The Color of Cold and Ice Page 8

  That had been three years ago. Chad was in kindergarten then. Michael had just picked him up after school when it happened. She had just started her shift, but on that particular afternoon, Sybil asked her to run an errand, saying she would take over the counter in her absence. Valentine’s Day was two weeks away. Sybil wanted to decorate the coffee shop accordingly, and Emerald was better at that sort of thing than she was.

  She had taken a taxi to a stationery shop. Her cart was loaded with heart streamers and red napkins when her cell phone went off. She left behind a wake of crumpled hearts as she fled out the door. She was only blocks away from the hospital, as luck would have it, if one could call such a thing lucky.

  After Chad was able to return to school, she began working the early shift so she could be home when Chad got home. Her boss had been more than understanding about that when she came back to work two months later. It was a great advantage having her sister as her boss.

  Sybil had started the business on a shoestring. She was barely getting by, and Emerald knew her absence was more than hard. It was exhausting. Syb always looked exhausted and worried. They both did. And Syb was also heartbroken, over Em losing Michael and Chad’s delicate nature during recovery. They sometimes seemed more like twins than sisters who were five years apart in age.

  Chad grew stronger each day. The rosiness returned to his cheeks. One night, Em sat on his bed, reading him The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter. “They lived with their mother in a sand bank, underneath the root of a very big fir tree.”

  “What about Peter’s father?” Chad asked?

  She held back a tear, stopped, and took in a deep breath. “The next paragraph tells us what happened.” Then she read, “Now, my dears,” said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, “you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.”

  “An accident, like my dad and me had. But he wasn’t put into a pie.”

  Em closed the book and put it on the nightstand. She ran her fingers through Chad’s wavy, coppery hair so much like Michael’s. “No, he wasn’t.”

  Em looked at the reproduction of Starry Night by Van Gogh that hung on Chad’s bedroom wall. “Do you see those beautiful swirling stars of light?”

  “Yes,” Chad said.

  “I like to think that is where your father is. He is now one of those stars in heaven watching over us. In fact, he is one of the more special stars, one of the biggest and brightest, because he saved your life.”

  Chad stared at the picture with wide eyes. Then he winked and looked back up at the painting. “Mom, when I wink, I think Dad is winking back at me.”

  Em smiled. “I believe he is, and when you close your eyes to go to sleep, he is watching over you.” She ran her fingers back through his hair and said, “Good night, sweet dreams,” and kissed his cheek and turned off the light.

  “Good night, Mom.”

  * * *

  Two months passed. Em needed to start working again. She needed the money. Em missed the Java Bean and needed to be around people. Chad’s doctor had cleared him to go back to school, and Syb needed her.

  It was difficult enough competing with a Starbucks on every corner. Syb overcame that obstacle by being unique, specializing in organic coffees and teas and vegetarian and vegan pastries and lunches. There was a demand for that sort of thing in Manhattan. The food was excellent, as was Mabel, their main culinary chef and pastry maker. Twice a day, fresh deliveries came through their door. Her savory mixtures of mushrooms, spiralized vegetables, seitan and tofu with secret sauces had initiated Em into the world of vegetarianism. Sybil had become vegan shortly after opening the shop.

  “I must set an example,” she said. It wasn’t hard at all for her sister as she had never been a big fan of dairy or eggs. Many of the pastries offered were vegan, but still Em preferred the richness of the cream she swirled around on the lattes and cappuccinos. A mountain of whipped cream on her occasional splurge of a latte was her comfort food when she could take a break from behind the counter. The creamy, billowy cloud took her mind away from Michael, if only for a few minutes.

  She couldn’t ask for a better sister. Sybil made sure Chad got to school in the mornings as Emerald opened up the shop at six and stayed until mid-afternoon. There were perks to having your sister as a boss. When Chad was there, he had a spot in the supply room, a cot where he took naps and a small table where he read, colored and played video games. The door stayed open, and she could see him from the counter.

  Sybil’s business was doing okay now. And Em was doing okay, at least as far as okay goes. Life was getting back to some normalcy. Last week she received a settlement from the construction company that owned the crane. It was three years and one day after her husband’s death. This time of the year was always the hardest, but she was determined to turn it around. She planned on taking some time off and coming back only part time at some future date. Sybil had hired a young man, Josh, to replace her.

  She had been elated at receiving the settlement, of being able to stay in the apartment with Chad in the mornings. Living a couple of blocks over from the coffee shop helped. Sybil came early to make sure everything was in order. Then she would go over the books while Emerald got herself and Chad dressed. They all went to the shop together. Emerald worked behind the counter while Sybil took Chad into the supply room with her, also a makeshift office, and continued to do the paperwork and ordering. She also walked Chad to school. It had been too hard for Emerald to pass the spot where a piece of the crane had come tumbling down, altering the course of their lives forever.

