The Color of Cold and Ice Read online

  Was her worrying so obvious to everyone? Of course it was to Clark, but she did her best to hide it around everyone else. It was all those years trying to make the business work. And then, there was Michael’s death. She worried about Em. But Em was doing well now. She and Chad were off to Holland. More than likely Em was gazing at a Van Gogh landscape, in a state of elation, this very moment, studying every brush stroke, with Chad by her side, bored out of his mind. But there would be plenty of things he would like there. He promised to tell her about the canals and windmills when they returned.

  Dr. Gray asked her to lay off the coffee. She had gotten her habit down to two cups per day. “If you have to have coffee, try enemas instead. My nurse will give you an instruction sheet.”

  Coffee enemas. The thought gave her the creeps, but Clark prepared them for her and even helped administer them. Was there nothing this man wouldn’t do for her? This was true love, not the kind one would read about in a romance magazine.

  * * *

  She so needed something hot. A cup of Earl Grey. The smell of coffee was now reminding her of the enemas. She checked her phone. Fifty-three degrees, the warmest day of the year thus far. Why was she even wearing a scarf?

  Dr. Gray said he could refer her to a specialist, but she declined. She felt comfortable with him. She told him she would consider another opinion if things got worse. He told her she was one of those rare people who might have cold chills instead of hot flashes, in the beginning when they discussed the possibility of menopause. She was certainly feeling that now.

  Two small giggling boys ran past her. She looked down to see they were barefoot. Dr. Gray referred to it as earthing and suggested she give it a go. “Okay,” she had said. She looked down at the grass and removed her shoes along with her scarf, carrying both in her hands.

  * * *

  On her latest visit he handed her a spiral notebook. He called it his Whole Body Manual, something he compiled after studying all the methods that had worked for people over thousands of years. “It’s a work in progress,” he said. “I’ve only just begun. By far from complete yet. I’m afraid I’ve kept Doris rather busy compiling all of this for me. It all started with an online course my brother-in-law and I started taking. It’s in there, should you choose to go that route. I would suggest a combination of what you feel comfortable with. Remember, this is all up to you. You can combine it with conventional treatments or not use it at all. I will work with you on whatever you decide. You discuss it with your husband.”

  She and Clark studied over Dr. Gray’s manual together while in bed. She leaned more towards the section on Ayurveda. There was a lot about the wonders of cold therapy, all backed up by scientific data. Of all the things in the notebook, the cold therapy techniques were the ones she cringed at the most. She had been cold-natured all of her life. The dream of the man swimming in the icy canal kept coming back to her.

  “Maybe your dream is a sign,” Clark said. “You saw yourself alongside Emerald. You were healthy, right?”

  “Yes, I appeared to be.”

  “Well, there you go. Your dream is coming true.”

  “But Em is in Amsterdam, not me.”

  “Possibly, there is a future trip where you both go.”

  “You are always so optimistic,” she said. Would he be so optimistic if he knew about the cancer?

  “One of us has to be, and if you are going to be healthy, you have to be, too. A child needs a healthy mother,” he said, winking at her and following it with a kiss. She almost said it’s more than anemia, but let it go.

  “You shouldn’t fuss so. I don’t want you to spend all of your time taking care of me.”

  “Syb, it’s my privilege to take care of you.”

  In that moment, her body melted into his. A wave of peace and contentment swept over her. Maybe he wanted to take care of her. She always tried to be so independent, the mother hen to all. She did want his caring, but for right now without something more serious being added to it. She nestled into his arms. He held her until they fell asleep.

  * * *

  The next morning, she sat with her journal, accompanied by a kale, wheat grass smoothie mixture. Not so bad. The strawberries and bananas drowned out the kale and wheat grass taste. She tried not to miss the coffee. She wrote in her journal. Maybe part of my dream is coming true. Em is in Amsterdam. Could there be another trip? How do I figure into the dream? To my knowledge, the man, the one I saw watching Emerald that night from across the street isn’t in Amsterdam. And neither am I? Josh said he didn’t come back in after retrieving the key. If he doesn’t come back to sign up for a gig, how can he and Em meet?

