Invisible as Air

by Zoe Fishman

  Walking again, its metallic taste in the back of his throat, Paul stopped fighting the memories. He had been doing that since he’d put the key in the ignition of the car that morning, and he was tired.

  The ferry.

  They had taken it over to the island just fine three years ago. If he closed his eyes, the memory of Sylvie pregnant and laughing, a giggly Teddy with fuller cheeks and eyelashes ten miles long swam right up behind his lids. Sitting inside with Teddy beside him, peering through the window at the frothing water as they churned toward the island in the unexpectedly hot sun. It was April, but out of nowhere, the temperature hovered near ninety degrees. At home packing the night before, Paul had glanced at the weather on his phone, shocked by the sudden surge coinciding directly with their plans to spend thirty-six hours outdoors.

  “We don’t have to go, you know,” he had said to Sylvie. He had gone over and over this moment so many times that there was a permanent groove worn into his brain; he was sure of it.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she had answered. “Of course we’re going. If it’s too hot, I’ll just lie in the tent and you and Teddy can take turns misting me with water like the beached manatee I am.”

  Beached manatee. That phrase, though wholly inaccurate because Sylvie had never been more beautiful than when she was pregnant, Paul thought, had stuck with him. And Paul was glad because it allowed him to recall that conversation and cling to it in the days and months afterward, when he had blamed himself for what had happened. He had planned the trip, after all. And if they hadn’t gone on it, would Delilah have survived?

  But he had given Sylvie the chance to back out. He had not forced her on the trip; she had been excited to go. It was not Paul’s fault.

  It was the ferry ride back that was burned into his subconscious.

  “Paul,” Sylvie had whispered.

  She had walked over to him at the campground after that long, hot day, grabbing his forearm forcefully as he had begun to take the tent out of its carrying case. Teddy was playing with his LEGO men, lining them up in the underbrush, making explosion noises as he conjured up catastrophes in his nine-year-old brain.

  “What?” Paul had looked up from the tent bones he had spread on the dirt in front of him, electrocuted by the worry in her voice. Her eyes were dark. Dark as night.

  “Paul, I think I’m having contractions,” she had said.

  “Are you sure?”

  Paul could barely get the question out; the world had gone silent all around him, the birds had stopped chirping, Teddy had stopped chattering, the faint rhythm of a Grateful Dead tune from a nearby campsite cut off at the knees of a note.

  “I don’t feel right,” she had said. And then squeezed his arm again. “There. Just now. It happened again.”

  Those tiny details, they swam right below the surface of his consciousness; Paul knew this. He very rarely allowed himself to summon them anymore, but here: of course. There was no escape.

  He looked over his shoulder at Sylvie, trudging along behind him now. Where was she in her mind? Or was she anywhere at all? Did those pills work like a superhero’s shield, deflecting pain in a single bound? Her brow was furrowed as she walked. Who knew? Obviously not him. He turned back, kept his eyes ahead. No Teddy in sight. The path to the beach was deserted except for them.

  “Sit down, Syl,” Paul had said as calmly as he could that afternoon. “I’m going to take care of us. We’re going to get the next ferry back, okay?”

  She had nodded, holding her stomach as though it might detach from her body.

  “Teddy, buddy, we’ve got to go,” Paul had said next.

  “What?” he had asked, his voice on the cusp of a whine. “I don’t wanna go! What about camping?” He crossed the cusp into full-fledged, his volume rising too. “I want to sleep in a tent!”

  “Teddy.” Paul had walked over to his son, crouched down to meet his face. “Mom doesn’t feel good. The baby, she may be ready to come out of her tummy. We have to get her to a hospital.”

  Teddy had looked over Paul’s shoulder, to get a better view of his mother. Sylvie paced the campsite slowly, her head down.

  “Why does she look like that?” Teddy had asked.

  “She’s in pain. And she’s worried.”

  “Why is she worried?”

  “Because the baby may be coming earlier than she’s supposed to.” It was hard for Paul to breathe through his own rising panic.

