I had planned for Elian to leave her. It seemed to fit the fiction, satisfy a need for
some kind of bitter, tragic end. But now that it has happened I find it appalling to
write of his leaving. I think that perhaps we have been preparing for the leaving all of
our lives. That any time we willingly enter into a relationship, we enter a contract—
agree to being left. We agree even as we welcome the other person with wide-open
mouths. We agree the moment we sit opposite to them across a table, bodies leaning
towards each other—then with hunched, embarrassed shoulders, we let them leave.
We do not know this consciously, or perhaps, if we ever knew, we try to forget it in
the nights that follow, when their eyes are open only towards us. But this promise of
their leaving lies always just beneath our skin. When it rises, like a wave, we ignore it
or watch as it breaks against broad backs during sticky nights, relieved when it
crashes and splits into harmless ocean spray. And yet, we know even as it settles
across our faces that it is not gone forever—it has just disappeared for a while into
that part of the ocean that’s too far beyond our sight—gathering strength.
I suppose it was like this for Elizabeth when she met Elian. You will know what I’m
talking about only if you have ever driven into a thunderstorm from a great distance.
You are in a black car. It does not matter what car, only that it is sleek, powerful, that
it lurches towards the future with just a tap of your foot. Beside you, the evening sky
is still a pale magenta, behind, still lit up from beneath by the sun. But in front of
you, you see that it is already night. And as you move forward the air coming in
through the windows gets thicker, coats the hair on your forearm. You have a
destination and cannot ignore that just because wet weather waits for you. The
lightening is still far off; to your right, it splits the darkened sky, but only occasionally.
There, the clouds have parted, like flesh, to reveal an insistent shade of pink. You don’
t know where it comes from—the sun is behind you. But you drive towards it and can
still see its beauty for all that it gashes across the sky and lasts only for as long as
you divert your gaze.
* * *
It happened the way bad news always does. A car accident, the questions posed
but left unanswered, the sleepy stumbling into jeans and T-shirt. But it was the
first time it had happened for Elizabeth. It was nothing less than theatrical.
Carla was being moved to the Nicosia hospital. To Intensive Care.
* * *
The early-morning sun makes everything on the highway look gentle. At 6:30 a.
m., there is not much traffic yet on the road to Nicosia. The tarmac stretching
ahead of Elizabeth has a compassionate glow. She grips the steering wheel,
praying in a low voice, not for Carla, but for herself, and for Elian. She thinks, this
will bring him back to me. Nothing matters except that she is here for him now,
when his mother has twice had to have life shocked back into her.
* * *
It was December, and Elizabeth was sitting in Carla's living room. She hadn't
expected to be made to feel so welcome; this visit was, after all, for Katerina and
Juan. Yet here was Carla, winking and nodding at her over ashtrays and plates of
cashew nuts. Her hair shone golden against her black dress. She was holding her
slender arm out, the red wine in her glass shifting comfortably with her
movements. Carla spoke with her whole body. Wide, generous movements of hips
and shoulders punctuated her sentences, while her eyebrows and mouth moved
to somehow hold everyone in the room. When Carla embraced her, Elizabeth felt
the full pressure of her breasts against her rib cage, felt the squeeze inward of
her hands against her lower back. The gaze from those brown eyes reached out
to caress whoever they were looking at. Elizabeth felt there was a secret there
held for her alone.
Elian was sitting across from her. Elizabeth was only half-listening to him while
she studied his face. His nose spoke precision. Everything seemed carefully
placed—the outlines of his eyes straight and deliberate—looking directly at her—
no questions or expectations there. The open gaze of having been honestly
placed in the world.
Once they had gone out, he seemed shy around her, and they didn't talk much—
the music was too loud, and after trying to coax a few comments from him, she
gave up. She spoke instead to her friend Maria, both of them comfortable with the
intimate distances and hot whispers of nightlife. At the club Elizabeth's gaze
rested on Elian's small hand awkwardly cupping Maria's knee. So none of them
were prepared for what would happen on the way home.
Maria was in the passenger seat, while Elian sat still and quiet in the back. Elian
lived out by the cinemas, and logic predicted that Elizabeth would drop him off
first, and then Maria, on her way back to her house. So even Elizabeth didn't quite
understand it when she found herself maneuvering the car through the road
works just outside of Maria's house, deliberately not looking at her. Deliberately
pushing the image of Elian’s small hands from her mind.
Maria got out of the car and Elizabeth took a deep breath as Elian walked around
the car and let himself into the passenger seat. He wouldn't look at her, making
much of fastening the seatbelt securely around him. She drove to his house a little
too quickly.
When they got there, he turned to her and tried to smile, said “Thanks” quickly,
and made as if to leave. There was an awkward silence where Elizabeth could
almost hear the condensation forming on the windows. He breathed in sharply
and she realized he was about to say “Goodnight,” about to open the car door
and escape the sticky intimacy that was growing around them, pushing upwards
and outwards against the car's interior. Her hand moved almost instinctively to his
leg, a gentle pressure meant to stall him. He looked at her, then away again, his
head tilting deeper towards embarrassed shoulders.
next page
some kind of bitter, tragic end. But now that it has happened I find it appalling to
write of his leaving. I think that perhaps we have been preparing for the leaving all of
our lives. That any time we willingly enter into a relationship, we enter a contract—
agree to being left. We agree even as we welcome the other person with wide-open
mouths. We agree the moment we sit opposite to them across a table, bodies leaning
towards each other—then with hunched, embarrassed shoulders, we let them leave.
