Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close Part 16

MY FEELINGS.

A knocking woke me up in the middle of the night.

I had been dreaming about where I came from.

I put on my robe and went to the door.

Who could it be? Why didn't the doorman ring up? A neighbor?

But why?

More knocking. I looked through the peephole. It was your grandfather.

Come in. Where were you? Are you OK?

The bottoms of his pants were covered in dirt.

Are you OK?

He nodded.

Come in. Let me clean you off. What happened?

He shrugged his shoulders.

Did someone hurt you?

He showed me his right hand.

Are you hurt?

We went to the kitchen table and sat down. Next to each other. The windows were black. He put his hands on his knees.

I slid closer to him until our sides touched. I put my head on his shoulder. I wanted as much of us to touch as possible.

I told him, You have to tell me what happened for me to be able to help.

He took a pen from his s.h.i.+rt pocket but there was nothing to write on.

I gave him my open hand.

He wrote, I want to get you some magazines.

In my dream, all of the collapsed ceilings re-formed above us. The fire went back into the bombs, which rose up and into the bellies of planes whose propellers turned backward, like the second hands of the clocks across Dresden, only faster.

I wanted to slap him with his words.

I wanted to shout, It isn't fair, and bang my fists against the table like a child.

Anything special? he asked on my arm.

Everything special, I said.

Art magazines?

Yes.

Nature magazines?

Yes.

Politics?

Yes.

Celebrities?

Yes.

I told him to bring a suitcase so he could come back with one of everything.

I wanted him to be able to take his things with him.

In my dream, spring came after summer, came after fall, came after winter, came after spring.

I made him breakfast. I tried to make it delicious. I wanted him to have good memories, so that maybe he would come back again one day.

Or at least miss me.

I wiped the rim of the plate before I gave it to him. I spread his napkin on his lap. He didn't say anything.

When the time came, I went downstairs with him.

There was nothing to write on, so he wrote on me.

I might not be back until late.

I told him I understood.

He wrote, I'm going to get you magazines.

I told him, I don't want any magazines.

Maybe not now, but you'll be grateful to have them.

My eyes are crummy.

Your eyes are perfect.

Promise me that you'll take care.

He wrote, I'm only going to get magazines.

Don't cry, I said, by putting my fingers on my face and pus.h.i.+ng imaginary tears up my cheeks and back into my eyes.

I was angry because they were my tears.

I told him, You're only getting magazines.

He showed me his left hand.

I tried to notice everything, because I wanted to be able to remember it perfectly. I've forgotten everything important in my life.

I can't remember what the front door of the house I grew up in looked like. Or who stopped kissing first, me or my sister. Or the view from any window but my own. Some nights I lay awake for hours trying to remember my mother's face.

He turned around and walked away from me.

I went back up to the apartment and sat on the sofa waiting. Waiting for what?

I can't remember the last thing my father said to me.

He was trapped under the ceiling. The plaster that covered him was turning red.

He said, I can't feel everything.

I didn't know if he'd meant to say he couldn't feel anything.

He asked, Where is Mommy?

I didn't know if he was talking about my mother or his.

I tried to pull the ceiling off him.

He said, Can you find my gla.s.ses for me?

I told him I would look for them. But everything had been buried.

I had never seen my father cry before.

He said, With my gla.s.ses I could be helpful.

I told him, Let me try to free you.

He said, Find my gla.s.ses.

They were shouting for everyone to get out. The rest of the ceiling was about to collapse.

I wanted to stay with him.

But I knew he would want me to leave him.

I told him, Daddy, I have to leave you.

Then he said something.

It was the last thing he ever said to me.

I can't remember it.

In my dream, the tears went up his cheeks and back into his eyes.

I got up off the sofa and filled a suitcase with the typewriter and as much paper as would fit.

I wrote a note and taped it to the window. I didn't know whom it was for.

I went from room to room turning off the lights. I made sure none of the faucets were dripping. I turned off the heat and unplugged the appliances. I closed all the windows.

As the cab drove me away, I saw the note. But I couldn't read it because my eyes are crummy.

In my dream, painters separated green into yellow and blue.

Brown into the rainbow.

Children pulled color from coloring books with crayons, and mothers who had lost children mended their black clothing with scissors.

I think about all of the things I've done, Oskar. And all of the things I didn't do. The mistakes I've made are dead to me. But I can't take back the things I never did.

I found him in the international terminal. He was sitting at a table with his hands on his knees.

I watched him all morning.

He asked people what time it was, and each person pointed at the clock on the wall.

I have been an expert at watching him. It's been my life's work.

From my bedroom window. From behind trees. From across the kitchen table.

I wanted to be with him.

Or anyone.

I don't know if I've ever loved your grandfather.

But I've loved not being alone.

I got very close to him.