Invisible as Air

by Zoe Fishman

  “Thank you.” Sylvie walked over to him and gave him a peck on the lips, but one that lingered longer than the usual two seconds. “Now get dressed; we’re already fashionably late, but I don’t want to be rude late.”

  They were going to Greg and Josh’s anniversary party. Paul could not, and he meant this literally, remember the last party he and Sylvie had attended, much less without Teddy in tow.

  “What should I wear?” Paul asked into the now-empty closet.

  Sylvie had moved back into the bathroom, where she was peering into a mirror that magnified her flaws to one thousand times their actual size as advertised by the box it had come in. How was that helpful? Paul wanted to know, but then realized that he was the guy who had just been shirtless and near tears.

  Paul’s quarter of the closet was neatly organized by Sylvie, a sliver of blue oxford and the occasional stripe, a khaki in brown and olive and two suits: one gray and one navy. Two J’s came together to make a hanger for his seven ties and four belts. He never wore this stuff.

  On the job he wore work clothes: stiff Carhartt pants and T-shirts, work boots with soles thick enough to bend rogue nails that sometimes littered work spaces, depending on the crew. These were neatly folded in three rows on three shelves, under which lived his five pairs of shoes. All his workout gear, which made up a quarter of his credit card debt—the machines made up the rest—was kept in a basement closet that Paul had made for himself after Sylvie had complained.

  “It looks like Lance Armstrong threw up in here,” she had told him one afternoon, when he had just started training. But that had just been the beginning of his foray into cyber stockpiling. Now he was up to his eyeballs in things. Things that were always meant to improve his life, but never did for longer than a week or two. And so: more things.

  Paul sighed, surveying his options. He had thought he was excited to go out, but on second thought, it seemed like an awful lot of effort for a maximum of two hours, ninety-plus minutes of which he would spend on a couch somewhere, watching the world go by, because of his stupid ankle.

  But no, he had to buck up. For he and Sylvie to be going on a date anywhere, much less to a party where they would willingly socialize with other people who had likely never known tragedy, whose lives were the equivalent of pink cotton candy, was too much of a unicorn to back away from. It was a big deal for them; of course he was going to get dressed in these clothes, uncomfortable or not, potbelly or not, and make it work.

  Paul leaned forward on his crutches and swiped a blue button-down from the rack. The fabric was light and airy, and it had those tabs that would hold back his sleeves. He liked those, and Sylvie had an admirable talent for creating perfectly symmetrical folds.

  He leaned his crutches against the shelves and buttoned himself into it, his foot perpendicular to the floor. He would have to put on his pants in the bedroom; he had to sit down for that.

  “Oh shit,” Paul hissed.

  His stupid cast, with its moist, unforgiving grip on the entire lower half of his left leg an inescapable, itchy reminder of his limits. He couldn’t even wear pants.

  Sylvie would never let him cut a leg off his nice pants. Let him? Oh God. What was she, his mother or his wife? Paul winced and shook his head. Maybe he would just stay home, let Sylvie have fun without him.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Sylvie behind him, her timing impeccable.

  “My cast. None of my pants are gonna work.” He sighed. “You go ahead, I’ll stay home with Teddy, watch a movie or something.”

  Sylvie put her hand around his shoulder. Her nails. They were red.

  “You got your nails painted?” Paul asked incredulously. He had never seen her nails painted.

  “Are they awful?”

  “No, no. They’re just different. Good different. What made you do it?”

  “There’s this place next to the grocery store, and I had a little extra time to kill. I thought to myself, Why haven’t you ever gotten your nails painted before? And honestly, I couldn’t answer the question. So, Slut Red it is.”

  “You’re not a slut,” said Paul.

  “No, that’s the name of the color. ‘Slut Red.’”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. But back to your pants problem. Not to worry—just wear some nice shorts. Those navy ones are nice. With the flat front?”

  “Shorts to a party?” asked Paul. “Sylvie. Come on. That’s, like, a cardinal sin to you. Remember our first date?”

  “I do. You wore cargo shorts. There almost wasn’t a second date.”

  “But it was hot!”

