LAURA HAD WHAT SHE'D JUST AS SOON CALL "THE FAINTS." Oh, at first, Dr. Koppel assured her people got dizzy, fainted for dozens of reasons, all mostly harmless. But Tuesday Koppel took a pen from her white-coat pocket, pointed to a Rorschach of shadowy grays on a light panel--supposedly Laura's brain--and said, "Problem's here." Laura knew that luminous hazelnut-sized defect was a time bomb.
She next heard, "Medical intervention can't do much." Understandably, she forgot the unwieldy Latinate phrase for why she had no more than eighteen months of active life left. A prescription in hand, nothing more than a palliative, really, Laura walked steadily out to the clinic parking lot, no wiser.
She had to keep about the day's business, she reasoned, so the dizziness would not get her. Small, quotidian purposes could help. She would stay standing, as she did now, Friday morning, behind a glassed-in walkway across one wall of a multilane garage bay under a ceiling studded with evacuation fans. She would give complete attention to her Tercel spinning front wheels, going nowhere on enormous steel rollers, a sensor attached to its tailpipe. She would wonder, Can this aged car pass? A fifteen-year-old car had to be a match for her sixty-seven years.
The blue-jumpsuited technician gunned the motor. The front wheels skittered sideways. A quick steering wheel tug, though, and the guy had the car again tracking true. Then elbow out the driver's window, he studied an orange line wriggling across a computer display. He revved it up again.
Someone else joined Laura. A suit-and-tie man, cell-phoning, who declared, above the din of her testing-abused Tercel and other vehicles in the bay, "I'm at DEQ getting tested." Laura figured his anthracite black BMW, next up, was a business lease: new enough to be an automatic pass.
The technician, out of the car, hit a floor lever. The rollers retracted. He yanked the sensor off the tailpipe. Back in the car, he drove smartly forward, the brake lights flicking at the far apron of the garage.
Laura fished out twenty-one dollars for the inspection fee and walked out to pay.
"No charge," the cashier said, seeing Laura's money. "Your car failed." The woman's face seemed genuinely disengaged about having bad news and waited for a computer printout.
"You can take this to a mechanic to work on your car. Okay?"
Laura took the free printout, ready to accept the car was getting old like her.
She got in the Tercel, moved the seat up. She shrugged, turned the ignition key. If the motor had to be replaced, maybe she could sell the car, take the bus. That was one long-term solution.
Back at the house, Laura had, as ever, many things to do. She couldn't be sure if teaching Speech and Drama to distraction-prone high-schoolers wasn't easier than retirement.
She rattled around in this Irvington bungalow, generously sized with five bedrooms, one of a kind said to be built for large Irish-Catholic families in the Twenties. The house was appreciated all the more when she was left with Cath, Rob, and little Petey to bring up, post-ex, so many years ago. She got the house from him, worth then about a tenth of what houses like it went for now. But it had to be kept up.
In the downstairs sunroom, Laura grabbed the phone, dialed a number in Healdsburg, California.
"Good afternoon. Dry Creek Meditation Center. How can I help you?" the unseen woman said, upbeat as only a Golden Stater could be.
"Yes, I was talking with a friend, she said you've one-week retreats people sign up for." On her own, Laura had tried to meditate. Nothing much came of it. She would doze off. Still, the art of meditation was a mystery for which she was determined to gain initiation.
Cath's friend loved this place in Northern California. An old farm converted to a retreat on Dry Creek Road in Healdsburg, nestled among some of the best vineyards in Sonoma County. Nora liked the open, unpretentious approach. Cath, who personally was into the Alexander Technique, joked it would be nice having a Plan B.
"That's right," the Meditation Center woman said. "We have one coming up next week. Let me--check. There're vacancies."
Laura said okay, gave her credit card info, billing address, and other details: She'd pass up the historic hotel on the square downtown, the Spartan sleeping facilities at the retreat would work. Then she hung up.
Now she had to call and buy the plane ticket. This close to departure, where was she going to get a deal? But did money matter anymore? Yes, it mattered. She had people to think about. Grandchildren.
