The Color of Cold and Ice Read online

  “That’s just grand,” he said. “What are you wanting? A boy? A girl? One of each? My wife and I had twins, two boys. And now we have four grandchildren. Children are what it’s all about.”

  “Twins don’t run in either of our families, so I doubt if that happens. Too soon to tell though. I just want whatever sex it is to be healthy,” she replied.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” he agreed.

  If only he could have done all of their remodeling projects. He would have been great company, someone wise to talk to, but he was old, couldn’t lift like he used to or climb stairs. He retired shortly after. John joked that her fastidiousness had drove him into early retirement. “Too bad,” he said. “I can’t believe this is all he charged.”

  She promised John no more remodeling projects until after the baby was born. It wasn’t until two years later that she started thinking about the kitchen. It was a nightmare. They had both had their share of eating out. Maybe it was the Chinese carry out containers and the empty pizza boxes that added to the stress that put them on edge. They went seriously over budget. That is when John had a moment of completely losing it. He downed some Xanax and told her they would have to keep it simple from here on out. She was the one who usually kept the checkbook, but to her chagrin, he asked to see it. The Xanax hadn’t yet kicked in. Molly held her hands over her ears, not used to hearing her dad yelling. Little John, in the makeshift nursery, began to cry. Maybe the nursery should have been first on the list, but she wanted to save the expense for proper children’s rooms.

  She rushed upstairs to Little John, giving John time to come to his senses. When she came back down, he was sitting on the couch, a beer in one hand, possibly not such a good idea considering he had just taken medication, but she restrained from making any comments. After all, he was a doctor and knew the risks.

  “Okay, I have a plan,” he said calmly, holding one of Little John’s crayons and a discarded piece of cardboard from one of the appliances, in his other hand. She had insisted on all new appliances. He motioned for her with an I’m not going to bite you; it’s okay look, to sit beside him. Placing his beer on the table, glancing at her in a way that said, I dare you to say anything about no coaster, he put his arm around her and spoke softly, “Okay, this is how it is going to be,” and read aloud to her from his barely decipherable script.

  Things went back to normal. She was thankful the meltdown had come after the kitchen installation. At least she had the right cabinet space for her assortment of Rubbermaid, no mismatched containers or lids. She often wondered how that happened — why other people complained about it.

  It was her perfect spot for culinary genius. The glow from her new brightly mixed colored Fiestaware through the glass cabinets stared back at her like a newly formed rainbow. Her laptop sat angled just right on the counter edge where she could organize recipes and watch cooking shows for inspiration. Rachel Ray was her favorite although she longed for the days of Julia Child.

  * * *

  Molly and Little John sat a few yards away from her at a small table, a box of crayons between them, and a stack of coloring books, with an iPad propped up, set to a continuous stream of cartoons coming from the Netflix app. That would keep them occupied while she made dinner, at least Little John. Molly was a different story.

  She hoped John wouldn’t be late. She had received no calls, no texts. He was always good about letting her know where he was. He should be on the subway about now.

  She looked over at the children. Molly was all over the page. She got bored easily. Little John, as they called him, not to get him confused with John, as they both abhorred Johnny, was as meticulous as her. He had his crayons lined up in a row. He had never been a messy child. At two, a stained top irritated him and made him cranky. He insisted on changing. Potty training had been a cinch with Little John. Molly, on the other hand, had gone longer than expected. She took after her father. No, she took after Mark.

  Allison and her brother, Mark, were very different. Sometimes, she wondered if she was adopted. Or her father had an affair, and her mother, not to cause gossip, agreed to quietly take her in and raise her as her own. Mark would beg to differ on either of those assumptions. Mark had always said she was just like Mother. How could he say that? She was nothing like Mother. At least she had said that when they were younger. Now, she accepted that she heard a lot of her mother in her own voice. Of course, it was nothing she would admit to anyone else.

