Invisible as Air

by Zoe Fishman

  “I’m starting to realize that, I guess.”

  “I’m glad,” said Paul.

  “I wish that I had seen Delilah,” said Sylvie, practically whispering. “I’m angry at myself that I didn’t.”

  Paul opened his mouth to say something, but she continued, staring ahead at the opposite wall.

  “It just seemed too unnecessarily painful at the time. I had endured so much heartbreak in those few hours, the possibility of taking on any more, it just seemed wrong.”

  Paul had seen her. Delilah had had a thick head of dark hair, like Sylvie. She had long, dark eyelashes. She was plump. But she was also blue. His heart broke in two all over again, remembering.

  He searched under the covers for Sylvie’s hand and entwined his fingers through hers. He wasn’t so angry anymore.

  “I know I’m different lately. Obviously. I mean, we’re sitting in bed talking about Delilah’s death, for God’s sake. You can’t get much more different than that,” said Sylvie.

  “Yes,” said Paul. “And it’s wonderful, it really is. I just want to know how—”

  “I’m on Prozac,” Sylvie declared. She turned to look at him. “I started it about two months ago.”

  “What? But you’ve never even gone to see a psychiatrist. Or have you?”

  “No, I got the prescription from my regular doctor. I don’t know what it was exactly, but I was just so tired of being depressed. Which is an oxymoron, I guess, since being tired is a big part of being depressed. She was having me fill out those questionnaires they always make you fill out, like how often do you want to kill yourself or whatever, and for the first time ever, I answered them honestly.”

  “You want to kill yourself?” asked Paul, alarmed.

  “No, no—bad example. Just those questionnaires, they’re so obvious. At any rate, she asked me about my answers, we got to talking and she wrote me the prescription. At first I wasn’t going to fill it, but then I did.”

  “Wow,” said Paul. “I can’t believe it.”

  “What? That I would be on an antidepressant?”

  “That, but all of it. That you would admit to being depressed, that you would talk to your doctor, that you would have the prescription filled. All of it without so much as a word to me.”

  “You’re mad at me?” asked Sylvie.

  “Not mad,” said Paul. “Hurt.”

  “Please don’t be hurt,” said Sylvie. “You know me; I need to work through things on my own first. This was one of those things.”

  “Fair enough, I guess, but I’m still allowed to be hurt. I’m your husband, for God’s sake. We’ve both been in this together for three years, you know? A heads-up, just to feel included in your life, would have been nice.”

  “Sorry not to make this about you,” said Sylvie.

  “That’s not what I’m saying at all,” said Paul.

  “Well, no, it is, actually. And you’re acting like you’ve never had secrets of your own. Hello? The sports store downstairs? The thousands of dollars clicked away into the ether? And what’s the problem, anyway? I may have filled the prescription secretly, but I’m telling you about it now.”

  “By the way, I’m selling most of that stuff,” said Paul guiltily. “David is helping me. Would you have ever told me about the Prozac if I hadn’t asked you right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sylvie?”

  “Yes, Paul. I was planning on telling you last night, but I got too drunk.”

  “So wait, what are the odds? You go on Prozac mere moments before I fall off my bike and break my ankle? That’s crazy, the timing,” said Paul. It did seem a little too hard to believe, that the universe had timed it all exactly right.

  “It is,” Sylvie agreed. “But maybe the Snows are finally being cut a break? Not literally, although you did break your ankle.”

  “Very funny,” said Paul.

  “Who knows how it worked out the way it did? I certainly don’t. But I feel better, I really do.”

  “I’m glad,” said Paul.

  But did he feel any better? She’d given him an answer, a great, healthy answer, and yet he still felt uncomfortable.

  She reached over to hug him, the blanket falling so that her bare chest pressed to his, and the pleasure her familiar warmth provided was almost too much to bear. He kissed her neck, and she kissed back, and then slowly, wonderfully, deeply, they were making love.

  His discomfort was his own shit, he decided, pushing into her. He would work on it.

