The Air We Breathe

by Christa Parrish

  “Oh, awesome! Can we go in? Please?”

  Molly heard the voice outside the window, drifting in through the open door Louise had propped open with a chair that morning. A young boy, maybe ten, bounced between two adults, his hair thick gold and windblown, his jacket tied around his waist.

  “I don’t know, kiddo,” the man said. “It looks—”

  “—so cool.”

  “I was thinking infested.”

  “Oh, please, please? Come on. It’s vacation.”

  “We could see how much it costs,” the woman said.

  “Awesome,” the boy said again, and Molly watched him shake them off, bouncing into the lobby as the man called, “We’re just checking.” Then the adults, too, were inside, telling the boy not to touch anything.

  “I’m not,” he said, staring at Elvis. “He looks dead. Like embalmed or something. Can I poke him?”

  “No,” the man said. “We already told you that.”

  “It’s okay,” Molly said, and the three twitched, turning to her as if surprised to see something alive. “Just don’t poke too hard.”

  “Thank you,” the boy said shyly. He stretched up and touched the tip of the wax figure’s nose, petted his face. “Weird.”

  “It’s twenty-five for all of us,” the woman whispered to the man. “What do you think?”

  He nodded, and she waddled to the counter, her pregnant belly swelling from between her mostly unbuttoned cardigan; only the top two were closed. “Two adults and a child,” she said, taking out her credit card.

  “We’re going?” the boy asked. When the man nodded again, he posed with his hands on his hips, squeezing one eye shut so the side of his lip pulled up. “Thank you, thank-you-very-much.”

  “Funny,” the man said.

  Molly ran the card through the machine without checking the name, handed it back to the woman, distracted by her face. She looked more than familiar. Known, somehow. Brown hair, layered and slightly wavy to her chin. Thick brows, but not bushy. Dark eyes. Pretty, like Brooke Shields’s in The Blue Lagoon—a movie she saw late one night on Lifetime. Her voice dislodged something inside Molly, and she thought of ice cream, of the two most important waffle cones of her life—the one she never had that took her away, and the one that brought her home.

  The woman signed the credit slip. Claire Brenneman.

  No. Rodriguez. Claire Rodriguez. It’s not her. It’s not her.

  “Thank you,” the woman said, taking the small white paper and folding it, first the long way, and then in half again, before sticking it into her back pocket. “Ready?”

  “Oh, yeah,” the boy said.

  Molly stood there, the phantom scent of mint chocolate chip in her nose, holding the edge of the counter so she wouldn’t fall over. Her feet tingled, and drops of sweat slid from her armpit down her side, catching in the band of her bra.

  “This way?” the man asked, pointing to the curtained entrance, and Molly managed to nod, croaking out something like “Have a good time,” forgetting to give them a brochure or instructions about following the signage.

  When they were through the door, Molly’s breathing turned loud, shaky, her vision graying over like static on the television. She took some time to straighten up the counter and the lobby displays and then walked through the office to the apartment door, unsteady, her fingers frigid, and went in to find her mother working on the couch, bookkeeping files mounded on the coffee table.

  “I heard people,” Louise said.

  Molly nodded. “I’m not feeling well.”

  Her mother looked up. “What’s wrong?”

  “I just need to lie down.”

  “You look awful.”

  “I know. Please, will you just do the desk?”

  Louise glanced at her pile of work. “Give me fifteen minutes. There are a few things I really need to finish up yesterday.”

  “Mom—”

  “Ten. Okay?” She held Molly’s gaze.

  “Okay,” Molly said, and somehow managed to find her way back behind the counter. She felt like wax, one solid mass of inorganic matter, void of faith or feeling. She couldn’t make herself bend to sit down, so she leaned against the stool. Claire would be coming back soon; Molly would have to force a smile, a word or two, but as hard as she tried, there were no words or smiles, or thoughts even. Only the past six years of secrets, dropping away like Shirley’s fingers before she could catch them.

  Finally, Claire, the boy, and the man pushed their way through the exit draperies, the boy grinning with enthusiasm. “The Chamber of Horrors was so cool. Did you see how that guy’s brains totally looked like they were spilling out around the ax? I mean—”

  “I think I’m done hearing about brains,” the man said.

  “Unless you can tell me the three main parts of it,” Claire said.

  “Mom,” the boy said, drawing out the ah sound. “It’s vacation.”

  Claire laughed. “Learning never takes a vacation. Tell me and you can pick one of those postcards.”

  “Even one with the ax guy?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “The cerebrum. The cerebellum. And that other one.”

  “Which is?”

  “Um. The brain stem. Does it have a fancy name?”

  “Not that you learned,” Claire said, laughing again. “Go ahead, pick your postcard.”

  They ignored Molly, a family, the boy flipping through glossy pictures of movie stars and monsters, the man picking up the wax candy displayed in cardboard boxes on the small souvenirs area—chewable lips and fangs and mustaches. “Claire, do you remember these? I loved these things as a kid,” he told her, showing her the Nik-L-Nips, old-fashioned bottle shapes filled with different-colored sugary liquid.

  The boy, having decided on his postcard, joined the man at the shelf. “What are they?”

