Invisible as Air

by Zoe Fishman

  But she didn’t want to go back to her old life. Well, her most recent life, anyway. Her life since Delilah had died.

  “Okay, cool, sure. That’d be nice, thanks.” He smiled at Sylvie. “Just over here, these are the stairs down to the storage units.”

  She followed him again, across a sidewalk that burned bright white in the hot sun. In the distance, she could hear splashing, the shrieks of kids playing.

  “Your complex has a pool?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” said David. “Way over there. When I moved in, I made sure I was as far away from it as possible.” They approached a heavy gray door.

  “Too loud?” asked Sylvie.

  “Too many kids,” he answered. “It’s hard for me to be around kids or hear them playing and having a good time or whatnot.” He paused to look at her, his hand on the silver crash bar.

  “I understand,” said Sylvie. “I can’t be around little girls really, especially babies.” Unless I’m stealing their mother’s drugs.

  “Yeah,” said David. “You get it.”

  “I get it,” said Sylvie.

  He pushed on the bar and the door opened, emitting a welcome blast of air conditioning. Sylvie followed him in, down another flight of stairs.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how old was your son when he died?” Sylvie asked.

  “You mean, when he was killed? He was eleven.”

  Sylvie shook her head behind David, her eyes smarting. Eleven.

  “I’m so sorry, David,” she said. “What a shitty thing to have happen to him, to you, to your wife, to your marriage. I’m really just very sorry.”

  “Thanks,” he replied.

  They had reached the storage units now; they stretched in front of them, numbered black door after numbered black door lining the fluorescent-lit, steel-gray hallway. Sylvie had never been in a morgue, but she thought that this was what it might look like. Except in this case, dead belongings instead of people.

  It was interesting, the things people held on to. The actual material goods. Paying rent for an apartment of belongings they would likely never need or touch again but couldn’t bear to part with. Sylvie had emotional baggage galore, and lord knew she was paying her own type of rent to house it, but as far as stuff, she was very good at throwing things out. Maybe too good.

  She had thrown out her wedding dress, which in retrospect seemed kind of harsh. But the dry cleaning and the paper-bust business, a virtual coffin for it to reside in as she grew older and fatter, it just seemed like a waste of money. And if the daughter she was going to have—because of course she was going to have a daughter, her naive self had figured without a second thought—was anything like Sylvie, she would have no interest in wearing it on her own wedding day.

  “Sylvie?” asked David. She was so deep in thought that she hadn’t even realized he’d been holding the door open for her.

  “Oh sorry,” she replied. “My head. I’m on Mars.”

  “No worries.”

  She walked into what was essentially a generous prison cell with shelves, David following. It was remarkably neat, everything in boxes and labeled. Sylvie wondered what was in them, even as she sensed that a lot of who his son had been was here, in this room, packed away. Sylvie had these same boxes too, of course. Metaphorically speaking. The real stuff, the tangible gifts and things for Delilah, she had had Paul return, sell and donate. In that order.

  “The stuff is back here,” said David, pushing past her slightly to the far wall. “I have six of these,” he said, pulling a table from the stack leaning up against it. “Much nicer than those run-of-the-mill card tables, right? All wood.”

  “They’re gorgeous,” said Sylvie. “Is this oak?”

  “Yeah, sanded it down and sealed it, but that’s it. They each sit six.” He paused. “But unfortunately, I only have twelve folding chairs.” He shrugged. “I didn’t get around to making the rest. They’re right here.”

  “Those are gorgeous too. And that’s okay,” said Sylvie. “I can rustle up the rest.”

  Her head was really pounding now. Coming up to the close of their meeting and how in the world was she going to segue into a drug deal?

  “Okay, cool,” said David. “I’ll bring ’em by in my truck this week.”

  “Thanks,” said Sylvie, feeling desperate. How, how, how? “That sounds great, and I really appreciate it.

  “I’m so sorry, would it be okay if I used your bathroom before I go?” she managed to squeak out.

  “Sure, of course.”