  Allison knew she had some kind of compulsive obsessive disorder, but it was the good kind. She didn’t count things or go back and wash her hands a zillion times. She was just very organized and precise, maybe a bit calculating. John had accused her of that.

  * * *

  She had truly thought she was pregnant when they got married. At least it was the lie she told herself. If she had sincerely thought that why hadn’t she rushed to a clinic or a doctor or got a pregnancy test at the pharmacy? Why had John never asked her that in the beginning, him being a first year intern? He had just taken it for granted that she had.

  She assured him she wasn’t trying to trick him. It was one of the rare moments that tears flowed unexpectedly. She had lost control. She had even offered to get a divorce. He held her and looked straight into her mascara stained, red swollen eyes, and said he would have married her anyway, maybe not just then, but it would have happened, eventually. “Without a shadow of a doubt?” she asked with snot running out her nose, trying to regain her composure.

  “Without a shadow of a doubt,” he said.

  In the recesses of her mind, she questioned if he was indeed telling her the truth. She sensed an unsureness in his voice, something only she could detect. She doubted if John would have ever thought about asking her to marry him on his own. John wasn’t made that way. He took little initiative and didn’t make big decisions on his own. He couldn’t even decide to become a doctor. His father was a doctor. His older brother was a doctor. It was just assumed he would be one too. Resolving to do something in a timely manner, like marrying her, held no fascination for John, except in have-to instances, like in the ER. John was great in an emergency. Something deep within took over. That was another thing that attracted her to him.

  She had made marriage a have-to instance. It wasn’t that he was angry at her announcement of pregnancy. He took it as a matter of fact, like an odd spot showing up on an x-ray, something that would have to be dealt with promptly. Still, she left nothing to chance. She had left for lunch an hour early, deciding upon a ring before making her way across to the restaurant. There would be no room for second thoughts, like, we’ll decide tomorrow or wait for a sign. John was big on signs. Wasn’t pregnancy a sign? Luckily, he concurred.

  It had been that way on that Valentine’s night; something from deep within took over. It was an experience that neither of them would forget although they never discussed it. She just knew that Little John came out of it. She had given herself to her husband with no thought, no plans, no calculations or analyzing. Their lovemaking that night had been so earth shattering, so out of this world, that maybe Little John was destined for great things. She looked over at him as he busily colored away, with preciseness, every mark within the lines. She shrugged. Weren’t great thinkers supposed to do things outside the box?

  * * *

  John was running late. Shouldn’t he be home by now? Maybe he was having an affair. He had been so uninterested in her as of late. She sensed danger like a canary suffocated and choked on the descent down into a coal mine. She tried to dismiss the feeling as she reached for her cutting board.

  Dampness traced a vertical line on her cheek. A tear had welled from her right eye. The onions lay untouched.

  Her makeup would be ruined, but she could touch it up before John came home. She still wore makeup for him. She still wore something presentable, none of the sweats or leggings that most wives wore. He should appreciate that. She wasn’t even sure if he noticed. She was like something out of the sixt
ies, a Donna Reed or Beaver’s mom. Maybe John would prefer something more like Mary Tyler Moore, the later version of her, not the one with Dick Van Dyke. Or maybe something even more modern. What was the name of the woman on Sex in the City? She had never even watched that show. She needed to get out of the black and white era. She needed something more upbeat, something colorful. Maybe that’s why she liked Fiestaware and Rachael Ray.

  * * *

  She ignored the moistness on her face as she placed the knife over a carrot, holding it in the proper position, just like she had learned on the cooking shows and on the YouTube tutorials. Halfway through the carrot, the doorbell rang. She grabbed a clean kitchen towel and patted her face. Not good timing at all, she thought as she checked the mirror in the entrance hall before she opened the door. Molly and Little John were at her heels.

  “Mark,” she said in surprise.

  Chapter 9

  Green

  * * *

  AT THIS MOMENT in history, I am all the rage. Everyone is going me, or so they say. I’ve been here for the longest time, growing beneath the feet of humans, the hoofs and paws of animals. I’m the star of the environment, saving it. I am so important that I am a whole movement as well as a party. I’m a hot house, a house effect.

