Catching Air (22 page)

She closed her eyes because she couldn’t bear to look into his tortured ones, and felt his hand stroking her hair. Suddenly she was transported back to one of the best trips they’d ever taken together. They’d been living in D.C., enduring a gray, slushy winter. Alyssa had come home after a day spent taking photographs of a child’s birthday party that had featured a pony, a bouncy castle, a catered lunch, a clown, and a cake by a professional baker. The three-year-old had thrown a temper tantrum—really, a clown?—and the father had spent much of the party on a business call, while the mother kept sneaking into the kitchen to upend a bottle of Chardonnay into her plastic cup.

“Rough day?” Rand had asked. Alyssa had set her heavy camera bags on the floor with a sigh, then massaged her aching shoulder with one hand while she walked over to Rand. She was too tired to answer, so she’d just collapsed in his lap.

“Don’t move,” he’d said, reaching for something in her hair. “You’ve got something blue right here . . .”

“Frosting,” she’d said. “Don’t ask.”

“How long will it take you to pack a bag?” he’d asked, stroking her hair.

She’d smiled up at him. “That depends,” she’d joked. “Do I need bikinis or a parka?”

“Bikinis,” he’d said. “But just the bottoms.”

She’d laughed, and had felt a surge of new energy, her second wind kicking in. She could never understand why some people found travel tiring. What could be more exhilarating, more tingling to the senses, than entering a completely new world, tasting unfamiliar food, walking down streets you’d never seen before, and not knowing where you were going to end up? The
sameness
of life was what exhausted her.

“I’ll go pack,” she’d said.

“Good,” he’d said. “Because our flight leaves in six hours.”

She and Rand did this sometimes—they surprised each other with trips when they’d scraped together enough money. She’d known one was coming because he’d shown an unusual interest in her work schedule lately, and he’d kept sneaking off to make phone calls.

Once they were on the plane with their backpacks stowed in the overhead compartments, he’d covered her ears so she couldn’t hear the flight attendant announce their destination. They’d each drunk a beer, then dozed for a few hours. And then they’d arrived in Portugal.

They’d eaten fish tacos on the beach, made love under the moonlight, and climbed aboard buses without checking the destinations. They’d visited a town entirely dedicated to the Virgin Mary, gone windsurfing, and hitchhiked to the next town. One afternoon Alyssa had admired pottery in a little shop and the smiling owner had come to greet her, his hands stained with gray clay. He’d spoken perfect English, and somehow, he’d ended up giving her lesson on his wheel in the back of his shop. She’d made a horribly lopsided bowl and given it to Rand, and he’d pretended to be overcome by tears of joy. They’d shared a bottle of red wine with the old man and listened to his stories about the five daughters he was desperate to marry off.

I’ve never been so happy
, Alyssa had thought that night as she’d lain in Rand’s arms, watching him sleep and feeling his warm breath against her cheek.

A week after they’d returned to D.C., Rand had been on his way home from giving guitar lessons at the kids’ music school, and he’d stopped at a red light and looked down to change the radio station. He’d never seen the moving truck barreling up behind him, the driver pumping the useless brakes. That moment—and the collection of all the moments before it—had led them here, to Vermont.

Alyssa wasn’t angry with Rand, not any longer. But she thought she knew what needed to happen next, for all of their sakes.

Chapter Nineteen

HER PARENTS HAD NAMED
her Dawn because it was the most hopeful word they could conjure. Dawn held the promise of the sun rising over the horizon; it ushered in all the glorious possibilities of a new day.

She’d felt as if her mom and dad had been by her side throughout her journey, as close yet ephemeral as shadows, but never had she sensed their presence so powerfully as now, when she sat on a wooden bench in a small, snowy park. Instead of feeling hunger gnaw at her, or the cold seeping in through her cheap coat, she was remembering an evening when her mother had been summoned by an urgent pounding at their door.

