The Long Delirious Burning Blue, page 30
Another child lost; another dream bleeding away.
Then, finally, came the miracle. She conceived another child, and this one was tenacious – ah, this one wasn’t going to let go. Three times she almost lost it, but each time the child held on, and Laura felt the warm steady strength of its heartbeat deep in her womb. And this time Alec left her alone – ashamed, perhaps, by what had happened before.
She was born in early November, with her father’s dark eyes and with pale blonde hair. Catriona, they called her.
Cat.
11
Cat
It’s as if you’re underwater. Way, way down in a dark, still pool. Everything is muffled, muted. Sensory input is dim and faded, as if it’s travelled a great distance. You can see the light, there above you, but it hurts your eyes – and anyway, you’re too heavy to swim up to it. You try to identify the source of this weight: a tombstone in the place where your heart used to be. A heavy iron chain garlands your throat and your chest; a tight band of steel crowns your head. Your stomach is hollow and raw. And the weeds grow tangled around your feet, holding you down. But the darkness is comforting, somehow. It’s almost a necessity, this dim lonely place from which you cannot yet choose to emerge. So you don’t try. Not yet. Oh, you know that you can’t stay here forever; there’s a part of you that knows that you’ll have to break free. You can’t not come out: it isn’t an option. You just don’t know when, yet. Or how.
Those are the bad days. The days when I don’t want to get out of bed. Those are the days when I close the shutters on the burning blue skies and the merciless sun and the blinding hurting brilliance of the desert.
Then there are the good days: the days when I fly. This morning I awaken with a start in the dim glow of dawn, and ready myself for the slow sinking back down – until I remember that today is one of those days. Relief lends me the energy I need to propel myself upright, and away from the queen-sized bed that seems too large for me now. I open the curtains; the moon is fading into a sea of blue half-light and a deep orange glow is beginning to kindle at the back of the mountains out east. The desert is silent still, but expectancy hangs in the crisp morning air. Its beauty and purity pull at me, but something inside recoils from it. I don’t want to go out there: it frightens me. So I stand bare-footed by the open window and listen as, one by one, the morning sounds begin. An early cardinal whistles as it flits from mesquite to cottonwood and back again; a gecko clicks in the undergrowth outside the window. I stand and watch as the sun pushes higher and other desert creatures creep from their night-time hiding places to join in the twittering, rustling chorus.
A pot of coffee and a jug of hot milk on the coffee table, facing the glazed doors that look out over the desert. Sitting on the sofa, squeezing the last dregs of sunrise from the lightening sky.
New morning rituals that I’m beginning to create in this house that is slowly becoming home to me. A cloak of routine to cover the chaos that threatens beneath. To restore some kind of order. Because this house has seen the bad days as well as the good. And it has seen the in-between days: the days when I lie on my sofa, with its soft sandy cover and the bright Anasazi pillows that contrast so well with the terracotta walls – no more creams and beiges for me – and I read or I listen to music. All the old music – the music that I used to listen to way back in college: Leonard Cohen and Jackson Browne and Joni Mitchell. When I tire of the music I lose myself in poetry: Margaret Atwood, Kathleen Raine. I run my hands over much-thumbed old paperbacks by Camus, but I’m not sure whether I’m ready to go there yet. I wallow in words. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find, among all those words. Not answers – I’m not naïve enough to expect answers.
A residue, perhaps, of what I might have been.
Because after all these years of frantic striving I have stopped doing: I am trying simply to become. Learning to be, all over again. I have silenced all the voices that would tell me what to do. That tell me to be like them. To live like them, and to think like them. Or better still, not to think at all.
But all that remains now is silence, a vacuum. I have no voice yet to replace them.
At night I dream strange, dark dreams. I walk the misty paths of a cold, grey, liminal land. I walk between worlds, neither dead nor alive. In shade-ridden forests, through skeletal trees that bear no fruit. Through tunnels and tombs, where jewel-eyed serpents hiss and spit in dusty corners.