  * * *

  That night she had a new dream. She was in the Java Bean along with Chad and Em, Clark, and the man she had seen in her former dream, the one who stood on the corner with a garbage bag and guitar. She was holding a baby, and Em was holding a baby. They looked to be twins, but she couldn’t be sure. They both had heads of black hair, like the man. Of course Em’s hair was dark, too. One of the babies began to cry, which was like an alarm going off in her head causing her to rise up in bed abruptly. She looked at the clock — three am. Too early to get up. She saw Clark’s face in the stream of light that came through the crack in the curtains. He was sleeping soundly. No need to wake him up. No need to tell him. No more talk of babies. If Em was to have twins by this man, she would be glad for her. As Chad had said, It’ll be okay. She went back to sleep.

  Chapter 33

  Mark and Emerald

  * * *

  COULD IT POSSIBLY be her? Her son was tugging on her sweater, whispering something to her. Yes, that was the boy who peeked from the back room of the coffee shop that day. They were standing before Van Gogh’s The Bedroom. Would she remember him? What could he say? He couldn’t let the moment pass. This was fate. But she was married. Where was her husband? Still, he must say hi, if nothing else. After all, he was writing a song about her, a song she would never know about.

  “You look like you could jump into that painting,” he said as he slipped up behind her. Oh, crap, what did he just say? That was fresh. Maybe that was okay to say about a landscape painting, but not one of a bedroom. “I mean I love the colors in that painting. But Starry Night is my favorite,” he said, trying to redeem himself. He knew the painting, mostly from Don McLean’s Starry, Starry Night. And he knew it was at the Modern Museum of Art in New York. He had seen it on a high school field trip. Sadly, he hadn’t been back to the museum since then.

  * * *

  She turned abruptly at the sound of a New York accent. A butterfly leapt in her stomach when she saw who it was.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I recognized you from the coffee shop,” he said.

  “I recognized you as well. I mean, I saw you the other day.”

  “Wow, you did? You should have said something.”

  “You were in line with your girlfriend or wife, going into the Anne Frank House.”

  “Oh, no, that wasn’t my girlfriend. I’m not married. Her mother owns the hostel where I’m staying.” A hostel — why did he even bring that up? She would think he was poorer than dirt. But then, he kind of was. “Well, it’s just a stop off. Actually, I’m on my way to Poland.”

  “Poland? I’ve never heard anyone say they were going to Poland. Do you have relatives there?”

  “Oh, no, it’s for a workshop.”

  “Oh, so why are you in Amsterdam? For the Van Gogh Museum?” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, no, sorry. I guess that is none of my business?”

  “No, it’s okay. Well, yes, to see the museum and other sights, but mainly I’m here to see a relative, a distant relative, someone my father has been corresponding with. He is a Holocaust survivor.”

  “Really? That sounds interesting.”

  “Yeah. He has some papers I’m supposed to take back to my father. Lost his whole family during the war, his parents and twin sister. He has no other blood relatives to leave them to.”

&nbs
p; “That is so sad,” she said.

  “Yeah.” He stood awkwardly in front of her, like the day in the coffee shop when his body was frozen. What else to say? Would she notice how nervous he was? Why was he nervous? She was a married woman with her son, someone he only ever saw twice before today. Was it fate? Why was he even seeing her? And in all places, Amsterdam? Where was her husband?

  Just then, an onslaught of what looked to be middle-school students came barreling past, some punching each other, giggling. A reprimand, or what sounded to be a reprimand, came in Dutch as the tall gray-haired man, obviously their instructor, peered at them with serious eyes from atop the wire rims positioned low on his nose. He motioned for them to line up as he pushed his glasses closer to his eyes and pointed at the painting. After he had their attention, his talk continued. Mark imagined his first words as being, “And now we have The Bedroom by Van Gogh.” It was only an educated guess on his part. The name Gogh sounded like a cough, not a name at all. Americans took the lazy route, leaving off the ‘gh.’

