The Color of Home: A Novel (24 page)

The last chord resonated. He began to come out of “Love.” Applause from the audience. Everyone stood and the applause strengthened. Some had tears. The camera zoomed out. Conan said, “We’ll be right back.”

Someone helped Nick remove his guitar and guided him over to the seat next to Conan. His heart raced. Sweating, he pressed a glass of ice water against his forehead for a moment, and took a couple of deep breaths. In five. Four. Three. Two. One.

“What a moving song, Nick. It’s so honest. Can you tell us about the writing process?”

“I began writing the song almost three years ago with my girlfriend at the time, Rachel. She died unexpectedly in an accident a couple of years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Are all the songs about her?”

“Yes and no. I was going for different feelings, the true feeling of sadness, loss and love, sometimes all three together. So they’re about her, but also they’re meditations on love and loss in general.”

“That’s a little deep, Nick.” Raising his eyebrows and folding his hands, he egged on the audience for confirmation.

They rumbled.

“I understand you had a writing partner of sorts.”

“Fellini.”

“And he’s with you here tonight.”

Right on cue, an assistant walked Fellini onto the stage. Fellini, all 140 pounds of him, sprang into Nick’s lap and licked him on the face. Thunderous applause. Nick smiled for the first time since the show started.

“You don’t do small scale, do you, Nick? How did Fellini help you?”

“I had roughly a year-long monologue with myself. Fellini witnessed the entire thing. I wouldn’t have finished the album without him.”

“Well, he’s a beautiful dog, and if he can help you create more songs like ‘Love,’ then I may need to borrow him for inspiration on my monologues.”

“Only if you want them to be honest.” He allowed himself a small smile. The audience laughed for him.

Conan stared him down. “I understand that you have a new song for us tonight. Do you want to tell us anything about it?”

“It’s for a woman that I’ve always loved. I knew her well before Rachel and these past couple of years guided me back to her.”

“Nick, you’ve been a fascinating guest. Thanks for doing this, and I hope to have you back on the show soon. Ladies and gentlemen, Nick Satterborn, performing the world premiere of ‘When Light Passes Through.’”

Someone escorted Fellini off the stage. Fellini resisted and tried to follow Nick as he made his way back to the band. The audience laughed and Conan signaled to the escort to let Fellini stay.

Nick slipped into his guitar and checked the sound. Panting, Fellini lay at his feet. Nick conjured Sassa sitting on the floor in front of him, smiling, scratching Fellini’s ear. Everything was going to be okay. The drummer struck his sticks together in time. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

When I came back

It was stronger than ever

Finally knew I belonged

I have a dream that someday we’ll be together

I have loved you for so long

I picture us at our house on North Lake

You are wearing your red summer dress

I look over and smile without a word

We are safe, we are healed, we are blessed

When light passes through

it will take us there

and these pictures will fade to truth

There you can be the love of my life

every moment of every day and night

Maybe there I was lost

Your eyes my only guides home

Maybe here we’ll finally get what we need

and everything will change, my love

I’ve waited years to hold you like a child

sleeping side by side, we are atoned

I’ll shelter you from what’s come before

until you know you are not alone

I picture our bodies joined together in prayer

so we can heal from the wars fought alone

When we wake each day, we’ll be a little more aware

as we talk, as we laugh, as we grow old

When light passes through

it will take us there

As these pictures in my head fade to truth

There you can be the love of my life

every moment of every day and night

Nick opened
The New York Times
and turned to the Arts section, searching for a review of his Conan performance. He found it on the last page.

Nick closed the paper and wept.

Weeks after the Conan show, Nick was still looking for signs that his plan had worked. Nothing as explicit as a phone call. Just enough of an opening, a signal, whatever, that he could widen the crack.

The show had created buzz for him, the band, and even for studiomuscians-dot-com. He accepted bookings up and down the East and West Coasts. Due to strong demand, the studio had to book customers three months out. Sales of the album regained some of the early momentum, rocketing back into the iTunes “Alternative Top Ten” list. A detailed profile of Nick, his music, and his company appeared in
The Village Voice
. Steady requests came in for additional television appearances, but he turned them down. Anything after Conan would only be a letdown.

