The Air We Breathe

by Christa Parrish

  “No.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  Tobias waved the wadded paper at her. “Tell me this isn’t true.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Well, then, what happened?”

  “You’re looking at almost as much as I know,” Claire said, switching her left toes beneath her right, trying to warm them now. “Hanna’s aunt would only tell me they didn’t want to be found. Beyond that, there’s nothing.”

  “But you came to visit her.”

  “Yes . . . but they weren’t there.”

  “No. I mean the other day, at the museum.”

  “It was a . . .” What could she say? Not coincidence. Not fate. A miracle?

  Was she seeing another? Her proper Evangelical faith was leery of declaring anything miraculous. Oh, she had no problem saying “God did it,” but she never meant He reached down His hand from heaven and touched a situation, stirred it, nudged all the pieces exactly where they needed to be.

  Not like when He rescued Hanna.

  She twisted in the bed for a more comfortable position, for a more comfortable explanation. “I didn’t know she was here. We were visiting a friend. My stepson wanted to see the wax figures.”

  “So it was a God thing.”

  “I guess.” The baby moved inside her; she covered the pulsating spot with the heel of her hand, pressed back a little. “Are you and Ha—Molly close?”

  “I want to be.”

  “You don’t know her well, then.”

  Tobias shrugged, hooked the chair against the wall with his foot, pulled it toward him and sat down. “She moved in six years ago. I barely noticed her. There’s a big difference between twelve and fourteen. And she didn’t go to school or anything.”

  “No?”

  “Homeschooled. Guess I can see why. Not sure I’d ever let my kid out of my sight if something like that happened to her.”

  “You said she doesn’t leave the museum.”

  “She used to. I remember seeing her outside sometimes, in front of the place, you know? I didn’t even realize she’d stopped going outside until recently when I, you know, started paying more attention.”

  “To her.”

  “Ayuh,” Tobias said. He hadn’t removed his jacket but huddled down into it instead, his chin disappearing into its thick collar.

  “She’s a special girl,” Claire said.

  “I know. She doesn’t.”

  Claire nodded. The doctor walked in then, glanced at the monitor printout and said, “Everything looks good, Mrs. Brenneman. We’re sending you home. The nurse will be in soon to get you unhooked and ready to go.”

  She thanked the doctor, and after he left, Tobias stood. “Well, that’s my cue, I guess.”

  “Listen, are you heading back to town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I trouble you for a ride? Since you’re here.”

  Tobias nodded. “No prob. Least I can do, since I barged in on you and all. I’ll pull the car around front.”

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll wait.”

  Forty minutes later, release papers signed and warm clothes back on, the nurse wheeled Claire downstairs to the entrance, where Tobias sat waiting in his car. She lifted her pregnant girth into the passenger seat and buckled the belt under her stomach. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s all good. I can move the seat back, if you want,” Tobias said.

  “I’m fine.”

  They didn’t talk about Hanna, or the past, or anything. Tobias drove with the radio on low, more murmur than music, but every so often he’d hum along to whatever he was listening to. Claire closed her eyes and thought about Andrew, about Jesse, and how she wanted to be home. When Tobias turned into Beverly’s driveway, he helped her from the car and walked her up the steps, saying, “Careful, they’re slick,” as she leaned on him for balance. She thanked him and went inside, and when Beverly saw her, she had questions. Claire waved her off. “I’m fine. I just need to sleep,” she said. Her friend hugged her and said, “I’ll bring tea up to you in a few minutes.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be asleep in a few minutes.”

  Claire climbed the stairs like an old woman, or a toddler, both feet coming to rest together on the same step before moving to the next. She took off her shoes, pants, and bra—nothing else—and climbed into bed. The red light on her cell phone blinked; she flipped it open. Three new voice messages, all from Andrew.

  She didn’t listen to them.