  “But it was a date. Listen, obviously it’s nobody’s first choice, but you broke your ankle, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I dunno, Sylvie. I mean, these are two gay guys throwing a fabulous party and I show up in shorts? Come on.”

  “Paul. Honey. You need to get over yourself. You and I are not that interesting; we’ll be lucky if anyone even notices us.” Paul opened his mouth to protest her point, but Sylvie continued. “And that’s okay. It’s fine by me. I feel relatively pretty. I’m wearing makeup, I got my nails painted, and I’m not actively mourning the death of our daughter for once, so you know what? Fuck it. We’re going to this party.”

  Sylvie was out of breath, panting slightly from her upchuck of emotion.

  Paul dropped his crutches and turned toward her, pulling her into his chest as the crutches clattered to the wood floor. A bolt of pain traveled up his leg, and he felt as though he could topple the two of them at any moment, but he forced himself to stay upright.

  Sylvie was not at all the same and yet completely recognizable as the woman he had married, and Paul wasn’t sure how to react. To harp on it any further, he feared it would evaporate her breakthrough, dry it right up. But no, he had to. He had been waiting too long for the opportunity.

  “Sylvie,” he murmured, into the top of her head.

  “Paul, I feel like we’re gonna fall. Here, let me get you your crutches.” She pulled out of his embrace and looked up at him. “You okay to stand for a second?” He nodded.

  She handed them back to Paul, one at a time. They faced each other.

  “What do you mean, you’re not actively mourning her anymore?” Paul asked. “Here, let’s go sit. On the bed.” He started out of the closet.

  “Oh, Paul, come on, let’s not make this into a big thing,” said Sylvie.

  “I’m not making it into a thing,” said Paul, swiveling around halfway. “Please.” His eye caught something in the corner, on the ground. Something red. “Your purse is on the floor.” He began to hobble toward it when Sylvie cut him off, practically shoving him out of the way to hang it back on its hook.

  “Must have fallen when I was trying to figure out what to wear. I got it. Thanks.” She looped its strap back over the hook and turned to face him again, her cheeks slightly flushed.

  “So come on, let’s talk, then.” Sylvie marched out in front of him, taking the lead suddenly.

  They sat on the edge of the bed. Paul wished he had those shorts on, but they could wait.

  “So. Delilah?” he asked.

  “Delilah,” Sylvie repeated.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “About her?”

  “Yes, about her. About what happened. About yourself?”

  “Paul, you’re taking that tone with me,” said Sylvie. “Please don’t take that concerned-therapist tone; you know it drives me crazy.”

  Paul sighed. “But I am concerned, Sylvie. What you said in the closet is a really big deal. But maybe concerned is the wrong word. I’m more interested than concerned.”

  “Lately, I don’t know what it is, but I feel like I’ve moved into a new phase. Her death. It’s not as heavy in my heart. It doesn’t, you know, flow through my veins instead of blood anymore. I feel like I’m breathing again. Sort of,” said Sylvie. She looked at him, her pupils impossibly opaque. Like black marbles.

  “Sylvie, that’s a
really big deal,” said Paul. He took her hand, still taken aback by their red tips.

  “I know.” She squeezed his hand. “I know you want more from me right now, but I just now landed here, in this spot. Can I just be in this spot for a while before unpacking all the rest? Please?”

  Paul sighed. It wasn’t fair that probing further, for the sake of their marriage, was not allowed. He had to wait, as he always had to, for her to make the first move. Never mind his feelings or his needs. He was so goddamn tired of it.

  “I do love you, Paul.” She searched his face, those marble eyes boring holes in his own.

  “I love you too, Sylvie.” He did, as hard as it was to love someone who made all the rules.

  “Now let’s get your shorts on,” she said quietly, pulling away. “We have a party to go to.”

  * * *

  “HEY, GUYS,” GREETED Greg, pulling back his yellow door to welcome Paul and Sylvie inside. “So glad you could make it.”

  “You smell really good,” Paul told him, as Greg moved to embrace Sylvie. “What is that?”

  “Some cologne Josh brought me back from London.” He rolled his eyes. “He said he went on a special outing to find it, but we all know he got it at the airport.”