  My comrades don’t usually engage in the senses, but here I must brag. I am inundated by the sweet fragrances of my being — basil, cilantro, parsley, wild onions, pine, and clover. The list goes on and on. I am mixed and tossed, blended and juiced. I am energy and health, the nectar of athletes, and the miniature round balls hidden under a child’s mashed potatoes and a princess’s mattress. I am chlorophyll, the substance of life, nature and fertility, at my prime.

  I am the fruit in a martini, the slice of adornment on a margarita.

  A whole city was named after me. Dorothy was ever so glad to finally arrive. I’m bright and sparkly, rising like a crown over Munchkin country. I can be blinding, my brilliance catching the sunlight just right as I reach into the atmosphere of Oz.

  But then, I can be calming to some, easy on the eyes, the scrubs of a physician in the operating room, and lucky to others. St. Patrick thought so, along with all the Irish. I ride in parades, a day in my honor, drinks passed in my midst. Rivers are dyed in my honor. The drunkenness dies down to solemnity and respect, salutes to my strength, worn on the head, badges on me, denoting my honor. The Royal Air Force, Army, and Commando Brigade all don me, proudly, out in the open. But then for those who wish to hide, I am every shade of camouflage.

  I am a hornet who fights crime.

  The Mona Lisa wore me. DaVinci painted me.

  I am the flag of Islam, Mohammed’s most sacred color.

  I am a subtle color of the Mediterranean Sea, the algae on a pond, the amphibian on a lily pad, the chirping sound in the night. My girlfriend is Miss Piggy. We have our ups and downs.

  I am the finely carved stone of rare beauty and value of Chinese empires. And I am the currency that builds empires, the stuff that banks and Wall Street accumulate, that which is laundered, stolen, or exchanged. Some say I am the root of all evil.

  My prodigy is numerous — lime, apple, camouflage, army, jade, olive, asparagus, beryl, forest, khaki, moss, sea green, jungle green, emerald and many more, a plethora of possibilities for Crayola. I boast more shades than any of my comrades.

  In my finest form, I am healing and calm, kind, caring and gentle. I signify growth. At my worst, I can be deceitful, envious, or jealous.

  I am the fourth chakra radiating from the chest.

  Yes, as unlikely as it seems, I am not my opposite, yet I am the heart, compassionate and loving, empathetic and altruistic, peaceful and balanced. Deplete me and I will be critical and judgmental. I may be depressed or withdrawn. Too much of me may cause clinging and a co-dependence. I totally sacrifice and will let you know it.

  I am the breath. Breathe. Take me in fully.

  Chapter 10

  Emerald

  * * *

  “THANK YOU. I’M in your debt.” It seemed so feeble, inadequate, but seeing him caught her by surprise. Customers were lined up and getting edgy. What could she do? It was the cold and the snow. The brightness of the orange had a warming effect, something everyone wanted this morning. She told Sybil this would be the case. And like summer, it was bright and cheering, like the first ray of morning sun that everyone wanted a piece of all day. She had been right. Everyone wanted something warm this morning. Pastries were going even faster than usual, and most requested that they be heated. She beat a path back and forth between the toaster oven and the register.

  She had recognized him right off. There was a touch of gray hair she hadn’t remembered, but she would never forget that face, those eyes. She couldn’t pause; take a break, even though it was her last day. If anything, she needed to work harder. She was determined to make her last day stand out.

  He hadn’t recognized her. How could he? It had been three years ago. He must have saved a thousand lives, at least. That was what an emergency doctor did. But then, he didn’t save everyone. Her husband was pronounced dead at the scene. He had saved her son. She lost Michael, yet she still had Chad. She would be forever in gratitude for that, even though it was just routine for him.

  Every detail of that day was wedged in her memory, a walking nightmare. Afterward came the night sweats, waking up in a panic from the bad dreams. At least Chad didn’t know, although sometimes she thought he sensed her worries, even though she did her best to keep them hidden from him.