  “She’s coming now?” Teddy had asked, looking at Paul with alarm. Paul did not have time for an in-depth conversation with a nine-year-old; he did not have the patience it required, but Teddy deserved it. He was confused.

  “We don’t know, buddy. All we know is that we have to pack up and get on that ferry before it leaves.” Teddy had bitten his lip. He had nodded. He had gathered up his LEGOs men.

  Paul had flown back to the tent and shoved it into the bag, grateful that he had not yet assembled it. He packed up the rest of their stuff, shoved it into his enormous backpack, all the while keeping his eyes on Sylvie. She had been sitting then, on a picnic bench, as pale as a ghost. Every minute that passed, she seemed to get paler, Paul had thought. Like she was being erased. His breath had caught again, imagining the worst.

  He would get them onto that ferry and into their car and then he would race down whatever highway at the speed of light to whatever hospital was closest, and everything was going to be okay. That’s what he had told himself, over and over, as he did all those things. Up until the last moment, the moment the ultrasound had confirmed their tragedy.

  Paul looked up now. He had reached the shore.

  A small figure, knees drawn to his chest, sat in the wet sand about sixty yards in front of him. And a yard or so beyond that, four horses trudged slowly past: heads down, matted tails twitching.

  “Teddy!” Sylvie screamed. She sped up beside Paul, grabbing his arm to pull him with her toward their son.

  Paul took her hand. Together, they ran to him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sylvie

  Sylvie sat on a picnic bench, watching the sun slowly wake up, turning the black sky to hazy pink and yellow as it rose in the sky. She placed a pill on her tongue, its familiar acidity a comfort.

  That they had found Teddy so quickly, that had been a blessing. She had thought it would take them hours, combing through the darkness. But thankfully, for once, a break. She and Paul had scooped him off the sand and drawn him into them, becoming one from three. Krystal, who was much more intuitive than Sylvie could ever have imagined, had stood to the side until they were finished. Watching Teddy walk to her afterward, to engage in the bond they had formed, to accept her comfort as his girlfriend, had unexpectedly comforted Sylvie too. Krystal was not a threat. She was an ally. Sylvie was grateful.

  There had been no questions as they made their way to the campsite; it was not the right time for questions. Paul had assembled the tent; Sylvie had treated Teddy’s mosquito bites with the hydrocortisone cream she had stashed in her bag at the last minute, before spraying all of them again. They had consumed their necessary nourishment, an odd jumble of trail mix, fruit and protein bar bits.

  Finally, their stomachs full, sitting on the blanket Paul had had the good sense to cram into his pack, Sylvie had toyed with the idea of asking her son why but was afraid of the answer. Once again, she was being selfish, which at this point was no surprise to herself but nevertheless depressing.

  Finally, Teddy had offered an explanation himself after emitting an enormous sigh, a sigh heavy with emotion. A sigh too big for a thirteen-year-old boy.

  “I wanted to come back here, because this is the place where everything changed. I didn’t leave this island the same kid I was when I came. Everyone is talking about how this Bar Mitzvah marks the transition from boy to man, but I don’t see it that way. For me, it was here.”

  “But you were only nine,” said Sylvie.

  “True,” said Teddy. “But I don’t know a lot of nin
e-year-olds who have to witness death firsthand.”

  Paul had scooted over to him on the blanket and put his arm around their son’s shoulders.

  Sylvie had stayed where she was, numb because of the pill she had just taken secretly, in the darkness of the tent. Her son. Her husband. Delilah’s death had not just happened to her; it had happened to all of them. She was a selfish, stupid woman. A selfish, stupid drug addict of a woman.

  “I’m glad I came,” Teddy had said. “But I’m glad you found me too.”

  “Has it provided any solace for you?” asked Sylvie. “To be here again?”

  “Not really.” She watched as he took Krystal’s hand; she was sitting on the other side of him. “But I’m remembering things. Things that I think are important to remember before I stand on the bimah and declare my manhood or whatever. This sadness is part of me; it’s not going anywhere.”