  “Whatever, you smell amazing,” said Sylvie.

  “It’s the thought that counts,” added Paul. “Happy anniversary, by the way.”

  “Yes, happy anniversary.” Sylvie thrust their gift at him. Paul had no idea what it was.

  “Thank you. Come in, come in. Lots of folks here already. Let me intro—” More guests arrived behind them.

  “No, no, we’re okay mingling on our own,” said Sylvie. “You have hosting to do.”

  Greg put his hands together in a praying position and nodded before being bombarded by the next couple.

  “I need a drink,” said Sylvie, as they continued inside.

  “What were the prayer hands about?” asked Paul. “That was obnoxious.”

  “Maybe he’s Buddhist now?” answered Sylvie. “Or maybe he’s just drunk and didn’t know what else to do with his hands. What’s the big deal?”

  “It was just obnoxious, that’s all. Am I not allowed to have an opinion about what I find obnoxious? Even that’s forbidden?” Paul snapped.

  “Jesus, Paul.” Sylvie turned to face him.

  “Well, come on, Sylvie. Give me a break, already,” said Paul. He was being a brat, he knew it, but so what? “There’s the bar, on the deck. Come on,” he said, hobbling in front of her to lead the way.

  Partly covered so that Greg and Josh’s kids could still play outside when it rained, that had been the goal of the deck, Paul remembered, as they stood in line for a drink. It had taken forever for Paul and his crew to build, but it was pretty magnificent, if Paul did say so himself. Sylvie had gotten him the job upon hearing Greg’s need for a contractor, just swooped in at one of their office holiday parties and handed him Paul’s card. It had been one of his first big jobs and had led to many more. Word of mouth is the best publicity, Sylvie had told him, and she was right. She was almost always right. Almost.

  Tonight it housed a few round tables and two couches that they must have brought in, along with a full bar, complete with two bartenders. Delicate strands of twinkling globes were strung through and around the rafters, their gentle glow turning all the guests into their much younger selves.

  “You sit. I’ll take care of it,” instructed Sylvie, pointing to an empty couch.

  God, all he did was sit.

  “No, I want to stand.”

  “But how are you going to hold your drink?”

  “Shit, Sylvie, I’ll lean on one of those tables out there or something, okay? I’ll be fine.”

  He started through the room toward the sliding-glass doors that led to the deck. Three years of barely acknowledging him unless she was yelling or smirking at him, and now she was micromanaging his stand-to-sit ratio.

  “Why are you so angry?” she asked, catching up to him.

  “Because we’re at a party, Sylvie. I’m a grown-up, remember? I know when I need to sit down.”

  “I was just looking out for you, that’s all.”

  “I’ll have a Jameson, neat,” Paul said to the bartender. “I know,” he said to Sylvie. “I’m sorry for overreacting, I just— I’ve got this. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Sylvie put her arm around his waist as Paul’s drink appeared.

  “Do you have tequila?” she asked, when the bartender shifted his focus to her.

  “Tequila?” asked Paul.

  “Oh yes, look at this. Fancy tequila. Perfect. Okay, I’ll just have some of this over ice with some lime. Two limes. Thanks. What?” she asked Paul. “When in Rome.”

  They took their drinks to a table and stood, Paul perched on his crutches awkwardly, his ankle throbbing slightly.

  “Hey, Ellen!” Sylvie called out loudly.

  Ellen, a too-skinny blonde who was very tall but did not have any interest in being tall, as evidenced by the stoop of her shoulders, waved and then proceeded toward them.

  “Sylvie,” she said, going in for a hug, her very generously poured pinot grigio threatening to slosh onto Paul’s bare toes peeking out of his cast. The straw-colored liquid came just to the glass’s edge and then, thankfully, retreated back to the pool from which it came.

  “Hi, Paul,” she said, putting down her wine on the table to shake his hand. Paul offered his right hand but was immediately embarrassed by the limpness of his grasp. Fucking crutches.

  “Sylvie, I just want to thank you,” said Ellen.

  “For what?” asked Sylvie, taking a sip of her tequila.

