The Air We Breathe

by Christa Parrish

  Every day since she had gotten the New Testament from Claire’s church, she had read about Jesus, just a little part, and it was easy to find because all His words were in red ink. And before going to sleep, she’d said the prayer Jesus told people to pray, since she didn’t know any others, and He said it was good to do what He commanded, anyway.

  “If you love me, keep my commandments.”

  She wasn’t sure about that, the loving part. How did she love someone she didn’t know or had never met, who was floating in heaven—wherever that was. In the sky? That’s what the movies always showed. And what did the love feel like?

  With her daddy, it had been warm and snuggly and secure, a hug and a whiff of his aftershave, the scratch of his mustache. With her mother, it was more messy, sort of like a Rubik’s Cube, but without a doubt Susan would do whatever necessary to keep Hanna protected. She showed that, right in front of Hanna’s eyes; with one action she surrendered everything for her daughter. But Jesus . . . ? Well, Hanna kept saying, over and over, “Help me. Help me,” the way she had the day Fat Guy died. And Jesus, who made promise after promise about asking and helping and giving, seemed to do nothing—not like before.

  Except maybe it wasn’t nothing.

  Hanna didn’t know how to explain it, except in the words of Genesis from the easy-to-read Bible. “The Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.” That was how she felt, like He was hovering over them all the time, guarding them, and when she doubted—when her mother was out and she was all alone, listening to the noise in the street below, the creak of the bedsprings, the phantom sounds that seemed to have no reason to exist, other than to frighten her—that gentle pressure settled on her and she did all she could to push back into it.

  Perhaps that was love, to a child. The parent guarded, the child recognized that guardianship, trusted in it, a blind faith eventually outgrown. In that sense, she did love Jesus. She began writing out the commandments she found, numbering them, so she would remember them all, keeping the list folded up and tucked in the safest place she knew, taped to the underside of the dresser drawer.

  They spent a week in that motel near Boston, her mother collecting apartment-finder magazines and classifieds in the newspaper. Susan used her laptop to search for jobs in the area, ones that would pay well but also allow some measure of anonymity. She considered traveling down to Brooklyn or the Bronx.

  Then one day her mother shook her awake, early. “Baby, get up.”

  “What’s wrong?” Hanna pawed at her eyes in that uncoordinated morning way, limbs still numb with sleep.

  “Nothing. But I think I found us a place. A good place we can stay.”

  “In Boston?”

  “No.”

  “Where?”

  “Maine.”

  Hanna sat up, scraped her hands over her face again. Half covered her mouth as she said through a yawn, “What’s in Maine?”

  “A job, I think. I have to meet with the guy in a few hours. It’s a bit of a drive.”

  “There’s a big city there?”

  “No, not really,” Susan said, and Hanna saw the weariness that had come over her the past months, painted on, like her eyebrows, hasty and dark and uneven. “Hurry, and we’ll drive through Mickey D’s for breakfast.”

  They packed what little they had in minutes, her mother throwing everything from the bathroom into a plastic grocery bag, and any food that wouldn’t spoil into another. She let Hanna wait in the room as she went outside to start the car and scrape the ice off it. Hanna stuck the easy-to-read Bible in the bottom of her bag, in the leg of her jeans. She hoped Jesus wouldn’t mind. There was still one in the room, she figured. And the inscription told her to take it.

  She also took her list from beneath the drawer.

  She watched at the window until her mother motioned for her to come, belted into her warm seat, and when they pulled through McDonald’s she asked if she could have two hash browns instead of one.

  “And OJ, and an Egg McMuffin,” Susan said into the speaker.

  “With no egg,” Hanna said. She didn’t eat eggs anymore, not since that day. She had two that days now, and while they were separate in her head, they had the same name. That day. When Thin Man took her. And when she and her mother left everything.

  “With no egg,” her mother echoed.

  They drove three hours, ate Wheat Thins and dry Life cereal for lunch, and Hanna had the last two Fruit Roll-Ups. Finally, her mother veered into a small town, pulled to the side of the road. “One more thing. You’ll need a new name.”