  He would.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sylvie

  Sylvie turned on the shower as hot as it would go and stood in the bathroom naked, waiting for the air to thicken. In her closed fist was a pill. She opened it and placed it on her tongue, smarting slightly at its acidic zing.

  She kept her head down, avoiding the mirror, and got inside. The water was too hot. She played with the faucets, hot and cold, until it was still hot but not third-degree-burn hot. She stood under the water and closed her eyes.

  Prozac. The lie had rolled so easily out of her mouth, like she had been planning it. She had not even given it one second of thought prior to that moment, that she would pick a decoy pill.

  She was equally impressed and frightened by herself. She had lied, right to Paul’s face, but not just a quick lie; she had thought of an elaborate one that had developed a backstory on the spot. Sylvie supposed it had been so easy because of course it was the way things should have gone, what she should have done if she was a healthy and mindful person rather than, well, who she was.

  She had thought about scrawling “every single fucking day” across the top of the depression questionnaire her doctor handed her at her physical every year, sure, but decided instead to just circle the sometimeses and nevers and go on her way. And it was crazy too, because why was Sylvie so adamantly opposed to an antidepressant but gobbled these Oxys without a second thought?

  There was nothing illicit about Prozac. There were also no bubbles, there was no escape, Sylvie thought, massaging shampoo into her hair. But was that entirely true? Antidepressants had to provide some kind of escape, or there would be no “anti” to speak of. Maybe she would ask her doctor for some when these pills were gone, she reasoned. Her lie had sounded so rational, so good. So healthy.

  And Paul had bought it. Although why wouldn’t he have bought it? It made total sense. And she was, for the first time, sharing her version of Delilah with him. That was what he had said he wanted for so long, and there Sylvie was, doing it. Cause and effect.

  But the irony was not lost on Sylvie that her self-actualization, her decision to speak her truth, finally, was sponsored by none other than a big fat illegal secret. So there was that. But it was not going to last forever.

  Sylvie realized too that her internal dialogue was beginning to feel a bit like Groundhog Day. So that was why, she decided, as she towel dried her hair, she was going to figure out this Bar Mitzvah business today, once and for all. She would press pause on the self-reflection, even if it was denial disguised as self-reflection— Shit, there you go again! Just stop it. Stop it.

  She went to her closet and pulled a striped T-shirt over her head. It was like a memo went home from the hospital with all mothers: For the rest of your life, horizontal stripes and linen will speak to you in a way you never before imagined. Fighting the impulse to clothe yourself in these fabrics is futile. She pulled on a pair of sweatpants and stomped out, on a mission. First coffee, then computer. Bingo bango.

  In the kitchen was Teddy. He was hunched over the table, shoveling cereal into his mouth.

  “Aren’t you going to be late for school?” asked Sylvie, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  “It’s Saturday,” Teddy answered, shaking his head. Sylvie thought that being disliked 98 percent of the time by a person you took care of 100 percent of the time was not a good way to feel.

  “Oh right,” she said. She walked over to the table, empowered by the heady mix of drug and
coffee, and sat down on the bench across from him. He looked up warily.

  Was that the beginning of a mustache across his upper lip? How did it happen? One day they were as plump and soft as Labrador puppies and the next, skinny reeds with Adam’s apples and noses trying to figure out the rest of their face. But he was still beautiful, her Teddy. He could be as mean as a snake to her and she would always be madly in love with him.

  “I’m going to Twilight Manor,” he told her.

  “Early retirement?” asked Sylvie.

  “Very funny. No.” Teddy sat up straight, pushed his bowl away. Sylvie had the sense that he was about to tell her something very important.

  “I’m changing my Mitzvah Project,” he declared.

  “But don’t you only have, like, two months to go?” asked Sylvie, knowing full well that this was the case.

  “Yes, but two months is still sixty days I’d rather not be cleaning dogs’ butts.”

  “Teddy, really. That’s a little crass, don’t you think? And dismissive. You’ve done a lot of good work there.”

