Rockaway by Tara Ison Read Free Book Online

took it personally,” she says, realizing how in saying that she is exhibiting exactly the opposite.
    â€œNo, thank you. This is good you’re telling me this. You’re very insightful.”
    She suddenly feels ridiculous. She looks away from him and picks up a book tucked in the cushion gap of the sofa: The Torah Anthology . She opens it to the middle and focuses on rituals for purifying the leprosy of the soul, trying to convey that he should return to his newspaper and do the same. He continues to study her. She wonders what his head is like under the knit cap—thready hair, bald scalp, scars, freckles? She wonders how old he is. He must be aroundJulius’s age, she figures, if they were teenage buddies. She has a sudden, mean urge to discuss prostate cancer.
    â€œWhat’s that?” he asks.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat.” He points to her right hand turning a page. “That.”
    â€œOh,” she says. “That. It’s nothing.” She sets the paper down, covers with her left hand the crescent ridge of scar embracing her right thumb joint. “Nothing. Old kitchen accident. I was cutting a bagel.” She thinks this is funny, but again he doesn’t seem to get the joke. “People don’t usually notice it,” she tells him. “It isn’t very noticeable.” She smoothes down the long sleeves of her blouse, crosses her arms.
    â€œHow did your painting go today?” he asks.
    She shrugs. “Bad day.”
    â€œWhat’s a bad day?”
    â€œNot getting any work done. I just wandered around. Ate some strawberries. Wasted time.”
    â€œWhy is that a waste?”
    â€œWell, this is such a big opportunity. Being here. Having all this time to myself, this whole summer to focus on my work, no job or anything. And, you know, tick tick tick. I shouldn’t just be . . . strolling around. I mean, my parents rely on me a lot, and I’m not there. I’m here, just doing the melancholy-artist-on-the-beach thing. I am a strolling, wandering cliché.” He nods at her, but it is thoughtful nodding,not affirming. “I might as well be at home,” she adds. “If I’m not going to be more . . . oh, I don’t know.”
    â€œYou worry about them. You take care of them. That’s nice.”
    â€œI try. I do what I can. It’s not like they need nursing care, anything like that. Although my dad doesn’t like my mom driving anymore, so I’m sort of on call when she has errands or something. And he doesn’t eat like he’s supposed to, with his heart, we’re always arguing about his food. I do their bills and stuff. But they’re pretty self-sufficient. They’re doing fine. I would never have left them alone to come here, otherwise.”
    â€œYeah, sure.” His face is thoughtful, and she feels a rush of guilt. He must think she’s terrible, abandoning her parents this way.
    â€œAnd I made sure they had phone numbers to call if they need any help. I’m sure they’ll be fine. There’s a Jewish Family Services they can call. And they have neighbors. But they won’t. I mean, they like it when I’m there to do stuff. They’re used to how I do stuff for them. As opposed to some stranger coming in to help.”
    â€œThat’s beautiful.”
    â€œWell, I do my best. They’re my parents.” She shrugs again. “What’re you going to do, right?”
    â€œBut there’s stuff you need to do for you now.”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œYour stuff’s important. You got this big exhibit happening, you’re going out in the world with all that.”
    She nods, surprised he remembered.
    â€œThe problem,” he says, “is that you are way too hard on yourself.”
    â€œNo,” she says. “The problem is I am not nearly hard enough on myself.” She has said this before, to many people, and it is meant to be