Is this how she felt, I wonder – my mother? Is this how she felt when she left my father, when she ran from her home and her love? Oh, I quite understand that the details are different. I have no daughter – don’t have to be responsible for anyone but myself. I have the money to do as I will, and Adam was hardly the love of my life. But now, for the first time, I find myself wondering: is this how it was for my mother too?
But I am not my mother. I have no need of alcohol for solace. I have no need for oblivion. Flying is the only drug that I need, speeding light as quicksilver through my veins.
I don’t really understand why I feel like this. After all, no-one did this to me; I have chosen to be here. I chose to leave Adam and to tear myself away from my old, safe life. I chose to move here, right out in the desert, dry grit underfoot and the dusty taste of sand in my mouth. I chose to flee from city lights that drowned out the stars, from soulless and sterile suburban streets. Away from Phoenix, where they do all they can to curb the reality of the desert. Oh, they want it close enough – framed, picturesque – like something they can hang on their walls and admire. But not so close that it threatens their comfort. So they pour their concrete over the sand, they plant their palm trees and perfect green lawns. They escape to their swimming pools, or manicured golf courses – man-made oases, insulated, shielded from the uncomfortable reality of the dry, harsh land.
Here, there is no such protection. The Superstition Wilderness is rugged terrain. The Superstition Mountains do not bother with foothills: born of eruptions of fire and light, their jagged peaks thrust upwards from the flat desert floor and tower to a height of six thousand feet. These are no soft, green mountains with towering pines to give shelter and shade. Pitiless, this desert provides no such respite. Out there, there is nowhere to hide. The sun shines down on you fiercely, illuminating all your hollowed-out emptiness, casting far too much light on your daily fumblings for adequacy.
I’ve marooned myself in a place with few frills, a terrain that is stripped right down to the bones. But I dare not confront that landscape yet. I stay inside. Inside and safe, in my silent, dark cave.
It didn’t take long to find the house; I knew exactly where I wanted to be. I’d always loved the Superstitions, with their legends of mystery and hidden gold. Adam and I used to go there for weekends – we’d head out north on the Apache Trail and drive all the way to Apache Lake. He kept an eighteen-foot bow rider moored there; sold it about a year ago. He could never seem to find the time any more to take a full weekend away from work.
On the morning after I told Adam that I was leaving him, I headed out to a local firm of movers and took away some packing cartons. It took only a few hours to box up what I owned. I did it quickly and efficiently, trying not to look at what I was packing, trying not to pore over the residues of our life together. But then most of what I was packing was just clothes and the contents of my study – old boxes of photographs, and books and music that were very much my own. There was so little, really, that we’d shared. The furniture, like the house, belonged mostly to Adam, and there was nothing there that I wanted. Six boxes filled with my old china and glasses still sat, unopened, in the closet. So all that I had to take with me now were a couple of old pine dining chairs, a large cherry-wood sea-captain’s trunk and a chunky coffee table made from reclaimed oak. A lamp created from an old copper fire extinguisher, a few small folk-art paintings of desert scenes, and some pieces of bright Mexican pottery that I’d managed to secrete around the house in a vain attempt to make it seem more like home.
I left the packed cartons there in my study; I’d make arrangements to collect them later. And before he came back home that evening, I was gone. Out on the road with a heady sense of freedom, and some basic necessities loaded in the trunk. As I drove away from Scottsdale through the Friday afternoon traffic, I felt no regret at all. Just an odd sense of lightness, the much-longed-for feeling of a burden being lifted off my back. I turned on the radio, and for the first time in so very many years there was no-one looking over my shoulder. Nobody judging me, present or not. I switched from Adam’s favourite public radio to a local country music station, grinning all the while like a naughty child. I didn’t have to care that he thought country music uncool. I didn’t have to care that he thought it was for hicks. I sang along with all the songs, whether I knew them or not. I tapped my left foot and slapped my thigh and on the outskirts of Mesa, as if in acknowledgement, they played Trisha Yearwood’s ‘Hello, I’m Gone’. I threw my head back, and I laughed. Just after evening fell I was comfortably installed in the Cactus Tree Motel outside Apache Junction; I slept for eleven hours straight.