  “Fine, but I haven’t enjoyed one second of it. I couldn’t care less about animals. All due respect. You’re the one who made me take the job.”

  “Only because you refused to take any initiative on your own, and you had to be signed up for something,” she said as calmly as she could. She would not yell. Bubbles, don’t fail me now.

  “I’m going to host a movie night at Twilight Manor, once a week,” he said.

  Sylvie blinked. It was actually a wonderful idea. One she wished Teddy had come up with eleven months earlier, but a wonderful idea nonetheless.

  “I love it,” she said. “It’s perfect.” Teddy’s eyes lit up, pleased by her praise. There it was, Sylvie thought. Proof that she still mattered to him.

  “Now, you know I have to ask you some questions—”

  “Mom!”

  “Because I am your mother and you are my twelve-year-old son,” she continued. “Logistical questions only, I promise. Number one, have you told the Rabbi?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, well, you have to let him know.”

  “Mom, I—”

  “Teddy, you have to let him know. You have to explain your change of heart in a more tasteful way than describing your disinterest in cleaning dog butts and assure him that you have a plan in place.”

  “Okay,” Teddy grumbled.

  “Number two. Twilight Manor. Have they ever heard of you, or are you just planning to show up with a projector and popcorn?”

  “Mom, come on, I’m not an idiot!” Teddy yelped. “Of course I’ve spoken to someone. The director. That’s who I’m going to meet with today, to go over everything with.”

  “Teddy, I’m impressed,” said Sylvie. “Where did this idea come from, anyway?”

  “My friend. Her mom works there. She knows I love movies, so. It was her idea.”

  Sylvie’s brain was like a cash register, its drawer opening with a ca-ching at the deposit of the words friend and her. The most crucial thing to do at this moment was to stay calm; she knew that. She placed her mug gently on the table, collecting herself.

  “It’s a great idea. May I ask, do you mind, who this friend is?”

  “Her name is Krystal,” said Teddy shyly.

  Sylvie’s eyes smarted. It felt like yesterday that Teddy had had his one and only girlfriend. During his preschool holiday break, three-year-old Teddy, in all his dimpled-knuckle and chubby-cheeked glory, just newly potty trained in superhero underoos, had mooned around the house gloomily for days.

  “What’s wrong?” Sylvie had asked and asked, to no avail, until finally, he had confessed.

  “It’s Leah. I love her,” he had said plainly, his eyes as big as saucers.

  The romance had been short-lived—Leah had moved to Wisconsin that summer, and Teddy hadn’t even seemed to notice—but still. It had been nine years, and not a mention of a female since. Until now.

  “Jesus, Mom, are you crying?” Teddy exclaimed. She was a little. Just a little.

  “Krystal,” Sylvie said, regaining her composure. “She goes to your school?”

  She had never heard of anyone named Krystal, so it would have to be a new student, but this late in the year? Maybe she was a grade above him? An older woman! She considered the name Krystal and tried desperately not to judge it.

  “I met her walking to school one day. I saw her mom get side-swiped by one of those enormous Suburbans. One of those with the family stick figure bumper sticker across the back window,” he added.

  “Oh God,” Sylvie moaned. “You know how I feel about those stickers.”

  “I helped her mom out with the cops, and that’s how we met.”

  “You never told me about this! An accident on the way to school! Was anybody hurt?” asked Sylvie.

  Most of Teddy’s life outside of these four walls was a secret to her, she realized. So they all had secrets.

  “No, everyone was fine,” said Teddy.

  “How have you stayed in touch?” asked Sylvie.

  “Computer,” answered Teddy quickly.

  “Oh right.”

  “And I’ve seen her a couple times.”

  “Dates?” shrieked Sylvie. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.”

  “I guess,” said Teddy.

  “But how? No, you know what? Never mind. You’re a good boy, your grades are good, you’re a good kid. You’re twelve years old; of course this is happening.” She spoke into the air, trying to talk herself off the ledge of hysteria. This may be a two-pill kind of day, she thought. It may just be. This was a lot to process.

