|
I crossed the park to Fifth Avenue and headed to the first public phone that
I found. I called my sister in Los Angeles and woke her up.
“Ian? Do you know what time it is? What’s going on?’’
“.’’
“Ian?’’
“I’m sorry, I was...’’ I looked down at my feet, saw the
grass stains on my jeans. I opened my right hand and found the Longines with
the glass face missing. I said, “Do you know why Jackie and I chose the name
Morgane? It’s from the Arthurian legend, of course, but not as the evil witch
that so many stories make her out to be. She was just an extraordinary woman
fighting for love and faith. That’s the hope we had for our daughter: a life
of passion! But how pathetic it is of parents to wish for their children what
they were unable to achieve themselves.’’
I couldn’t continue. My heart burst, and I choked on all
the sadness and despair that had accumulated over the past few days and which
now flooded my limbs, welled up in my throat and poured out of my eyes, nose,
and mouth.
“Ian? Ian, what are you talking about? Oh, God, Ian. Have
you been up all night again?’’
“I slept in the park.’’
There was a moment of silence. Eventually she said,
“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme, Ian? Ian? Talk to me, Ian.’’
I didn’t answer, I didn’t speak. Not because I wouldn’t,
but because I couldn’t. Not right away.
Finally I said, “Jackie’s decided to move to San
Francisco. And she’s taking Morgane with her.’’
“Oh, Ian. Ian, I’m so sorry!’’
“She said the same thing.’’
I held out my hand again and looked at the watch.
Suddenly I recaptured those thoughts that had escaped me upon waking in the
park, sporadic images that connected like pieces of a dream-puzzle: I knew I
should get the watch fixed. All I had to do now was find the right shop.
After all, you can’t let just anyone tinker with a Longines.
I said, “I love you,’’ and hung up.
|