What was she going to tell her family? Her back shivered at how they might react. Would they suffer more than her?
In her head, okay, she had but months to live. But her stomach, implacably nauseous, knew better: Acceptance was far off. Far off, as in she needed time.
Laura would hold back, not tell them. If she were to talk about it now, what could she say? That she was in shock, she was fearful, she felt her body, always healthy, had betrayed her? How she was to accept that life had rewarded the three decades devoted to teaching and raising kids with this retirement--two years' worth--and then told her, That's it. Time's up.
The mute phone made her sigh. Her life at that moment was a joke. A joke about the spin of Fortune's wheel. And she would have a whole week at the Dry Creek Meditation Center to reflect on that. She glanced at her scribbled notes, took the piece of paper, and got up.
She climbed the stairs to the second floor, to what used to be Rob's room before it became a depository for school paperwork. Forms like the twenty-point checklist (with room for comments) the class filled out when someone gave a speech. She had reams of that one stacked by the rolltop desk Rob bought at an antiques place in Sellwood, deeming it worthy of his old room.
She wheeled the squeaking, wooden chair back from the desk, sat down, and slid the rolltop open.
Among the heap of her checkbook, some unanswered correspondence, and statements from the credit union, the phone company, and others lay an old fountain pen.
The clip of the pen was a golden arrow. A diamond-shaped blue jewel was set between the arrow feathering, right above the P in PARKER spelled vertically down the shaft.
She hadn't used the pen for years. Then one day, Cath found it, asked where it came from. Laura guessed, with three kids, one might have played with it, broken it. But she couldn't ask: She, after all, had abandoned the pen.
Between her fingers, she rolled the fountain pen by its barrel, a fancy plastic of gold swirls interlaced with horizontal black stripes. She unscrewed the end cap, exposing the Parker Vacumatic spring-loaded plunger. When the pen worked, the plunger drew ink. What could be simpler? She pressed the stuck plunger--neglect alone had not fixed the pen.
She stood up from the desk, went for the window light to study the pen detailing. A step, two steps, and her thoughts turned sluggish. The pen slipped between her fingers, her legs buckled. Her arms swung out and her shoulder hit first, her head striking both shoulder and outstretched arm. She lay there for minutes, eyes glazed, not conscious of the fountain pen, the room, or the window light. Her heart beat furiously and through her dilated vessels pushed blood headward more easily than when she stood.
It might have been two minutes or less, but Laura came to, saw she was on the hard oak floor, yet her head didn't hurt. What was she doing? Musing on an old pen and memories. An old pen, like her, probably not fixable anymore. But the pen reminded her about those signature cards stashed in the rolltop.
Cath would sign one for the credit union. Cath, Rob, and Petey--all of them--had to sign joint custody signature cards. That way, they'd each get immediate access to their own CD with her, if, as her lawyer said, she predeceased them. No probate, no estate taxes, just clean transfers of her savings to the children.
Now where were those signature cards?
Sunday afternoons, Laura anticipated Rob driving up in his red Eclipse. For the last few minutes, Laura had been checking her front window. One thing about Rob, if he was to be by at four-thirty, you could set your watch at his driving up. This Sunday, Liam sat beside him too.
"So how have you been?" Rob said, hugging a sack of groceries, kneeing aside the screen door. Towheaded Liam scooted by. "Remember, I'm cooking tonight, Mom. My secret recipe for pasta primavera. Say, Liam, get back here." The nine-year-old had collapsed on the sofa as if he were home.
"Liam, get up, get these groceries in the kitchen, okay?"
Liam shot Rob a glance of incredulity, but sprang up and took the groceries, evidently understanding his choices to survive the next few hours. In the kitchen, Liam unpacked the sack, arranging everything on the counter, and before long, water hissing, was washing the vegetables.
"So, Mom, about a month ago, you mentioned those fainting spells, that you might see a doctor, you ever do that?"
Rob's vague look suggested he was only trying to start conversation.
