The Air We Breathe

by Christa Parrish

  She hesitated. “Good.”

  “Good. Great. Come sit and eat.” He tapped the red-and-white bucket of KFC.

  “How come you always bring chicken?”

  “Why, because I know the way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach, and your mother loves this stuff.”

  She does? And Molly realized right there that despite living the past six years packed together in a broken-down wax museum, their lives inextricably knotted to each other, she didn’t know her mother at all.

  “That’s okay. I’m not hungry.”

  Mick shrugged, throwing up his hands and bringing them back down with a slap on his meaty thighs. “You never eat. Louise, she never eats, not a bit.”

  Her mother laughed again. “That’s why she wears a size three.”

  She’s happy. Molly had the beginnings of happiness stirring inside her, too. She didn’t want it to disappear, and she didn’t want her mother to lose it, either. They’d both been trapped in wax for too long.

  “I guess I will have some,” Molly said. She sat across from Louise, grabbed a chicken leg and scooped a mound of mashed potatoes onto a paper plate.

  Louise met her eye, and nodded.

  28

  CLAIRE

  MARCH 2009

  “Andrew, you’re here.”

  She’d returned from the grocery store—picking up a few things for Beverly—and found him in the bedroom, his presence unexpected, like discovering an army of fat black ants when opening a brand-new bag of sugar. He squinted at her. “Why wouldn’t I be here? This is where my family is.” He shifted her toiletry bottles around the top of the dresser, pushing the cocoa butter stretch-mark cream back against the antique mirror and stacking her perfume atop a container of salted peanuts she’d been snacking on last night. “You are still my family, correct?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been trying to call all week, Claire. You can’t return my voice mails?”

  “I did.”

  “Yes. You left me messages when you knew my phone would be off.”

  “That’s not how it is, Andrew.”

  “Then how is it? From where I’m standing, I would think my wife is trying to avoid me.”

  “Because I knew you’d want to know when I was coming home.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And I just don’t know yet.”

  He sighed. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? You’ve been here more than a week and nothing has happened?”

  “I thought you meant with us.”

  Andrew sat hard on the bed, first smoothing the wrinkles in the floral duvet, then chopping at the fabric with the side of his open hand, creating lumpy waves in the feather comforter.

  She loved this room, with the simple painted-wood furniture, the misty blue walls, the fresh whites and tender grays. The closeness of the furniture in the small space. But it was a woman’s room, and Andrew looked out of place.

  “I’ll take anything at this point,” he said.

  “Hanna went outside. For the first time in four years. She walked on the beach. She came here to see Beverly. We’ve talked, a little.”

  “So things are good.”

  “They’re better.”

  “Which means what?”

  “I can’t go yet.”

  He opened a second button on his shirt, fingers of one hand mauling the fabric until the smooth plastic slid through. Always overheating, Andrew liked having two buttons undone. Claire hated it. She thought he looked like one of those television Mafia men, collar wide and chest hair curling out. Instinctively she stepped to him and closed the button. He took her hands. “I don’t think this is about the girl anymore.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “No, it’s about us.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with us.”

  “You’re here. I’m in New York. Our son is in Vermont with my sister. You end up in the hospital because of problems with our baby and you don’t tell me? There is absolutely something wrong.”

  “The baby’s fine. It was a false alarm.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point, Andrew?”

  “I love you,” he said. He still sat, peered up at her, a starving man searching her face for the tiniest crumb of reciprocation.

  “No you don’t.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Claire pulled away from him. She wanted to stand, to stay taller than him, towering over his seated form, but her back ached and her shoes pinched her swollen feet, and she felt so tired all of a sudden. She pressed into the wingback chair in the corner, remembering Molly in the car, crying up her past. Claire’s own haunts were ready to show themselves, and there was nothing she could do to stop them.

  She didn’t know that she wanted to.

  “You don’t love me. You only love the Claire you think you know. The one I’ve been showing you these past six years.”

  “And who is that, Claire?”

  “The one who wears the sandals you like and the blouses you like and puts on mascara every day because you like it. The one who cooks the foods you like, and who hasn’t changed the stupid color of the bathroom—even though I hate it—because you picked it out. Or the ugly striped comforter on the bed. Or the dishes that you bought with Liz. The one who never tells you how I really feel because I don’t want you to look too close at me and see who I really am.”

  “You’re my wife.”

  “Will you stop being so insanely calm? I’m telling you I’m a fraud. I’m telling you I’ve kept huge parts of myself locked away from you so you wouldn’t wake up one day and realize . . .” She started to cry. “And realize what a huge, dumb mistake you made in marrying me.”

  She went to him now, despite her brain repeating Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, wanting her to prove she didn’t need him at all. They rolled back onto the bed, his hips against her tailbone, his arm threaded beneath her neck and folded up to her shoulder.

  “This isn’t a mistake. You’re the prize, Claire. Not what you do. Not what you like. Just you.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. You hate the dishes? Gone. You hate the bathroom color? I’ll paint it polka dots if you want. I don’t care. I want to serve you. I want to know you. Nothing you tell me will shock me or disappoint me. I’m so sorry if I ever made you feel like you weren’t enough.” He came up onto his elbow, took her chin, and turned her face toward his. “So go ahead. Lay it on me.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me what you’ve been keeping from me.”

