Pushing Upward Page 6

  The person in question is not in an independent position.

  That was the truth.

  This means that he must achieve something.

  Achieve something. Like what?

  It is not his task to try to lead at this time—that would only make him lose his way—but to let himself be led. If he knows how to meet fate with an attitude of acceptance, he is sure to find the right guidance. The superior man lets himself be guided; he does not go ahead blindly, but learns from the situation what is demanded of him and then follows this intimation from fate … in addition to the time of toil and effort, this is also a time of planning …

  Planning? Planning what? I jumped out of bed, scooped up my clothes from the floor, and headed toward the shower. Water. Standing up, lying down, I loved it! The shower head was old, but it still had some juice. The towels were nice and thick. I clicked on the heat and was back in heaven. I even started to sing “Our House,” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Quietly, of course.

  Returning to the bedroom, I put on my clothes, made my new bed, opened the window, and tried to inhale my new life. The room looked smaller in the morning light, but Josef’s paintings made the space seem bigger. They began to breathe, taking on a life of their own. I could have studied each painting all morning, all day. But there’d be time for that. Now, it was time to start my new life. I tiptoed out into the hallway, wondering if Emma was still asleep. I had no idea of her schedule or what time she started her day.

  This was unknown territory. I saw that her bedroom door was open a crack. I peeked through the small opening, but she wasn’t inside. I walked toward the living room and poked my nose around the corner, into the room. There she was, sitting in her elegant green satin high-backed chair, reading. As I studied her impressive posture, she looked like a retired law professor ruminating over the subtle refinements of a legal journal. She was, however, only reading the New York Times.

  The Victorian high-back was by far the most outstanding piece of furniture she possessed. Crafted from rich mahogany, it curved in a half moon along the top, where clusters of grapes and leaves were carved delicately into the thick, dark wood. Hunter-green satin covered the seat and the back of the chair. The curve of the arms where the wood was molded fit perfectly beneath Emma’s frail wrists, supporting her hands while she read.

  “Good morning,” I said, trying not to startle her.

  She jumped slightly. “Oh, you startled me.” She smiled away the surprise, set the paper down on her lap, lowered her bifocals, and waved me over to the chair next to her. Lovingly, she said, “Come, sit down. How was your sleep?”

  “Not bad! I think I could have slept for two weeks.”

  “I’m glad you had a good rest, dear.”

  She paused and then gingerly raised herself up. It took all her strength to lift her body. Cup and saucer in hand, she walked step-by-step, head held high, purposefully, toward the kitchen. “There’s coffee and bagels,” she called back to me, “or cereal, if you like.”

  “No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

  Returning from the kitchen, she focused on the trembling hot cup, evidence there was still weakness in her limbs. She sat down, carefully placing the cup of coffee and quarter piece of toasted bagel with cream cheese on the small table between us.

  “So, do we need anything from the store?” I asked, hoping there was something I could do with all this energy and no immediate place to put it.

  “I suppose we could use some paper goods, fish, chopped liver … there’s no hurry.” Her voice was a little shaky. She took off her bifocals. “So, tell me, Sandra. Do you have a plan?”

  The question sounded stern. “A plan?”

  “A plan for your career?”

  “Well, I was planning to go to the Screen Actors Guild, to see if they had a list of auditions.”

  “Are you in shape to audition?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “There is a swimming pool at the back of this building and a YWCA down the block.”

  “That’s great … it’s just that I’m on a tight budget, and I can’t really afford the Y.”

  “I used to volunteer there. They told me I could use the facilities. I never have. I’ll talk to them about you using them instead. There’s also a track at the high school a few blocks away.”

  “I guess I could lose a few pounds.” I laughed, knowing how true that statement was. Emma didn’t reply, not so subtly implying agreement.

  “You did say you wanted to be an actress, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, well …”

  “Well, then you will need to be in pretty good shape. Comprenez-vous?”

  “Pardon?”

  “That is French for ‘Understand?’”

  “Sí,” I said. “That’s Spanish for ‘Yes.’”

