The Floating Feldmans

by Elyssa Friedland

  “Move, Darius,” Rachel said, shoving him in the direction of their room as he walked with his sister down an interminable hallway. Somehow he’d gotten saddled with carrying her hand luggage and his own so that Rachel could use her precious last few minutes on land to do who knows what on her phone. She was constantly on Instagram and Snapchat and email, but when he tried to sneak a peek at her screen she’d move it out of his field of vision. They weren’t even “friends” on social media, a fact that astounded him. They were each other’s closest blood relatives, shared more DNA between the two of them than anyone else, and yet in the world of social media they were perfect strangers. The two of them had coexisted under the same roof for seventeen years and yet he was hesitant to try to follow her on her social channels. Fearful he’d get a rejection.

  Should he be surprised, though, by his sister’s coldness and utter disinterest in his existence? How many times had he heard his parents gleefully telling the story of waking up one morning to find that Rachel had packed all of his baby things into her Polly Pocket suitcase and suggested to his parents at breakfast that he might be happier living with their next-door neighbors, a family with three grown boys who might like to have a little one again? “Because I still a baby,” she had cooed, climbing into their mother’s lap. “So we don’t need another one.” Why were his parents so joyful every time they repeated that story to someone? They seemed to revel in how bright it made Rachel seem, so capable of taking matters into her own hands. Nobody ever focused on the rejection element.

  “What did you put in this bag, ten hair dryers?” Darius moaned, looking forlornly at his gangly arms. Maybe if he had muscles like Jesse’s brother, with bold tattoos that undulated around the curve of the biceps like snakes, then Marcy would like him. Darius had never seen the inside of a gym. At his high school, the weight room was the domain of the jocks. He could only imagine the snickering if all one hundred forty pounds of his skinny flesh went inside the weight room on the ship, which looked from the pictures like training ground for the Marine Corps. Maybe he could convince his father to buy one of those multipurpose machines that ran infomercials in the middle of the night so he could exercise at home. They were expensive but always came with some kind of payment plan. Though he was probably better off going to his mother nowadays, Darius thought, with a sizable helping of irony. Clearly she was up for buying pretty much anything. That realization nauseated him, even when he considered using it to his advantage.

  “I don’t blow-dry my hair, idiot,” Rachel said. “These are beach waves.” She reached for a clump of her hair as if he was supposed to know what that meant. “I packed books. They’re those rectangular things with pages inside.”

  He was about to say, “I know what books are,” but decided against it. Acting defensive would only let his sister know that she was successfully getting under his skin, like a mosquito bite that gets itchier the more it’s scratched. So he stayed quiet but dropped her bag flat on the floor, leaving Rachel to drag it the rest of the way to their room, scraping it along the dizzying geometric pattern of the carpet. Darius couldn’t figure out the décor on the ship just yet. It was like wannabe fancy: chandeliers, marble, and streaked mirrors that were supposed to look important. But it was the kind of place he knew would have one-ply toilet paper. Though, to be fair, there were a lot of butts to wipe on board.

  “This is it,” he said when he finally reached cabin 2122. Producing the key card from his back pocket, he slid it through the slot in the door handle, but the red light didn’t go green. Darius turned it over and tried again, even though the diagram above the handle clearly indicated the magnetic stripe side should be down. His heart started racing. He heard Rachel’s footsteps padding behind him, along with the thumping of her bag, and he tried the key on both sides several more times. At one point, the light shifted from red to green, but by the time he went to pull the handle down it was back to red again.

  “Uck, let me do it,” Rachel said, reaching for her own key. Naturally, Rachel’s worked perfectly. She pushed open the door with a smug smile. Though, once she stepped inside, Darius saw her face darken immediately.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. “This is worse than sleeping in a tent.”