  Hanna didn’t protest. She made a silent list of girls she knew from school or television, and one bounced to the top. “Molly,” she told her mother.

  “Molly? Are you sure? Aunt Serrie named her cat Molly.”

  “I like it.”

  “But will you remember it?”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Fine. Molly.” She paused. “You might have it for a while. Be sure.”

  Hanna nodded.

  Susan slipped a sheet of paper from her visor, read it, then tucked it into her lap as she turned back onto the road. She drove a few miles, made a few turns, then crossed a bridge into a wooded area, a mix of lush pines and tall leafless trees. Hanna watched the buildings as they drove. Neat clapboard-sided homes, both large and small, most painted gray or blue-gray. House trailers, their lawns stacked with woodpiles and tires and metal. A tiny elementary school. A small market and deli. And several other businesses, large signs in their windows declaring Closed for the Season.

  They crossed another bridge. The trees thinned. More houses. A large hotel with rows of glass windows—Reopening April 1st. A white chapel. And shoreline. Just beyond the buildings on the right side, Hanna could see the ocean, gray and foamy, spraying icy drops into the air before collecting them back into itself. Then a third bridge, and driving over land so thin there was only room for the road, the shoulders rocky and tumbling into the sea. Red and brown shacks with nets and compact buoys of every color draped over the walls, stacks of cages next to them. “For catching lobsters,” Susan said.

  There were boats on the water, despite ice crusts close to the shore and snow in the weeds. Buildings were built over the water, too, on long stilts. A candy store, closed. A gift store, closed. Several seafood restaurants, all of them closed.

  “What is this place?” Hanna asked.

  “Dorsett Island.”

  “It’s small.”

  “And empty most of the year. Just what we need.”

  “What about when it’s not?”

  “Tourists. They don’t pay attention to anything.”

  Susan finally stopped. She had to; the road ended at the sea.

  “Come on,” she said, motioning to the green-roofed building with the words Lou’s House of Wax painted in huge letters over the windows. “This is it.”

  Hanna zipped her coat and wrapped her scarf around the bottom half of her face, pulled her hat down low like her mother expected. She didn’t put on her gloves but balled her hands up into her sleeves and bumped the car door shut with her hip. She walked next to Susan, and together they hurried across the empty street, up the path, Hanna almost jogging. A man in dirty jeans and a black jacket opened the door to the museum. “You must be the gal who called me yesterday,” he said.

  “That’s me,” Susan said, offering her hand. “Thank you for meeting us, Mr. . . .”

  “It’s Mick.” He pulled at his jacket so the snaps popped open, took it off and tossed it on the counter in front of the window. It knocked the little metal service bell onto the floor. He wore a wrinkled T-shirt and suspenders. Hanna stared at his forearms, bulging like Popeye’s, with thick straight hair at his wrists, almost bald skin in the middle of his arms, and then, starting at his elbows, sparse, wiry curls that disappeared beneath his sleeves. He reached out and tugged Hanna’s scarf down from her mouth. “Uncle Mick, to you.”

  Susan’s arm went around her.

  “We
ll, this is it,” Mick said. “You read the ad. Stay here, rent-free, and look after the place. I’ll pay you, too, five-fifty a week, which comes up pretty good if you factor in the rent you’re not paying. The apartment’s through there. Ain’t pretty, but plenty for the both of you. And mostly furnished. I’ll show you.”

  Hanna held her mother’s hand as they followed the man through a door marked Office, where there was a desk, sofa, and television, through another door into an apartment that looked like the motel they’d just left. Her mother glanced around. “What happened to the other caretaker?”

  “Fool ran off and got himself married,” Mick said.

  “When do you want us?”

  “Soon as you can. I like to keep this place open every day except Christmas and Thanksgiving. Even in the off-season. You’ll get vacation, though. What’s your name again?”