A family of six was eating dinner in an apartment one floor below theirs. It took a moment for the parents to realize their youngest boy wasn’t joking around, that his frantically wiggling body and scratching at his throat signaled real trouble. He was choking.

“Bring my kit very fast,” her mother had shouted to Dawn as she’d fled down the narrow staircase. Dawn had found the kit in the hall closet, where it was always kept, and she’d followed, the heavy metal case banging against her legs with every step. She’d hurried through the open door in time to see her mother standing behind the little boy, jerking him into the air, her fists pressing into his soft belly. Once, twice, three times . . . His arms had fallen limply to his sides as his lips turned blue.

In the background a woman had screeched into the phone, giving a 911 operator their address again and again in heavily accented English, as if the repetition could make an ambulance come faster. But Dawn’s mother had been calm, her movements fluid and economical. She’d placed the boy on the floor, reached into the kit Dawn had already opened, and slipped on a pair of surgical gloves. She’d felt around the boy’s neck, zeroing in on a precise area and keeping her index finger pressed there while she reached into her kit again, this time for a scalpel.

“I need a straw, like for drinking,” she’d said, her voice carrying authority and quieting the murmuring crowd. By now, other neighbors had jammed into the apartment and were straining to see. Someone had raced off and come back clutching a fistful of straws from McDonald’s, still in their paper wrappings, which they must have had stockpiled in a kitchen drawer. Dawn had taken one and opened it, then handed the slim plastic tube to her mother. Despite her fear of what might happen next, she’d been fascinated by this side of her mom. She’d watched countless times as neighbors, mostly fellow immigrants who couldn’t afford health care, came begging for help: a migraine, a gash that required cleaning, a case of pneumonia . . . Dawn’s mother had never turned anyone away, no matter how tired she felt or how late the hour. She’d spent money she could ill afford stocking and restocking her metal kit with bandages and painkillers and sutures.

This was different, though. The boy was very still now, and someone in the crowd was wailing. In the distance Dawn could hear the matching wail of an ambulance siren, but it sounded far away. It was rush hour; it could take long minutes for the vehicle to fight through traffic.

Her mother didn’t hesitate. She made a small slice into the boy’s neck, her fingers as steady as ever. Dawn watched as her mother slid the straw into the opening she’d created and blew into it until the boy’s chest began to rise and fall on its own. Whatever magic her mother had performed had saved his life.

Later that night, Dawn had overheard her parents talking, their words flying fast and fluid in their native language. Her mother had been terrified to risk the procedure she’d only seen a doctor perform once—so much could’ve gone wrong, she’d said, and she could’ve been blamed for the boy’s death, even though it was already imminent. But that hadn’t stopped her from doing the right thing. She’d known there was a blockage in the boy’s throat, and she had to create an airway before brain death set in. She’d risked her own safety to try to safeguard his.

The boy had come home from the hospital a few days later with a small scar on his throat, and his family had brought a bouquet of daisies to Dawn’s mother. It was all they could afford, but the boy’s mother had dropped to her knees and kissed Dawn’s mother’s hand again and again as she cried.

Dawn’s father’s life had contained no such splashy events. His heroics had been quieter and steadier—countless, numbing shifts at the grocery store, picking up items off the conveyor belt and packing them neatly into brown paper sacks. He’d smile and politely thank every customer, even the ones who talked on their cell phones and accepted the bags without bothering to make eye contact. Then he’d come home and slide off the brown dress shoes he always wore to work. He’d ease his aching feet in a tub of hot water, the blue veins on his ankles and calves bulging, and he’d released a sigh. Later, Dawn’s mom would dress his blisters and cracked toenails with a salve she’d concocted herself, and the next day, he’d get up and do it all over again.

Her parents had never shied away from a challenge. They’d never given in to fear. Dawn now realized that she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she succumbed to it. What kind of life would she have, anyway? Always running, always starting when she saw someone who looked like Tucker, feeling guilty whenever she spotted a police officer . . . She’d tarnish her parents’ hard-won legacy.

