Chang-Rae Lee - A Gesture Life

We had many arguments and bad feelings over her quitting, and for a long time during that period the two of us hardly acknowledged each other in the house. She was old enough then to move about as she pleased, and her friends with cars would often pick her up in the mornings before school, and not drop her off until late in the evening, ten or eleven at night. I’d hear the car roll up the cobblestone drive, the sweep of its lights in my window, the slam of the passenger door, her restless keys, the lock, the quick shuffle that trailed straight to her room. And then the quiet again. This went on, I’m afraid, for many months. In the mornings she seemed to wait until I had begun my swim to come downstairs, when she would leave the house and walk down the block to await her rides.

Perhaps I grew too accustomed to our distance. Initially I had tried to leave indications that I was unhappy with our relationship, putting out a bowl and spoon and a box of cereal for her, a glass of juice, a soft-boiled egg, but each morning when I came in from my swim the setting was just as I had left it, unmoved, untouched. I knew she’d seen it. I had watched her once from the pool, my goggled eyes skimming along the surface of the water; she stood staring at the place at the table, as if it were some kind of museum display, not to be disturbed, and then she turned away. But I continued each morning, and eventually I began sitting down to eat the breakfast myself, with more a taste of sorrow than spite. It wasn’t long before I mostly forgot about Sunny refusing my offerings, and it became simply habit, part of my waking ritual that I still do now, without fail.

But then everything eventually shifts, accommodates. We began communicating again at some point, for no obvious reasons. This would prove a short time before she left the house for good. There was little warmth, I know, but at least she was hearing me, meeting my eyes. And there was talking, when it suited us. One day I went out to skim leaves and twigs from the pool, where she was sunbathing, and she asked if I was going to sell the piano.

“The piano?” I repeated, surprised by the notion. “Is there a reason why I should? I don’t understand. Besides, you might want to begin playing again someday.”

She didn’t answer, turning over onto her back. She had on wraparound sunglasses, and was lying in the recliner in the full sun. She had just turned seventeen that June, and in the fall would start her final year at Bedley Run High School. I thought she was spending too much time going to the seniors’ post-graduation parties, staying out most of the night and then sleeping late, only coming out of her room to lie in the sun. I had often asked her if she would take better care with her skin, having seen certain patients come into the store suffering from melanoma, but in those days it was desirable to be tanned as dark as one could get, and Sunny was one who never had trouble in that regard.

“It’s stupid to have the piano, when no one’s ever going to play it.”

“I hope that’s not true,” I replied.

“It is true,” she said tersely, slinging her forearm over her face. “I don’t like having to see it every day. It sits there for no reason.”

“It doesn’t bother me. I like it.”

She didn’t reply immediately to this. I kept working, gathering the flotsam with the long net. After a moment, she spoke up again. “I think you like what it says.”

“I don’t quite understand,” I said.

“Of course you don’t,” she answered. “I’m saying, you like having it around for what it says. About me. How I’ve failed.”

“That’s not in the least true.”

“Sure it is,” she answered, almost affably. But there was real defeat in her voice also, a child’s broad welling of it.

I told her, “If anything, Sunny, I should see it as a symbol of my own failure, in inspiring the best in you.”

“That’s right. I’ve failed doubly. First myself, and then my good poppa, who’s loved and respected by all.”

“You can always twist my words,” I told her. “But you shouldn’t take everything I do so seriously. I’m not doing anything wrong by keeping the piano. I would like you to play again, yes, this is true, but not because of me. Not anymore. I think it would improve you, like reading a book would improve you. Or even something as simple as swimming, which I’ve taken to heart. I don’t believe I’ve ever compelled you to do anything. I’ve made suggestions, advised about certain things, like taking up the piano, but I try to follow your interests. Though you don’t seem to like many things any longer, which I think I can fairly say.”

“You only fairly say.”

“Please, Sunny, I don’t always enjoy your word games.”

“Sorry, Doc.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“I won’t, then,” she said, with some finality. Then she rose from the chaise. She wrapped the towel around her waist and headed for the house, and I didn’t see or hear her for the rest of the day. I thought perhaps that this would be the start of another strained period for us, but the next day she left a note saying she was going to Jones Beach with her friends, and would be staying in the city over the weekend, at someone’s apartment. She signed her name and added a “Don’t worry!” on the end. I was worried, of course, and was annoyed that she hadn’t mentioned her plans for the weekend earlier, but part of me was also greatly appreciative of the fact of the note, pleased by the simple thing of it, which she would have never thought to leave me some months before.

* * *

THE FIRELOG CRACKS SHARPLY in the family room, and I want to check it but the phone rings, and it’s Liv Crawford. I can hardly hear her. She sounds as if she’s half a world away.

“Doc,” she says, obviously shouting. “Hang up! Will you hang up? I’ll have to call you back!”

In a few seconds she calls again, and it’s better this time. “Sorry, Doc, but this car phone is just rotten. Or maybe it’s the car. I have to open the whole door to hear anything. You can imagine what hell that is on the Saw Mill Parkway.”

“Where are you now?”

“Actually, Doc, I’m right outside your place. In the street. I’m not alone. Can I put you on speaker?”

“I don’t think it’s the right time—”

“Don’t worry about it, Doc, we’ll stay right here in the car, I promise. We won’t budge.” She sounds as if she’s talking down into a hole, or that I’m listening to her from one. “Meet Karen and Dexter Ellings. They’re from the city.”

“Hi, Doctor Hata!” they say, in ill harmony.

“Hello.”

There’s a pause.

“You have a beautiful house!” the woman says. Her husband then adds, “It’s really stunning. A winner.”

“Thank you,” I say, hoping very much Liv Crawford will come back. She does, and suddenly she’s cut the couple out, the sound coming sharper again, just the two of us.

“They’re so happy I brought them by,” Liv Crawford says, clearly speaking for all involved, “even though I told them you weren’t ready to sell yet. But they’ll be patient and wait for your decision, however long it takes.”

“It may be some time,” I warn her.

“He says you guys will be the first to know,” she says away from the phone. Now back. “Listen, Doc, we’re going to the village for brunch, at Sffuzi’s. If you’re free, you ought to join us. I know you probably have lots of plans for a bright Sunday morning.”

“I was just swimming,” I tell her, though now my suit is nearly dry. “And I’m eating right now.”

“Gosh! You should have told me you were eating! I’ll stop pestering you. We’re leaving right now. I’ll call you tomorrow. Or maybe we can have lunch. Let’s do that….”