  The woman reached for her son and pulled him in closer, a mother’s reaction, purely instinctual, as the group crowded around the painting.

  “Is your husband not with you today?” Mark asked. It was bold, perhaps, but the school group’s presence caught him off guard. He was more than curious. The words rolled off his tongue before he realized.

  “My husband?” she said. “No, my husband died.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Is he from Amsterdam? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No, not at all. It’s always been a dream of mine to visit the Van Gogh Museum.”

  “Van Gogh is my mom’s favorite artist,” Chad chimed in.

  He looked down to see a reddish haired boy who wanted to be anywhere else but in an art museum. “Is that right?” he asked. “I can see how art could help with the grieving process.” He looked back towards Emerald. The group was moving on, to the next painting. The three of them moved in unison up closer to the painting.

  “So simple, and yet so elegant. Don’t you agree?” she asked.

  “Yes, yes, I do.” Mark looked at the painting as if seeing it for the first time. He looked back at the woman. She was in complete awe.

  “Art helps just about anything, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose it does,” he said.

  “But mostly I’m past the depression now. I mean, there is not a day I don’t miss Michael, but I’m finally trying to move on.”

  “Aunt Syb worries about Mom,” the little boy said with concern in his voice.

  “Yes, Aunt Syb does worry a lot,” she said, giving her son a smile.

  What kind of woman was this? He had pictured her so wrongly. She just lost her husband, and yet, she seemed cheerful. Who would go on vacation right after losing her husband?

  “Syb is my sister. And, where are my manners?” she said. “This is my son, Chad. And I’m Emerald, but most everyone calls me Em.”

  “That’s unique. Well, Em, I’m Mark. Glad to meet you.”

  He looked at Chad who also seemed unfazed by his father’s death but said, anyway, “Chad, that’s a nice name. I’m so sorry you lost your father.” He looked at Emerald. “I hope that was okay to say?”

  “Well, he remembers Michael, not as much as I would like. Chad was only five when it happened.”

  “Five? Oh, then it wasn’t recent?”Who was the man in the park? A boyfriend? A man who looked respectable, someone with a career, someone going places, as Shelly might say, as his mom and dad would also probably say. He didn’t stand a chance. Still, he didn’t want to leave. She was talking to him, after all.

  “No, there was an accident. Chad was in the hospital for a while.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” He looked down at Chad, a perfectly healthy looking boy.

  “He’s okay now. Totally healed.”

  “That’s good.” He paused. “So you came all the way here to see the Van Gogh Museum?”

  “My mom’s an artist,” Chad said proudly. “She wants to paint ice.”

  “Oh,” he said. The thought occurred to him that she smelled like ice, fresh. Everything about her was fresh, like the artist’s strokes, like a perfect combination of chords on a finely tuned guitar. He smiled. “An artist. What kind of artist? What do you paint besides ice?”

  “Landscapes, mostly. But I also do portraits. Do you paint or draw?” she asked.

  “Oh, no, not me. I work in a record store.” Another bad thing to say he immediately thought. Staying in a hostel, working in a record store. A good first impression he was making.

  “She draws me a lot,” Chad interjected. “She is painting me with lots of colors like Van Gogh painted.”

  “Are you an artist, too?” He looked down at Chad.

  “I like to draw houses.”

  Emerald touched his head, combing her fingers through his already messy hair, as she looked down in approval, “He wants to be an architect.”

  “That’s a good career.”

  “Mom?” he tugged on her sweater. “You promised.”

  “I guess we should go. I told Chad we would go on a canal ride.”

  “Of course. I mustn’t hold you up. Well, I hope I see you again, maybe back in New York.”

