Invisible as Air

by Zoe Fishman

  “They’re eighty-something, not eight,” said Krystal. “I’m fairly certain they can watch a movie by themselves. You’re going to ask some questions after, right?”

  Teddy nodded. He had them all prepared, in his notebook.

  “So it’s cool. Now, where were we?” She took his hand.

  “I’m okay, I guess,” answered Teddy. “You?”

  “I went to the pool today with my friend Marina, ate two hot dogs for dinner.”

  “I love hot dogs,” said Teddy. “A summer staple.”

  His mouth salivated, thinking about them. Dinner had been some strange chicken and mushroom casserole his mother had felt compelled to cook. It had been pretty awful, although he had taken his obligatory five bites.

  “Do you ever go to the pool?” Krystal asked.

  “Like, my neighborhood pool?”

  “Yeah, your neighborhood pool.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I went,” Teddy answered. “Maybe when I was, like, six or something.”

  “I bet all of your rich friends have their own pools, huh?” asked Krystal.

  “I have two friends. Well, really only one now. And yes, he has a pool. But I don’t think anybody swims in it.”

  “You have more than one friend!” said Krystal.

  “Who?”

  “Me, dummy. But I’m your girlfriend, so I guess that’s different.”

  “You’re my girlfriend?” he asked, barely able to utter the question.

  “Sure. Don’t you want me to be your girlfriend?”

  Krystal faced him, her eyes bright, teasing him. Her confidence, it was contagious. It was one of the things he liked most about her. Loved. He could use that verb now without doubting himself. What a feeling. What an incredible, life-affirming, jump-up-and-dance-down-the-hall kind of feeling. He smiled at her.

  “Yep.”

  “Okay then, it’s settled.” She leaned back against the wall, satisfied. “So why are you just okay?”

  The door to the movie room opened, and the seafoam lady tiptoed out. She looked down, noticing them there, a small smile playing across her shellacked lips. What was it about old women and their lipstick? Teddy wondered. His Bubbe Barbara slept with it on.

  “This movie is not for me,” she offered. “Maybe next time you could show a romantic comedy. I love those.”

  Teddy nodded. “Sure,” he said.

  “Treasure these moments,” she continued. “You blink, and suddenly, you’re eighty-seven.” She sighed. “Good night,” she said, and glided past them toward the elevator.

  “Good night,” Teddy and Krystal called after her.

  “That’s Verna,” said Krystal. “She just lost her husband, Troy, last month. They lived here together.”

  “That’s so sad,” said Teddy.

  “Yeah. They were very in love. But then again, he was ninety-two. Who wants to live past ninety-two?”

  “I guess you’d have to ask someone who’s ninety-three,” said Teddy.

  “Fair enough. I’m still waiting, by the way.”

  “For what?” asked Teddy. “Oh, why I’m just okay.” He sighed. “It’s like I don’t want to talk about it, but I also do.”

  “So go with do. I won’t judge you, I promise,” said Krystal.

  “Well, it’s not really about me,” said Teddy. “It’s about my mom.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I found some pills. Hidden in one of her purses inside her closet. But they weren’t her pills. They were my dad’s pills, or at least the ones he was prescribed after he broke his ankle.”

  “What kind of pills?”

  “Oxycodone?”

  Krystal winced. “Uh-oh,” she said.

  “What?” asked Teddy.

  “Those are bad news. Like, really bad news.”

  “At first, I thought, Oh she’s just keeping them for him just in case, you know?” said Teddy.

  “In case of what?” asked Krystal.

  “In case his pain flared up or whatever and he really needed them.”

  “But why hide them in her purse? Does your dad have addiction issues?”

  “Not at all,” said Teddy. He thought about the machines in the basement, the boxes in the garage. “Well. Maybe. But not to drugs.”

  “But your mom does?”

  “Does what?” asked Teddy.

  “Have addiction issues,” said Krystal.

