The Owl & Moon Cafe: A Novel (No Series) (13 page)

“College?” Lindsay said. “We haven’t even gone to high school.”

“I already told you, there is no way I am going to high school,” Sally said. “If I can’t weasel out of it I’ll condense it to two years. What a bore to have to sit around and wait for slowpokes to learn verb tenses and algebra theorems I already know. I was thinking I’d write my first novel instead of high school. Or sign up with Americorps to build schools in Mexico. What’s high school anyway? Four years of cheesy classes, enforced school spirit, and feeling crappy because now not only will no girls like me but boys won’t either? It’s jail, Linds. It’s social incarceration. A gulag. My aunt Beryl was in jail once. Prison, actually. She killed her husband. Now she’s out and she has a regular life, and a husband who used to be a detective.”

“You can do that?” Lindsay asked.

Sally nodded. “Of course! You can do whatever you want if you want it bad enough. Man, Lindsay. For someone so damn smart you are too naïve for words! Taylor and the lemmings? The only reason they’re at Country Day is their parents have money. You and me, we’re the ones with the future. You gotta start believing in yourself or they’ll walk all over you. Believe me, you have more brains in your little finger than all of Taylor’s pack animals yoked together.”

Lindsay tried to take it all in. Being friends with Sally was like receiving all the presents on your wish list. Every part of her insides was shaking.

“Separate, you and me, we’re smart. Together, though? We’re brilliant,” Sally said. “We are going to put together the best damn science project on medical marijuana that old Country Day will ever see. Not only that, we are going to get our pictures in the paper, and probably make the news, even, and I will totally lay down money that after this, Westinghouse will be begging us to take their stinkin’ scholarships.”

Sally laughed her winner’s laugh, the joy-filled chortle of someone who’s figured out that the trick to getting out of a maze is to simply follow the shrubbery on the left. If Sally were on the periodic table of elements, she’d be mercury. She had the ability to slip away from anything that tried to slow her down. “Why?” Lindsay asked.

“Because!” Sally chortled. “It isn’t just cancer and AIDS patients, it helps old people with glaucoma. Man, am I glad I stole those seeds from Gregorio’s toolbox.”

“You
stole
his marijuana seeds? I thought you said he let you see his charts willingly.”

“Well, what was he going to do? Rat on me to my mom, ‘Hey, your kid swiped the pot I’m growing illegally on your farm?’ ”

“I don’t know,” Lindsay said. “This sounds pretty risky.”

“I
do
know,” Sally said and stood up, brushing the dirt off her jeans. She tilted her face up and smiled. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?”

“Hamburgers cooking! I love it when it’s Andy’s turn to cook. I am so hungry I could eat a tree. Race you to the house!”

Sally shot out of the greenhouse like a rocket, but Lindsay lingered a moment, fingering the green marijuana leaf, imagining the smile on Allegra’s face when she handed her the fruits of their project.

A
LLEGRA LAY ON THE COUCH
, her head throbbing like a Jamaican steel drum. No matter how many acupuncture treatments she had, Krishna Dahvid, in his traditional white robes against a surfer’s tan, always surprised her with something nice. Today, he’d brought along a portable Zen fountain, which beat the army of get-well cards—except for Lindsay’s—propped up on the windowsill. Every morning he rose at dawn and headed out to surf. She imagined him stepping into the water, thinking the sound of the ocean, that’s what Allegra needs. Imagining was her main source of amusement lately, thanks to chemo. While the fountain gurgled and the smell of burning moxa incense filled the air, he took her pulses. Allegra hoped the treatment he gave her today would drive away the headache and ease her nausea. With her mouth raw in places from throwing up, it was difficult to eat. “Best diet ever,” she joked with the nurses. At least she still had her hair.

Allegra worried that the moxa incense didn’t cover the weird, electric aroma emanating from her body. Probably the result of the chemo, it stayed in her nostrils twenty-four/seven-eleven, as Gammy would say.

“Remind me again why I’m allowing perfect strangers to pipe poison into my body?”

“Because you want to live.”

“Oh, right.” She shut her eyes, trying to relax, but they popped back open. “All these years I imagined myself the courageous person who’d throw her own ‘death-day party,’ gather my friends around while I took an overdose and listened to Jerry Garcia.”

“And?” came his gentle voice.

“I’m four weeks into this mess and willing to eat mothballs if it means I get to stick around. And that’s about how it’s turned out, hasn’t it?”

“Shh,” he said. “Take a deep breath. Here comes a needle.”

Dahvid was deft. Allegra felt only a momentary sting on the underside of her wrist. He did the other wrist, and then moved to her legs, running his finger up and down her shins, tracing meridians. He placed two needles in each leg, and then she felt him cover her torso with a flannel blanket. “Rest,” he said.