  “It’s like a limb,” offered Krystal. “An extra leg.”

  “Right,” said Teddy. “An extra leg that I need to learn to walk with.”

  Sylvie couldn’t believe this wise person was her Teddy. She was in awe of him. And so disappointed in herself.

  They had burrowed into their sleeping bags not long after, she and Paul trying not to touch, and Teddy and Krystal together after all, their limbs entwined like branches when she had gazed at them in the moonlight on her way out of the tent a few hours later. She had not been able to fall asleep.

  She had taken the flashlight Paul had packed and wandered to the beach, only slightly scared. The stars in the sky were like a candelabra, pinpoints of light everywhere all at once as she sat, looking up at them. She heard them before she saw them. The horses snorting, their disgruntled whinnies, the squoosh of their hooves through the wet sand. And then, there they were. The stuff of her nightmares. Sylvie pinched herself, to make sure she was awake. She was.

  In the darkness they were like shadows, only alive in the whites of their eyes, which were like daggers piercing her heart. Sylvie thought she might have a heart attack right there, right then, it hurt so bad. The pain of memory.

  From the moment she had set foot on the island three years prior, something had felt off. She had told herself it was the heat. It probably was the heat; it had to have been one hundred degrees in the sun. And so suddenly too, a freak heat wave in April.

  Her legs and arms had felt so heavy, like they had been made of lead. But her stomach, it had been as tight as a steel drum. She had pressed it, trying to get the baby to move, to give herself some relief, but nothing. There was no release. No movement. And yet still, she smiled at Teddy skipping through the sand, at Paul nerding out over the remaining architecture of the spooky mansion eroded by time.

  She was forty-three; of course this pregnancy was going to be different. It had been different. She would drink her water, she would take it slow, everything was going to be fine.

  Except it hadn’t been fine for a week. She hadn’t felt Delilah move the way she had been; the jigs she would perform in the wee hours of the morning, waking up Sylvie with a start. They had stopped.

  But Sylvie had refused to entertain any catastrophic thoughts. She had a full-time job, a son, a husband. She was older. This was to be expected.

  On the island three years ago, however, as she and Teddy and Paul had watched the horses sway by, completely uninterested, likely annoyed by the presence of such useless humans, the tightness had gotten even tighter, like a corset over her swollen midsection. Sylvie had known this feeling before, she had thought, panicking slightly. But it couldn’t be. And so she had waited.

  When it had become apparent what was going on, when her own denial was no longer a support but a very clear danger, she had finally told Paul. He had moved at the speed of light, getting them out of there. They had boarded the ferry just in time, the three of them shell-shocked. There was no hiding her pain and terror from Teddy, although she would have given anything to be able to. Paul had begun timing her contractions; they were ten minutes apart.

  How they had all gotten to the hospital in one piece, how she had ended up in a bed with a gown on, she still had no idea. She had been in so much pain by then that everything other than that pain simply had not existed.

  What she did remember, however, was the doctor—a doctor she had never met or even seen before in her life, how could she have, where was she, even?—strapping the electrodes to her stomach. To hear your baby’s heartbeat, she had said. You’re six centimeters dilated, by the way, she had said. Do you want an epidural?

  Sylvie had nodded. Yes. A thousand times yes.

  “Isn’t it too early?” Paul had asked, as the doctor had turned on the monitor. “Is the baby going to be okay?”

  “Let’s just get a listen,” she had answered. And so they had. But there was nothing to hear.

  A contraction had wrecked Sylvie at just the moment the doctor’s expression had gone from placid to alarmed, like a bolt of lightning striking the room. Suddenly, techs and doctors invaded, armed with machines and plugs and charts, all on top of her at once. Paul had hovered over her, trying to get to her, but they had asked him to step back, to wait just a moment.

  An ultrasound machine had been wheeled in. And on the screen: the outline of Delilah. Floating. Silent.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Snow,” the doctor had said. “Your daughter. She’s not alive.”

  “She’s dead?” Paul had asked, as another contraction raged through Sylvie’s body.