  “If she makes you happy, I’m happy,” said Sylvie. “I really mean that. Just, you know—are you having sex?”

  “Mom!”

  “Okay, okay. But I won’t apologize for that question because if you are, or if you’re considering it, you have to come to me or your dad. Don’t give me that look. You have to be responsible. It’s your duty.”

  “Can we stop talking about this now?” asked Teddy.

  “Sure. But I want to meet her. Can we have her over for dinner?”

  “You don’t like to cook,” said Teddy.

  “Sure I do.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “What?”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you need a ride to Twilight Manor? What time is your appointment?”

  “Eleven,” he answered. “I was going to ride my bike, but okay. Thanks. But you can’t come in.”

  “Teddy!”

  “Mom, I mean it. This is mine.”

  “Fine.”

  Sylvie understood mine and yours very well. She herself had never been good at sharing. It was going to be very difficult to apply this distinction to her son, but apparently the time had come.

  “About your Bar Mitzvah,” she said. Teddy rolled his eyes. “You have no interest in a party at all, do you?”

  “Zero.”

  “Not even a small thing, with the family? And Martin? Raj? This Krystal person?”

  “No. Well, I mean, maybe. Could it be here? Just like bagels or something?”

  “Sure,” said Sylvie.

  She hated hosting, and now suddenly, she was hosting both a dinner for someone named Krystal, who had likely given her son a hand job, and a Bar Mitzvah brunch. Definitely a two-pill day. How on earth was she going to get more when this prescription ran out?

  “I’m going back upstairs for a little bit, okay?” Teddy said, getting up from the table and taking his empty bowl with him. The spoon clattered against its insides as he walked to the sink.

  “Maybe you could start writing out your thoughts for the Rabbi?” she said.

  “Mom.”

  “Just a suggestion.” She drained her coffee cup. “We should leave around ten thirty, yes?” Teddy threw his arm up in what she assumed was agreement as he walked toward the stairs. Sylvie got up to toast an English muffin.

  “Hey, T,” she heard Paul say.

  “Hey, Dad. Need some
help?” asked Teddy.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  Sylvie watched as Teddy helped his father descend the slight spiral of the staircase, marveling as she always did at just how much they looked alike. For the first couple of years of Teddy’s life, she had bristled at the comment that everyone seemed to feel obligated to make: He looks exactly like Paul, they would say. Spitting image.

  Sylvie would say, No, he has my bone structure, look, or But we have the same eye shape, or something equally ridiculous and mundane. Because it was hard to hear that the human you grew inside of you shared absolutely none of your physical characteristics. But eventually, Sylvie had given up trying to convince herself. So Teddy didn’t look like her. So what? There were worse things, and didn’t she know it.

  “Hey,” said Paul, crutching into the kitchen to pour his own cup before adding a healthy glug of almond milk to it. Almond milk. Sylvie hated almond milk.

  “Here, let me carry that to the table for you, so you don’t give yourself a third-degree burn or something,” said Sylvie. She got up and took it from him as he hobbled along behind her.

  “That was nice, this morning,” he said, smiling sheepishly at her as he sat down. Oh men, thought Sylvie. It really was that easy to put them in a good mood.

  “What was Teddy talking about?” he asked.

  “Nothing much.”

  She would let Teddy tell him. Right now, she would relish the fact that he had chosen her to confide in first. She walked back to check on her muffin; their toaster had a tendency to torch innocent carbohydrates. Sure enough, it was already turning a dangerous shade of dark brown.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Teddy

  He had told his dad too, about everything. He was glad his parents knew. About Twilight Manor, about Krystal, the whole thing.

  For one, it was a long bike ride, and although that had been his original plan in terms of transportation, he had not been excited about it. Not only could Teddy not remember the last time he had ridden his bike, but he knew that extracting it from the garage, which was crammed to bursting with all his father’s crap, would have taken a Herculean effort.