The next morning I cruised through the strip malls in town, looking for a realtor’s office, in search of someplace to rent. All I knew was that I wanted a house I could make my own – even for just a few short months. Till I figured out what the hell I was going to do now. And at the second office that I found I looked in the window and there it was: a small Santa Fe-style house, nestling at the base of the mountains.
I found the realtor at her desk, a large woman with a wide smile and a sleepy black dog at the side of her chair.
‘Hey, there. I’m Marylou Peebles.’ She pulled herself up from the desk, came around and took my hand in a firm grip. All the while, looking at me in that way realtors have, flicking up and down and away again, assessing. Well, she wouldn’t be able to tell much from a pair of beige chinos and a black tee-shirt. I don’t do designer handbags and the trainers on my feet were chosen for comfort, not to impress. ‘How can I help you today?’
‘Hi. I was wondering about the house that’s for rent – the one in the window. In Gold Canyon?’
‘Oh, yes. The Alvarez house. Well now – let me just pull up the listing and print out the details for you.’ She bustled back around her desk and sat down, tapping away at her computer. ‘It only became available a couple of days ago and hasn’t been advertised properly yet, so you’re just about the first to inquire.’ She passed me the sheet of details, warm from the printer and smelling of ink. As I quickly looked it over she confirmed that the house was available on a minimum six-month let. It was unfurnished, and apart from the owner’s house next door it was perfectly secluded. A mile down a dirt road, right on the edge of Gold Canyon. With uninterrupted views of the mountains, and surrounded by undeveloped desert.
‘It sounds ideal. I’m looking for somewhere quiet.’
Another assessing glance at my left hand: no ring. ‘It’s just for yourself?’
‘Yes.’ I threw her a forbidding glance from under my eyebrows; my life story wasn’t part of the deal.
‘Well, I reckon that’s the best way. I read the other day that women living by themselves are healthier and live longer than women who are married. So that probably means you’re smarter than I am.’ Her sudden burst of laughter startled me, and the chair creaked loudly as she settled back into it. The dog raised his head briefly from the floor to see if he’d missed anything, then glanced up at me with profound disinterest before sighing loudly and settling back down to sleep. ‘It’s not a huge house,’ she continued. ‘It’s real well-appointed, but it’s cosy. You wouldn’t rattle around in it, anyway, all by yourself. You want to go have a look?’
‘Sure. If you have the time.’
‘No problem. A colleague is due to arrive any minute, so I won’t be leaving the place unattended for long.’
She locked up the office; we got into her car – the dog, yawning, climbed into the back seat and took up sleeping right where he left off – and headed out of town. We pulled off Interstate 60 into Gold Canyon, turning out to the east as we came near the end of King’s Ranch Road. After a few more twists and turns we drove down a dirt track and a mile or so later came to a dead end. Ahead of us, two identical small houses were set well apart from each other, each surrounded by a neat yard filled with cacti and native shrubs. And beyond the houses, only desert. A primitive place, still, where tall saguaros stand sentinel against the ravages of time and erosion.
‘That’s where the owner lives,’ Marylou said, pointing to the house on our right. ‘Maria Mercedes Alvarez. She’s an artist – sells locally and in Phoenix, I believe. Folk art, mostly. Paintings, and some statues. She also does some kind of herbalism or something – I’m not real sure. Some kind of therapy, anyway. Real nice lady – you’ll like her. Specified a single person – preferably a woman. Maybe a couple. No children, no dogs.’ She looked around ruefully at the enormous black Labrador, stretched out and snoring on the back seat. ‘Not that a fella like Sam here would be any trouble. But she likes peace and quiet. For her work, and all.’
