Tara Ison - Rockaway

She returns to her room with her coffee, brims the cup full from the bottle of cooking sherry. She changes into shorts and a bikini top. She brushes sandy grit from her feet — I’ve always been so careful, she thinks, how does all this sand still get in here? — puts on a pair of sandals. Not too many days left, for walking on the beach, for swimming. You should do that, take full advantage of your last days here. You should call your parents so they know you’re alive, so they’re not hysterical. You should call the gallery woman, give her an update. Tell her how well things are coming together. How focused and expressive and defined you and your work are, now. How interesting. Maybe ask for more time. Maybe she’ll give you more time.

She gathers and stuffs a load of berry-stained clothing into Nana’s relic of a washing machine. Why bother doing laundry, she thinks, you’re leaving soon, Nana’s coming back in a few days, she’ll want her house back, she’ll kick you out. You’ll have to go, have to go somewhere.

She sips her coffee-sherry, washes the Connecticut vegetables in the cloudy, lukewarm kitchen faucet water, contemplates making bruschetta. Shouldn’t waste all that fresh basil. Can’t blame Nana, it’s her house. You should call United, schedule a flight home. Why didn’t you do that earlier, it’s going to cost a fortune to book a flight this late, and you’re almost out of money, anyway. Your parents’ll be so happy, you’ll stay with them, of course. There’s nowhere else to go. Just for a little while. Then you’ll get your things out of storage, get a new place to live, get a new job. Start over, all over.

She leans against the kitchen counter, feeling breathless. You can balance their checkbook, change the smoke detectors, all watch TV together. Make up for lost quality time. The least you can do for them. Make them happy. She pictures them at the dining room table, the three of them, eating a heart-friendly casserole. Many, many casseroles. She will cook them casseroles every night, night after night. She will live in her old room, her little-girl room, sleep in her girlish twin bed. You should start packing everything up. All your things, get all those blank canvases to UPS, the unused tubes of paint, send it all home. She hears the house phone ring — There they are, waiting for me, she thinks, they are sitting there hungry and nervous and waiting, I’ll call them later, later, there’s still time — and hurries outside.

It’s already searingly, blindingly, headache-inducing bright; families in bathing suits are already trudging past the house with coolers and folded lounge chairs, noses creamed white with zinc oxide, heading for the beach. Kids clutching plastic buckets and shovels, dragging their garish beach towels in the road. September, fall is coming, is here, enjoy what’s left of your summer, kids. She wonders if they would let her build a sand castle with them, collect whatever broken shells are left.

Down at the intersection of her street with the boulevard she sees other families walking on their way to the synagogue at 135th Street, the men in their heavy black suits, the women wearing flowered pastel dresses, nylons and pumps, and summer straw hats. Strolling on shabbes. How can they dress up like that in this heat? she muses. Nylons, probably wearing slips, too, under those long dresses, oh God. She tries to imagine the life of these people living here forever, trapped in Rockaway, for twenty-five years in a creaky, warping house on the beach, the consuming roots of it, the loud neighbors, the deadening fray of children, hurrying for challah on Fridays and steaming in synagogue on Saturdays, the boggy sponge of time rising up slowly, slowly over their heads. Like quicksand. Like compost. She wonders why they aren’t all gasping for air.

She wishes she were still in Connecticut, tweezing ticks off the dog, knitting baby-sized thousand-dollar sweaters, making a lifetime of pesto for Emily’s family, an outline of her life traced onto theirs and leaving her to live in all that clean, empty space in the middle.

She wishes she were in Russia, France, Spain, wandering around and studying other dead people’s garishly framed paintings, sweating in sex with revolving, negligible men, all of her lightweight unrooted life packed neatly, disposably, maplessly, in one tote bag, one nylon knapsack.

She wishes she were in Cuba with Julius, sipping a seventeen-dollar banana daiquiri at Hemingway’s favorite Havana bar. She’d be sweet and fresh as mint, wearing an oyster-colored linen dress, sipping her drink, cool and dewy, Julius whipping out a credit card, ordering cracked crab on ice, more drinks, everything done and decided for her, the whole world focused down to that sustained moment, and she could live there, in that endless moment, forever.

Maybe maybe that little-girl bed, yes, maybe she can crawl back between those smooth blank sheets, back under the coverlet and stay there, go back to sleep, go back. What did that coverlet look like? She tries to remember the bedspread, the one she slept under all those childhood years, ate all those paper-plate dinners on top of, but suddenly can’t. Was it flowered, embroidered, eyelet? She can’t even remember the color, but it’s there, waiting for her, it must be. She can’t remember the smell of the room: plastic purses and jewelry, licorice candy, fruity adolescent make-up, waxy crayons, acrylic paints? She can’t summon up any of it, as if it’s been erased, scraped from her mind with a palette knife, scumbled over with a thick layer of titanium lead white. She wishes she could vanish entirely now, too, like in a cartoon where the disappearing thing takes its black hole with it.

A kid zooms past her on a beribboned Schwinn — Hey, watch out, lady! — startling her up onto the curb. She peers down the street one last time, looking. She goes back into the house.

“GOOD MORNING, Medical Office.”

“Hi, it’s Sarah Rosenfeld? I’m a patient of Dr. Brandon’s? I wanted to leave a message for her?”

“Oh hi, Sarah. Hold on a sec, she’s in today, I can get her for you. .”

“Oh, okay. Thanks.” Sarah waits. It’s even hotter upstairs, here in her room. She takes a warm sticky swig from the sherry bottle, looks out the huge picture windows, at the florid color plates she ripped from her shell book and scotch-taped over the faces of Nana’s family, at the shells still laid out on the dresser like flatware, at her wood case of fat paint tubes, her abandoned canvases and color-gobbed palette. Her palette knife. Her one begun painting, ivory and iron oxide black, still propped up on the easel, waiting.

These are timid choices, Sarah , her professor had said. Barely choices at all. .

“Hello, Sarah?”

“Hi, yeah, Dr. Brandon. I didn’t think you’d be there.”

“I’ve got office hours on Saturday mornings now.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Sarah says. “You shouldn’t work on Saturday.”

“Just until noon. Everything okay?”

The smell of her oil paints is getting to her. Queasy stomach. Dull pain at the back of her head, just inside her skull, tapping to get out. She gulps sherry.

“Sarah?”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine, it’s just, I’m out of town, I’m away on sort of a retreat, you know, I’m a painter and. .” She tries to steady her voice, stay focused, “. . and anyway, I brought four months of Ortho-Novum with me, because that’s how long I thought I’d be away working here, getting ready for this big exhibit? But I’m thinking about staying away longer? Not coming home yet? I’m just thinking maybe. I’m just trying to figure out my plans.”

“No problem, I’ll put Bonnie back on, just give her the number of a pharmacy wherever you are, she’ll call it in.”