  “Candy. You bite off the tops and drink them.”

  “You had weird stuff back then.”

  “Do you want some?” Claire asked.

  “Nah,” the man said, but she took two packages, and the postcard, and brought them to the register.

  Molly wanted them gone. She shook open a small paper bag, dropped the items inside, and folded it over, giving it to the little boy, who waited next to Claire. “Free?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” Claire said. “How much?”

  “Uh, one sec.” Molly fumbled around for the calculator. She couldn’t remember the price of anything. She couldn’t make her fingers move. The boy said, “I can do it in my head,” and he blinked a few times before blurting, “Four-ninety. Unless there’s tax.”

  “There isn’t,” Molly said. “Have a nice day.”

  The woman looked at her, not with recognition but with bewilderment. She scrounged through her purse for a five-dollar bill, held it out. Molly pressed her thumb against a dime in the cash register, slid it up the drawer; it fell under the counter. “Sorry. Let me get another,” she said.

  But Claire brushed her arm. “Don’t worry. Just leave it.”

  Her fingerprints stayed on Molly’s arm, warm in the spot Claire had touched, a place close to her wrist, exposed because she wore three-quarter sleeves. She rubbed at it, trying to erase the sensation.

  The boy grabbed a couple of brochures and stood by Elvis, putting his arm around the figure’s waist. “Take a picture, Dad.”

  “A quick one,” Claire said. “And then back to Beverly’s. I think this nice young lady might want to close up.”

  The man wriggled a small digital camera from his front jeans pocket, snapped two photos, and Claire told the boy to put his jacket on. “And zip up. It’s getting cool.” As the boy worked the metal teeth into the zipper, the door behind Molly opened, and she heard her mother’s voice. “Moll, I’m done . . . No, it can’t . . .”

  In front of her, Claire’s lips went white, her face yellowing, and her hand moved to her stomach as she wheezed slightly. She was looking over Molly’s shoulder, at Louise. “You.
”

  Molly didn’t turn around.

  “I’m sorry,” Louise said. “I think you must be con—”

  “Susan Suller.”

  “No.”

  “Claire,” the man said, coming close behind her, his hand now on her stomach, too, fingers laced with hers. “What’s going on?”

  The woman’s head pivoted slowly away from Louise. She shrugged off the man’s arm and stepped around the counter until she stood just inches from Molly. With cautious fingers Claire touched her hair, dyed brown for the past six years, and looked straight into her face. “Hanna?”

  Her mother stepped between them, bumping Claire away. “You’ve got this all wrong—”

  “Yes,” Molly said. “Yes, it’s me. I’m Hanna.”

  Silence.

  Louise stared at Molly, her proud shoulders rounding forward. Claire slapped at her eyes, coughed. “I went to your house . . . The blood . . .”

  “Just go,” Louise said.

  “I can’t leave. I need to know what happened. I searched for you. I thought—”

  “Claire,” Molly said, and the woman blinked. “Please.”

  Claire nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay, but Hanna, can we . . . talk?”

  Molly breathed deeply, feeling empowered, like her two halves had started melding together. “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. Come back at seven. Come around to the side door. It’s for the apartment.”

  “I will.”

  “No you won’t,” the man said.

  “Andrew,” Claire said.

  “I don’t like it. You don’t know—”

  “I’ll be here.” Claire took the man’s arm. “Let’s go. Beverly’s going to be wondering after us.”

  The boy tore off a small corner of the small brown bag he held—his precious postcard tucked inside—rolling the paper in his fingers and pushing it between his lips. He chewed it, swallowed, ripped another piece. The man took the bag from him and folded it into his back pocket, then spread his arms over the boy and Claire and shuttled them out the open door. Louise pulled the chair away; the door fell shut and she fell on it, her entire body against it, fighting to keep out the past. She twisted the lock, dropped into the chair. Her handprints and forehead prints smudged the dusky glass. “You didn’t have to say who you were,” she said.

  Molly closed her eyes. “Someone needed to.”

  17

  CLAIRE

  FEBRUARY 2009

  Claire didn’t want to be still. Her body had to move in time with her explosive thoughts. She paced back and forth in front of the bed, in the guest room she and Andrew shared, the plush green carpet darkly streaked with her feet’s disturbance. Her belly contracted under her palm, the skin pulling tight, hardening with a fuzzy twinge. She exhaled, her mouth starting in a little O, then flattening until her lips pressed nearly together and her breath whistled out between them.

  “You need to rest,” Andrew said.

  “I can’t.”

  “The baby—”

  “It’s nothing. Just Braxton Hicks.”

  “Claire, sit.”

  She did, in the chair by the window, as far from her husband as she could get. He sat on one corner of the bed, near the headboard and nightstand on his side. The right side. They both had been sleeping on that side when they married, and she gave it up for him, though she was still most comfortable there, too, and sometimes she started on the right side if she went to bed before him, pretending to be asleep when he finally came upstairs. He would kiss her hair and slip in behind her, and when she snuggled back against him, he’d say, “You always know that spot is yours if you want it.”