We stepped out of the car to an apparent silence, but gradually the daytime sounds of the desert began to filter into my consciousness. Birds flitted from tree to tree; insects buzzed and rattled on the ground, and lizards scuttled through the undergrowth. Bees and butterflies swooped around the early yellow blossoms of a paloverde in the yard. ‘Sure is quiet out here,’ Marylou commented, leading the way down the gravelled drive to the thick wooden front door. ‘Too many bugs and critters and not enough people. I prefer to be a little closer to town, myself. But this is what you’re looking for, right?’
We stepped into a good-sized entrance hall with several honey-coloured wooden doors leading off it. She opened the door to the left of the hall, and we walked into an open-plan kitchen, dining and living area. Oak boards covered the floor, and the rough-plastered walls glowed in a rich shade of terracotta. The kitchen units were painted deep forest green, with worktops of maple and rich brown granite. Large windows with slatted wooden shutters lit up the kitchen space, and a pair of glazed doors in the living area looked out onto a clear view of the mountains and desert. There was a small adobe fireplace in one corner, complete with a basket filled with logs. Two doors on the other side of the hall led to two compact bedrooms with built-in closets. One, painted a pale pinkish shade of terracotta, looked out to the desert at the back of the house; the other, a rich sage green, looked out to the front yard. There was a small bathroom at the back, its walls painted a vivid lapis lazuli blue – a perfect contrast to the white suite and terracotta-tiled floor.
A week later I moved in.
That first week, before I moved, was easy: there were so many things to keep me busy. Furniture to buy, and rugs. Pots and pans and crockery and bedlinen. I wore myself out shopping during the day and fell into a deep dreamless sleep at night. It wasn’t till the day after I moved in that the problems really began.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi. It’s me. Cat.’
‘Cat?’ She sounded surprised; it’s not often that I call her, and certainly never during the week when normally I’d be at work. ‘Hello, darling. How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’ Another pause as I desperately began to wish I’d rehearsed something. I didn’t know what to say.
‘Great. I was just thinking about you, actually. I was talking to one of my neighbours. Not Meg; Ishbel. She lives along the road a way, and she goes to Meg’s storytelling circle. I don’t think I’ve mentioned her before, have I? Anyway – she came to have a cup of tea, isn’t that nice? – people are so nice here, when you get to know them. I’d forgotten that. How welcoming they can be, here in the Highlands. It’s not at all the image people have of Scotland, you know. Anyway – I was telling her that you were learning to fly, and she said, “Oh,” she said, “my grandson is in the air force,” and –’
‘Mother.’
‘– I said, “Well, isn’t that funny? It must be the in thing to do these days,” and she laughed, though he’d be much younger than you, of course, because she must be around my age or maybe more, and he’s her grandson. Anyway. She said that he’d learned –’
‘Mother!’
Silence. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I just called to let you know something. I needed to tell you something.’
‘You did? Oh. Well. I’m sorry. I never thought … Go on, then.’
And if I’d been honest about it, I’d have realised exactly why it was that she ‘never thought’. Because when was the last time that I rang specifically to give her news? Probably when I told her I was leaving for America, ten years ago. Hi, Mother, how are you? And oh, by the way, I’m leaving the country. Probably for good. But of course, I wasn’t being honest about it, and already the irritation was beginning to build.
I closed my eyes; jumped in. ‘I’ve left Adam.’
Another pause. And then, ‘You’ve what?’
‘I’ve left Adam. Moved out. I’m living somewhere else now. It wasn’t working.’ There was a deep, deep silence on the other end of the line, so I exhaled and pressed on. ‘And I quit my job, as well.’
‘You did what? You left Adam and you left your job?’ I could picture her struggling, just as I was struggling, trying to find the right words to say. But she’s never been all that good at restraining herself. If she wants to say it, she’ll say it. Don’t think about the consequences – just say it. That’s my mother. ‘What on earth for? Whatever are you going to do now? For God’s sake, Cat – what is going on?’