As time passed, he started to lose hope, to close down. He’d done everything he could to get through to Sassa. He’d taken his best shot and she’d turned him away. He’d stayed open to her for such a long time that the thought of closing down felt both unbearable and at the same time like a relief. In the dark, in bed, he tossed and turned each night. He could still taste her, feel her, touch her, but gradually exhaustion won out and she faded. He’d worked himself into a state where love and loss were one and the same.

Sassa studied the television screen as Nick performed “Love.” Midway through, she finger-punched the off button of her remote, dropped it on the sofa, and made a bee-line into the bathroom. She stripped, and while staring into the bathroom mirror, downed four Vicodin one at a time. She glanced over her shoulder at her scar and whispered, “It’s for the best.”

That night she dreamt of a tattoo parlor, New Y. Ink Art, that she passed by every day on her way to work. Naked and reclining in a dentist-like chair surrounded by tattoo guns, her body oozed tattoos of Nick, of her family, of guitars, of Italian food. In the mirror, she watched the tattoo artist work on her face—Nick on her left cheek and Rachel on her right. When the needle jack-hammered her right side, she screamed awake and checked her face for blood.

A few hours later, the morning light tapped her eyelids and announced she’d slept through the rest of the night. What a dream. An incredible urge to work, to have sex, to be anonymous overtook her. Pushing up on her elbows, she glanced out the window at an older woman fixing her hair far away in an apartment across the street. Just like Mom, a long time ago. She reached for her phone on the nightstand and tapped Boss. “Hey there. It’s me. Got a minute?”

“You realize it’s 6:00 a.m.?”

“Sorry. I need to go on the road. You okay with that?”

“You know you don’t need to ask anymore. Are you okay?”

Palm up, she curled her fingers and repeatedly pressed them into her palm like she was kneading pastry dough. “Nothing long workdays won’t cure. One more thing.”

“Sure.”

“I won’t have my normal cell phone while I’m away. I’ll buy one of those disposable ones to use instead.”

“You really do need to get away.”

“I’ll text you the number, but please don’t give it out to anyone. See ya.”

She slipped out of bed, and wandered toward the kitchen to boil water for tea. Along the way, she stopped at a windowpane mirror hung above her favorite reading chair. The pane hashed her reflection into distorted rectangular pieces.

On her first morning in Chicago, Sassa spent time with a new chef teaching her how to prepare different entrees. Midway through constructing a pasta dish, the chef accidentally dropped a hot, oiled pan on the floor. Sassa ranted at her, something unintelligible about scarring the floor, then fired her on the spot.

Long, grueling days followed. She worked so hard that her body ached, crowding out her thoughts. She and the team stayed behind after the restaurant closed each night and held Batali-like cook-offs for new menu items. Wine. Laughter. Excess. The search for the ultimate dish. Vicodin.

On her last night in Chicago, she crawled into bed and wept. The pain in her body, especially her back and shoulders, was almost unbearable. With the edge more than taken off, she drifted to Daniel.

For two years at Michigan, she consumed a string of lovers, the last of which was Daniel, a dark-skinned Brazilian, who thought she had promise as a CIA agent. One day, while walking with him on the south campus, Sassa asked, “Let’s construct a list of qualities for the perfect CIA agent, okay?”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a Vicodin. He placed it on his tongue, stopped walking, and pulled her close to him. “Here you go. Okay. I’ll start. Beauty.”

“No immediate family.”

“Smart.”

“A master liar.”

“Never gets worked up.”

“A chameleon, especially around men.” She snaked her arm around his and pulled him close. “Let’s go back to my room and fool around.”

In her Chicago hotel bed, she glanced out the window at Water Tower Place. Well-lit, it was beautiful in the dark, like it was originally architected for the night. What ever happened to Daniel?

After a long day at the Los Angeles Green Angel, while dancing at a trendy nightclub, Sassa whispered an attractive, dark-skinned Brazilian software salesman back to her hotel. She’d been on the road for several weeks, and had worked her way down the West Coast. In Seattle, a guy from just outside of London. In Portland, a guy from Australia. In Los Angles, the Brazilian. Apparently, she had a thing for foreigners.

