll head over to the airport after I drop you guys off. I’m glad we had a chance to meet face to face, Rachel.”

“Me too.”

“I was thinking, Nick, you’re with Rachel now, so it probably doesn’t make sense to keep our no-talk rule in place next year. I could use your regular advice on the Green Angel. What do you think?”

“Fine with me. Rachel?”

Rachel squeezed his hand a little tighter. “Makes sense.”

“Come up and check out the restaurant when you get a chance.”

“We’d love to,” he said.

Sassa dropped Nick and Rachel at Nick’s apartment. As they were both climbing up the stoop, she called Nick back to the cab. He trotted down the stairs and, leaning over, drew close to Sassa. She whispered “You’re happy.” He kissed her good-bye on the cheek, tapped the roof of the cab, and, smiling, waved her off.

Back on the stoop, he joined Rachel, who was sitting with her elbows on her knees, cupping her chin with her hands. He took one hand, and pulled it across his lap.

“What did she say?”

“She said it was good to see me happy.”

“Ah.”

“What do you think?”

“I like her.”

“I’m glad.”

“She’s going to be around for the long haul.”

“So are you.”

She ran her hand up the inside of his thigh. “I thought today might be the end.”

“I told you there was nothing to worry about.”

“No worries.”

Nick drove Rachel to Portland one month later. At their hotel, Rachel dressed for dinner in a vintage plum-colored paisley, patchwork bohemian halter dress laced in the back with long, glass-beaded cotton ties. She put on multiple shades of purple make-up and accented her dreadlocks with purple and red ribbons. Strands of multicolored African beads encircled her neck. Platform sandals lifted her three inches.

“Nice outfit.”

“You know—Portland, vegetarians. Seemed like the right look and it complements your Sergeant Pepper thing pretty well, though we still need to get you some new threads.”

“But there are no new albums.”

“Exactly.” She sprayed on an ample dose of perfume. Peppermint and lemon filled the room, the city, the state. “I need to mark the territory.”

He moved a step closer to her, reached out, and ran his finger down a red ribbon. “What?”

“You look happy.”

“I am.” He wrapped his arm around Rachel, and they made their way to Sassa’s restaurant arm in arm. Portland. He could see why Sassa adored the place. An artist’s city with charm and good restaurants. Small enough to connect. Small enough to know people by their first names. Small enough to raise a family.

“What do you think of the city?” he asked.

“Quaint. A little small, man. Boxes me in.”

The Green Angel—bohemian, organic, packed—exactly as he’d imagined it. Sassa greeted and seated them at their reserved table. She immediately served them finger food and local organic beer. She’d prepared a special menu the night before and stepped them through each course, highlighting key ingredients. Curried coconut soup with lemongrass. Porcini dumplings with a side of red cabbage, apples, and blueberries. Raw chocolate seven-layer cake with raspberry sauce, whipped cream, and tangerine slices. All of his favorite ingredients. After some chitchat, she left them to prepare the first course.

Over a couple of hours, they savored the ambrosial, rainbow-colored meal. It matched Rachel’s outfit. The combination of taste, color, and smell elevated him, as if he’d ingested a new super drug. Or a good batch of ayahuasca. Or an aphrodisiac. Rachel glowed, echoed, reflected, like she knew he was riding a wave in a pool she’d created. After dessert, Sassa joined them for coffee and tea. She’d done well with the place. She seemed confident, at ease, in her element.

“That was a great meal, man. Food is trust,” Rachel said.

“It was excellent. Thank you,” Nick said.

Sassa glanced over at Nick, as if she were pointing out the red thread between them.

Could Rachel see the thread? Did that even matter anymore?

Rachel pulled on a strand of African beads. Then another. “Nick gave up on the road that your parents died when you were young. I didn’t sync up until then that the two of you have loss in common.”

“Are you close with your family?” Sassa asked.

“I grew up right outside of Cleveland. Large family. I try to swoop in a few times a year. Nick tagged along last month.”

“They aren’t big on musicians,” Nick said.

“The black sheep of the family.”

“I’m so surprised to hear that.”

“I know. Go figure.”

He sipped his cappuccino. “The coffee here is amazing.”

“I called Joe.” When Sassa took over the restaurant, one of the first things she did was install a La Pavoni four-spout espresso machine identical to the one at Joe’s. Overkill for a restaurant her size, but she had to have a piece of New York in Portland.

“Back to family. My parents are fixed in my mind,” Sassa said.

“What do you mean?” Rachel asked.

“I never saw them change with time and experience.”

“Same with my dad,” Nick said.

“Impossible for us mere mortals to compete,” Rachel said.