  “This is my spot,” she’d tell him, rolling overtop of him, to the left, and burrowing into his chest. “Which side of the bed—that’s just geography.”

  Now Andrew moved around the mattress, sat with his leg touching hers. “You can’t go over there by yourself tonight.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Oh, Andrew, come on. This isn’t television.”

  “People don’t just disappear when they have nothing to hide.”

  “I’m done with this conversation.”

  “I’m not,” he snapped, and then quickly softened. “I know you loved that little girl, but think about it, Claire. If they wanted you to know where they were, they would have contacted you a long time ago.”

  “I have thought about it. I’ve thought about it every day since I showed up there and she was gone. I used to wonder all the time if I’d see her on the street one day, in the grocery store, in the mall. Early on, that is. I’d look for her everywhere. Then I stopped.” Claire winced as the baby inside her jammed its feet under her ribs. “I didn’t even recognize her.”

  Andrew went into the bathroom, came back with a glass of water, and gave it to her. She drank it all—lukewarm, the way she liked it—and the baby quieted. “I need to know what happened. From her,” she said.

  “Then I’m waiting outside the door for you.”

  “Okay,” she said, “okay.” And her husband tugged her from the chair, pulled down the bedspread.

  “Take a nap. Please. For me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He kissed her, pushing her down into the pillow, and her body went willingly. Then he lowered the shade and switched off the light. “I’ll call you for dinner.”

  She couldn’t sleep, Hanna’s little-girl face in her mind whether she kept her eyes opened or closed, pale and ethereal and floating between the two metal swing chains, where Claire first met her. Today’s Hanna had a longer nose and narrower chin and dark hair. Colored, of course. But her eyes were the same, the palest gray-blue, cataract-like.

  How could she not have seen her standing there?

  Claire rolled onto her side. A stomach sleeper, usually, she had difficulty finding a comfortable position while pregnant. Sometimes Andrew stacked pillows on the bed, creating a pad for her body from the rib cage up, and from the pelvis down. She’d lie on them, her stomach beneath her in the space between the pillows, her protruding navel just brushing the mattress. She could doze like that for an hour or so, but not a whole night. Plus, baby Brenneman insisted on nestling against her bladder anytime Claire managed to make her way into a deep sleep. She didn’t remember peeing so much with her other three pregnancies. Either her memory was going, or her body.

  I’m getting old.

  They had, for five years, debated having another child—Claire not knowing if she could handle it emotionally, Andrew concerned about Jesse being displaced—working to avoid it but also staying open to an accident. Finally, with indecision pushing her to thirty-nine, and him six years older, they decided that door had closed. “I don’t want to be collecting social security the same year my kid graduates high school,” he’d said.

  But God and His eternal sense of humor had other plans, and Claire bought an EPT after two weeks of craving hot dogs and onions, and another week of vomiting up her tea every morning. She told Andrew she was pregnant after Jesse had gone to bed—no cutesy “To the world’s best dad” cards, no Onesie wrapped in a box for him to open; she didn’t even save the test stick—and he said, “Are you happy?”

  “I think I am.”

  “I think I am, too.”

  She couldn’t imagine not having this baby now. Jesse wanted to be a big brother. Andrew painted the nursery three times—first pale yellow, then pale green, then a bright Granny Smith, because neither of them were pastel people, even for a baby’s room. And Claire framed the ultrasound printout, adding it to the collection of photos on her nightstand. Caden and Amelia. Alexis’s ultrasound, faded gray and hard to discern her head from her feet, but Claire still knew. Jesse’s baseball picture, his ears pushed out from the band of his too-big hat, the brim bent into a deep upside-down U, the way Andrew wore his own caps. Her wedding photo.

  She got up, went to the bathroom to change from her
rumpled clothes into fresh ones and brush her hair. Strands of silver glinted in the mirror, and she pulled several out, along with even more brown hair, and shook the hair off her hand into the sink. Washed them down the drain. Andrew hated that. At home, he kept a Zip-It tool on top of the medicine cabinet because, inevitably, the sink clogged at least once a month. He’d stick the toothy plastic strip down the pipe, pull out the dark, disintegrating hair in clots of foul-smelling mush, and ask her to please, please use the trash can instead.

  “Mom,” Jesse called, barging into the bedroom.

  Claire stepped out of the bathroom. “Knock much?”

  “Sorry.” The boy stepped back into the hallway and closed the door. Tap, tap. Tap.

  “Come in.”

  Jesse slipped back into the room, his round cheeks stained with the afternoon’s walk. “Dad told me to get you for dinner. Beverly made ham.”

  “I’m coming,” she said.

  He looked nothing like Andrew, was every bit his mother. Elizabeth Brenneman died when Jesse was two; he had no memory of her, which made it easy for Claire to slip into the place she’d left. It was more difficult with Andrew. Not for him. For her. She had seen the photos at his home, framed on every wall and in every corner, of his darling Lizzy and her long, firm dancer’s body, her face like a Botticelli. She’d died of lung cancer, a smoker during her career, like many ballerinas, the nicotine an appetite suppressant, the cigarettes something in their mouth instead of food. Seven months and gone. Andrew had been devastated.