We do not know this consciously, or perhaps, if we ever knew, we try to forget it in
the nights that follow, when their eyes are open only towards us. But this promise of
their leaving lies always just beneath our skin. When it rises, like a wave, we ignore it
or watch as it breaks against broad backs during sticky nights, relieved when it
crashes and splits into harmless ocean spray. And yet, we know even as it settles
across our faces that it is not gone forever—it has just disappeared for a while into
that part of the ocean that’s too far beyond our sight—gathering strength.
I suppose it was like this for Elizabeth when she met Elian. You will know what I’m
talking about only if you have ever driven into a thunderstorm from a great distance.
You are in a black car. It does not matter what car, only that it is sleek, powerful, that
it lurches towards the future with just a tap of your foot. Beside you, the evening sky
is still a pale magenta, behind, still lit up from beneath by the sun. But in front of
you, you see that it is already night. And as you move forward the air coming in
through the windows gets thicker, coats the hair on your forearm. You have a
destination and cannot ignore that just because wet weather waits for you. The
lightening is still far off; to your right, it splits the darkened sky, but only occasionally.
There, the clouds have parted, like flesh, to reveal an insistent shade of pink. You don’
t know where it comes from—the sun is behind you. But you drive towards it and can
still see its beauty for all that it gashes across the sky and lasts only for as long as
you divert your gaze.
* * *
It happened the way bad news always does. A car accident, the questions posed
but left unanswered, the sleepy stumbling into jeans and T-shirt. But it was the
first time it had happened for Elizabeth. It was nothing less than theatrical.
Carla was being moved to the Nicosia hospital. To Intensive Care.
* * *
The early-morning sun makes everything on the highway look gentle. At 6:30 a.
m., there is not much traffic yet on the road to Nicosia. The tarmac stretching
ahead of Elizabeth has a compassionate glow. She grips the steering wheel,
praying in a low voice, not for Carla, but for herself, and for Elian. She thinks, this
will bring him back to me. Nothing matters except that she is here for him now,
when his mother has twice had to have life shocked back into her.
* * *
It was December, and Elizabeth was sitting in Carla's living room. She hadn't
expected to be made to feel so welcome; this visit was, after all, for Katerina and
Juan. Yet here was Carla, winking and nodding at her over ashtrays and plates of
cashew nuts. Her hair shone golden against her black dress. She was holding her
slender arm out, the red wine in her glass shifting comfortably with her
movements. Carla spoke with her whole body. Wide, generous movements of hips
and shoulders punctuated her sentences, while her eyebrows and mouth moved
to somehow hold everyone in the room. When Carla embraced her, Elizabeth felt
the full pressure of her breasts against her rib cage, felt the squeeze inward of
her hands against her lower back. The gaze from those brown eyes reached out
to caress whoever they were looking at. Elizabeth felt there was a secret there
held for her alone.
Elian was sitting across from her. Elizabeth was only half-listening to him while
she studied his face. His nose spoke precision. Everything seemed carefully
placed—the outlines of his eyes straight and deliberate—looking directly at her—
no questions or expectations there. The open gaze of having been honestly
placed in the world.
Once they had gone out, he seemed shy around her, and they didn't talk much—
the music was too loud, and after trying to coax a few comments from him, she
gave up. She spoke instead to her friend Maria, both of them comfortable with the
intimate distances and hot whispers of nightlife. At the club Elizabeth's gaze
rested on Elian's small hand awkwardly cupping Maria's knee. So none of them
were prepared for what would happen on the way home.
Maria was in the passenger seat, while Elian sat still and quiet in the back. Elian
lived out by the cinemas, and logic predicted that Elizabeth would drop him off
first, and then Maria, on her way back to her house. So even Elizabeth didn't quite
understand it when she found herself maneuvering the car through the road
works just outside of Maria's house, deliberately not looking at her. Deliberately
pushing the image of Elian’s small hands from her mind.
Maria got out of the car and Elizabeth took a deep breath as Elian walked around
the car and let himself into the passenger seat. He wouldn't look at her, making
much of fastening the seatbelt securely around him. She drove to his house a little
too quickly.
When they got there, he turned to her and tried to smile, said “Thanks” quickly,
and made as if to leave. There was an awkward silence where Elizabeth could
almost hear the condensation forming on the windows. He breathed in sharply
and she realized he was about to say “Goodnight,” about to open the car door
and escape the sticky intimacy that was growing around them, pushing upwards
and outwards against the car's interior. Her hand moved almost instinctively to his
leg, a gentle pressure meant to stall him. He looked at her, then away again, his
head tilting deeper towards embarrassed shoulders.
next page
Ellen Berman
Self-Portrait
(Grief) #6
oil on board,
22 x 22",
1992
Self-Portrait
(Grief) #6
oil on board,
22 x 22",
1992