  Darius pushed past her. He expected bunk beds, like in the brochure, but instead there were two beds side by side, each narrower than a standard twin. In between was a wooden table in the up position, like the tray on an airplane, which was meant to be a shared night table. He immediately questioned where he would put his night guard case. Rachel would freak if he put it there, but he always kept it right next to the bed in case he wanted to yank out his orthodonture in the middle of the night.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” she asked, spinning around in a panic. “Phew, I found it.” She yanked open a door that couldn’t be more than twenty inches wide.

  “Rachel, look,” Darius said, noticing a small basket with an envelope taped to it sitting on the dollhouse-scale desk. “There’s something here for us. It’s a present. Must be from Grandma and Grandpa.”

  Rachel climbed over a luggage rack and bumped her hip on a chair as she headed over to see what was inside. Darius watched her wince in pain and bit back an instinctive, “You okay?”

  “There’s candy in the basket,” Darius said. “Let me open the envelope.” He saw Rachel move to grab it out of his hand so he quickly ripped it open. “We each got a hundred-dollar gift card to use in the teen lounge and at the arcade!”

  “Grandma and Grandpa are so cheap,” Rachel said. “I can’t believe they would do this. Grandma, like, rinses out Ziploc bags to reuse them.”

  Darius held the little card that came inside the envelope in Rachel’s face. “It’s not from Grandma. It’s from Uncle Freddy.” He caught a mysterious glint in Rachel’s eye. “We should tell Mom. I feel like she thinks her brother is a bum.”

  “Uncle Freddy is not a bum,” Rachel said definitively.

  “How do you know?” Darius pressed, now more curious than ever. His family had almost no contact with Freddy. Perhaps Rachel was just saying that to be contrary. Even Darius had noticed how much his sister disagreed with everything the rest of them had to say, something his parents had complained about all summer.

  “Because I—” she started then stopped. “I just know. I can tell. Mom whines that Grandpa is disappointed in her and doesn’t even realize she judges her brother for not having some lame corporate job. It’s hypocritical.”

  Darius had to agree.

  “I gotta get out of here,” Rachel said, plucking her gift card from his hand. “This room is suffocating. There’s not even a window! I’m going to explore the boat. See you later, D.”

  When she was gone, Darius lay down on the bed with his feet dangling off the edge. He found he was smiling. Freddy was proving full of surprises. He and Rachel had actually talked—like, shared a moment of real discussion. And he hadn’t pictured or thought about Marcy for a full ten minutes.

  TWELVE

  It was Death Day when Mitch made up his mind about leaving the newspaper.

  Every Wednesday at the Bee, the reporters tackled writing obituaries for people who were still alive, healthy mortals who were drinking their morning coffee and paying their bills while simultaneously a journalist they’d never met sat summarizing their accomplishments in approximately four hundred words. This was standard practice for newspapers. Unlike other events the reporters covered, gas explosions and weather events and political scandals, the obits were predictable pieces of reporting. It was a fact that everyone would eventually die, so in the newspaper world, it paid to be prepared. Sundays and Mondays were devoted to breaking news and features; Tuesdays were for follow-ups and analysis. Thursdays and Fridays were spent covering the local weekend events, mostly cultural activities. So Wednesdays were for the deaths. In his career, Mitch had edited hundreds of obituaries, so he was an expert at distilli
ng a life into bullet points. It was only natural for him to imagine his own obituary, even down to the adjectives that would be chosen.

  Sacramento—Mitchell Joseph Connelly, 99, died peacefully at home surrounded by his family on Tuesday. (He figured he might as well be optimistic about his longevity.) He leaves behind a wife of 70 years, Elise Feldman Connelly, two children, Rachel and Darius, and six grandchildren (why not?). Mr. Connelly, a graduate of Notre Dame University and the Columbia University School of Journalism, spent his entire career at the Sacramento Bee, starting out as a sports reporter, then running the metro desk, and finally retiring as its long-standing managing editor. His contributions to the paper included expanding its arts coverage and adding a late edition on Sundays. He, along with a group of his colleagues, was the recipient of the prestigious Pulitzer Prize for an in-depth analysis of the effects of gerrymandering in local elections. An avid football fan, Mr. Connelly spent his time out of the office cheering on his beloved 49ers. He was a long-standing Little League coach and worked at the local soup kitchen once a month. Friends and family gathered to say farewell to Mr. Connelly at St. Luke’s Church in Modesto Thursday morning.