  Paul detected a very faint wince as she swallowed. Why the tequila tonight? Since when was she a tequila person?

  “After that meeting, I went home and told Elliott that he didn’t have to go to that stupid party if he didn’t want to, and for the first time in possibly”—she paused and looked to the starlit sky overhead as though it had the answer—“seven years? He actually smiled. At me.”

  “Oh, that’s nice, Ellen,” said Sylvie. “Teddy seemed pretty thrilled too at the prospect. Although I can’t help but feel a teensy bit guilty.”

  “Why?”

  What in the world were they talking about? Paul wondered. His ankle hurt.

  “The lack of school spirit, I suppose. Encouraging it and all.” Sylvie rolled her eyes. “It’s the good girl in me.”

  “No way,” said Ellen. “Where’s the school spirit if our boys are miserable? They’ve been miserable at these things long enough.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Sylvie. “No, I know you are.”

  “Sorry, what are you guys talking about?” asked Paul finally.

  “Sylvie didn’t tell you?” asked Ellen. She took an enormous gulp of her wine, practically draining the glass.

  “No.” He looked at Sylvie, who shrugged her shoulders, although he could tell by her cat-that-ate-the-canary grin that she was pleased with herself, pleased by the attention.

  “Oh, well, let me tell you then. Your wife stuck it to those PTA wenches a few weeks ago. She stood up for the little men, so to speak, meaning our little men.”

  Paul bristled. Teddy wasn’t little.

  “Oh yeah? How so? Sylvie, you didn’t tell me this.”

  “I did. I told you that I told Teddy he didn’t have to go to the end-of-year party if he didn’t want to. I told you that, remember?”

  “Well yeah, but you didn’t mention anything about sticking it to anybody.” Paul looked at her quizzically.

  “I didn’t really,” murmured Sylvie, exchanging a conspiratorial look with Ellen.

  “Get out of here!” Ellen squeezed Paul’s shoulder, barely able to contain her excitement. “She stood right up in the middle of the meeting and basically told Erika and her cronies to fuck right off. In a classy way, of course.”

  Paul was shocked and a little turned on. Sylvie hadn’t told anyone to fuck off to their face in yea
rs.

  “I was just honest,” Sylvie said. She had finished her drink.

  He took a sip of his, suddenly feeling pressure to keep up.

  “With myself and with them about Teddy. Like, why am I wasting time bribing him to be somebody who likes to go to school functions? What’s the point? That’s all.”

  “That’s not all,” said Ellen. “Stop being so modest. I love that you called Lindsey out. She really is just a terrible person.”

  Another woman called Ellen’s name, and she waved her empty wineglass at her over Sylvie’s head. She really was very tall, Paul thought. Probably as tall as him if he stood up straight, and he was six feet. Okay, five eleven.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to thank you, Sylvie,” she said. “You’ve inspired me. Could we get lunch or something soon?”

  “Sure, just call me.”

  “Paul. Nice to see you. Feel better.”

  “You too,” said Paul as she walked away. “How come you didn’t tell me about this?” he asked.

  “But I did,” said Sylvie.

  “Not the fun details. Not that you went all Norma Rae on them.”

  Sylvie laughed. “Paul, do you want to sit down now?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Look, the couch over there. It’s empty. Let’s go.”

  She took his crutches from him as he lowered himself onto the cushions, grateful.

  “I need another drink,” she announced. “Do you?” He held up his whiskey. It was still half full.

  “Nope.”

  “A water or anything?”

  “No, that’s okay. Thanks.”

  “Okay.” Sylvie turned to go.

  “Wait. What did you say to Lindsey? What was Ellen talking about?”

  “Oh, I just called her out for never acknowledging Delilah,” she answered plainly. “I’ll be back.”

  “Not acknowledging Delilah,” he whispered into the night air, to no one, as she sauntered back to the bar.

  Paul watched the party happen from the couch. The pretentious double air kisses, the fake laughs, the real laughs. Someone had turned on the music, and it floated out of invisible speakers, speakers Paul had painstakingly installed himself. He drained his drink, although he may as well have been drinking water. Sadly, he was not the slightest bit drunk.