  “I can’t.”

  He laughed. “After all this drama, you’re going to waste the opportunity to say whatever it is that’s on your mind?”

  She took a breath, shifted her eyes to the window, to the eyelet drapes, counting the lacy holes. “I miss my clogs. And those long cotton dresses I used to wear, even if they make me look completely shapeless. And I want to write puzzles again.”

  “I never asked you to stop.”

  “I know. This isn’t about you, Andrew. It’s me. I wanted to be perfect for you. And I didn’t want to bother you with all my crud about . . . you know . . . The accident. The divorce. I didn’t want you to know how much I still had to work through. Still am working through.” She wiped her eyes on the pillowcase; its edging matched the curtains. “I didn’t realize it myself until this week, really.”

  He tilted her face back toward him. Kissed her. Dabbed her remaining tears with the cuff of his shirt. “Come home. I need you. Jesse needs you. The rest of it? Eh, we’ll figure it out.”

  “You think you’re so smart,” she said, smiling a little.

  “One of my most annoying personality traits.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Let’s go home.”

  Andrew stayed behind to fix Beverly’s leaky kitchen sink. When Claire left, he was wearing one of the elderly woman’s short-sleeved
house robes over his pants; Beverly had made him take off his good shirt so he wouldn’t ruin it. He worked like an auto mechanic beneath a car, his feet, legs, and most of his torso outside the cabinet housing the plumbing, his face turned up toward the PVC pipe, water dripping on his face. Claire saw one of his socks was inside out, the green toe seam showing. She chuckled to herself and shook her head. This was the man who bought only dark socks so it didn’t matter which ones he put on in the morning, even if the lengths or ribbing didn’t match.

  She borrowed Beverly’s Olds and drove to the museum, after a detour to the mainland and the first gas station mini-mart she saw to buy a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Mint Chocolate Cookie—the only flavor remotely close to Molly’s favorite.

  The girl beamed when she came through the door, and Claire jumped as the recorded witch’s cackle echoed down on her.

  “Sorry. I forgot to disconnect it.”

  “I’m surprised someone hasn’t had a heart attack.” She shook the plastic bag. “Ice cream? It’s the best I could do without driving all the way to Straightham.”

  Molly opened the bag. “It’s perfect. Thank you. Wait a minute.” She went through the door marked Office and returned moments later with two spoons and two coffee mugs. “All the bowls are in the dishwasher.”

  “Oh, I don’t need any,” Claire said. She patted her stomach. “This little one doesn’t like dairy all that much, and doesn’t let me forget it.”

  The girl laughed, opened the container, and stuck the spoon into it. Took a bite and dug out another scoop. “It just doesn’t seem right if it’s not green.”

  “You’ll have to come visit me in Avery Springs, then, and I’ll take you out for some of the real stuff at Stewart’s.”

  Molly’s spoon stopped mid-flight. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going home tomorrow.”

  “You just got here. I mean . . .” Her face crumpled, and she dropped the spoon onto the container lid. A white blob dripped onto the counter. “You can’t go.”

  “I have to, Molly. Andrew and Jesse need me back. And this baby has a mind of its own. It could decide to make an early entrance, and I’d like to be home if that happens.”

  “I don’t want to lose you again.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” Claire said, pulling the girl close, knocking the spoon onto the floor. Mint Chocolate Cookie splattered on her jeans. “That won’t happen. You can call me anytime. And I promise to come visit again after the baby’s born. If you want me to.”

  If you’re still here.

  Molly disentangled herself from Claire. She bent to retrieve the spoon, jammed it into the softening ice cream. Opened the drawer beneath the cash register and removed a wad of napkins. She dropped them to the floor, using her feet to rake them over the spill and stepping on them to soak up the stickiness. An impression of the bottom of her sneaker imprinted into the paper. “Can you stay a few minutes longer? Because there’s one more thing.”

  Claire nodded. “Okay.”

  The girl looked back at the door, then motioned toward the display entrance. “In here, though.”

  She followed Molly through several rooms, until she stopped in front of the Shirley Temple figure. Stared at her. “She was always my favorite. I whispered it to her. And I wrote it for . . . someone. But I’ve never told anyone real.”

  “Told what, Molly?” Claire asked. She rested her hand lightly on the girl’s back, and Molly closed her eyes.

  “Why we left.”

  29

  HANNA

  NOVEMBER 2002

  She had seen Dr. Diane that morning but said nothing to her, even though it was a day she had quite a bit to say—all about how her mother didn’t want to let her see Claire anymore, was threatening to end the visits. But she’d been watching Dr. Diane as much as the psychologist watched her. She knew talking wouldn’t get results.

  But silence . . .