  On Death Day each week, while Mitch edited the obituaries of legendary opera singers who’d lit up the stage at the San Francisco Opera, Caltech scientists who’d discovered cures for rare diseases, Stanford professors remembered for influencing thousands of young minds, he couldn’t help feeling that he—Mitchell Connelly, age 47, newspaperman—had yet to leave his mark. It was too late to go back to school, that much he knew. But the literary magazine fit squarely within his wheelhouse. And it would mean he’d created something where nothing was before, not just carried a well-lit torch responsibly from predecessor to successor. Readers would type in a web address that was entirely new, read fresh content with a unique bent, and their lips would form smiles strictly because of him.

  And so he was pumped when he stepped onto the ship’s gangway, even with his wife a stress case, his children utterly disengaged, and his in-laws on edge. Mitch felt like the dock was a portal into his new life and that when he came back to shore, great things lay ahead for him. He just needed to get over the hurdle of sharing his news with Elise. He mentally affirmed his plan to drop the bomb at the formal dinner—Elise had once said she couldn’t resist him in a tux. And with her family around, she couldn’t really throw a hissy fit. By the time they were alone again—many hours and glasses of champagne later—the initial shock would have dissipated and whatever tirade she’d been practicing in her head would hopefully be reduced to a slurred lecture.

  He walked a few paces behind Elise as she made her way to their room. He felt a little nervous to engage with her at the moment. Since Freddy had announced he was staying in a suite, his wife had looked like she could spontaneously erupt, as though her body had been a dormant volcano all along. Mitch was happy for his brother-in-law. He had probably sprung for the suite to impress Natasha, who was clearly under some kind of delusion as to Freddy’s situation. Or maybe he could afford it, which would mean he’d finally landed on his feet. That should please Elise, but that was not the vibe he was picking up from her. In fact, it seemed as though Freddy’s larger room had the power to shrink theirs, as though size was purely a comparative thing. If he was honest, Elise hadn’t seemed like herself in quite some time. It was another reason he wanted to tell her about his career decision on the boat. He hoped she would be relaxed, that her shoulders would drop from their perpetual hike, and that they would have sex that felt a little bit less assembly line. He wished women were less complicated, like men. Elise could drop just about any bomb on him after he had an orgasm and he’d just smile and say “no problem.”

  After Freddy and Natasha had left for the VIP check-in station (were those appletinis he saw being handed to them?), Elise had stalked off with an overloaded bag in the crook of her arm and moved wordlessly onto the ship, not even pausing to comment on the majesty of the boat’s interior. He was speechless himself from the grandeur, so the two of them stood in the dazzling foyer not exchanging a word while his eyes squinted at a crystal chandelier that had to weigh three tons and hung the length of four stories on a red velvet rope. Around him, there was food, glorious food: patisseries, boulangeries, a pizzeria, and a stand just for egg rolls. It was a food court on steroids, reminiscent of being at Epcot with the kids when they were younger. Except here everything was free—well, not quite free but all-inclusive—and he wasn’t the one footing the bill.

  Mitch’s stomach rumbled and he was tempted to make a stop at Fifty Knots, where New York–style pretzels rolled in dozens of different toppings hung in unlocked glass cases for the taking. But Elise was on a mission, and that mission seemed to be getting to their cabin as fast as possible. He dreaded hearing what she’d say the minute the door closed behind them. At least she couldn’t rant for long. They were all due on Deck Two in an hour for a safety demonstration. Mitch didn’t remember any of the Love Boat passengers being forced to listen to instructions on how to put on a life jacket just after boarding, but he supposed that was hardly the only unrealistic thing about the show. For starters, the overall attractiveness of the crew and passengers was way—and he meant way—overrated.