  “Yes.”

  The sun was up now. The birds had begun to sing. Sylvie wanted so badly to cry, but no tears came.

  That was the thing about grief. It didn’t care about when you wanted it. It would show up when it damn well pleased. And it had been showing up and showing up for Sylvie until the pills came along. And then, suddenly, Sylvie had some sort of control.

  Except of course, she didn’t.

  Sylvie had refused the epidural then. It was the last time she would experience her daughter, she had reasoned silently, as Paul and the doctor urged her to reconsider. That, and she wanted to physically punish herself for ignoring Delilah’s signs of distress, for not calling her doctor immediately when she stopped feeling her move. For being stupid enough to think everything was okay.

  And when she had pushed and pushed until she felt her entire body would just explode right there on that bed in a flurry of flesh shrapnel, guts and blood, Sylvie had held her breath for a second and prayed for a miracle. That somehow her exertion had powered her daughter back on, human electricity through the umbilical cord. But that had not happened.

  A pretty bird began to warble in a tree nearby. Goosebumps raised along Sylvie’s arms despite the fact that it was already eighty degrees in the shade.

  Delilah had been her grandmother’s name. Her grandmother had named this bird, the one who sang at the top of its lungs to herald the arrival of spring and wouldn’t stop all summer, “pretty bird.”

  “Listen,” her grandmother had told Sylvie when she was tiny, “he’s telling us we’re pretty.” Sylvie had stopped to listen, on the warped sidewalk in Brooklyn with her, holding her hand. She was right; it did sound like that.

  “Prettyyyyy, pretttyyyyy, prettttyyyyyy,” it had sung.

  And it sang now.

  Before Delilah had died, Sylvie had believed without question that the soul lived on, even through death. The body expired, but the soul was forever. After Delilah died, Sylvie didn’t believe that anymore. Except sometimes, there were moments like this, and she thought maybe she still might.

  Behind her, she heard the flaps of the tent rustle.

  “Jesus, my back,” Paul complained, straightening up slowly and cupping the base of his spine with both hands. “Not what it used to be.”

  “What is?” asked Sylvie.

  He ambled to the bench and sat down beside her, rubbed his eyes.

  “My mouth tastes like a sewer,” he admitted. “I don’t suppose you have any coffee?”

  “No, the S
tarbucks was closed.”

  “There’s a Starbucks?”

  “I’m kidding, Paul.”

  “Right.” He circled his neck clockwise. “You’re quick this morning.”

  “I never really slept,” Sylvie admitted. “Took a walk to the beach and back.”

  “Nerves?”

  “I guess so. It’s kind of awful to be here again. We never did make it to the tent last time, so . . .”

  “Yeah. I agree. Who would have thought that Teddy would be the one brave enough to come back?”

  “Alone, no less,” said Sylvie.

  “Who is this kid?” asked Paul. “He’s changing every day.”

  “He’s growing up,” said Sylvie quietly.

  Prettttyyy, prettttyyy, the bird continued to warble, its song echoing off the trees.

  “Why didn’t we hold her?” asked Sylvie. Paul turned to look at her, processing the context of her question.

  “You were adamant,” he replied. “I tried to convince you otherwise, but you were adamant. You said you didn’t want to know what she looked like. That it would be too hard, that there was no point.”

  “Did you see her?” Sylvie had never asked him this. She had never wanted to know until this moment.

  “I did,” Paul answered. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, bracing for impact. “You’re finally asking me.”

  “I am.”

  “Are you stoned?” he asked her.

  “Just a little.”

  Paul sighed.

  “Did she look like me?” Sylvie continued.

  “She had your hair. Dark. And your lips.”

  Sylvie looked up, into the blue sky. She pointed her toes inside her sneakers as hard as she could. Tears filled her eyes.

  “I thought she might have,” she said.

  She wanted Paul to hug her, but he did not move, just stayed sitting with his arms still folded, as stiff as a statue next to her on the bench.

  “Why did you refuse the autopsy?” he asked quietly.