The Laws of Gravity (5 page)

He wanted to be an efficiency expert when he grew up. He went to school with his pajamas on under his clothes for this reason. “Why waste time changing clothes twice?” he asked. He was fascinated by the whole idea of saving time, minute by minute. He liked to time himself in the
shower. His best time so far was two minutes and forty-eight seconds. His favorite possession was a waterproof stopwatch with a built-in compass, calendar, and calculator. Julian laughed like an adult, in short, surprised barks. The sharpness of his profile—he already had a long, beaked nose like his father’s—made him sometimes look like a teenager, sometimes like a wise old man. Around his friends he said little, but he was the leader of most groups, from school to sports to Hebrew school. He had won the leadership award in his fifth-grade class.

“Are you sure you want to invite Daisy to your birthday party?” Ari had asked Julian earlier that week. “She’ll be so much younger and smaller than everyone else. How much fun is she going to have?”

“I’m sure,” Julian said.

“Maybe we could have a separate family get-together, go out to dinner someplace fancy. Someplace elegant. Daisy might like that better.” Ari was smiling his wide salesman smile, doing his best to convince.

“I’m super sure, Dad. We can still do that, too. She’s invited to my party, I’m not going to hurt her feelings.”

“But—”

Julian held up one small broad hand, palm out, like a traffic cop. “Drop it.”

Now Julian watched Daisy lay out all her dolls. He pushed his black-rimmed spectacles back up—they were always sliding down, giving him a professorial air. Eleven Barbie dolls and one lone Ken doll, a token male in a sea of overdressed females.

This moment was just the opposite of his upcoming paintball birthday party, which was going to be a testosterone fest in June in the woods in Great Neck. Daisy would just sit on a bench and watch, he was pretty sure.
She might decide to play for a little while. He’d slaughter anyone who tried to nail her with a paintball. That paint stuff could sting. It wasn’t his idea of fun. Julian would rather have herded everyone into the basement for a Charlie Chaplin film festival, with gourmet popcorn and movie-themed party favors, but his father had researched all the Long Island paintball venues and come up with the best one, with state-of-the-art equipment, the one that had been written up in
New York
magazine. So—paintball it was.

Julian tried to shove the Ken doll’s feet into a pair of loafers, hoping they were the right size. They were not. Everything else was a narrow high heel in silver or hot pink.

“This is the mommy doll,” Daisy said, choosing her red-haired Stacey doll, the hair in a 1950s-style flip, wearing a blue-flowered housecoat. “She’s lying down because she doesn’t feel good.” She placed her carefully down on a pink-and-yellow-striped toiletry case, which Daisy pretended was a sofa.

Julian laughed. “Mommies don’t lie down. They stand up and tell jokes.”

“Yes, they do. Mine does.” Her dark eyes, fixed on his, looked worried and deep, deep, almost fathomless. Daisy’s skin was tawny; her hair had grown past her shoulders and halfway down her back. He was fascinated by her red hair. It was as if it were made up of hundreds of silky threads, each one a slightly different color—russet and gold, apricot and cherry red, all cascading in a coppery waterfall. She was going to be gorgeous, he thought, feeling almost angry about it. He would have to protect her—her whole life, creeps were going to be chasing after her.

As if she had read his mind, she grabbed his hand and hung on to it, squeezing it so hard it actually hurt him, made him say, “Hey!” before he realized she was not doing it to be tough.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“What are you scared about?” he said, like he didn’t know. “Don’t be scared. Your mom’s going to be fine. Everyone says so.”

“But what if they’re wrong?” she said. “What if she isn’t fine? Sometimes I think they’re all wrong, and she’s going to die. Who will take care of me?”

Julian laid the Ken doll down on the make-believe sofa. “Your dad will. My family. All of us. Look, Daisy, look at me.”

But she wouldn’t look at him. She had picked up the tiny brown toy loafers and was working the Ken doll’s feet into them toe first, then stretching the brown plastic over the heels. Her hair glimmered in the light.

Julian scootched forward and put his arm around his cousin. She didn’t exactly lean into him, but she didn’t pull away, either. The only time she ever really showed affection was when you were saying good-bye, or when she was about to go to sleep. Then she would cling to you like a monkey.