  “Louise,” her mother said, squeezing Hanna’s arms. “Louise Fisk.”

  “Ha. Ain’t that a kicker. You seen the name on the window. Place was named after my pops, and he was a Lou, too.” Mick slapped his thigh. “Guess it’s meant to be.”

  “Molly, go to the car for a minute.”

  Hanna stood there.

  “Molly.”

  She jerked her head around. “Sorry.”

  “Go to the car and wait for me.”

  She did, running across the street without looking, her heart racing because she forgot who she was supposed to be, and she locked the doors in the car, piling the blankets on her. She watched the minutes on her watch, pressing the glow button every three or four breaths.

  After eleven minutes, the door opened. “Molly.”

  Hanna took the blankets off, her hat coming off with them, her hair crackling with static around her face, sticking to her skin. “I’m sorry. Really.”

  “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “Are we staying here?”

  “I think so. I told him I would decide by tomorrow.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to. But it’s for the best.” She started the car. “Let’s find a room for the night, and dinner. You can pick the place.”

  Hanna pointed to the Island Pizza & More sign not far from their car. “How about pizza?”

  “Pizza it is.”

  26

  CLAIRE

  MARCH 2009

  “We’re walking?” Molly asked, her face creasing with concern as she looked out the window.

  “We don’t have to,” Claire said. “But I thought it would be nice. It’s not quite half a mile.”

  “If you want.”

  “What do you want?”

  Molly nodded slightly. “We can walk.”

  The girl seemed agitated, flicking the plastic buttons on her mother’s long wool coat, tugging on them, absently twisting them. One came off in her fingers. She squeezed it, plunged both hands into her pockets.

  “Are you okay?” Claire asked.

  “Fine. Really.”

  “We can take the car. I’m parked right over there.”

  “No. I want to do this.”

  “No rush.”

  Molly took her hands from the pockets, removing a pair of stretchy one-size-fits-all gloves. “I remembered this time,” she said, wriggling them on.

  Once, Caden, Amelia, and Claire all had gloves like that. Claire had bought four black pairs one year at CVS, when she went in to pick up an amoxicillin prescription for Caden’s strep throat. The gloves, she’d thought, were the perfect remedy for their typical “getting ready” routine—all three of them digging through pockets, coat sleeves, baskets, and bedroom closets, each trying to find any matching gloves. Often they went out with mismatched mittens, or none at all. But if they all had the same and an extra pair, too, it might stop the frantic searching five minutes before leaving the house. The gloves had been on the store’s clearance table for $1.99, so she dropped them on the counter with the medicine and a bottle of ginger ale.

  They’d misplaced them all by the end of the month.

  “You’re not meant to have warm fingers,” Daniel had said, laughing one morning as they bundled up for church, gloveless, Claire telling the kids to pull their coat cuffs over their hands.

  Jesse never lost his gloves. Andrew tied a piece of yarn to the plastic loops on each one, strung it through one of the jacket’s arms and out the other so that the gloves dangled, waiting for Jesse’s hands to show up. Lizzy had taught him to do that.

  Claire missed them both, hadn’t realized how much a part of her they’d become. Silly, she knew. They’d been together nearly every day for six years. And yet she still hadn’t spoken to Andrew since he left. Though they played telephone tag, he had talked to Beverly, and while she didn’t disclose their conversation, Claire certainly understood her friend’s silent message. He needs you. He’s worried about you.

  What are you running from?

  Claire wasn’t quite sure.

  She and Molly stepped out onto the low wooden decking in front of the museum, the girl drawing a sharp, surprised breath. Her hand snaked back to the metal door handle and squeezed. Her eyes shifted around in their sockets, darting from one object to another, drawing it all in.

  “How you doing?” Claire asked.

  Molly pulled her coat tight around her, holding the extra fabric at her neck, her waist. “I’m good.”

  They strolled, not speaking, Hanna watching her feet now, concentrating on each step. Arriving at Beverly’s home, Claire opened the door without knocking, called, “We’re here.”