  * * *

  Wanting to make her last day extra special, she smiled at every customer who came in. There was one she paid particular attention to, a sad but good-looking guy, who sat in the corner, nursing a cup of coffee in a mug. Few customers bothered with asking for mugs. She drew a heart with the cream in the cappuccino she served him, a free drink on the house. She told him she goofed, but she hadn’t. There had been a lull. Surely he had drunk all the coffee. At any rate, it was cold. For some reason, the urge to make a heart came over her. She had done it so often before Michael’s death. Her latte art of hearts had come to a halt after he was no longer with her. Instead, she made roses, tulips, leafs, the usual thing. She found it cathartic. There were attempts, but she couldn’t bring herself to do hearts. It was only this past week that she had resumed styling hearts into her offerings. Receiving the settlement had been an omen from Michael that said she should move on.

  She glanced over at the man, trying to guess his age. He hadn’t shaved, but she could tell that he had chiseled features. Rather good looking. She thought he might have been interested as he glanced her way off and on. He stayed most of the morning, checking his phone, but mostly just looking sad. The same blue eyes as Michael, or almost. Was that why she was looking? Their hair was totally different, and Michael was a couple of inches taller. They dressed differently, Michael in his dark suits and ties, the man in ragged jeans and a more than worn bomber jacket.

  She glanced back over at the man in the coffee shop. His blue eyes drifted somewhere between sadness and hope. Other than the color of eyes, he was the complete opposite of Michael in appearance. He was shorter than Michael and had completely different coloring, an olive complexion. Michael’s hair was a sandy red and straight, and he was pale. Why was she even thinking such things? Michael would be a hard act to follow if there even was to be a following act. But, she was lonely. Maybe just a date, maybe a one-night stand, someone she would never have to see again, but someone who would serve as a bridge between the sadness and hope for the future.

  * * *

  She hadn’t dated since Michael’s death, even though Sybil dropped a hint here and there that she should. How could she? She didn’t feel like it was time, not with Chad. Maybe later. The night sweats and bad dreams had gone away, but she still woke in the middle of the night, ha
bitually reaching for him only to find the empty cold stiffness of the mattress next to her. She missed him less during the days as the rush of the coffee shop filled the gap.

  Yet after his death, she had grown, become more independent. She had married Michael so young. She was twenty-one, just out of college. Within two years, she was pregnant with Chad. Michael was a great father. Sybil helped a great deal, but Syb was pouring her soul into the business. They didn’t have their parents to fall back on either. All of Michael’s family was in Utah. Clark’s was in Wyoming. Emerald had been a mid-life baby. Her mother was forty-three when she became pregnant with her. After their father passed, their mother said she was tired of New York winters and moved south to Florida to an assisted living facility, joining the Bingo crowd. And who could blame her, especially on a day like today.

  Michael had been her knight in shining armor. He understood when she wanted to quit the firm to help Sybil out with her business venture. Most husbands would have baulked at the idea, especially when she was so close to obtaining her CPA. Michael knew accounting wasn’t her. Besides the numbers, Em abhorred the tailored suits and stylish pumps, the sublingual required attire of the office. Almost as soon as she was back in their apartment, she abandoned them for a paint smock over a bulky sweater, baggy pants and easy Crocs. She merely switched from the paint smock to an apron for the Java Bean.

  She wasn’t accounting material. She wasn’t even business driven. It was something to fall back on, a mantra her parents had force fed her since she first showed a serious interest in art in high school. So, to placate her parents, upon enrollment in college, she majored in art and minored in accounting. One of Sybil’s dreams told her she should. She trusted Sybil’s dreams more than she trusted her parents’ sensibilities concerning the pitfalls of an art career. The accounting minor had led her to Michael.

  The head for business was Sybil’s forte, something that just came naturally. Number crunching was Michael’s. Ironically, right before Michael’s death, he had just received a promotion, so his prospects weren’t looking too bad, or so they thought.

  Don’t all parents resort to the practical when it comes to their children? Don’t all children vow not to do that with their own kids but at some point, switch over to the practical side of life and become their own parents? If not for the accident, perhaps she would do the same, but she had learned the hard way that life was too short.

  She had met Michael on her first day of her first job, if you didn’t count her internship during college in the art history department, organizing and showing slides during the art history classes. She hadn’t even settled into her first real desk, which was a cubicle encased in bleak surroundings, cold white walls decorated with grey lithograph prints and a marble floor to match, broken only with more gray, water coolers and copy machines, when Jane, the person she was supposed to shadow shoved a bunch of files in her lap, and said, “Here, take these to Stone’s office. You know where it is?”

  “Well, yes, but aren’t I supposed to just follow you around today? Get the hang of things?” Her nervousness was showing.

  “More or less,” Jane said. “But I’ve got this big report due.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, just take them? Like this?”

  “Sure. What’s the problem? He’s not going to bite. Well, not too much,” Jane grinned. “Have you seen Nine to Five? You know, the movie with Dolly Pardon?”

  Jane had gotten what she was going after, panic in the face of a newbie.

  “I’m just joking. Now, off with you. I don’t have all day, and neither does Stone.”

  A tap on her shoulder startled and brought her mad rush down the hallway for Mr. Stone’s office to a complete halt. “Mr. Stone doesn’t like folders in that order. He is rather a stickler about things that would seem trivial to most. Here, let me show you.” His hand swayed against hers as he opened one of the files to demonstrate. She could still feel that first touch when she closed her eyes and let herself imagine.