  It was a lie. I didn’t see, nor did I understand, that within a few weeks this little woman with white hair and bifocals would have me running miles around Fairfax High School, perched in the bleachers, making sure I jogged with proper breathing, timing me as I’d try to reach her newest goal.

  “Keep your knees up and in sync with your breath!” she’d yell out. “Try it again. One more mile, but keep your pace steady.”

  I had no idea I was joining the Navy SEALs or signing up for boot camp. Where did Emma ever learn how to train? Each week I had to accomplish an additional half mile or she’d be disappointed, and I couldn’t deal with that. It didn’t faze her that other joggers were amused. Every time they passed her, they’d yell, “You tell her, Mama!” “Don’t let her quit before fifty laps!”

  As she sat by the apartment pool, in her cloth director’s chair, the little lady with the surprising set of lungs reminded me: “Keep your shoulders high and your legs extended. Cup your hands.” Using her black binoculars, she watched me swim—five laps, six laps, then ten.

  “Synchronize your breath … with the movements of your stretch. Yes. Better. Smoother now. Be a fish.”

  If not done to her satisfaction, I was asked to do them again. My arms and legs cried out for a reprieve. I was freezing. My muscles ached to be submerged in a hot bath of bubbles. And this was only during the day. At night she’d have me read newspapers and the labels off canned goods out loud using a wine cork between my upper and lower front teeth. This technique was to train me to speak from my diaphragm and not my throat. After only a few weeks, I was reading the yogurt container—“Cultured pasteurized milk, honey, blueberries, pure maple syrup, all natural flavors”—like a Shakespearean actor.

  And since the oracle had made it clear that it wasn’t my time to lead, but to be led, I obeyed. She was the whip, the disciplinarian, the enemy to my lethargy. I never would have imagined how strenuous life on unemployment could be. My lazy self was beginning to resent her and this routine she thought I was in such great need of, but the hero in me wanted to push through. My inner child wanted her approval. I asked her where on earth she had learned this technique.

  She said, “I read about it in the National Enquirer while waiting in line at the supermarket.” She smiled. “Telly Savalas said it worked for him.”

  Chapter 8

  Progress like a hamster….

  Undertakings bring good fortune.

  I was dying to talk to Rachel. It had been weeks. I needed to bring her up to date on my new life and tune in to the latest episode of hers. We decided to meet at the Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine in Pacific Palisades. It had become a haven for us, as we tried to keep our balance in the midst of L.A. mayhem, and we came as often as possible. The beautiful human-made lake and temple had been dedicated to the spiritual leader and teacher Paramahansa Yogananda, who died in 1952. Yogananda was recognized as one of the greatest emissaries to the West, bringing India’s ancient wisdom. Rachel and I loved soaking in the energy of this sacred place, strolling along the tranquil lake and sitting in the simple, elegant temple, where we could relax and pause … for more than a few seconds.

  I spotted my frie
nd as she stepped out of her broken-down Volvo. I was so happy to see her and her atrocious batik pants. Now with blonde hair instead of auburn, still brittle from all the perms, and the rest of her without question a few pounds heavier. We hugged like we hadn’t seen each other in centuries, and began to circle the lake. I was bursting to tell her the news.

  “I now have my own acting coach, my own physical trainer, a roof over my head, and enough chicken soup to nurse me through a hundred and fifty colds. I mean, who would have thought—”

  “It’s great you have this support,” she broke in, replying in a way that seemed mysteriously distant … and jittery.

  I looked at her. “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m okay,” she said nervously. “Just moving through some stuff.” She popped two sticks of spearmint gum into her mouth and took out a small rubber ball that she fisted and started to squeeze.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  “I sprained my arm on a slide at a kids’ party the other day.” She paused. “That’s only part of it. The guy who hosted the party started making moves on me. I told him I had a boyfriend, just to get him off my back. But he wouldn’t stop. So I split. Anyway, the doctor told me to use this ball to strengthen my wrist and my arm …”

  “Did you tell the agency?”