  Finally they reached their room, which felt like a good half-mile walk from the elevators. The cruise was going to be amazing for his step count, Mitch thought, tapping at his wristband pedometer. “You know your phone counts your steps too,” Rachel had told him in a snooty voice within minutes of her return home from campus in June. “I don’t always walk around with it like you do,” he’d retorted, but she didn’t seem to grasp the dig. He saw Elise bend over to slide her key card into the metal plate. She’d bizarrely decided to purchase a hideous lanyard to house her ID—the card they would need to access their room, pay for any extras on board, and gain admission to the shows. Actually, she’d bought three of them as soon as they’d reached the ship’s first convenience shop, cracking a joke about needing options to match her various outfits. There was nothing particularly sexy about a Paradise International family-oriented cruise, but Mitch didn’t think they needed to wear ID passes around their necks like they were touring NASA.

  “Can you hold the door for—” Mitch called out as he awkwardly wheeled two pieces of carry-on luggage. He had one in front of him and the other trailing behind because the hallways were too narrow for him to roll them at his sides. The preboarding email from Paradise International had said their checked luggage might not get to their rooms until after dinnertime so they should prepare hand luggage with whatever essentials were needed for the first day. Suggestions included a bathing suit, suntan lotion, and a sombrero. The first night’s dinner had a Mexican theme. Mitch had patted himself on the back for having the best attitude in the Connelly household about the cruise, but he drew the line at costumes. He couldn’t imagine what Elise had stuffed into her carry-on, which was busting at the seams. Probably the Fiske Guide to Colleges, the massive tome that Elise had dog-eared and sticky-noted the hell out of.

  He heard the door slam shut before he got the rest of his sentence out. What had he done wrong? Should he have pretended to care more about Freddy’s upgrade? Should he have gotten in the middle of the swipes that Annette and Elise were taking at each other? To what end? Nothing was going to change in the long run. Mother and daughter would still bicker; sister and brother would still resent each other. He was a reporter, not a psychologist, and this was supposed to be a vacation, not a family therapy session. When he got to the room he fumbled for the key card in his wallet, spilling out a few folded bills and a handful of business cards. What he could have used was a lanyard.

  “This is positively lilliputian,” Elise said when he finally entered. She was standing by the foot of the bed and, in her defense, if she stretched out her arms she could reach the window, the closet, the desk, the bathroom, and the front door. As if reading his mind, Elise extended her limbs to drive the
point home, looking like she was playing Twister. “Wonder what Freddy’s palace looks like.”

  “Our room isn’t huge,” Mitch agreed, silently congratulating himself for finding a woman who used words like “lilliputian” (and “herculean” and “philistine”) in casual conversation. “But I don’t think we’ll be spending much time in it. Except at night. And then it’ll be good that it’s small.” He winked at Elise, but she seemed to thoroughly miss the overture. Now Mitch was hating Freddy too, spoiling the mood with his braggadocio.

  “Right. We have to go to that stupid emergency thing now anyway. Apparently they check you in and won’t start the demonstration until everyone is there. Feels like the teacher is taking attendance.”

  Mitch rubbed the back of Elise’s shoulders gently, trying subtly to push them down.

  “We’ll get it over with, then start having fun. Let’s go to the casino after for a little bit. When’s the last time we gambled?”

  Mitch saw his wife’s face light up momentarily but fade to black quickly when a loud buzzer sounded loudly in their cabin, three short but forceful blasts that could wake the dead.

  “Good afternoon, passengers aboard the Ocean Queen. This is your cruise director, Julian, speaking. Please proceed now to the safety presentation so we can set sail and start the good times.”

  “I’m sure that alarm won’t get annoying,” Elise said, rolling her eyes in the same way Rachel was prone to do. But then she reached for his hand and smiled. “C’mon, let’s go find out where the emergency exits are. You never know when we might need to jump off this thing.”