  “That would be great. Oh, wait, you didn’t tell me what kind of workshop you are going to.”

  Was she trying to get him to stay longer? Did he see an attraction in her eyes? It was so hard to tell. He felt like a schoolboy around her, like one of the middle school kids in the group. Maybe she was just being polite. What about the boyfriend? His heart was racing and his knees weak. “The workshop is about developing an inner fire to gain mastery over the cold and the immune system.”

  “Oh, interesting,” she said.

  He continued telling her about The Iceman, about the online course he and his brother-in-law were taking, and about how most of it came about. He left out the part about his parents footing the bill. He rattled on until Chad began to yawn and fidget.

  He couldn’t tell if she was disappointed that her son was bored or if she was bored herself. “I made promises,” she said, pulling Chad in close to her, running her fingers through his hair.

  “Oh yes, the promise,” he said.

  “Yes, a canal ride.”

  “A pizza canal ride,” Chad corrected her.

  “I’m sorry I kept you.”

  “No, no, it’s fine, really.”

  He fumbled around. He didn’t want to say goodbye, but Chad was getting antsy. “Have a great time in Amsterdam.” It was all he could think to say.

  “You too, and I hope you have a great workshop.”

  “Thanks.” He stood in place before her, grasping for something profound to say, something that would keep her talking to him. He watched as her son fidgeted, vying for her attention. If only he had her alone He could say something to her son. What? He was good with Little John, but he wasn’t nervous around Little John. He only heard the words, “well, bye,” escape from his mouth. It sounded so flat.

  “Bye,” she said. Also, a flatness.

  He turned and walked away, down the steps toward the gift shop.

  * * *

  Emerald watched as he walked toward the exit.

  “Is that who you said you knew?” Chad tugged on his mom’s sleeve and whispered, while her eyes followed him out of sight. That was it. He wasn’t interested.

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Mom, you look sad.”

  “No, I’m fine.” She summoned a smile to hide her disappointment that he didn’t linger with them longer or walk out with them. A moment ago she was on top of the world surrounded by Van Gogh’s in the Dutchmen’s own country. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Sure, I’m ready for the canal ride.”

  She took Chad’s hand, almost running out of the museum.

  * * *

  Mark stood outside the doorway. “Idiot, idiot, idiot,” he said slapping his head, standing at the entrance of
the gift shop. How could I let her get away like that? I don’t know where she lives. I didn’t even get her phone number. Not even an email. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  “Excuse me,” a father said to Mark in a Dutch accent, as he guided his family past the man who was possibly about to cut off his ear at any moment.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said and got out of their way, in a daze not caring what anyone thought at this point. He let out a heavy sigh. Why did he let the moment pass? He couldn’t let this happen. She hadn’t come down yet. He couldn’t just walk away without even trying, especially after seeing her here, of all places. This was the woman he could hardly take his mind off of ever since that morning in the coffee shop. Even when it happened with Shelly when he had returned for his clothes, her face, Em’s face, had flashed through his mind. He knew her name now. And she wasn’t married. That was the good news. Well, sad that her husband died, that Chad lost his father. But she was available.

  His cell buzzed. Shelly? No, not now, Shelly. Why is she calling me? He watched the phone’s face, his thumb hesitating. It quit ringing. He looked up towards the steps. Where was she?

  He walked back and forth in the gift shop for a while, his eyes every few seconds darting towards the museum entrance. A text alarm. No, No, Shelly. “NEED TO SEE U. CALL.” All caps? That wasn’t going to happen. Shelly had no idea where he was. She didn’t need to know. He silenced his phone and placed it back in his pocket. He looked up again towards the doorway. The school group was entering the gift shop. He let out a sigh, annoyed at himself for not making a move. How stupid.

  The little Greek guy flashed into his mind. He bounded back up the steps and through the entire museum. They were nowhere. How did he miss them? It must have been when he checked his phone. Think. The canal cruise.