  She spent the entire session staring at her hands. She didn’t nod. She didn’t make eye contact. She didn’t color. She didn’t even shift in the hard plastic chair when her hipbone started to ache. She counted the clicks of the big wall clock, knowing after sixty of them she could go home. It was boring but worked as she had hoped. After forty-eight clicks, Dr. Diane excused herself to talk with Susan. Ashley, the intern, tried to engage her with a yarn-haired puppet, but Hanna blocked her out so she could listen to her mother and the psychologist speaking in the other room. She could hear both of them, not their words but their tone, with voices raised. And when Dr. Diane returned at fifty-five clicks, she wished Hanna a pleasant weekend, reminded her of Monday’s appointment, and asked her to say hello to Claire on Saturday.

  Hanna smiled against the sleeve of her sweater.

  As soon as she arrived home, she ran upstairs, swiped the cordless phone from her mother’s bedroom and, locking the bathroom door, dialed Claire. She had memorized her phone number, just in case. When Claire answered, Hanna flushed the toilet to muffle her voice and hastily asked the woman to bring ice cream tomorrow. She didn’t care about the treat; she wanted to be certain Claire still planned to come. Susan had been on her cell phone when Hanna left Dr. Diane’s office, and she wondered if her mother hadn’t decided on her own to end Claire’s visits, despite the psychologist’s recommendation.

  By the time her mother called her to the table for lunch, Hanna had returned the phone and washed her hands, confident she’d still be seeing Claire tomorrow.

  Then the knock came. Susan went to answer the door as Hanna ate her cheese, biting the rectangles into animal shapes before swallowing them between bites of Granny Smith apple. She only liked the green ones, tart enough to suck the spit from her cheeks and make the inside of her mouth dry up. Before she was taken, her mother rarely had them in the house because she and Henry liked Red Delicious better, and used to only buy apples in bulk bags, never individually. Hanna couldn’t eat an entire five-pound bag of green apples before they went bad.

  Now her mother made sure to have the Granny Smiths in the fridge. She made sure to have most things Hanna liked around the house—smooth peanut butter, frozen toaster waffles with chocolate chips, microwave bacon. Lucky Charms, of course. And plenty of cucumbers.

  “I told Detective Woycowski that you need to call first,” Susan said, her voice floating back to Hanna.

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am.” A man’s voice. “But given the nature of this new information, I thought it best to come down here straightaway.”

  Hanna froze. Her bladder released, the heat and wet spreading under the backs of her thighs, soaking into the kitchen chair cushion. She squeezed her cheese animal in her hand.

  “I understand, and I know you have a job to do. I just would have liked to have prepared her first.”

  “I could come back in an hour or so.”

  “No, no. Don’t do that. Hanna’s eating lunch. I can call her into the living room.”

  “I’d love to sit and chat with her for a few minutes, if that would be all right with you, Mrs. Suller. It may allow her to be more comfortable. I know she’s been working with Woycowski, so this is a change. I can’t imagine Hanna does well with change at the moment.”

  “You’re right, Detective. That would be fine. Please, follow me.”

  Susan came back into the kitchen and Thin Man followed. He wore a suit and tie, and as soon as he stepped through the door, he adjusted his jacket. Hanna saw a gold badge pinned on his belt, and a pistol holstered at his side. “Hanna-Bee, this is Detective . . . I’m sorry. What was it again?”

  “Detective Mahoney.”

  “Detective Mahoney,” Susan repeated. Her mother was charmed by him, she could tell. “Detective Woycowski transferred to another case, so Detective Mahoney is in charge of . . . everything now.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Hanna.”

  She squeezed harder. Cheese seeped between her fingers.

  “Please, sit,” Susan said. “Can I make you something? We’re having breakfast for lunch to
day. Except Hanna-Bee couldn’t wait and needed a snack.”

  “No, ma’am, but I appreciate the offer.” Thin Man grinned, and she saw rows and rows of big, white, pointed shark’s teeth. He would devour her, given the chance. Her teeth began chattering; she bit down, hard. Her head bobbed instead. “Hanna-Bee, huh? That’s an adorable nickname for a little girl like you.”

  “Her father gave it to her. Baby, you want your yolks runny?”

  She couldn’t speak. Her mother glared at her, probably thinking she was still in silent-protest mode from the appointment. She managed to shake her head the smallest amount, more a tremble than an actual movement.

  “I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me, Hanna. Detective Woycowski said you were talking again.”

  “She is. Must be shy today.” Susan sucked her cheeks in, opened her eyes wide behind Thin Man’s back, mangy eyebrows raised. She mouthed, Answer him. “Are you sure I can’t at least pour you a cup of coffee?”

  “Now, that would be lovely. As long as it’s no trouble.”

  Susan opened the cabinet, removed a tall ceramic coffee cup. “It’s already made and still warm from this morning.” She poured the coffee and gave it to him.

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  Susan carried the skillet from the stove to Hanna’s plate and, careful not to touch her with it, slid the eggs out in front of her. “Hanna, Detective Mahoney said they think they may know who was at the bank that day. I believe he has some more photos for you to look at.”

  She said nothing, hands still fisted on either side of her plate, heart hammering against her rib cage so loudly she didn’t know how no one else could hear it. A drop of water-thin mucus formed in one nostril and, slow as a slug, crept over the top of her mouth and spread into the crack between her lips.