listened with one ear to the music coming over the loudspeakers; and there he had been, the voice she knew only too well, the song he had written with the words she had given him so long ago. The ice cream had ended up on the counter, not bought; and she had driven home, tears and rain blurring her vision, alone.
It had been cold and silent in the apartment, and she had sat down at the desk where she kept a picture of him in a frame and dashed down the lyrics: a plaintive, heartbroken lament, a statement of loss. The next morning, reading her own words, she had been on the point of throwing them away but then stopped. Somewhere in the world, she was sure, there were people feeling the same way, feeling just as deserted; and maybe, someday, they would read them and relate.
“All your songs have this underlying sadness,” Jon was saying. “They break my heart, make me want to cry every time I read them. All those songs you wrote while you were alone are a tapestry of loneliness.”
“Well, I was alone,” she admitted softly, “it was a lonely time.”
When he didn’t reply she looked up to see him gazing steadily at her, all the regret for the lost time in his eyes.
“Kiss me, Jon,” Naomi said, “and then throw away the sad songs.”
T hey bought flowers for Solveigh, a huge bouquet of yellow and pink roses that, Jon thought, looked like the light on sunrise water; and he made the girl at the flower shop tie a big satin bow around them.
“She’ll like that,” he explained when Naomi raised her brows at him. “It looks like Hollywood. Trust me. Solveigh is a true LA chick now.”
He had laughed when Naomi had told him the baby’s name. “Spanish. How far away from Norway can that girl get?” had been his comment, “We’ll have a hard time convincing Russ to come to New York to work with us.”
Inside the hospital lobby though, Jon became serious, and very quiet. “Here, Naomi?”
She nodded, her head lowered.
Slowly he looked around, taking in the stark, simple surroundings. There was not much more than a small reception, an elderly woman sitting behind it doing a crossword puzzle; a few chairs in a row along the white walls, a Munch painting over them. Gratefully Jon noted that at least it wasn’t The Scream but a Madonna. The image reminded him eerily of Naomi, with the long, black tresses and the shuttered, sad smile.
“Please, Jon.” Naomi tugged him forward. “Please, don’t dwell.”
He didn’t budge. She felt his hand clamp around hers, as if even now he wanted to protect her from being alone and scared that night when Joshua was born.
“It wasn’t so bad,” she said softly. “They took good care of me, and it was an easy birth. Please, Jon.”
Gradually, he relented. His arm came up around her shoulder and he pulled her into a tight embrace, his cheek on her hair.
“He started screaming right away.” She wanted to stay in that embrace forever, safe and loved. “And he looked just like you. Raised his little hand and waved it in my face and yelled so loud the nurses came running.” A smile flitted across her face. “Just like his father. Wants the world to know who is master from moment one. And a killer voice.”
“You shouldn’t have been alone. I should have been here for you. You should have called me, Naomi, love or not.” His grip around her tightened. “I feel bad about it even now.”
“Yes, but you can stop. Joshua is seventeen, and we’re married. Snap out of it, Jon, and let’s go see Solveigh.”
Up in the white, short hallway of the maternity ward, Naomi stopped in shock when the nurse told her the room number.
“Here?” Jon asked again, and again she nodded. His hand on the doorknob, he waited until she had gathered herself enough to speak.
“The same room,” Naomi whispered. “Jon, I did not mean this to happen. I’m sorry.”
He pressed his lips together, hurt in his eyes, but opened the door and stepped in.
Naomi, seeing the tableau
It had been cold and silent in the apartment, and she had sat down at the desk where she kept a picture of him in a frame and dashed down the lyrics: a plaintive, heartbroken lament, a statement of loss. The next morning, reading her own words, she had been on the point of throwing them away but then stopped. Somewhere in the world, she was sure, there were people feeling the same way, feeling just as deserted; and maybe, someday, they would read them and relate.
“All your songs have this underlying sadness,” Jon was saying. “They break my heart, make me want to cry every time I read them. All those songs you wrote while you were alone are a tapestry of loneliness.”
“Well, I was alone,” she admitted softly, “it was a lonely time.”
When he didn’t reply she looked up to see him gazing steadily at her, all the regret for the lost time in his eyes.
“Kiss me, Jon,” Naomi said, “and then throw away the sad songs.”
T hey bought flowers for Solveigh, a huge bouquet of yellow and pink roses that, Jon thought, looked like the light on sunrise water; and he made the girl at the flower shop tie a big satin bow around them.
“She’ll like that,” he explained when Naomi raised her brows at him. “It looks like Hollywood. Trust me. Solveigh is a true LA chick now.”
He had laughed when Naomi had told him the baby’s name. “Spanish. How far away from Norway can that girl get?” had been his comment, “We’ll have a hard time convincing Russ to come to New York to work with us.”
Inside the hospital lobby though, Jon became serious, and very quiet. “Here, Naomi?”
She nodded, her head lowered.
Slowly he looked around, taking in the stark, simple surroundings. There was not much more than a small reception, an elderly woman sitting behind it doing a crossword puzzle; a few chairs in a row along the white walls, a Munch painting over them. Gratefully Jon noted that at least it wasn’t The Scream but a Madonna. The image reminded him eerily of Naomi, with the long, black tresses and the shuttered, sad smile.
“Please, Jon.” Naomi tugged him forward. “Please, don’t dwell.”
He didn’t budge. She felt his hand clamp around hers, as if even now he wanted to protect her from being alone and scared that night when Joshua was born.
“It wasn’t so bad,” she said softly. “They took good care of me, and it was an easy birth. Please, Jon.”
Gradually, he relented. His arm came up around her shoulder and he pulled her into a tight embrace, his cheek on her hair.
“He started screaming right away.” She wanted to stay in that embrace forever, safe and loved. “And he looked just like you. Raised his little hand and waved it in my face and yelled so loud the nurses came running.” A smile flitted across her face. “Just like his father. Wants the world to know who is master from moment one. And a killer voice.”
“You shouldn’t have been alone. I should have been here for you. You should have called me, Naomi, love or not.” His grip around her tightened. “I feel bad about it even now.”
“Yes, but you can stop. Joshua is seventeen, and we’re married. Snap out of it, Jon, and let’s go see Solveigh.”
Up in the white, short hallway of the maternity ward, Naomi stopped in shock when the nurse told her the room number.
“Here?” Jon asked again, and again she nodded. His hand on the doorknob, he waited until she had gathered herself enough to speak.
“The same room,” Naomi whispered. “Jon, I did not mean this to happen. I’m sorry.”
He pressed his lips together, hurt in his eyes, but opened the door and stepped in.
Naomi, seeing the tableau
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