She stood up and walked back to the drugstore. Miraculously, Peter’s Honda was still parked in front.

“Hi,” she said, climbing in.

He’d been on the phone, but he put it down quickly when she opened the door. She braced herself for a barrage of questions, maybe some annoyance. But instead, Peter made a joke: “That took a little longer than I expected.”

Dawn began to laugh, a deep, rolling sound that started low in her stomach. Peter joined in after a moment, and Dawn giggled harder, feeling her entire body shake. She’d forgotten how good it felt to laugh.

“I’m really sorry,” she said. “Can we go home now? I’ll explain on the drive.”

She’d have nearly an hour to fill him in, to let him know Tucker might be nearby and that she wanted to stop hiding. She’d tell Peter she was going to figure out a way to make this end soon.

• • •

The next morning, when Kira padded into the kitchen in her slippers and pajamas to make coffee, she glanced out the window and stopped short. The landscape had been transformed again by another six inches of snowfall. It didn’t matter that the B-and-B was cozy and pleasant, that she had a drawer full of new wool socks, that fires always crackled in the hearth. There seemed to be a draft in the kitchen, a tiny gap around the edges of one of the windows, or the back door, or maybe even in the very walls. Rand never could find it, but Kira swore thin, icy fingertips reached in and wrapped around the back of her neck while she worked early in the mornings. Cold snuck deep into her bones and settled there when she stared out at icy mounds that were once trees and shrubs, and when she heard the wind moaning like it was in pain.

While she waited for the coffee to brew, she flipped through the three-ring binder that was her lifeline in planning the wedding. She paused on the printed list of RSVPs that Jessica had forwarded. The majority of guests had picked salmon, with just twelve requests for pasta primavera so far. Jessica had managed to cap the guest list at a little over a hundred, but it looked like most of the guests were actually going to make it.

More snow could be troublesome, Kira thought. What if the plows couldn’t climb the hill to the B-and-B? She needed to look into hiring a private plow for the days leading up to the wedding. She made a notation on her ever-growing to-do list at the front of the binder.

She filled a mug with French roast and took it back into her bedroom, shutting the door quietly so it wouldn’t wake Peter. He and Dawn had returned from their outing just before dinnertime the previous evening, and she’d been too busy preparing the après-ski package for their six guests to find out what had happened. And, to tell the truth, she’d been too miffed to want to talk to Peter. She’d gone to bed early and had pretended to be asleep when he came in.

Now she eased down next to her husband, being careful not to jostle the bed and wake him up. She would’ve liked to curl up on the sofa in the living room, where it was brighter and prettier, but she hadn’t even brushed her teeth or combed her hair yet, and she didn’t want to bump into Rand or Dawn or any of the guests. It was one of the complications of the living situation that she’d anticipated, but it annoyed her more than she’d expected right now. Or maybe she was still irritated by Peter and Dawn’s disappearance together yesterday.

Kira took a sip of her dark roast coffee, then glanced over at Peter. She was startled to realize he was already awake, staring up at the ceiling.

“Happy anniversary,” he said, his voice early-morning husky.

It wasn’t the date of their wedding but the one that marked the beginning of their relationship: They’d bumped into each at their old high school, where they’d both gone to sit on the bleachers at sunset for different reasons. Each had been startled and a little embarrassed to discover the other, at least at first.

“Happy anniversary,” Kira repeated.
And a sad one, too
, she thought, as her annoyance with her husband melted away.

“Are you thinking about your mom?” she asked, and he nodded.

Peter had gone to their high school to mourn his mother on the one-year anniversary of her death, because he couldn’t think of another place that would be deserted on a Sunday night. Kira had arrived moments after him. She’d left college to come home for a long weekend, feeling exhausted, overwhelmed, and worst of all, ordinary. She’d been a standout in high school, but now she was just another pretty face. No one cared about her history as a straight-A student or her old track record. All the achievements she’d held so dear suddenly seemed embarrassingly childish. She’d felt drawn to the place where she’d once mattered.