Inside her hotel room, she kicked off her shoes and leaned against the far wall. Balancing on one foot, she pushed the other up against the wall, and gave the Brazilian her wide-eyed, irresistible, never-fails look. “In the top drawer below the television, there are some pills. Bring the bottle to me.”

As she waited, the room came to the forefront. A small gray desk in the corner, a black flat-screen television, and a king-sized bed with a bland bedspread filled the space, making it indistinguishable from all of the places she’d stayed on her trip. Wasn’t there anything unique anymore? No wonder she was back on Vicodin.

“What are these?” the man asked.

“Vicodin. Want some?”

“Not my thing.”

“What are you waiting for? Give them to me.”

The Brazilian hesitated a little longer, then handed the pills to Sassa.

She popped one after each step toward the bed. At the bed, she dimmed the lights, stripped, and slipped under the covers. “Are you ready for me?”

The Brazilian glanced out the window into the dark, as if he was searching for permission or forgiveness. He had the saddest look on his face, like he was about to repeat a mistake and had no way to stop himself. A moment later, he removed his clothes and crawled into bed.

She moved on top and helped him enter her. With her eyes closed, she pulsed with even, moderate speed, trying to lose herself in the rhythm. Then the Vicodin kicked in. Interlacing her hands with his for leverage, she picked up speed with more and more hyperbolic movements. Intensity took over, and the first of several swells built until, finally, she screamed, “Get the fuck out of me, Nick!”

She didn’t need Nick. She was beautiful, successful, and had no trouble attracting men from all parts of the world. Work, sex, and drugs—those were the things of a good life. She slid off of the man and flipped over. He smelled like stale espresso beans. Why hadn’t she noticed before? She edged away, thankful for a king-sized bed. “You good?”

“What did you mean when you screamed?”

“Nothing.”

He stared at her for a moment. He hopped out of bed, picked his clothes off the floor, and slipped back into his underwear and jeans. Rolling the desk chair over to the bed, just across from Sassa’s head, he raised the lights right before sitting down.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“What happened to you?”

“Come back to bed. ”

“You’re shadow painting.”

She turned her head toward the Brazilian. “I thought you were in software?”

“I am.”

“Is there an app for shadow painting?”

The Brazilian smiled. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you a story.”

“Boring. I’ll doze off.”

“Please hear me out. I promise it will be worth your time.”

She really wasn’t in the mood. But he did have a kind face. And sad eyes. And round one did her wonders. She popped another pill. She could give him a few minutes before round two. “Longshot, but go ahead.”

“I’m thirty-five now. Single. Never married. About ten years ago, I was in love with a woman named Astrid.”

“Nice name.”

“We planned to marry. One day I followed her to work. I don’t know why I did it, but I played a hunch. A few miles from our apartment, she stopped in front of an old, dilapidated brick house, removed a key from her purse, then disappeared behind the front door. I snuck around the house, window to window, until I spied her naked in a bedroom with another man. They were both snorting coke from a stash of drugs strewn across the nightstand. I started to cry. I paced back and forth, trying to figure out what to do. I slipped into the house, and made my way to the bedroom. Then I made enough noise until Astrid and the man noticed me. As soon as they did, I ran out of the house, raced back to my apartment, and waited.”

“That’s your story? Boring.”

“Hear me out. About thirty minutes later, Astrid came back and begged me to forgive her. She told me she loved me and promised to go to rehab. She said I was the single best thing that had ever happened to her and she didn’t want to lose me. I was so filled with anger that I didn’t hear a word she said. I screamed, ‘I’ll never forgive you! Get the hell out.’ I never saw her again.”

Sassa started twirling her hair. “Why are you telling me this?”

The man stood and kissed her on the forehead. He sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand over her free hand. “About a year later, I received a call from her mom. Astrid had died of a drug overdose, an apparent suicide. Next to her body her mom found a handwritten note that read, “N, I’m sorry. You were right, I don’t deserve forgiveness. I’ll always love you.”

Visibly shaken, the man stood and kissed Sassa on the forehead again. He finished dressing.

“You’re leaving?”

“I need to go.”

“Stay.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“You know why. I hope you work your way out of this place. By the way, my name is Noah.” He let himself out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

“Sassa.”

