Apart From Love by Uvi Poznansky Page A

her face brightens. She seems to relax, even smile.
From here, it sounds as if there is some distress in his voice. “This is Lenny,” he says, starting a different conversation now.
I can see how her eyelashes start flickering, ever so lightly, over the freckles.  
“It’s me,” he repeats, to someone out there. “Me, Len.”
My father talks now with an unusually slow manner, and with clear intervals, stressing every word; which makes me curious. I wonder who is it now, who is at the other end of the line.  
He lowers his voice, but I can still hear him saying, “Just listen, dear. It’s me. It’s Lenny.”
By now Anita is trying to open her eyes, if only by a crack. I have no idea if she could hear anything, or if she has caught sight of me. I wonder, can she see my outline, can she make it out against the bright sunlight in the window, and does she recognize, through the narrow interval between her eyelids, who I am.  
So I whisper to her, “Anita...” which makes her nod her head.
“I carried you here,” I say, “because you were dizzy. I mean, you fell.”
She mumbles a long sentence, most of which I can barely understand.  
“So, how are you feeling?” I ask. “Any better, now?”
Anita opens her mouth and out comes a big yawn.  
I wait for an answer and before long, I can hear her purring softly, and from time to time, shivering slightly in her sleep. The rhythm of her breathing is regular now. So I unfurl the blanket over her, and cover her up to her ears.  
I imagine my father standing right here, in my place at the foot of the bed. I step back and in my mind, picture him taking a step forward, lifting the edge of the blanket, which is still settling over her.  
His hands go in, searching playfully for her feet, touching the creamy skin, fondling her toes, rolling each one of them ever so slightly between his fingers; which makes her arch her back, stretch out her arms, and twist her body around until she is turned over, on her back. She points her toes towards him with a cry of pleasure.  
Anita utters a groan as he applies gentle pressure to the soles of her feet, caresses the arches, the heels, the ankles. Her knees spread open and fall apart, until she takes control of herself and brings them together—only to have them spread open again.
I close my eyes because this way, I can see with greater clarity. The entire blanket is coming alive, folding and unfolding, stirring with their passionate tangle. From time to time the ripples rise to mark the line of his back, or the curve of her embrace.  
Waves come and go, crests roll in, followed by deep troughs, all giving a hint here, a hint there of the ways of their bodies, aching for each other, desperate to cling, to hold, to be taken.  
Then, in my mind I conjure up the missing presence. The presence of the forgotten woman.  

I gasp, for there she is: mom steps in from the shadow behind the mirror. Even if I try, I cannot grasp her. She advances slowly until she is standing right here, a few steps removed from the bed, tired, covered with a fine layer of dust, the dust of a long travel. By now it has caked on her face, because of the sweat that has already dried up. And in that crust, a crack here, a crack there bring out the crow feet by the corners of her eyes.  
There is a stack of sheet music in her hands, which mom lets scatter in her path across the floor. Perhaps by now she has grown weary of her journey. I imagine it has been a while since she heard an ovation, since she took her bow in front of a crowd. And now, somewhere out there, a kid must be playing, practicing notes which are drifting in through the open window, out of sequence, confused.  
She is wavering in her mind whether she should stay here, in this bedroom—which is hers after all—or walk out the door.  
Finally, her exhaustion weighs in. Mom looks around her for a quiet place, and as if she were a stranger, she tiptoes—so as not to disturb—to the corner