  “In the kitchen.”

  She had warned Molly days earlier about Beverly’s stroke, about her loose lips and mostly paralyzed left side. And when Beverly saw the girl, she didn’t hesitate to put her good arm around her and say, “Welcome, welcome. You are a beauty, just as Claire said. Sit. Have tea. It’s warm. Let me take your coat.”

  “I’m good,” Molly said, sitting at the table, the wool thick around her. She did take off her hat, unwound her scarf so it only looped her neck once. Reached for the tea bags, in a small wicker basket at the center of the table, her hand snapping back as soon as her fingers brushed the paper wrappers. Claire slid the basket closer, nodded to her, and Molly plucked the first bag she touched, opened it. She picked up the earthy stoneware teapot and poured water over the bag in the matching cup. Claire did the same.

  “You sit, Bev.”

  “I am. Just takes a minute to get there.” She moved to the table, dragging one leg, and inhaled deeply. “Ah, you chose the almond tea. My favorite.”

  With deliberation, Beverly’s hand flopped across the table, twitching, curling, until finally she knocked the basket over, a dozen tea bags pouring out.

  “Here, let me get one for you,” Claire said.

  “No, no. I could do this right-handed just fine, but it won’t do me any good to leave the left side idle.” She sifted through her choices, found another almond, and labored to open it. “I will let you pour the water, though. I’ve scalded myself enough times.”

  Claire filled Beverly’s teacup and added honey to it, and to her own. Molly stared into the brown liquid, tapping the handle with her finger, setting the surface vibrating. Claire touched her hand. “Are you okay?”

  “I feel . . . nervous.”

  “Understandable. When was the last time you were this far from home?”

  “Always,” she said.

  Beverly, perceptive and generous, knew the girl needed some conversation in which to hide. She and Claire made small talk, telling humorous tales of when they were both young and out of parental eyesight, stories about daring, stupid things—jumping from haylofts, swinging from branches into shallow streams, eating all manner of creepy crawly things. That made Molly smile. “You live here all alone?” she asked finally.

  “By myself but not alone,” Beverly said.

  “Do you ever, well . . . Are you afraid? I mean, maybe of something happening and no one knowing?”

  “Fo
r one, my dear, I am too stubborn and independent to be afraid of much these days. And too old.” Beverly laughed, wet and low. “For another, God always knows, and I’ve learned it’s better to leave those details up to Him. He took care of me when I had my stroke, and hundreds of times before and since.”

  Claire tried to nudge her friend with her eyes—tell, tell. But Beverly didn’t need her direction; she felt the Spirit in the room, too, and began recounting the events of all those years ago.

  “I walked every day, five a.m., and got home when my neighbor was leaving for work. Never missed a morning. And then I did. I got up, got dressed, went downstairs to drink my Tropicana . . . and don’t remember anything else until waking in the hospital. My neighbor found me, not that first morning, but a day later, when she realized it had been two days since she saw me. Found me on the floor in a swamp of orange juice, the refrigerator door open, my eyes open. Said she thought I was dead.

  “The doctors didn’t think I’d recover. It had been too long, too much time without treatment. Told my sister to make plans to move me to some long-term care facility, if I lived at all. But she got her church to pray, got them all to come and lay their hands on me, anoint me with oil, and spent hours by my bedside seeking the Lord on my behalf.”

  “‘Ask and it will be given to you,’” Molly whispered.

  “That’s right, and that’s what they did. I remember coming back. I remember hearing them, the murmurs. I remember trying to speak, but I couldn’t. I had words in my head, but my tongue wouldn’t move. Nothing would move, but I was there. And then they sent me to a nursing home, far enough from my sister that she couldn’t come visit all that often, so I spent my time praying, reciting the Bible over and over in my mind. All those times I got sent to bed with no supper for not learning my verses? I was thankful for that then.”

  Molly hesitated. She pulled the tag of her tea bag from the string, folded it in half. “But you’re better now.”