  Why couldn’t she have the kind of dreams that Sybil had, ones that could have warned her? After all, they had the same genes. She had the artistic sense. Weren’t artists supposed to be on the path of intuition? Sybil had gotten that aspect, at least by night when she entered the realm of clairvoyance and foresight of what was to happen. Why didn’t Sybil have a dream of the impending doom that would befall her? She had dreamed of 9/11.

  Of course she didn’t know what it meant. There were two different events playing out in it. Sybil actually thought it meant something good, and part of it was. She had dreamed of Superman flying into her life. He was coming through the clouds, soaring amongst the tall buildings of the city. He was coming to save her from some disaster. A depression had fallen over the city, the world, for that matter. It was monumental, she said. Everyone was glued to their television sets all around the world. Only weeks after her dream, the towers came down. Everyone was indeed glued to their television sets, and there was a great depression that befell the world. Then a month later, Clark, aka Superman, came into her life. Syb never knew exactly what a dream meant until it unfolded.

  * * *

  On the day of the accident, Em entered the hospital in a state of shock, everything about her in a disheveled state. Before she went through those double doors marking the boundary of what was before and what was to come after, as she was so sure many people did when entering hospitals, she caught a glimpse of him. He stood partially hidden behind a column near the emergency room entrance. He wore a brown jacket over green scrubs and was in the arms of a woman. At the time, she didn’t know who he was, but the image had always stayed with her. Every image of that night did. People’s words may have blurred, but the images stuck.

  She had arrived minutes after the ambulance. She had only been a few blocks from the hospital when she received the call. She had run all the way, carried by adrenalin she didn’t know she had. In her frantic state, hair plastered down close to her head from the wet snow, she peered momentarily at the couple. Almost Valentine’s Day. It dawned on her that she may never embrace her husband or son again.

  In the coffee shop, he wasn’t wearing his scrubs, what he had worn on the day he appeared from the doorway coming out to the waiting area to give her the news. The sight of the remnants of blood speckled against his green scrubs like lights on a Christmas tree disheartened her, but the hint of a smile and the twinkle of his hazel eyes when he approached told her that her son was okay. She br
eathed a sigh of relief.

  She would never forget his face. How could she? At the news, she just stood there in a daze, unable to even shed tears. Another doctor, the one who told her about Michael, had just departed. She was torn between sadness and joy.

  He gently took her arm and escorted her to a waiting area, a little more private, and said a nurse would come speak with her shortly. The nurse asked her if there was anyone they could call. She fumbled through her purse for her phone and pressed Syb on the favorites, right under Michael. She heard a howl that sounded like a wounded animal and then realized that horrible sound was coming from her. The first round of tears streamed down her face. There would be many more to come, the ones she hid from Chad, the ones that flowed freely during the nights when she hoped he was sleeping soundly. He was, as she got up a zillion times during the night to check on him. The nurse placed a hand on her shoulder and took the phone from her hand and finished the call.

  By the time she was allowed to see Chad, he had been moved to intensive care, and Syb and Clark were by her side. A new doctor appeared. She hadn’t even thanked the one with the hazel eyes, something she regretted. Nor had she got his name. She touched Chad’s tiny hand as he lay sleeping, supported by machines, tubes running from his fragile body, making him look half machine, half human. “It’s only temporary,” Syb said. The warmth of Syb’s hand squeezing her shoulder reassured her.

  The witnesses said Michael had thrown Chad out of harm’s way as much as possible when he saw what was coming. They had all heard the mechanical sound and looked up to see a piece of crane equipment come hurling towards them. There had been screams, and people running into the street between stalled taxis. No one else was hurt. Michael was pronounced dead at the scene. The doctor assured her it was sudden, no prolonged suffering. Some of the debris merely grazed Chad, enough for surgery, some internal damage, a scar that would fade as he matured. But he was going to be okay.