  He was a lifesaver.

  “I’m impressed,” Mr. Stone looked up from his desk, a slight grin on his face. “You got it right on your first day. Most newbies don’t.”

  Michael took her to see Princess Bride that weekend at a theater that showed older movies. He asked if she would like to grab a bite to eat afterward. She told him she was in the mood for pizza. “As you wish,” he said with a sparkle radiating from his deep blue eyes. Every fiber of her being told her he was falling in love, as was she, but a first date was way too soon to acknowledge it. They were right for each other from the start, like star-crossed lovers that had been together in previous incarnations, and now they were meeting again.

  * * *

  The settlement was enough to get caught up on the medical bills and perhaps live off of for a few years if she played her cards right. They could move out of the cubbyhole that was supposed to be an office turned into an apartment. She had to give up her lease and move into a smaller place after Michael’s death. Of course there was life insurance, but it wasn’t much, and she didn’t want to get in over her head. She would take some time, spend as much as possible with Chad, and dust off her easel and buy fresh oils or acrylics. She would adorn the walls of the Java Bean Factory with her creations although any of the paintings there rarely ever sold. Maybe she might even home school Chad. They could travel.

  Maybe she would live up to her name. Sybil certainly lived up to hers, but Emerald? She had looked up the meaning of her name once. The name was supposed to open one's heart to wisdom and to love and be good for strengthening relationships. She didn’t know about the wisdom part, but she did feel like she was a loving person, and as far as relationships went, her relationship with Michael had been rock solid. They had been talking about another child before the accident. She still wanted another child, but the likelihood of that happening now was slim.

  Her mother always reminded her of how difficult it was in bringing her into the world, with a special footnote denoting what a blessing she was. Her mother had been sick the first six months of pregnancy and then the labor was atrocious. She loved to tell the story of how she, her father and Sybil were eating popcorn, the rich, buttery kind, as she had to make up for those first six months of gagging at most foods. They were watching The Wizard of Oz when the labor pains started. Dorothy was just about to reach Emerald City. Sybil was five. Mother called the neighbor who came over to watch Sybil while her father carted her mother off to the hospital in a taxi. There was no danger of her being born in the taxi since her labor went on for fourteen hours. They always say the second labor is the easiest, but so much time was spent in trying to get her to turn — to no avail. Emerald Gale came out feet first; ready to take on life, maybe ready to run into Michael’s arms, through some agreement they had made in the celestial spheres, the one’s Van Gogh so magnificently painted. Emerald believed in all that new age stuff as Sybil called it. She believed in signs, coincidences, synchronicity, and serendipitous moments. It had been Sybil who taught her to believe in it.

  Michael was gone. Maybe she should stop all these nonsensical notions of hers. She had been through such an ordeal these last three years. But things were finally looking up. She was like Ozma coming to her throne after a three-year exile.

  * * *

  Her watch said quitting time. She gave Sybil a kiss and a hug and watched Chad do the same. “Oh, someone left this key this morning. I’m not sure, but I think it may have belonged to the sad looking guy in a worn leather jacket. It was like the ones the fighter pilots wore. He had blue eyes and dark, unkempt hair. It reminded me of licorice spirals. Well, if you should see him in here again, ask him if this key is his. Or, maybe someone else will come in to claim it.”

  “Sounds like you might be interested,” Sybil said, smiling her approval.

  Emerald took hold of Chad’s hand as they headed towards the door and looked back at Sybil and winked. “See you later.”

  Out on the street, she knelt down and buttoned t
he top button of her son’s coat and tied his scarf more tightly. She peered into his bright blue eyes, the ones that reminded her so much of Michael. “How about some Chinese from the Dragon’s Den and an ice cream cone before we go to the Museum of Modern Art?”

  Chapter 11

  Blue

  * * *

  I ENCOMPASS THE earth, above and below. I splash, crest, fall, and recede, turn windy and violent, thrust pellets of water, and become calm once again. Narcissistically, I gaze upon my reflection, and it is massive, covering three-fourths of the earth.

  I bounce and fall from the back of a horse, and sway and bump from a mechanical bull, and stretch tightly across sexy, skinny models, zippers half undone, on glossy pages and across gigantic billboards. Levi Strauss invented me, but I was here all along, just waiting for this moment.

  The Egyptians produced me, grinding together silica, lime, copper and alkali because I could protect the dead in the afterlife. Thus, mummies were wrapped in me. I represent the sky, which is divine.

  I symbolize wisdom and truth. I am the celestial. I’m a stone called lapis. I am scarabs, pendants and jewelry, the rich inlay of the sarcophagus of King Tutankhamen. And yet, I’m practical, stimulating good judgment and intellect.

  To the Greeks, I ward off the evil eye. In Korea, I am mourning.

  I’m rushing to the scene of a crime, the symbol of authority. I’m making rounds in a hospital ward. I’m Dr. Kildare.

  I am a glowing mushroom in the deep forest, tiny Smurf creatures in the forest clearing. I am the grass and wildcats of Kentucky.