But how could she when October was passing by without her? Her granddaughter stood poised on the lip of womanhood. Any minute now she’d break into blossom like that James Wright poem about the horses at the fence. Mariah had been shy about developing, and secretive. Mariah never wanted to talk. If only she would get that broom out of her butt and bed that handsome Scotsman. They could have this grand love affair, something Mariah could tell stories about when she was an old lady, Allegra imagined. Her stomach gurgled.

“Did you eat today?” Krishna whispered.

Allegra couldn’t recognize hunger pangs anymore. “Why put anything in when it’s just going to come back up?”

“You need to eat.”

“My gut thinks otherwise.”

“Allegra.” He paused a moment. “I know where you stand on street drugs, but a little weed might help you get started. I know an organic grower, a safe connection.”

“No.”

“Will you think about it? It could give you a little peace.”

She didn’t answer. There would be no peace so long as she held on to the secret that Mariah’s father was here, living among them. Allegra played dumb at every checkup when Doc asked questions.

It must have been challenging, raising Mariah without a father.

Not really. I had Mama.

I wish you’d met my mother, Allegra. I swear, the way Mariah holds her chin up, she reminds me of her.

Mariah has the kind of face that reminds everyone of someone else.

That daughter of yours—where did she get all the determination and drive? I bet she could do anything she set her mind to—even med school.

It’s the yo-yo effect, lazy mother, diligent daughter.

Carrying the secret was like allowing a harpy to fly around loose in the apartment. A harpy with Mariah’s scowling face. She squawked out the same question she always did. Who’s my father? Why won’t you tell me? I just want his name, not his kidneys!

Allegra took a cleansing breath, and blew it out. Then another. She willed her meridians to loosen the clogged-up chi. Her head throbbed. Too weak to walk among the living, she needed something more substantial than daytime television, and it was shocking how tired her arms could get from the effort of holding up a book. And being kept from Khan was absolute torment.

“You know, it’s a week since I’ve seen a single customer. I don’t know how Kiki’s divorce is going. I can’t remember if I told Mariah to buy nutmeg.”

“Be here, Allegra. Be still and listen.”

“I’m trying.”

When pressed for news, Mariah said everything was the same as yesterday, customers in a hurry who left pitiful tips. Which meant her tableside manner had not improved. How
had
Mariah turned out all brain and prissiness? Even Gammy was less of a hard-ass. Long ago Allegra had stopped trying to find answers to those questions. Doc was Mariah’s father. How would she react when she learned her mother was keeping that secret from her because she was too afraid to tell him?

“Allegra, you’re not relaxing.”

“I can’t. I have so much on my mind.”

Krishna Dahvid sighed. “What’s your favorite time of year?”

“Summer.”

“Okay. Imagine a warm summer wind outside your window. Feel it enter your lungs, carrying goodness to every cell. Exhale your worries.”

“What if I’m not worried? What if I’m downright pissed off at cancer?”

He rubbed her arm. “Anger is bad for your heart chakra. Anger gets stuck in places like the liver. Let it go. Your liver needs to breathe.”

“My liver must be royally pissed off,” Allegra said. “There is nothing happening here other than my head pounding and my angry liver being angry. Do you have any Tylenol?”

He put his hands on his hips. “How can I help you unless you’re willing to participate in the process?”

“I’m trying now. I promise.”

Her ear itched. She scratched it, dislodging a needle. Krishna Dahvid reinserted the needle. Allegra shut her eyes and immediately a harpy with Mariah’s face swooped through her mind. More came with it, a flock large enough to make her wish she had a flyswatter, but she tried to watch them without feeling. The portable fountain swished and Krishna Dahvid removed the needles, dabbing the insertion points with Tiger Balm. He rang his bell to indicate the session had ended. Allegra tried to sit up, but the room spun.

“Lie still for a bit,” Krishna Dahvid said.

She watched him pack up his bamboo doctor’s bag. Having others do for her had never sat well with Allegra. She was the one everyone came to for nursing or soothing.

Krishna Dahvid took her hand in his. “Come on now, time to say our affirmations.”

“I don’t feel up to it today. Can’t I just think them privately?”

“‘Allegra Moon,’” he started.

“All right, all right. Allegra Moon,” she said, “this is a brand-new day, no matter what time you start it. Chemo is temporary. You’re nearly through your scheduled treatments. You will heal yourself more quickly if you meditate. You are in control of your faculties and environment. Remember to…”

She glanced at him, and his lips moved along with hers. “Breathe.”

“Good. Now try to get some sleep.”

She could hear him cleaning up. But the problem with Mariah was that nothing was ever enough. She self-sabotaged. Bought a beautiful new car—but oh, the payments! An “Excellent” on Lindsay’s anatomy test was terrific news—but was all this early success going to push her into a nervous breakdown? Ohs and buts tempered every facet of her daughter’s life. Yes, she was an adult, but somehow Allegra had failed to convince her daughter that life was to be lived, relished, to greet every new day like the miracle it was and to wring every single drop of enjoyment out of it.

“Do you need refills on your herbal supplements?” Krishna asked.

“No.”

“Why not? By my reckoning you should be out.”