Rachel had caught him off guard. Why did she say that? She didn’t have loss in her history; how could she possibly understand? Or was it that she didn’t like the fact that Sassa did? “What do you mean?”

“As lovers, we have our ups and downs. When we rock, our movements deepen us. When we burn out, our movements pull us apart and we have to work hard to come together again.”

“And? I’m not following.”

“With your father, love is idealized, static, always perfect. No one can compete.”

Sassa nodded. “Sugar on an open wound is the same as salt.”

“Jimi Hendrix was a fantastic guitar player for sure, Nick, but death made him a rock-and-roll god. Impossible to compete with a god.”

“I don’t know about that.”

The next day, Sassa suggested a short morning trip to the Portland Head Light in Cape Elizabeth. First lit in 1791, the lighthouse stood 100 feet above the water atop the edge of a cliff. When lit, the lighthouse beacon could be seen for twenty-four miles, and had guided ships home for well over 200 years. Nick and Rachel had never seen a real lighthouse before, so both jumped at Sassa’s suggestion.

When they arrived at the Head Light, Rachel grabbed Nick’s hand and pulled him out of the car. Invigorated by the combination of crisp salt air, sea mist, and breaking waves, she dragged him toward the cliffs about 100 yards to the right of the main building. At the cliff edge, overlooking the Atlantic, Rachel said, “It’s beautiful here, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

A rock formation another fifty yards away created a rock island, beginning a few feet from the coast and extending out a long way into the ocean. The ocean spray from the waves danced off the rocks. Water jazz.

“I’m heading out to the island. Want to come?” Rachel said.

“No thanks. Not my thing. The water is ice cold this time of year.”

“Okay. Be right back.”

Sassa caught up to them just as Rachel was leaving.

Rachel hopped over the fence and slowly made her way down the cliff rocks toward the island. Fifteen minutes later, she reached the launch point, leapt onto the nearest rock, and treaded out to the tip of the island. Cold ocean spray drenched her clothing as she danced and played air guitar on a flat rock that doubled as a stage. She screamed something back to Nick but he couldn’t hear her. She was completely in the moment; it came to her so easily.

“Good dancer,” Sassa said.

“First I’ve seen of it.”

“She likes risk.”

“And new experiences.”

Sometime later, Rachel waved her hands above her head and pointed toward Nick. She sprang from rock to rock as she made her way back toward the mainland with larger and larger jumps. It was as if she was trying to fly, as if she had never accepted the limitations of gravity, as if she were a juggernaut, her heart too big for this world.

About halfway back, she leapt onto a jagged rock. Her ankle buckled and she lost her footing. She tried to regain her balance as she tumbled toward the water, but smacked her head on another rock. Seconds later, she plunged into the forty-one-degree water.

“Oh shit, she fell. Call 9-1-1.” Nick jumped the fence, lumbered down the cliff to the island, and closed the gap. Twenty minutes later, on the edge of the closest rock, he extended his hand. Too far. He shouted to Sassa, who had followed behind him, “Hold my feet.”

On her knees, she clamped down on his ankles and anchored him as he entered the water.

Freezing waves. Barely moving. A cut on her head. Bleeding. In full extension, he was still two feet from her. “Everything is going to be okay. I’m almost there.” He only had a few minutes. He had to move faster. He hollered to Sassa to stretch a little farther, but she couldn’t adjust without losing him. Pulling himself back up to her, he removed his belt, wrapped one end around his ankle, then gave the other end to her. He extended himself back in the water as far as possible, Sassa his only connection to land.

Snagging Rachel with his arm, he pulled her into his body. Heavy. No longer moving. The peppermint and lemon had been replaced with sea water. Pulling on the belt, he reeled them both back to the rock.

With Sassa’s help, he lifted her out of the water. She lay unconscious on a flat rock. Breathing?

Sassa, who had trained in CPR in high school, tilted her head back. A rescue breath. Chest compressions. Repeat. Nothing.

The paramedics showed up within minutes. After a flurry of activity failed to revive her, they rushed her into the ambulance. Nick jumped in with her, but a paramedic gently backed him down, and directed him to follow the ambulance to the hospital. Shivering, he entered the passenger side of Sassa’s car. He reached over and clutched her hand. They shadowed the ambulance to the hospital in silence.

The official cause of death, drowning accelerated by hypothermia, rang in Nick’s ears until he went numb, barely able to make out the doctor’s full explanation.