"Oh, Rob, I saw the doctor about something else, didn't mention the faints because they went away." That easily Laura gave the lie to her entire rack of worry this last month. But misspeaking herself hurt doubly: for the truth and for the lie.
"Well, I didn't think it much, your mentioning it. Just this loose thought bouncing around, Mom said she's having fainting spells. Say, it's best they go away on their own. I'm glad to hear that." Rob patted the sofa back, as if confirming all was right in Mom's house.
"Hey, Liam, you finished up in there?" Rob eyed the industrious son, sinkbound. "Don't you be running up Grandma's water bill. Why don't you get out here? Show us some of your oratorical skills." Rob's gaze resettled on Laura. "He's gonna be Patrick Henry, a Revolutionary Heroes program at school."
Liam shuffled in the living room, dropped down on the couch next to his dad, and beamed.
"You're not doing Patrick Henry's famous speech?" Laura was astounded anyone in grammar school might attempt that.
Liam nodded.
"He walks around the house memorizing his lines out loud. I've memorized most of it too," Rob said.
"You ready?" Liam asked. Rob and Laura's smiles were enough. Liam leapt up, turned to the door, facing an imaginary audience. "Mr. President, it is natural to man to indulge in illusions of hope."
Laura reveled at how her grandson enunciated.
"Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves."
Laura noted that Rob, too, was rapt with attention to his son's words, his knowing gestures.
"They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger?" His head tilted up, Liam's words were solemn, convincing. Laura was witnessing a miracle. Did this same grandson a few years before squirm in a crib, his pink face confused with the world about him? Yes, nine years ago--it seemed like yesterday. So much, lately, seemed like yesterday. Was her memory playing tricks?
But Liam was speaking. That was the thing now. His voice rose and both his hands shot out with the fervent plea: "Almighty God! I know not what course others might take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!"
Salty tears tracked Laura's face. Liam bowed. She took a soft, limp handkerchief and daubed at her eyes. Then she stood. She had to hug him. This was the best news she had had in months. Her own grandson made her proud and could, if he chose, easily follow her footsteps.
She reached for Liam and the slowdown in her thoughts surprised her, her head heavy and then her legs funny. They buckled and she fell.
Rob jumped out from the sofa, but not in time. "Liam, go get a glass of water and a dishcloth in the kitchen, right now."
Liam, confused to see this, at first froze, then dashed to the kitchen.
Rob held his mom's delicate head up a few inches in one hand, the other hand feeling for her pulse at the wrist. Liam noisily ran water in the kitchen. Rob's eyes looked over his mom's blouse, saw that it heaved up and down in shallow takes. Her pulse, a bit speeded up, was hard to find. But she would be okay.
Laura's eyelids parted. Her eyes steadied.
Rob grabbed the dishcloth from Liam, dipped it in the water. He folded and placed the towel on her forehead as if the wet coolness would calm and draw out whatever had gripped his mom to faint away.
"Here, leave this glass, go get another, she might want a drink."
Laura saw shock, worry in her son's eyes. "Don't try to talk," he said. "Just keep resting. You can sit up in a minute."
Rob kept a thumb to her slight wrist. Laura felt strength in the legs she knew could stand, but this was embarrassing.
Looking at Rob, she realized nobody could do a thing. If she told them, it would upset everyone and change nothing. No, she would keep it private. They'd imagine more suffering than was there. It was not that bad, really. Just these faints and then as Dr. Koppel speculated, maybe one fainting spell from which she would not get up.
No, she would not tell Rob. No matter how much he asked.
"You feeling better?" he said.
"Oh, I'm coming around, thanks."
Laura tried sitting up. Rob took her hands, helped her to her feet. She trudged to the sofa and sat down. Liam had ready a glass of water.
"Grandma, are you okay? The way you fell looked kinda scary."
"The doctor can't say what it is. Comes and goes."
"You should go back and have more tests," Rob said. "This been happening lately?"
"No, can't even remember the last one." Laura winced: She'd again misled Rob and Liam.
She turned to her grandson, remembering his splendid acting got her up to embrace him before the faint. "Liam, you do have talent. That you do."