  22

  HANNA

  NOVEMBER 2002

  They drove east first, into Massachusetts, in the dark. Hanna watched the headlights on the opposite side of the highway, not many, one or two every minute, though sometimes they came in bundles. Her mother flipped a lever on the rearview mirror and the bright bursts of light from the cars behind them dulled into pale, smudgy specks. A truck passed them, shaking their van. The driver tossed a cigarette from the window; it bounced over the pavement, throwing off flecks of orange, hot sprinkles of glitter. And then the color died, and once the truck’s taillights rounded a curve ahead, there was no warmth on their side of the road. No other vehicles.

  “At least no one will miss us, not for a while,” Susan said. “Diane will probably give it two appointments before she calls someone to come looking. Maybe three. That’s four days or more. There’s time.”

  Hanna didn’t remind her mother that Claire would be there tomorrow.

  Before leaving town, Susan had stopped at the bank’s ATM. She stuck her card in, punched a few numbers, and swore. “There’s a limit,” she mumbled. She pressed more numbers and grabbed the cash and slip of paper that popped out of the machine. Then they drove into the night.

  When her mother turned off on the Barrington exit, she knew where they were headed. Aunt Serrie’s farm. Not a farm, really. A big, old falling-apart house with acres and acres of land on which nothing grew. Uncle Charlie called the place Foulton Hollow Farm. Foulton was his last name; he painted a sign for the end of the dirt driveway, big white post and white wood, and bought black stick-on letters from the hardware store. Hung the sign with hooks and eyes so it swayed in the wind, and her cousins would throw crab apples at it to make it shake more. Her, too, when she visited. The last time had been a few weeks before the bank robbery. They used to go all the time, at least a weekend a month when her father was alive.

  They drove up to the house, the front porch light on, candles in every window. Not because it was close to Christmas; her aunt kept them all year long. She decorated her entire house like the pilgrims lived there, everything looking old—chipped paint, scuffed floors, worn cupboards, all sanded and prepped that way—or bought old. Primitives, she called them. Susan called them junk. Her mother decorated their house with all sorts of shiny furniture and beautiful, bold art canvases without frames. So different, the sisters. Hanna wished she had a sister of her own.

  Aunt Serrie poked her head out the door. “Sue?”

  “It’s us.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We need to stay for a day or two.”

  “Yeah. Get in here.” Aunt Serrie hugged her mother, then Hanna.

  “Where’s Charlie?” Susan asked.

  “Working an overnight.”

  The cousins came running down the stairs, all three talking over one another, asking their mother why she didn’t tell them Hanna was coming, telling stories from that day at school, asking for dessert. Aunt Serrie sent them all into the kitchen. “Get everyone brownies, Paul. And milk. Not soda. There’s leftover stew, too, Hanna, if you’re hungry.”

  Paul, only a year older than Hanna, dragged Jensen and Liam down the hallway. She followed. The two younger boys climbed on the countertop to get plates and glasses from the cabinet. Paul pried off the cover of the brownie pan.

  “Two,” eight-year-old Liam said.

  “Mom said one,” Paul said.

  “She didn�
��t say any number.”

  “I want chocolate milk,” Jensen said. He stomped his five-year-old feet, covered in his blanket sleeper.

  “Mom said white.”

  “Nah-uh,” Liam said, stuffing his second brownie in his mouth. “She didn’t say anything about it.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  Jensen opened the refrigerator and lugged out a bottle of Hershey’s syrup, bit off the clear cap and pulled up the spout with his teeth. He squeezed three inches into the bottom of his glass. “My milk, Paulie. I can’t pour it.”

  Paul filled his glass and then three others. Liam added chocolate to his, too, dipped his third brownie into it. “Hanna, do you want one before Mr. Piggo eats them all?” Paul asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I thought you were talking again,” Liam said, teeth dark with cakey mush. “Mom said so.”

  “She is,” Paul said. “Leave her alone.”

  “I don’t hear her.”

  “Be quiet.”

  “Mom said you go to a shrink.”

  “Liam,” Paul said. “Shut your trap.”

  “What’s a shrink?” Jensen asked.

  “Nothing. Go brush your teeth.”

  “Mom didn’t say we had to,” Liam complained.

  “Go.”

  “No.”