  Out of the unit, up the stairs, back along the sidewalk, up the other set of stairs, into his apartment, down the short hall and into the bathroom. Sylvie yanked open the mirrored cabinet door, knowing she wasn’t going to find anything. An addict didn’t store his bounty out in the open; he hid it. Like she did, she realized, thinking of her red purse. Fuck.

  Just a few more weeks. She closed the cabinet and sat on the toilet, thinking. She would just come out and ask him. Point-blank. Pill enthusiast to pill enthusiast, friend to friend. Like there was nothing to be embarrassed about. If he balked, if he refused, that’s when she would, well, she couldn’t even think it. She just had to do it. Or not. Maybe good sense would find her at last, she thought, hoped, even as she knew it would not.

  Sylvie stood. She washed her hands at the sink but would not look in the mirror. Here we go, she thought. She opened the door and walked purposefully down the hall. David was standing at the counter in the kitchen, drinking a can of Coke.

  “Oxys,” Sylvie blurted out.

  David swallowed his sip, coughing slightly at her outburst.

  “Oxys. Do you have any I could buy?” she asked as confidently as she could, as though this was a perfectly normal question for her to be asking him.

  “You serious?”

  “Yes,” she said, relieved to have finally asked. “Yes, I am serious.”

  “What the hell, Sylvie?” David furrowed his brow and put his can down on the counter, avoiding her gaze. “I’m not a drug dealer, for Christ’s sake.”

  “No, I know you’re not,” said Sylvie, although she had no idea if he was or he wasn’t, and she really didn’t care.

  Either he did this all the time or he would make a onetime exception for a friend; she didn’t care. She just wanted the pills. So badly.

  Just these few hours without them in her system, her world was too much. Edges were sharper, the sun was hotter, her unresolved emotions too present. Sylvie much preferred the alternative. She would do what she had to do.

  “David told me that you had offered him one, is all. I just thought maybe you had access to more.” She perched awkwardly on the barstool across from him.

  “What happened to you? How’d you get into this?” he asked.

  “Paul’s pills. When he broke his ankle, the doctor prescribed them for him, but you know Paul, ever the martyr. Ever the health nut. He had no interest in them. And I wouldn’t have imagined that I would either until I made the mistake of trying one, just to see what all the fuss was about.”

  “Shit,” said David.

  “Shit is right.” She laughed awkwardly. “So now I know.”

  “You know this stuff is the devil, right?” asked David. “No good can come out of taking them for the wrong reasons.”

  “Oh, I dunno, I feel pretty good taking them,” said Sylvie. “Better than I’ve felt in years, maybe ever.”

  “Sure, but it’s so fleeting,” said David. He drained the can into the sink and put it in his recycling bin, his back to her. “And pretty soon you need more to do the same job, and then you can’t function without them.” He turned around. “But what am I telling you for? Look where you are. In my apartment, sniffing around for pills. I’m preaching to the choir here.”

  “Well, I mean, it’s not a lifetime thing for me,” argued Sylvie. “As soon as this Bar Mitzvah is over, it’s curtains for me with this stuff.”

  “Sylvie.”

  “I’m serious! I jus
t need to get through the Bar Mitzvah, and I have no interest in doing it sober if I don’t have to.”

  “What’s the problem with the Bar Mitzvah? I thought it was a celebration. A party,” said David.

  “I suppose it is, if you actually feel like celebrating anything. If you have the capacity for happiness, I bet it’s a great party.”

  “Right,” said David.

  “So do you?” asked Sylvie. “Have some pills?”

  David sighed. “How many are we talking about?”

  “Thirty?”

  “Thirty! Jesus, Sylvie. I don’t have thirty lying around.” He raked his hands through his lank hair. “What do you think this is? CVS?”

  “Okay, okay. Twenty?”

  David put his elbows on the counter, his head in his hands. He was beginning to bald after all, just a little, around his crown, Sylvie noticed. “I mean, shit, Sylvie. That’s still a lot.”

  “I have the money. Just tell me what it costs.”

  Sylvie sensed he was on the precipice of caving. Her renewed sense of optimism sent a welcome surge of adrenaline throughout her tired body.