  “My mom has issues, but I wouldn’t necessarily accuse her of being an addict,” said Teddy. “Anyway, the bottle, it was full, or full-ish a couple weeks ago. And then, yesterday I went back in to check it. There were, like, five left.”

  “Shit,” said Krystal.

  “I know it,” said Teddy. He unclasped his hand gently from Krystal’s and rubbed his temples.

  “Okay. Listen. Those pills are bad. I know it firsthand.”

  “How?” asked Teddy.

  “My dad. That’s why he’s not around. Well, part of it, anyway. He started out on those things when I was a baby, and then a year later was nodding off on heroin, and then a year after that in jail and now, who the hell knows.

  “Keep your mouth hanging open like that, a pelican’s likely to fly into it,” said Krystal, looking hurt despite her sarcasm.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean— I’m just surprised to hear this, that’s all. I’m sorry for you and for your mom.”

  “Thanks, but don’t be sorry. We’re better off without him.”

  Teddy took her hand again. “So what do I do? About my mom?” he asked.

  “Has she been acting weird? Can you tell when she’s on them?”

  “I wouldn’t say weird.” Teddy considered his mother’s turn of behavior in the recent months. “To be honest, she seems happy. Which for her is weird.”

  “Well, of course she’s happy; she’s high,” explained Krystal. “She was sad before?”

  “I wouldn’t say sad so much as mad.”

  “Why? She doesn’t like your dad?”

  “No. Well, maybe. It’s not that simple.”

  “Because of your sister,” said Krystal.

  She looked at him with pity in her eyes, but that was not what Teddy wanted. That look of pity had followed him around for a solid year after it had happened, and he had grown to loathe it. Because what did it do? A look was just a look; it didn’t comfort or soothe or make anyone feel any better. What made people feel better was acknowledgment, and no one, not one person, had acknowledged his pain directly. Sure, he’d gotten presents shoved into gift bags from well-meaning neighbors and friends of his parents that his father had handed him awkwardly day after day until they stopped coming altogether. Even at nine, Teddy had wanted more.

  “Yeah. I don’t think she’s been happy since, really. And now, suddenly, she is. I thought she had turned a corner or something, but you think it’s the pills?” he asked Krystal.

  “I’m no expert,” she answered, “but I’m sure they’re helping. I researched them online, just because I was curious. Like, their effect on the brain and stuff. You know what dopamine is, right?” she asked.

  “Pleasure the brain creates,” said Teddy.

  “Right. So opioids create this false rush of it, supposedly. They release the floodgates. Happy is just the tip of the iceberg. And then, because they make the person taking them feel so good, they take more and more.”

  “Do I have to tell my dad?” asked Teddy. “I don’t want to.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He did not want to do anything at all; he did not want to be involved in the wherefores and whys of his mom’s disappearing drug stash, but he had gotten himself into this mess by snooping, and now he had to get himself out.

  “I better go back in,” he said.

  He stood up and then offered his hands to Krystal to pull her up too. Suddenly, she was before him, her face mere centimeters
from his own. He kissed her lips. She tasted like bubble gum this time. Her phone rang.

  “Sorry, it’s my mom. She’s ready to leave. Good luck in there.”

  “Thanks,” said Teddy, remembering that he was nervous.

  “And I’m glad you told me. About your mom.”

  “And I’m sorry about your dad,” said Teddy.

  “I gotta go,” said Krystal. “Text me later?”

  “Okay.”

  His parents had gotten him his own phone. He still couldn’t believe it, but there it was, in his back pocket, the one opposite his notebook. An early birthday present, they had said.

  He opened the door to the movie room. On the screen, the DeLorean took off into the unknown.

  And when Teddy turned on the light, every person in the room was sound asleep.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sylvie

  She stared at the cookbook splayed open on the counter, thinking about how much she did not want to make the meal that stared up at her. Chicken Parmesan. It seemed like a lot of work when technically she could just defrost some frozen chicken patties, dump store-bought tomato sauce on top of them and cover the whole thing with cheese.