“Oh!” Kira had exclaimed, startled, when she’d spotted Peter on the top row of the bleachers, his elbow resting on his knee and his chin in his hand.

He’d turned to look at her. “Hi, Kira,” he’d said, and she’d fumbled for his name before he’d saved her. “It’s Peter. Peter Danner.”

“Of course,” she’d said. His acne was gone and his voice was deeper, but she would’ve remembered eventually.

Funny, she’d thought, but the Peter of high school had become the her of today: someone who didn’t stand out or command attention; someone not terribly memorable.

She’d wavered for a moment, unsure of whether to sit down. Then she’d noticed him wiping tears off his cheeks.

“Are you okay?” she’d asked.

He’d exhaled. “It’s been a rough day,” he’d said.

“For me, too,” she’d told him, sitting down a few feet away from him. Here was the field where she’d practiced endless cradle catches and spread-eagle jumps, where she’d ridden around the track on the back of a red pickup truck after being named a homecoming princess, waving to the crowd and soaking in the applause. That green field looked so much smaller now.

“What happened to you?” she’d asked.

“It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death,” Peter had said. Kira had heard through the grapevine that Peter and Rand had lost their mother, but she didn’t know any details.

“I’m really sorry,” she’d said. “Was she ill?”

He’d nodded. “Cancer.”

She hadn’t known how to respond, so she’d slid closer to him. He’d been really good in math and science, she’d remembered, and had written a funny quote under his photo in the yearbook. What was it again? It had made her laugh when she’d read it over the summer after graduation.

“Your turn,” he’d said.

“My reason seems kind of stupid, compared to yours,” she’d said.

“Oh, sure, leave me hanging,” he’d said.

A thought came to her suddenly:
He’s safe
. Peter would keep her confidence, and more important, he wouldn’t laugh or make her feel small. The realization had set the words tumbling out of her.

“High school was wonderful,” she’d said. “I felt so sure of myself. That’s what I miss the most: knowing I belonged. I had a spot at a lunch table with my friends, and there was always cheer practice or a science project and something I needed to do. But now?” She’d shaken her head and looked out at the field again. It was barren and desolate without the bright lights and screaming crowds and loud, excited voice of the football announcer.

“It’s like my future opened up—that wonderful, exciting future everyone kept talking about my whole life—and I’m getting lost in it,” she’d said.

She’d begun to cry—not quiet, gentle tears like Peter’s but big sobs that shook her body. How embarrassing, she’d thought. He was the one dealing with a real tragedy; she was just grappling with some ordinary generational angst. Yet here he was, putting a hand on her shoulder and telling her everything would be okay, like her problems mattered.

“We need ice cream,” he’d said after she’d cried herself out. “My mom always used to give me a scoop when I got hurt. She made the homemade kind, and she created flavors. Sliding Superheroes was my favorite.”

“Ice cream sounds really good,” Kira had said, then she’d laughed. “Sliding Superheroes?”

“It had bananas in it,” Peter had said, “and she told me the superheroes would slip on the peels.”

He’d laughed, too, but his eyes had still held pain. They’d stood up and walked to his car, leaving hers in the parking lot, and they’d driven to a Ben & Jerry’s and found an empty booth. She’d felt completely comfortable with calm, gentle Peter, who held doors open for her, put a dollar in the empty tip jar, and offered her the first taste of his milk shake, then put his mouth on the straw where hers had been just moments before.

She’d savored every bite of her sundae and then dotted her lips with a paper napkin. Peter’s mother had been a wise woman: Ice cream did make everything better, especially when hot fudge and whipped cream were involved.

“Can I . . . ah . . . call you sometime?” Peter had asked after he’d driven her back to the high school to retrieve her car. It had been dark out then, and her body had felt loose and heavy from the release of crying. Suddenly, she didn’t want the evening to end. By Peter’s side, she felt as if she mattered again.