  “I tried. They don’t want to make waves. He’s a ‘substantial client.’”

  “What a bunch of hard-asses! Rachel, maybe the universe is telling you it’s time for a change.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it.” She nodded thoughtfully, looking out at the lake while scuffing her sandal in the dust of the path.

  “Ya know,” she said slowly, “the thing is, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with my life.”

  Rachel’s face was turned away from me. But I could feel the knot in her throat, the holding back of tears. She was serious, and vulnerable, in a way I’d never seen her before.

  “Look …” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry … I’m just a mess right now.” She ran her fingers through her fragile blonde hair. “My life just doesn’t seem to have any direction. I’m not going anywhere. And to be honest, I don’t have any idea where I want to go.”

  A light breeze blew wisps of hair across her face, and I reached out and tucked the strands behind her ear.

  “Rachel,” I asked her gently, “what is it you really want to do?”

  She started walking again, opened her arms wide. “I have no fucking idea!”

  I tried to catch up with her. “You have so many great qualities. You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re creative. You’ve got great insight. You’ve pulled my butt out of fires more times than I can count. Look, I can’t tell you what to do, but I do know that you can do anything you put your heart into.”

  I stopped walking, and looked at her intently. “But right now, you have to get out of this job. It’s dangerous. Hell, topless waitressing would be safer. At least you could get free food and a good workout.”

  “Food is the last thing I need,” Rachel remarked, with a slight grin.

  “Tell me about it. I have more chicken soup than I know what to do with. Emma has me exercising so much, though, I can’t keep any weight on.”

  “You’re burning up calories. What do you expect? Your body’s screaming for nutrients.”

  “I have no idea what to eat—and I’m supposed to be cooking,” I admitted.

  “Me neither. We never learned. The only difference between you and me is … I digest my food—which is why I’ve gained ten pounds. You … get rid of it! Food is an escape, for both of us.”

  “You’re right.” She was back!

  We kept walking, admiring the lily pads in the lake, the swans floating gracefully on the still water. Then Rachel stopped again.

  “Maybe this is a sign.”

  We looked at each other and both blurted out: “We have to learn to cook.”

  We cracked up, shook hands, and vowed to learn how to cook by the end of the month. That was the deal. Before going our separate ways, I made Rachel walk around the lake one more time, which she bitched about—which was fine with me—and then we hugged and kissed each other good-bye.

  Emma had been preparing most of the meals. She never complained, mind you; neither did I. But I was beginning to feel a little guilty. Cooking was part of our original agreement. So, the next morning, I decided to initiate my vow and made a trip to a small gourmet kitchen store. I was blown away by the variety of cookbooks. Dessert books for chocolate lovers, strawberry lovers, even marshmallow lovers. There were cookbooks for crêpes; omelets; chicken and fish dishes from France, Scandinavia, Peru. Walking up and down the aisles, I felt dizzy from the choices, but finally narrowed them down to three selections: an African cookbook, a Jewish cookbook, and a Chinese cookbook. I was determined to embark on a culinary voyage, praying I was up to the task.

  Emma was on the phone when I walked in. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I gently put the cookbooks on the kitchen counter and tried to guess who she was talking to. Like I couldn’t figure it out by the script on her lap and the way she expressed herself, with childlike exuberance. Clearly, it was Bert. Bert’s father was the movie mogul who was married to Sarah, Emma’s best friend who had died right after her husband. This was apparently the moment when Bert adopted Emma as his surrogate mother and she adopted him as her surrogate son. He was now a producer. He called Emma practically every day and sent her scripts to study and critique. She would spend hours not only reading these scripts, but writing extensive notes in their margins, detailing her evaluations. Her long pauses when she spoke to him implied, to me at least, that he confided in her and valued her comments. Where she learned the discernment to break down each scene, understand the nuances of every character, I had no idea.

  Without even knowing him, I didn’t like Bert. He took up way too much of her time.