“Submerged in freezing water . . . twenty minutes, the exposure was enough to kill her. The statistics . . . misleading, as they suggest that someone in good health . . . survive for up to an hour in forty-degree water . . . frantic movements to reach the rocks accelerated her heat loss. Her hands . . . useless . . . she froze, unable to move against the waves . . . Rachel was pronounced dead at 11:34 a.m.”

Twenty-four years old.

In the lobby of the emergency room, he paced back and forth, hands in his pockets, looking at speckled grayish linoleum square tiles. When had the world settled for so little color? It wasn’t natural.

Sassa stopped him and pulled him close. “There was nothing else you could have done.” She held him for a long time.

“I need to make a call.” He gently kissed her on the forehead and pushed off. At a quiet spot just outside the sliding emergency doors, he called Rachel’s parents and broke the news. Calm, matter of fact, as if he had just watched a movie and had relayed the plot to a stranger, he answered all of their questions in great detail. He reassured them that he would make all of the arrangements and send Rachel’s body to Cleveland.

He stayed with Sassa in her apartment that night. She took the pillows from her bed and placed them on the living room floor against the sofa. After he settled, she covered him with a blanket. She put another blanket over herself and joined him. Curled up against him, she stayed still for a long time. Eventually, she flicked on
SportsCenter
.

“I’m so sorry, Nick. I should have never invited you here. None of this would have happened if . . .”

“What happened was an accident. We did everything we could.”

“What will you do now?”

“I’m heading to New York tomorrow to get Rachel’s belongings. Then I’ll drive to Cleveland for the funeral.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“I need to do this myself, Sassa. But thank you for offering.”

“When will I see you again?”

“I’m not sure.”

“If there’s anything I can do, please call me. I’ll drop everything and come right away.”

“I’ll phone you when I get back from Cleveland.”

How where the Knicks doing?

Nick returned to New York in the morning and gathered a few of Rachel’s belongings. He kept her Santa Cruz guitar, all of their pictures, and her army boots. Cramming a few things into his rental car, the ones he thought her parents would want, he motored to Rachel’s family home. On the way down, he thought about his father.

His dad’s funeral and wake had lasted three days. During most of that time, he either remained in his room alone, replaying what had happened, or helped people build his father’s larger-than-life memory pedestal, which loomed, well before it was done, painting shadows.

In his childhood bedroom on the first day of the wake, he had obsessed about loopholes to undo what had happened to his father. Lying on his bed, he stared at the ceiling and said, “I should have done more. . . . I wasn’t strong enough. I shrank in those first moments after you collapsed. . . . Maybe if I knew CPR. I want to see the body. . . . They made a mistake. If anyone can come back, you can.”

Later, in one fluid move, he had vaulted up from the bed and punched his right fist, with his father’s much-too-large high school ring hanging from his index finger, through the wall. For a few seconds, the pain in his hand counterbalanced the pain in the rest of his body. Fuck. The ring had slipped off his finger and had somehow lodged behind the wallboard

He flung open his bedroom door and darted past relatives toward the tool bench. In the garage, he picked up a sledgehammer, hung it over his right shoulder, then raced back up the stairs. Back in his room, he had locked the door behind him. He tossed on his headphones and blasted “Kashmir” to drown out calls from concerned family members. He smashed the sledgehammer into the wall in rhythm until only the studs remained.

“Death is the only thing I can’t fix,” he said. Robert Plant sang until Nick found his father’s ring in the pile of debris. Sweating profusely, sobbing, he collapsed on the floor and slipped the ring back onto his index finger. The ceiling fan hummed above him. Pulverized drywall dusted the air, and bandaged his bloody hand.

He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Four hours until the wake. Springing up from the floor, he loaded his multi-CD changer with music to fill the gap.
Sgt. Pepper
,
Led Zeppelin III
, Ani DiFranco’s first four CDs,
Ten
, Elliott Smith in Heatmiser (before he became famous), early Leonard Cohen, Radiohead. “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” played. His father had introduced the album to him a decade earlier.

“There will never be another Beatles, Nick,” his dad had said.

“Why?”

“Talent and timing.”

Hours later, he approached his father’s coffin with dread. He knelt down in front of the casket head down, careful not to look in. He raised his head slowly and scanned inside. The man, with pale white skin, too much makeup, hands folded and draped with rosary beads, didn’t look anything like his dad, except for his clothes.

His dad’s favorite weekend outfit consisted of tan Bermuda shorts, a black polo shirt, and sandals. Even though it was the dead of winter, his mom had decided to bury him in his real clothes, the clothes he’d loved during his life. Next to the body was his dad’s baseball glove, the one he had used to play catch with Nick. He hesitated. He scanned the room. He lifted the glove out of the casket, then hurried out to the car, where he hid it in the trunk.