  “I can’t do it. Paul would kill me.”

  “Oh come on,” said Sylvie. “Paul is not my keeper. Trust me, he’ll never know. He hasn’t the first clue about me; he hasn’t for years, and it’s fine. It’s totally fine.”

  To her disbelief and embarrassment, a lump had formed in Sylvie’s throat. It was not remotely fine.

  “It’s just wrong,” said David. “You have a family, Sylvie.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, David, give me a break,” said Sylvie. She was getting angry now. She had not expected a lecture. “I’m not asking you for a bag of heroin! Just twenty pills. That’s it. I’ll never rat you out. I’ll never bother you again about it, okay? I swear on my son’s life. It’s a onetime thing.” She was pounding her fist on the counter, Sylvie realized. “Sorry.” She unclenched her hand and laid her palm flat on the cool white surface.

  “Sylvie, I can’t do it,” said David.

  “I’ll fuck you,” she said.

  “What?” David looked scared. Sylvie was scared of herself, to be honest, but she pressed forward anyway. She had nothing to lose.

  “I will fuck you for twenty pills,” she said calmly. “And I will never breathe a word of it to Paul. It’s a win-win, David.” Sylvie channeled every seductress she had ever seen on-screen. “Fucking me sounds good, doesn’t it?” David’s mouth was parted slightly. She had a chance still.

  “Sylvie, I—”

  “Shhh.” She stood up and walked around the counter until she was standing right in front of him. Close enough to smell his breath, which was slightly sour.

  Don’t break, she told herself. If you break, if you overthink this for just a second, you’re screwed. Keep going.

  “What do you say?” she asked him, putting her hand against his crotch. He was hard. “Hmmm?” David moaned slightly. “Do we have a deal?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh good,” she said. “Goody.”

  She unzipped his shorts, pulled down his underwear and lifted herself up onto the counter. She pulled up her dress. She was not wearing any underwear; this had been her backup plan from the moment he had mentioned the tables at her house.

  As he entered her, shame overtook Sylvie. She squeezed her eyes shut against the image of Teddy’s smile, the sound of Paul’s laugh, the silence of the delivery room after Delilah had been born, the dancing cactus in her cubicle at work. This was where she was. Screwing her husband’s best friend for pills.

  He thrust once, twice, three times and then collapsed into her, almost pushing her off the counter and onto the floor. She put an arm behind her to brace herself. At least she hadn’t had to kiss him. At least it had taken less time than brushing her teeth.

  David stood, but he kept his head down. He pulled up his underwear and his pants. Sylvie stayed absolutely still. For a moment, she had a crazy thought that he would refuse her the pills, still. Then she would have to kill him.

  He walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom. Jesus, I’m really nuts, Sylvie thought. Kill him?

  She hopped off the counter and stood up. As she straightened her dress, his semen ran out of her, stickily coating the tops of her thighs. She had some wet wipes in the car, she remembered.

  “Here they are,” said David. He looked at her, his eyes sad. “Twenty.”

  “Thank you,” said Sylvie.

  “Don’t ever come back here,” he told her.

  “I won’t,” promised Sylvie. She took the orange bottle from him, her heart pounding with gratitude. It was fine; it was all going to be fine.

  “Oh, what about the tables and chairs?” she asked, her hand on the doorknob, her back to him and what she had just done. “Are we still good with those?”

  “I’ll drop ’em by,” said David quietly.

  “Excellent,” said Sylvie.

  She opened the door and let herself out.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Teddy

  Today he was thirteen. Today he was a man.

  Teddy gazed at his scrawny bare chest in the bathroom mirror, his peach-fuzzed face, which had debuted an angry red birthday pimple on his forehead overnight. He certainly didn’t look like a man.

  He grabbed his toothbrush and squirted the requisite glob of minty blue onto its bristles. His parents hadn’t even mentioned today, he thought as he brushed. He wondered if it would get lost in the Bar Mitzvah madness, his actual day of birth. He hoped not. That was a week away. And he wasn’t so sure his parents would feel much like celebrating him at that point. Teddy had some plans.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Yeah?” asked Teddy, through a mouth full of toothpaste.