  While I waited for her to end the conversation, I flipped through the cookbooks. Ohhh, Hunan chow mein! Yummy! I hunted through the fridge, but there was no baby bok choy, whatever that was, or water chestnuts. Emma had no wok. I picked up the African book. Mmm. Fufu, boiled plantain; masamba, greens; and pastel com diablo dentro, “pastry with the devil inside”—the picture looked divine! I poked around the cupboards, but we were out of tuna and there were no sweet potatoes. Drag-ola! I picked up the Jewish cookbook, leafed through the pages. “Ahhh, potato pancakes!” I exclaimed, too loudly.

  “Hello,” Emma called out.

  “Hello! I’m going to make lunch today,” I said overzealously, hoping she’d realize how excited I was and get off the phone.

  “I’ll be off in a few minutes, dear. I was going to make fruit salad. My friend Zelda is coming for lunch.”

  “I’ll make enough for Zelda, too.” Emma returned to the phone, and I forged ahead, making sure we had all the ingredients: eggs, potatoes, onions, milk. But I couldn’t find the potatoes. I kept rummaging through the drawers, now making more noise than I should.

  Emma said good-bye and put down the phone. “What are you making?”

  She was probably terrified that what I was making was a mess. I didn’t blame her.

  “Potato pancakes,” I said, pulling out pots and pans, still looking for the potatoes. “Do you like them?” I asked, not giving her a chance to respond. “You don’t have to get up. Just tell me where you keep the potatoes.” I was going to prove to her that I could do this on my own.

  “I’ll show you.” She came into the kitchen and went directly to the pantry I’d just ransacked. “They’re right here, dear.” She took out six potatoes from a brown bag in the back corner and placed them on the counter.

  “No wonder I couldn’t find them.”

  “How many does the recipe call for?” Emma asked, trying to be helpful.

  I looked at the book. “One onion per four medium-size potatoes.”

  Emma handed me six more potatoes from the bag.

  “Twelve potatoes? That’s a lot
.”

  “You’ll see how quickly they’re absorbed.”

  “We’ll need three onions.” She reached back into the pantry and took out four onions.

  “Thank you … you can sit down now. It’s my turn to cook.”

  “Can I peel the potatoes?” Emma asked coyly.

  I thought about it a minute. “Okay. But I’m doing the rest.”

  Emma peeled the skins while I shredded the peeled potatoes.

  “Why not grate the potatoes into a bowl of water, then strain off the water and add in the onions?” Emma suggested.

  “But it says here to keep the potatoes in water before you grate them.”

  “You don’t want the potatoes to brown after they’re grated. While they’re sitting, you can grate the onions. Didn’t your mother ever make potato pancakes?”

  “No one was allowed in the kitchen when my mother cooked. She said it made her nervous.” I didn’t tell Emma, but my mother didn’t like it when people intruded upon her private asylum. The kitchen was where she went to escape … from everything. When my mother’s hands kneaded the batter in the mixing bowls, she could forget about my father’s drinking. While she stuffed the turkey (and herself), she could forget that her own mother had committed suicide. She’d probably never cooked with her mom, either. But one thing was for sure: Nobody made potato pancakes like Estelle Billings. Nobody! They were like crispy hash browns but thicker and sweeter, especially when doused in sour cream. I remember eating ten to fifteen of those puffy little critters whenever my mother made them.

  “How many eggs does the recipe call for?” Emma asked, waking me from my reverie. I checked the book again.

  “Three, I think … yep, three.”

  The intervening years disappeared as she handed me the eggs and showed me how to break them, using the round part of the spoon and then dropping the yellow eye and the clear liquid into the bowl, plop. I stirred the mixture. Seeing my own hands in the mixing bowl brought tears to my eyes as I stood there, next to this woman. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed not cooking with my own mother, not being initiated into the secret of how to bring those formless globs of goop into the perfect cookie or pancake or whatever she was making. I always wanted to be one of those globs that received all of her attention. I always wanted to be the batter, because that batter seemed to get a lot more of my mother’s love and attention than I ever did.