  “Now or I’ll tell Mom you ate three brownies.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “And I’ll tell Jessica Clark you still wear Pull-Ups to bed.”

  “Stupid,” Liam said, but he went.

  “You too,” Paul said.

  “You won’t tell Mom I had chocolate milk, will you?” Jensen asked.

  “Not if you head upstairs right now.”

  Jensen saluted. “Aye, aye, Captain,” and he ran out of the kitchen, skidding on the smooth hardwood floor and crashing into the banister.

  “You want stew?” Paul asked Hanna.

  She shook her head again.

  “You are talking, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Paul stacked the small saucers in one hand, managed to collect three of the four glasses in the other, his fingers inside them, holding them together, and dropped them all in the sink. Wiped his hands on his jeans. He left her milk for her, but it was too late to drink it. She’d have nightmares.

  Probably would anyway.

  Aunt Serrie came in, with Susan. Her mother’s eyes were glazed over, rimmed with red. Her aunt’s lips were white, really white, like she had eaten a powdered donut and not wiped her mouth. “We have a dishwasher, you know.”

  “I know,” Paul said, though he didn’t move to load it.

  “Where are your brothers?”

  “Washing up.”

  “You too. Get your sleeping bag. You’ll sleep with them. Hanna has your bed tonight.”

  “’Kay.”

  “Take Hanna up with you. And change the pillowcase.”

  He turned to Hanna. “C’mon.”

  She followed Paul through the house to his bedroom, the attic room, the ceiling low enough she could touch it if she stood against the sidewalls. He stripped off the blue pillowcase, dropped it on the floor near some sweatpants and socks. “Flannel or regular?”

  Hanna shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “Flannel’s warmer,” he said, and shook open a plaid case with a big black bear in the middle. Threw the pillow on the bed. “You want me to change the sheets, too?”

  “No.”

  “You got pajamas?”

  “My bag is still in the van.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  She rinsed her face in the bathroom and dried it on her shirt. The tub was the old-fashioned kind, white with feet. The sink, too, hanging on the wall without a pedestal or cabinet. She heard footsteps, went back out and sat on the bed. Paul set the bag next to her. “Your mom’s crying.”

  “Oh.” What else could she say?

  “Is it about what . . . happened to you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “My mom’s cried about it, too. I guess there were . . . bad things . . . you went through,” Paul said.

  “Yeah.”

  He looked away, crossed the room to the dresser, fished out a pair of camouflage thermals. Wadded them against his belly. “I know.”

  “Paul?” Aunt Serrie called up the steps. “You can talk to Hanna tomorrow. Get down here and let her sleep.”

  Her mother slept with her for most of the night. She came late, jostling Hanna’s eyes open as she climbed under the blankets and left sometime before Hanna woke. Hanna spent much of the morning in bed, listening to the boys run around the house beneath her, occasionally opening the door to the attic, hinges groaning, and trying to tiptoe up the steps to spy on her. She wasn’t sure they ever made it to the top, heard Aunt Serrie shouting at them to shut the door and stay out of there.

  She smelled Susan, her perfume, coming up the stairs before her. Miss Dior. Her father had taken Hanna to Macy’s every Christmas to buy it for her mother, had the lady at the counter wrap it in thick gold paper and stick a red bow in the middle. When was the last time Hanna had smelled her perfume? She must have been wearing it in the weeks or months since Hanna had been home. Must have. Why would she start today? But Hanna never recalled waking or eating, or walking past her mother as she sat watching television, and catching a whiff of the scent, not since she’d been home. Maybe the smell made Susan feel safe, like it was something she knew. It made Hanna feel that way. If she could have, she’d have rolled up in her mother’s neck and stayed there in the familiar scent of her parents’ love.

  Her mother smoothed Hanna’s hair from her face, touched her back. “Baby, get up. It’s late. There’s pancakes downstairs. Get dressed and come down to eat.”

  She did, wearing yesterday’s clothes, and her mother didn’t say anything about it when she sat down at the table. Susan stood at the counter; Aunt Serrie filled a plate with pancakes, layered thick pats of butter between them. “Real syrup or Aunt Jemima?”