"It comes pretty naturally," he said.
"Like his grandma," Rob added.
They talked about Liam and his future acting career and Liam seemed to bask in the attention. Laura liked talking shop after being away from teaching.
"Mother," Rob said, when talk lulled. "Let me know if there is anything I can do for you. I still think you should see your doctor pronto. That was a quick fall you took and if it had been on a harder surface--" He wrinkled his forehead. "I don't know."
"Now, don't worry. I've got an appointment next month. But you really want to do something for me, I need you to come by the house next week, check things over. I'd ask Cath, but you know how distracted she gets."
"You're gone for how long?"
"Whole week, down to the Bay Area."
"Oh, this the meditation place?"
"One and the same."
"Great. So I'll swing by, maybe get my helper to come along." Rob glanced at his son. "You've soccer Wednesdays, don't you?"
"Thursdays, Dad. All summer long, remember?"
"Okay, we'll come Wednesday."
And that was that. Rob cooked the pasta garlicky and the two guests ate like they were starving. And within the hour, Rob and Liam were off. They left and feeling wholly well Laura took consolation at keeping her burden private.
The next day, Monday morning, Laura drove up Broadway to where Gary Nicklaw--a master mechanic for all Japanese cars--had a shop.
She parked and entered the window-free waiting room. Gary rested a phone on his shoulder, scribbled away at the counter. "Be with you in a minute," he whispered to Laura. She stood stiffly, elbows snug to her sides like someone with no idea how many dollars would make her car okay. In the claustrophobic room with one chair, she meditated on the few wall pictures: Gary with trophies beside some sports car. Gary looked a lot younger; the car, like a Japanese model no longer made.
Gary slipped the phone back in its cradle. "So, Ms. Grasmanis, note here says you didn't pass DEQ."
Laura opened her bag, took out the folded sheet with the pollution numbers.
Gary flattened the paper on the counter, sat chin in palm and took a deep breath. "So that's an eighty-five, isn't it? How many miles you got?"
"Oh, a hundred thousand, easily," Laura said, sure this meant the engine was kaput.
"You know, this being the first time you failed and a car that age, I bet we're talking bad catalytic converter."
"I didn't know I had one."
"Yeah, they're been on cars a while. Anyway, we'll check everything out, but that mileage, the engine's usually burning some oil." He drew a circle in the air with his pen. "And that gums up your converter--all this honeycomb inside, okay?" He held his hands apart, fingers spread. "Basically your converter's along for the ride--" He bounced his pen on the DEQ report. "And so, bad numbers."
When Gary said he'd remove and replace the converter for no more than one seventy-five, Laura felt a calm change her. The car, its smog test was the one thing on her to-do list she had to take care of before the registration deadline in two weeks. Now she could. She'd go to California with that lined out. She gave Gary the car key, the phone number to reach her, and then crossed Broadway. When the Tri-Met bus came, her spirit was as content as the camel that found the oasis well.
Thursday, before noon, Laura left home in the DEQ-legal Tercel and hopped on the Banfield Freeway, eastbound, for the Portland Airport. She had plenty of time to park long-term and catch her flight to San Francisco.
The idea of one whole week at Dry Creek Meditation Center let her ignore that she was poking along behind a semitrailer truck. It didn't bother her at all. She'd be in the bucolic wonderland of Sonoma County soon enough.
Then the huge truck shuddered with a noisy downshift that jetted black smoke skyward.
Laura braked. The slowing truck was signaling right, moving off at the 68th Avenue exit. A clear stretch of slow lane opened up.
She peered through the clean windshield. She'd had the car washed only yesterday, forgetting, for a week, it would sit outside. Better if she washed it when she got back. Oh, well, she could do that too. She dropped the worry for the sky was as blue as ever and a brilliant sun lazed in the south.
The world had awoke fresh. Just like the day, ten or more years ago, when those building climbers came to Portland from Bolivia. It was the craziest thing. Something like 35,000 people turned out on a Sunday afternoon, with summer weather exactly like it was today.
