Chapter

7

I looked back up at the building to bid it a final farewell. Mathews was standing at his window staring down at me. I turned away and gunned the throttle.

I never made it up the coast. As I walked up the path of my bungalow, I saw Sara sitting on my porch. I asked her whether something was wrong.

She stood up and walked toward me. She was dressed in a conservative skirt and blouse, the kind you’d expect on a schoolteacher. But she didn’t look like a schoolteacher now any more than she did last Sunday.

She stopped in front of me. “Wrong with me? No. You, that’s the question. You didn’t sound right when you canceled on me yesterday.”

She took my hand. Not a come-on, just a gentle touch. Her voice was calming and I needed it. I didn’t feel threatened. She stood and spoke quietly. “I took a chance calling on you today, showing up like this. I was concerned. I hope it’s okay.”

She didn’t know how much I wanted to blurt it all out right then, how I didn’t even know who I was, how I was afraid that I’d never remember. I felt a wave of depression stronger than ever before. “Yeah, it’s okay.” I couldn’t hide my feelings.

“Are you alright?” she quickly asked.

Her patience relaxed me a bit, and suddenly, I wasn’t carrying a load of bricks; I wasn’t so afraid. “They serve great coffee here.” She nodded and we stepped into the bungalow.

As I ordered room service, Sara explored my belongings. She thumbed through my books and examined the artwork I’d picked up, humming softly. She seemed so relaxed and confident. My only other personal contact over these months had been with Mathews, who was more than relaxed, more than self-confident—he was frightening at times. A man in total control of himself. I both admired and resented him for it. “What’s that you’re humming?” I asked.

“Like it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a rather remote Mozart lullaby, but I find myself humming it often. I must like it.” She smiled and turned back to the lithographs on canvas.

“Nice. I like it too.”

She sat on the edge of the ottoman in front of me. “This is very comfortable. Nice to have a hotel accommodation that’s so much like a home.”

I nodded, glanced around the room nervously, and said, “Yes, you’re so right.”

“You never did tell me where home was, Charles.”

“No. I didn’t.”

There was an awkward pause. I wanted to tell her the truth - that I didn’t know where home was. Instead, I blurted, “East Coast.”

She leaned forward and lifted one of the coffee table books, an oversized collection of photographs of New York. “New York?”

I’d studied the pictures in that book more than the others trying to jog my memory, so I said, “Yes, New York.”

I rose as she glanced at the other books on the table—a veritable library of travel books featuring the major cities of the U.S. Asia and Europe. She was just making conversation, but suddenly I felt uncomfortable with her questioning me. “You’ve not told me of your home either. Here in California?”

“No,” she replied, “New York. What part are you from?”

I stepped to the door, my back to her, hiding my face. I felt cornered. I’d been caught in a lie. “Oh, I’m just a country boy, as they say. Upstate farm, outside of Albany. Never saw much of the city.”

I turned back around when I shouldn’t have, but I was nervous. I was screwing up badly. “Always taking care of the farm: chickens, cows, you know.”

The room service man prepared the table.

She burst out laughing. “You’re a charming bull shitter, but I don’t believe you. It’s okay, though. You want to be mysterious; I can play along with that. I’ve always been attracted to mystery. Even make a living at it.”

Thank god, she gave me the perfect out. “A living? You said you were a schoolteacher. Teaching what?”

She continued as the room service finished.  “A teacher yes, but not exactly a school. At a school, but not ‘school teaching.’ I instruct a special group, a night course for adults who are looking for their natural parents. You know, people who have been adopted and have reached the point where it’s important to find out who they really are.”

She hit another nerve. I nervously gave the waiter a tip, dropping my money clip on the floor.  Then, I busied myself with the pouring of the coffee. My hand shook. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Haven’t been getting much sleep lately, lots of long-distance calls. International calls… all hours, you know.”

She took the coffee from me and set it down. “Charles, why don’t I go and let you rest?”

I grabbed her hand, “No, don’t go. I can’t eat all this myself.” Realizing I was sounding frazzled, I took a deep breath. “I’ll be okay. Why don’t you tell me more about yourself? That class sounds fascinating.”

It was around ten that night when I dropped her off. We’d taken a cab and talked non-stop right up to her front door.

“You sure you feel okay?” she asked for the umpteenth time.

“Yes,” I assured her.

“You promise to take the phone off the hook and let those international calls go for just one night, right?”

“Right.” I almost felt happy, and I was laughing.

She leaned in and kissed me. As she pulled away, she whispered, “Next time, you get to tell me about yourself. I’m pumped dry.”

I wanted to respond more to her kiss, but I didn’t have the courage. I shoved my hands safely into my pockets. I had just been kissed by someone I really liked, and all I could think of was I didn’t feel twenty-eight like my driver’s license said. I was feeling like a kid; a virgin. She was probably thinking I was not interested in her or I was being cool and aloof. The fact was I didn’t know what to do.

As she took one last look at me before going inside, I knew Sara hadn’t been playing shrink, like Mathews. No, she wanted to relate with someone. I wanted to kiss her again.

The next time I saw Sara, I would have to level with her. Right now, however, I felt like a student in her class. Could she help me find out the truth about myself?