She sat up and slammed one fist into the headboard while holding her sheets over her breasts. As she pushed off the bed with her punch-hand, she let go of the sheets with the other. They plummeted to the ground, like they were made of stone instead of Egyptian cotton. The room was a mess, covered with clothes, towels, sheets, work, and sex. Just like the aftermath in all of the other rooms in all of the other cities. She slipped into her nightgown, picked up around the room until order returned. Order had been key. A large dish of room-service ice cream later, she climbed back in bed and curled up. She was done. She’d crossed too many lines. Just done.

Restless a few minutes later, she unwound her body and crawled out of bed again. She hadn’t expected Noah. Had a stranger changed everything? With a blanket draped over her shoulders, she balled up in the corner of the hotel room closet and slid the door closed. The small space suited her, protected her, allowed her to hope for deep sleep.

A man walked into the bedroom and sat on the floor next to her. He had a gray suit on, a black tie, and sported a black fedora hat. Jet black eyes matched his hat.

“Who are you?” Sassa asked. She pulled up the blanket to just below her eyes.

The man stared at her.

“Who the hell are you? Can’t you see I’m not in any state for visitors?”

The man remained silent.

“Get the hell out of here!”

“Do you love yourself, Sassa?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Do you love yourself, Sassa?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Love yourself. All else will follow.”

“Fuck you!” She woke in a pool of sweat. What a nightmare. Lifting herself off the closet floor, she crawled back into the bed for the remainder of the night.

In the morning, she cleared the remaining Vicodin pills from her drawer, and flushed them down the toilet, just like in a TV movie. What drama. She canceled her trips to the Santa Fe, and Austin Green Angel’s, and apprised Avis that she’d drop off her rental car in New York instead of LAX. Cobbling together her stuff, she headed toward home.

Over breakfast at a truck stop in Nevada, Sassa unfolded a large map of the United States and gravitated toward Montana. Locating Great Falls, she pictured Nick in the cabin writing
Songs of Love and Loss
, and started humming “Good-bye.” A wave of regret later, she sipped her black coffee; God, what an awful drink.

At roughly the same latitude as Great Falls, she shifted her focus to Idaho. Coeur d’Alene popped off the map, highlighted by a large lake of the same name. Something about the name pulled at her, even though she’d never heard of the place. The googled translation: “Sharp-hearted.” What a cool name. Folding the map down so that all she could see was Nevada and Idaho, she borrowed a pen from the waitress and rerouted her path. About ten hours, if she didn’t stop. Moments later, back in her car and on her way, she thought about Lucia.

Sassa had decided to spend the summer after college graduation in Ann Arbor working at Lucia’s restaurant, Pellegrino’s. She’d just graduated, had no idea what she wanted to do with her life, and figured she would take the summer to think. She worked as a waitress but often hung out in the kitchen after her lunch shift. Lucia took Sassa under her wing.

Toward the end of the summer, Sassa, still in her street clothes, was helping Lucia prepare a veal dish. She drizzled some olive oil into an iron skillet, added a handful of sliced garlic, and browned the garlic over a high flame. She’d popped a few extra Vicodin to help with unusually strong pain. No big deal.

A few minutes after she began browning the garlic, Lucia shouted, “Your blouse is on fire!”

In a frantic attempt to quell the fire, Sassa accidentally flung the skillet out of her hand, off the burner, and onto Lucia, splattering sizzling olive oil on Lucia’s pants. The oil disintegrated the pants like paper, burning the skin beneath. Lucia screamed and, holding her leg, fell to the floor.

Sassa dropped to Lucia’s side. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine. Can you drive me to the hospital?”

At the hospital, they bided time in a sterile emergency room—Lucia on the bed, Sassa at her side. Sassa repeatedly stroked the back of Lucia’s hand. What had she done?

When the doctor arrived, he treated Lucia’s wound with a thick, purplish ointment that smelled like raspberries and spearmint. He bandaged and wrapped her leg. “You’ll be fine. Change the dressing every other day. I’ll write you a prescription for the pain. You may have some light scarring. Nothing serious.”

Later, in Lucia’s home, Sassa set the Vicodin prescription down on the table. Her belly knotted. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Can I get you a pain pill and glass of water?”

“I’m fine. I don’t like to take pills. Throw them away for me. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again.”