  “Aunt Jemima isn’t real?”

  Her aunt laughed. “Should have known with you, Sue.”

  “Henry did all the pancake cooking. I had nothing to do with it.”

  Serrie squeezed stripes of the brown syrup from the Aunt Jemima bottle, zigzagging them over the pancakes. “There you go.”

  Hanna cut them into triangles, ate two at once, before they got soggy. She hated soggy pancakes, especially cold, the syrup squishing over her mouth, the pancakes disintegrating around her teeth so she didn’t even have to chew. Her mother poured her a glass of orange juice. “I thought we’d stay here a few days. Would you like that?”

  She nodded, then the clock caught her eye, on the microwave over her mother’s shoulder. Nearly eleven thirty. Claire would have come to the house already, to bring Hanna the ice cream she asked for yesterday and to spend time with her.

  Susan followed Hanna’s eyes, saw the clock, and her body stiffened. “It’s Saturday,” she said.

  “What?” Aunt Serrie asked, peeling Jensen off her leg. He wanted a fruit punch drink box; she told him they were for school lunches. He wanted one anyway.

  “Pleeeeeeese,” he whined. “Just one.”

  “And then your brothers will want one, and that will be three.” She took a green Tupperware cup from the cupboard. “You get apple juice.”

  “We have to get going,” Susan said.

  “I thought you were gonna stay the weekend,” Liam said, barging into the kitchen. “I’m thirsty.”

  Aunt Serrie took out another cup, this one yellow. Poured juice into it. “Here. Sue, what’s going on?”

  “We have to go.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Hanna, go get your bag.”

  “Liam, Jensen, go up to your rooms,” her aunt said.

  “Mom, you said Hanna was staying the whole weekend,” Liam said. “She slept all morning. We didn’t even get a chance to see her.”

  “Get upstairs now,” Aunt
Serrie said, her voiced raised—something she never did; the two boys looked at each other, then scrambled out of the kitchen.

  “Go, Hanna,” Susan said.

  She climbed the stairs to the first landing, waited, listened. She couldn’t hear enough, murmurs with the occasional word or phrase, mostly in Aunt Serrie’s voice. “. . . do anything wrong . . .” “. . . need . . . call . . . understand . . .” “. . . enough already . . .”

  She whirled as something touched her arm. Paul. He put a finger to his lips and bobbed his head toward the bedroom. So she went up the remaining stairs to the attic, where he pointed to the phone on the desk beside the computer. “Hold the mute button down before you pick up.”

  Hanna hesitated, did what he said. A conversation was already in progress between her mother and a man, who said, “—know where you are.”

  “We’re staying at my sister’s house in Great Barrington.”

  “Take a few days. When you’re back, come in and make an official statement.”

  She recognized the voice. Detective Woycowski.

  “You have my statement. We’re not coming back.”

  “Mrs. Suller, I realize you’re upset—”

  “You have no idea how upset I am.”

  “We can have a patrol car—”

  “No. You can’t do anything for us.” Hanna heard a soft cough, a deep swallow—the sounds her mother made when holding back tears. “I’m sorry. I just need to keep her safe.”

  The detective sighed. “Give me your number. We’ll stay in touch.”

  Hanna gently replaced the receiver. She curled her finger up and down; it had cramped from her pressing it so tightly on mute. Paul sat in a monstrous leather swivel chair, staring at the computer monitor, clicking matching sets of colored jewels and watching them disappear. “So?” he said.

  “I think we’re staying for a while.”

  23

  CLAIRE

  MARCH 2009

  She rested for a day, sleeping, lounging in the bedroom, roaming the kitchen, watching Beverly bake cookies for the church fellowship supper, her steady right hand scooping lumps of oatmeal raisin dough with a metal tablespoon, her shaky left fingers pushing it onto a greased pan. She left each lump where it landed, the baking sheet patterned like a minefield, random blobs here and there, some touching, some close enough to grow into each other as they baked.