“I will always take care of you,” he told her. “You don’t ever have to worry. Ever.”

“Okay.” She raised the Ken doll up in the air like a trophy. “See?” she said. “The shoes fit fine. You just have to know how to do it. You have to pay close attention.”

Later, they went into her backyard and Daisy made Julian push her on the old tire swing. It always made him nervous; he wished the thing had a seatbelt or something.

“Make it go super-fast!” she said.

“Right,” he said, giving it a slight push.

“Not like that.” She jumped off the tire and hung on to two of the ropes that held it suspended from the maple tree. She raced around and around in a circle, leaning back, hanging onto the ropes. It made him
dizzy and sick to his stomach to watch. Then, suddenly, both feet left the ground and she was whirling around like a dervish on top of the tire, legs curved, head thrown back, her red hair whipping across her face, in a blur of motion.

“Don’t,” he pleaded. “Daisy, slow down.”

But she was too busy flying.

“So Sam runs into his old friend Irving on the street and says, ‘Irving, I got a new hobby.’” Mimi pronounced it with a guttural wet Yiddish
ch
sound—“chobby.” She was trying to feed Arianna, who kept twisting her round little head away, lips tight.

“ ‘What kind of hobby?’ Irving asks.

“ ‘I keep bees,’ Sam says.

“ ‘Bees? That’s a hobby? You keep them in the house—don’t they sting you?’

“ ‘Nah,’ says Sam. ‘I keep them in the bedroom.’

“ ‘In the bedroom? They don’t fly around and sting you?’

“ ‘Nah,’ says Sam. ‘I keep them in the closet.’

“ ‘In the closet?’ Irving says. ‘Don’t they get into your clothes?’

“ ‘I keep them in a sealed box.’

“ ‘Don’t they die?’ Irving asks.

“ ‘Fock ’em,’ Sam says. ‘It’s just a hobby.’”

As if on cue, Arianna seized the bowl of rice cereal and dumped it on the kitchen floor.

“Everybody’s a critic,” Mimi said.

Nicole laughed, that lovely contagious laugh of hers, and the baby laughed, too. Her laugh sounded like heh-heh-heh. It startled the two women and made them laugh all over again.

But there was a darker something behind Nicole’s eyes, Mimi thought. Something akin to desperation, a look that Mimi had never seen in her best friend before, not in all the years they’d known each other, not even these last few hard months after the diagnosis. Mimi felt a heaviness in the pit of her own stomach. Nicole kept toying with the salt and pepper shakers on the table, swapping them around, back and forth. She seemed on the verge of asking for something. What could she possibly want that Mimi would not instantly give?

Still, Mimi was scared. Her instinct, normally so loving, was to run and hide. “I wish you’d come with me to the elder hostel,” Mimi said to cover over the silence. “Daisy would love it there. They have a huge swimming pool, full of old Jews bobbing around. Enough chlorine to kill any germ within a hundred-mile radius. Nineteen-fifties-style elegance. But a tough crowd. Very tough. You know the joke: Three cranky old Jewish women are eating lunch. Constant complaining. The waiter comes by at the end and says, ‘Well, ladies, was
anything
all right?’ I need you there with me. We can hang out by the pool and breathe chlorine fumes.”

“Tempting,” Nicole said. “Let me think about it, okay?”

“You’re done with treatments for now, aren’t you?” Mimi asked.

“For now,” Nicole said. “But it makes me nervous to be far away from the hospitals I know.” She made a wry face. “I’ll fit right in at an elder hostel. Hobbling around. Afraid to leave my doctors.” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. The baby tried to imitate her.

“This baby will not eat,” Mimi said. “Seriously. Not a bite. She seems offended by the sight of a spoon.” To demonstrate, she lifted a spoon and brought it close to her daughter’s little lips. Arianna looked like she was about to cry, swatted it away.

“Hey,” Nicole said, interested. She sat up a little straighter.

“All she does is drink from a bottle.”

“You’re not breast-feeding her anymore?”