Las Moscas Humanas, The Human Flies, were about to climb--without ropes and without safety nets--the forty-two stories of Big Pink. The glass skyscraper on Fifth had been nicknamed for its flamboyant hue. A CNN satellite-dish truck broadcast live. Nothing this big had hit Portland since Mount St. Helen's blew in 1980, covering the town with powdery ash.
Laura and thousands of others crowded in the blocked-off streets. Before the climb, people listened to radio and TV broadcasts. She never knew so many people had portable TVs.
"This is a once-in-a-lifetime, I'm sure," said the announcer on the radio in the hand of a gray-haired, pony-tailed man next to her.
Laura craned her neck above the horizon of heads to the bank tower. Already on the second floor, on the glassy expanse, four men were moving, ascending in a diamond pattern. They wore identical red and blue and yellow silky robes, aflutter with the breeze and the upward hikes of one limb at a time.
"On their hands, The Human Flies have special polymer suction devices. Tremendous holding power," the radio announcer said. "That's how they can risk their lives. And their tennis shoes, custom-manufactured, have got dozens of small suction cups."
Laura squinted. Why would anybody do this? The precise diamond pattern Las Moscas kept on the pink glass must have inviolably attached them to the sheer side of the glass monolith. Laura had to believe that. But her back thrilled with fear.
Now to the tenth floor, their apparent size rendered them insects. Shrinking minute by minute, they seemed ultralight and the waving red, blue, and yellow robes, wings that might fly them to the top.
The Human Flies kept on the move in a strict sequence. Each moved in turn, left hand pneumatically clamping the glass with suction, then right hand, then each foot. Then another did the same. Agape, she could barely breathe and her mouth had gone dry.
The same motions over and over. Then time stopped. Laura's craning neck had froze. Hypnotized, she had followed Las Moscas past the halfway point, a fact the radio announcer exclaimed. They'd advanced to the twenty-second floor.
Then, suddenly, a loud gasp came from so many in the crowd. One figure was silently dropping away from the diamond--red, blue, and yellow robes fluttering to no effect. Like a released anchor, he was plummeting past every floor that Las Moscas had laboriously climbed.
He fell and fell, did not cry out. Laura squinted to see this brave man, for the first time facing her and the crowd, live his last moment. She had no choice. She couldn't look away, even if she wanted to go some place and lie down and be sick. And she saw that, in multicolored silky splendor, the young man had joined his arms and hands overhead. And amazingly, pointed his toes.
Those seconds of grace Laura never, ever, would get out of her mind.
Laura was approaching the 205 Interchange and the memory of that fallen daredevil, oddly enough, energized her. She signaled to go right. And, abruptly, her thoughts seemed sluggish.
Everything--the blue sky above, the summer light, the windshield--dimmed for Laura.
Within minutes, traffic on the Banfield was stop-and-go. Officer Gus Carrola had arrived on the scene in a black Camaro with doors emblazoned OREGON STATE POLICE. On the car roof, what the troopers called Christmas tree lights winked away. A fellow from a pickup rig, parked on the shoulder, had walked back and told Carrola he didn't know what happened.
The woman in the Tercel was driving along in the slow lane, where he was stuck two cars back, when all of a sudden tires squeal, the car shoots right and off the road. It takes out shrubbery. It hooks around. It pinballs across three lanes of freeway. It misses passing cars. It hits the freeway divider head-on. Then its rear wheels bounce up once.
"Was like nobody driving that car," the witness with the John Deere cap said. His eyes darted back to the Tercel nosed into the divider, hood buckled like a crushed pop can, a small figure inside slumped forward.
A hundred yards or so ahead, the green-and-white overhead freeway sign read, EXIT 8, 205 NORTH, SEATTLE, PORTLAND AIRPORT. Officer Carrola keyed into a dashboard-mount laptop the plate number for the Tercel across the way. His other hand held a mike. He was waiting for Emergency Dispatch to call back. Then he'd get the flares out of the trunk. He'd have in thirty years coming up in October. Retirement had to be easier than this.