  “Birthday pancakes downstairs in three minutes!” his dad yelled triumphantly. “Hurry up!”

  Teddy smiled before spitting into the sink. They hadn’t forgotten.

  “Be right there!” he yelled back.

  For as long as he could remember, his mom had made him pancake numerals on his birthday. And even before he could remember, there were pictures of him warily examining a golden number one, a single birthday candle plunged into its fluffy depths. It was tradition.

  Teddy made a pit stop in his room for a T-shirt and shorts change before hustling down the stairs, following the scent of pancakes, eggs and turkey bacon like that cartoon skunk. What was his name again? Pepe something?

  “Well, well, well,” said his mother from behind the stove, spatula in hand. “If it isn’t our birthday man.”

  She smiled, a real smile from ear to ear, one that lit up her face and made her pretty, and Teddy wondered if she was on those pills. If she was stoned.

  He smiled back tentatively and decided not to think about that, even though he had checked the red purse last night and discovered a new bottle, the prescription made out to David Conway. He knew David Conway. That was his dad’s friend. It had bothered him all night, and it bothered him still. But what was he going to do? He didn’t know.

  “Morning,” he mumbled.

  He hadn’t told Krystal about this recent turn of events, but Krystal kept harping on the fact that he should tell his dad. Teddy still didn’t think that was the way to go. He looked at him now as he brought him a glass of orange juice, limping ever so slightly, freshly showered after what he assumed was a vigorous workout against doctor’s orders, and knew his father was screwed up too, in his own way. It seemed to Teddy that that was the true hallmark of adulthood: being secretly screwed up while appearing completely normal and productive. Great. What a future to look forward to.

  “Thanks,” said Teddy, taking a big gulp.

  “Happy birthday to you,” sang his parents, as his mother carried a platter displaying his one and three pancakes, a single lit candle in the three. She placed it in front of Teddy as they finished the song.

  “Make a wish,” she demanded. Teddy did not, out of spite, but bl
ew it out anyway.

  She kissed him on the forehead, tilted his face up to hers. With his eyes, he tried to tell her, I know about the pills. Cut it out, Mom, but she was oblivious to his telepathic attempt.

  “Beautiful boy,” she said. “Excuse me, man. This face, I could eat it up I love it so much!” She kissed him again. Teddy felt loved, he did, even as he felt anger. It was so complicated, this man thing.

  “How does it feel to be thirteen?” asked his dad, putting plates filled with eggs and bacon in front of him.

  Teddy grabbed the syrup and doused his new age with its sugary sweetness, until the numbers were submerged in a pool of amber. He thought of Krystal, of their first date. He thought about the texts on his father’s phone.

  “Different than twelve,” he answered, spearing a triangle with his fork. His dad helped himself to some bacon and eggs.

  “No pancakes?” asked Teddy, still chewing.

  “Gotta lay off the carbs,” he answered, patting the heather-gray material of the T-shirt draping his midsection.

  “Yes, your father doesn’t want to lose his modeling jobs in Milan this fall,” said his mother with a smirk. “All the designers are depending on him.” She plopped down on the bench beside Teddy with two pancakes of her own.

  “Come on, Sylvie, give me a break,” said his dad, not looking at her. “My pants don’t fit, okay? And I want to wear them for the Bar Mitzvah. Is that something I should be made fun about? Jesus.”

  Teddy stopped eating, his stomach suddenly full. His parents didn’t so much argue when they argued; his mom just lobbed firecrackers while his dad retaliated with water balloons.

  “Sorry,” said his mother, surprising Teddy. “I’m sorry, Paul. Of course it’s not. I just think you look great, is all. I didn’t realize your pants don’t fit.”

  His dad looked up from his plate. His mother did not do apologies. She was definitely stoned, Teddy thought. So these pills, they made his mother a nicer person. Why were they bad again?

  “Yeah, they’re just a little tight. Enough to make me uncomfortable.”