“Can’t,” Mimi said. “She bites.”

Nicole chuckled and shook her head.

“The kid’s got teeth, and she’s not afraid to use them. Top and bottom. I’ve got the scars to prove it,” Mimi said.

“But she really won’t eat?”

Mimi lifted the spoon again. The baby tightened her lips.

“How old is she now?”

They both bent close to the baby, as if examining an interesting specimen. Her hair was dark, like her father’s, and springy.

“Almost fourteen months. I’m going nuts. She’s chugging eight bottles a day. She’s still waking up every four hours during the night. She’s exhausted, I’m exhausted, Ari’s acting like a son of a bitch. He hates it when he can’t fix everything. Does she look underweight? I’m honestly afraid she’s starving.”

“Have you tried finger foods? Maybe she just doesn’t like silverware.” Nicole put one hand under the baby’s face and tilted it up. “Is that right, Rianna? Are you a little savage like your auntie Nicole?”

Arianna was named after her father, in defiance of Jewish custom never to name a child after a living parent—but no one ever called her anything but Rianna, or sometimes, Ana.

“We’ve tried finger foods,” Mimi said gloomily. “Cheerios, noodles, cooked baby carrots. I think she looks a little pale. Does she seem unhealthy to you?”

“Well, I’d be the wrong one to ask,” Nicole said, “but no.” She lifted one little forearm and held it between two fingers. “She looks skinny, though. We have to fatten you up so we can eat you,” she told the baby, who reached for her bottle and drank greedily.

“Maybe she’s a budding alcoholic,” Mimi said. “All she does is drink.”

“Maybe.” Nicole appeared to study the baby for a few minutes. Mimi again had the distinct impression she was about to ask for something, something urgent. Instead Nicole turned her head and said, “Have you thought of dipping the end of the bottle into food?”

“What?” Mimi said.

“Get me a jar of baby food,” Nicole said. “Please.”

Mimi handed her some baby carrots. “Organic, of course. Ari wants me to grind my own. He bought a three-hundred-dollar food mill. It just sits there. You want it?” She stood by the counter.

“No, thanks,” Nicole said. “I’m still eating solids. So far. You know, Ari grew up on a lot of TV dinners. His mom was not exactly the domestic type.” She unscrewed the jar, plucked the bottle out of Rianna’s small hand. “I’ll get that back to you in just a minute,” she said. The baby looked more interested than worried.

“Ba ba,” Rianna said.

“Coming right up.” Nicole dipped the nipple of the bottle into the baby food and handed it back to the baby. Rianna looked at it for maybe half a second before plopping it into her mouth. Her eyes widened. She sucked more vigorously. Stopped, held it out to Nicole.

“Mo’,” she said.

Mimi fell back into her seat, her jean-clad legs splayed out in front of her. She dressed more like a teenage boy than a grown woman, and kept her dark curly hair short. “You are a genius, my friend,” she said. “A serious, freaking genius.”

Nicole dipped the bottle nipple into the jar of food again and handed it back to Rianna, who grabbed for it.

Mimi was half laughing, half crying. “Oh, my God. Nicole! It’s amazing.
You
are amazing. See, she was hungry. You saved us. The poor little kid was starving.” They both watched Rianna sucking at the bottle. She held it out for a refill.

“You try it,” Nicole said.

Mimi did so, dipping the end of the bottle slowly and seriously, as if this were some kind of elaborate science experiment.

“Mo!” Rianna cried. “Mo!”

“Pick up the pace, girl,” Nicole said.

Mimi’s hand was shaking when she fed her daughter.

“I bet once she gets the idea, you can sneak it to her on a spoon, too,” Nicole said.

“How can I ever thank you enough for this?” Mimi said. “I’m serious.”

“Are you?” Nicole turned her deep gaze on her best friend.

“No problem,” Mimi said. “What can I give you? Half my kingdom. Just name it.”

Nicole waved it away, but her face looked thoughtful. The dark, fathomless something, whatever it was, shadowed her eyes again. She was keeping something secret. “I don’t know—a free vacation to an elder hostel in the Catskills. Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

And for no reason at all Mimi felt frightened again.