  But she wouldn’t; she had promised to make this from scratch, had made a big fuss about having Krystal over, and so she would. Plus, there were only two pills left, and she knew this because she had just taken her second of the day despite the fact that she had expressly forbidden herself from doing just that in the name of supply conservation. What was she going to do? She had to get more.

  She laid the chicken cutlets on the cutting board and whacked one so hard that it all but disappeared into the board. Great, and now everyone at dinner would get salmonella and die.

  “Sylvie?”

  Paul. She bristled at the sound of her name being followed by a question mark; it always felt accusatory when either her given name, Sylvie, or her chosen name, Mom, was followed by a question mark.

  “In the kitchen!” she yelled back. “Hoping I don’t kill everyone at dinner,” she mumbled to herself, as she transferred the defeated cutlets to a Pyrex and the cutting board to the sink.

  “Syl, I hope you don’t mind, but I invited David to dinner,” said Paul behind her.

  Her back was to him as she scrubbed her hands with soap, and she was glad. Because she was gritting her teeth. Goddamnit, that was all she needed, another mouth to feed with chicken that she would likely ruin, ano— And then, the bubbles snaked up her spine and into her brain, shaking it gently. Shaking her jaw loose and her doubts away. What was one more person?

  She turned around to find Paul and David both.

  “Sure, that’s fine,” she said. “Hi, David.”

  David stood before her, a triangle on steroids attached to two pipe cleaners for legs. The circles underneath his brown eyes were as deep as moon craters.

  “Hi, Sylvie,” he answered. “Thanks for having me. I told Paul he shouldn’t have just sprung it on ya.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’m probably making too much food anyway. Please stay.”

  “Thanks, Sylvie,” David said.

  “We’re going to go to the basement and load some stuff onto his truck,” said Paul. “We sold some of the bikes.”

  “That’s great!” she said, and she meant it. It was a load off, knowing that Paul was in the process of reversing the havoc he had wreaked on their finances. “Thanks, David, for spearheading this.”

  As they turned to leave, she thought they could have been as young as Teddy in their gawky eagerness, but then Paul stopped.

  “David, go on down, I’ll be there in a second.” David gave a salutatory wave without turning around and proceeded down the stairs.

  “Sorry not to call beforehand,” said Paul. “We were just on a site together and he got to talking.” Paul lowered his voice, which was already low. So much so that Sylvie had to practically put her ear to his mouth.

  “I think he’s messing with those pills again. It’s not good.”

  “Shit,” said Sylvie.

  “Yeah,” said Paul. “I mean, I know selling this stuff is good news for us, but I think it might be good for him too. A distraction.”

  “Right,” said Sylvie.

  She rattled the mixing bowl on the island in front of her, hoping it was a subtle signal that she was busy, that she had a meal to cook, that it was time for Paul to scram.

  “Okay. Call me if you need any help. I’m excited to meet this girlfriend.” Paul turned to make his way to the basement stairs.

  “Who?” she called after him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Who are you excited to meet?”

  “Krystal?”

  “Oh right, yes, of course. Sorry, I have chicken Parm brain.”

  He left, and Sylvie glanced at the clock, her heart racing, but not because she had an hour and a half to finish what would normally take her four, give or take. She was fast at almost everything else, but when it came to cooking, Sylvie moved at a glacial pace.

  David. Pills. Bingo. But how to get them was the question. She couldn’t pop over there for a casual visit. Or could she?

  As she beat the egg yolks, Sylvie considered her options.

  * * *

  “MRS. SNOW, IT’S SO nice to meet you,” said Krystal. She handed Sylvie a wilting bouquet of red tulips. “Thank you for having me.”

  “Please, call me Sylvie. And we’re thrilled to have you. Paul and I are just so curious about you. Thank you for coming.”

  Sylvie smiled, too broadly, she was sure, her cheeks hurting already. She was applying the age-old technique of killing with kindness, but the victim in this instance was her nasty old self. She was disappointed that Krystal wore purple mascara and cutoffs with flip-flops to meet her boyfriend’s parents; that she spoke with a Southern accent; that her nails were painted glittery green; that her bra straps peeked out of her turquoise tank top.