“Doc won’t let me take them.”

“How about your wheatgrass?”

She barely suppressed a gag. “Please, not another word unless you want to mop barf off your robes.”

Mariah wouldn’t even try wheatgrass shots. She had no time to meditate, recycle, or gather signatures for a meaningful protest. Vitamins? A waste of money. Pop-Tarts and Diet Coke? Breakfast of champions. Allegra shut her eyes and placed her hands over them. Her headache had moved in permanently, she feared. She felt Dahvid’s warm hands on the balls of her feet, where the skin used to be tough from dancing. Now it felt paper thin.

“How’s your head? Better?”

“Still hurts,” she managed.

“I’ll do the pressure points in your feet. That often helps.”

“Thank you.”

“Allegra, a lot of wonderful things have happened to you this year. Picture yourself in one of those places.”

The beach. She thought of a day at the beach with Mariah and Lindsay. Khan was there, his little paws damp with sand.

“Re-create the scene, leaf by twig. Place every grain of sand, every piece of driftwood, each gull’s cry.”

She felt the pinch of a needle and the electric shock of her chi and gasped. She pictured herself in the café kitchen, breathing in steamy bergamot tea, and reaching for the fever-few capsules. Doc insisted no herbal medicine; it could muddy up her test results. Remember good things, she reminded herself. Her Meals on Wheels days, which were now covered by another volunteer. The women’s shelter. She hadn’t popped in for ages. Dancing at her favorite club. Sex with a partner who just wanted to have fun. Sex, period. But days at the beach ended, sunsets were brief, and she didn’t want to listen to the radio because when a favorite song ended, so did the dance. There was no lasting passion in sex with someone you didn’t love. Nada. Not since Doc.

Doc had resurfaced at the worst possible time. She was almost fifty, dried up like an old walnut. Her life would play out like a World War II movie, a romance that might have been; only in her case, instead of Nazis, goose-stepping leukocytes. Doc would do his valiant best, but eventually those cells would beat him down. All that would be left of them was Mariah. Hurricane Mariah.

The February day when Mariah was born had been rainy and gloomy. Business was slow. Allegra labored right upstairs from The Owl & Moon in her own bed, with a midwife in attendance. Mariah was stubborn, even then. Twenty hours of labor, she fought to stay where she was.

Gammy patted Allegra’s face with a washcloth drenched in warm water and herbs. Chamomile to calm her, vervain for energy, and essence of roses because after pushing for three hours straight a girl needed to smell roses. When Allegra could push no more and dissolved in tears, the mother of all contractions stabbed her, so of course that was the moment Mariah decided to be born, when her mother was drained dry and out of tears and screaming.

“Relax,” Krishna Dahvid said.

Relax, the midwife had said, too.

And then out shot Mariah, the angriest little baby in the world, eyes wide, shocked that from here on in, she had to breathe on her own, mad at the world.

Allegra had never felt so tired, so used up, so done in until that moment, but this illness trumped it. She’d named her daughter Mariah for the wind, but Mariah was fire. No before yes. Mariah was a rag-shaking terrier, who had only to hear the word
rat
to start digging. The harpies circled.

Who’s my father? Who’s my father? Who’s my father?

He’s John Muir, Mariah. Abe Lincoln. Mahatma Gandhi. He’s the man in the moon.

Allegra felt herself drift into sleep, and dimly noted the sounds of Krishna Dahvid’s steps, the click of the door opening, then shutting. He wasn’t gone more than thirty minutes before her stomach rumblings returned full force. She groaned and sat up, and as she pushed the hair away from her face, a whole chunk of hair came out in her hand. She stared at it, roots and all, trying to believe what had just happened. The nurses had warned her, but Allegra vainly believed that that side effect would slide by her. The first time Doc touched her hair, he’d put his whole face into it, breathing. Black satin, he called it. Before the tears could take hold, Allegra uncapped her antinausea medication, tapped two pills into her palm, and then swallowed them dry. They didn’t do much, other than to lodge her between almost sleep and actual sleep. In a half-hour she knew she’d feel the buzz that hitched a ride along with the medicine, and that was enough.

Thirty-three years ago, everyone wanted to feel like Allegra did now. They’d do anything to get high—drop acid, smoke hash, chant Hare Krishna for hours on end, drink horrid cheap wine, and dance themselves into dehydration. Allegra managed to convey the illusion she was doing drugs, but truthfully, she was a member of the drink-dance-a-

little-pot-when-it-was-available crowd. Only in the right circumstances, though. Pot made her hungry, and when you were hitchhiking around the state and had no money, you did not want to feel hungry. She liked to take one or two puffs, just enough to take the edge off the world.

No matter how many lectures she heard on the Tim Leary/Aldous Huxley mind-expanding qualities of LSD, she was too scared to try it. When Art Linkletter’s kid took a dive off a hotel balcony, Allegra decided drugs were poison. They didn’t matter. The sixties and seventies were all about love.