  Sylvie’s initial impression was that this Krystal with a K was not good enough for Teddy and that she should just keep it moving right into teenage pregnancy with someone other than her son. She looked to Paul, trying to read his face for the same reaction. He looked thrilled.

  “And I’m Paul,” he said, extending his hand. “So nice to meet you.”

  Teddy, her Teddy—their Teddy—stood awkwardly to the side, but there was something different about his expression, Sylvie thought as she looked at him. Pride. Pride that this was his girlfriend, pride that he was introducing her to his family, pride in himself for having one in the first place. And wasn’t that enough? Sylvie thought. It ought to be. She would make it be. Shut up, you mean old bitch, she told herself.

  “This is David,” she said to Krystal. “He’s a family friend.”

  “Couldn’t pass up a free meal,” David offered. “Nice to meet you too.”

  They stood there for a moment, the five of them, in silence.

  “Well, come on, the food is ready. Let’s eat, shall we? I’ll just put these in water first,” said Sylvie.

  She walked back to the kitchen, which sparkled from her manic cleanup, her wiping and rewiping of the counters with disinfectant as the chicken baked in the oven. It had come out looking edible too, which was more than Sylvie had hoped for. Her pill was wearing off; she could not take another, and so she would drink. A lot.

  Sylvie pulled the stepstool out from the pantry to retrieve a vase, stopping to take an enormous sip of her rosé.

  She grabbed the first one she saw, a glass rectangle, and filled it with water. On impact, the tulips drooped over its sides, exhausted. She drained the rest of her wineglass and poured another before facing them again.

  “Sylvie, I was just telling Mr. Snow—sorry, I mean Paul—how gorgeous your home is,” said Krystal. “It’s straight out of a magazine.”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Sylvie. “That’s all Paul.”

  “You decorated it,” said Teddy.

  “That is true. That’s very kind of you to say, K
rystal.”

  “Can I help at all?” Krystal asked. “Do you need me to help serve?”

  “Oh no, I think I’ll just let everyone serve themselves. Less formal that way. You guys go ahead.”

  Sylvie sat at the table with her freshly poured glass of wine as the rest of them attacked the food. How to get to David on her own, or more to the point, how to get to his pills without causing alarm or even detection was on Sylvie’s mind. It would not be an easy feat.

  “It looks delicious, Mom,” said Teddy, sitting down across from her. They were the only two at the table. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” And then, because she could tell that he wanted her to say something, anything, about Krystal: “She’s very nice, Teddy.”

  “Yeah, you think so?” he asked, smiling.

  “Yes.” She did seem nice, that wasn’t a lie, Sylvie reasoned. But nice was one thing; well suited was another.

  Paul sat down. Sylvie thought about her own parents and the way they had treated Paul when she had first introduced them. Terribly. He wasn’t smart or educated or funny enough. He wasn’t Jewish. Her mother had even gone so far as to tell Sylvie that he wasn’t attractive enough either. Sylvie had never forgiven them.

  And now, look at Sylvie, doing the exact same thing. It was reprehensible, really. She took another gulp of her wine.

  She looked at Krystal’s plate as she sat down, piled high like she was a college football player. Sylvie pinched her own thigh under the table. Stop it, she told herself, wincing slightly from the pain. Right now.

  “So how’s your summer going?” Paul asked Krystal, after they were all seated and eating, including Sylvie.

  “Pretty well,” said Krystal, covering her mouth with her hand. She finished chewing. “I’m helping my mom out with some clerical stuff at work, but not a ton because, you know, I’m thirteen. I’ll be working during the summers soon enough, might as well enjoy the pool while I can.” She caught Sylvie’s eye. “But I’m not being a total bum. I’m in a book club.”

  “Really?” asked David. “That’s cool. What sorts of books?”

  “All sorts. It’s through the library, so we read whatever the librarian recommends. This month it’s The Catcher in the Rye, which I’ve read before, but whatever.”