As Close to Us as Breathing: A Novel (28 page)

“Dr. Cohen?” yet another student asked just as we were about to leave. This student was a young woman, clearly distraught, her eyes dark with fatigue.

“Give me a few minutes, Molly, okay?” Nina asked, and back I went to the worn chair outside her office door, where I overheard Nina gently tell the student, “You’ll survive this. You really will.”

That evening after the boys were in bed, the house was silent. Nina was in her study, grading papers or preparing yet another class; I couldn’t be sure. As I’d done before, I wandered through the house, looking at photos. Just outside Nina’s study was a shot of her and Howard that day when they met for dinner after Howard’s meeting with the Academy of Pediatrics. As they’d stood together, Howard’s arm over Nina’s shoulder for the first time, Nina had said, “Howard, I always felt that if I hadn’t lied the day of the accident Davy would be alive. I can’t shake it. The feeling’s at the core of my being.”

“Nina, that’s just not true,” Howard urged.

“You’re not telling me anything my analyst hasn’t told me for the last year,” Nina said, and then they stood there, not talking further, for another five minutes.

Nina spotted me staring at the photo and called me in. Her study was crammed with books and papers. On one wall she’d hung up her various diplomas and I took to gawking at them—there were so many. But when I peered closer at an honorary doctorate from Georgetown University in Washington, D.C., I was confused to read that it was made out to Leo Cohen rather than to Nina.

“Oh, it’s mine,” Nina said. “But I thought he deserved it more than me so I had his name put on it. When I gave it to him he said he hadn’t earned it and wouldn’t take it.” She paused to wipe a smudge from its glass frame. “It’s pretty much what I’m most proud of, Molly.”

She got back to work and I went to bed. At three in the morning I woke and rose to get some water. The light in Nina’s study was on and she was talking on the phone. I’d been in Berkeley just shy of a week by then and I wasn’t surprised to see that Nina was still up, still working, counseling someone—“You’ll survive,” I heard her say—giving of herself though it was late and the day had been long and there couldn’t have been anything left to give.

B
ec’s kitchen contains a utility closet, a place to hide the ironing board, brooms, and mops, and yesterday, inspired by the pristine quality of the season’s first snowfall, I found myself compelled to give the floors inside a good cleaning. To do that I opened the closet—for the first time ever. Quickly, though, I shut it. But a moment later I opened it again, more slowly, preparing myself as I did, for framed and hanging on the inside of the door was Davy’s picture, the one he’d drawn with Lucinda Rossetti that summer of 1948. The pair had almost managed to finish it: a crayon-based lineup of vases containing flowers. That so many years ago Bec had taken it from our home was a new fact, a new moment to consider, and the thought of her forcing herself to face the drawing and all its associated memories each time she swept her floors or ironed a shirt gave me a chill. Then a rush of admiration. Then a chill. Then a rush of love.

It was still the second week in August 1948—a week before the week we wished had never begun—when Davy understood at last what Lucinda Rossetti was getting at. The red on the bottom of the picture was a tabletop, or perhaps a counter, and the tubes emerging from it—one gray, one brown, and the other blue—were vases. Davy had finally grasped the idea when she began to draw stems and leaves where the vases would end, just about where Davy had colored the page a lighter sky blue. Holding the picture, he began a fit of ecstatic jumping.

“She had you worried there, huh?” Ada remarked, holding his chin in her palm as if this would calm him. It didn’t. He squirmed from her grip and began jumping again. All of us were in the kitchen, unable to eat lunch with this eruption beside us.

“Take it outside,” Ada warned, and when Davy only jumped more, she snapped, “Now!”

For a moment he looked stricken but then he dashed through the cottage and out the front door, where he took to prancing on the porch. “I get it!” he called over and over.

By this time Bec had planned the jacket she’d promised Davy and she’d made progress on dresses for the start of the school year for Nina and me. Long-sleeved and belted, mine was of checkered rayon and easily would be the best school dress I ever had. Nina liked hers, in a solid dusty rose, just as much. For Vivie and Ada—the two people Bec would miss the most—she’d embarked on more elaborate wear: the dresses they’d asked for were for the upcoming High Holidays. In recent days there were fittings, and after that seams were taken in and seams were ripped out. Half-made, one of the dresses hung over the body of the mannequin Eleanor Roosevelt, and the other hung from a hanger Bec had secured over the top of one of her porch’s glass doors. My mother’s dress was made of burgundy wool, the same color as the fancier dress Bec had made for Mrs. Coventry. The likeness pleased Ada no end. “I’m going to look fine,” she whispered to herself every time she passed by Bec’s sunporch. Vivie’s dress was the same light wool, in dark green. She didn’t say anything as she walked past the sunporch, but she often glanced at Eleanor, wearing that forest green, and then she’d purse her lips to form a silent, delighted “Oh!”

Because of rain and high winds, Howard and Mark Fishbaum sailed only once the second week of August, but by the third week—
the
week—they were back to their daily journeys. Out they’d go, in the direction of Long Island, or perhaps over toward West Haven, now a familiar run. And in they’d finally come again, a good hour and a half later, sometimes longer, pulling the Sailfish out of the shallow waters onto the shore, lowering its sail, lifting its mast, pulling free its rudder board and tiller, then finally lifting the naked hull of the boat and hauling it up the beach, well past where the waters rose at high tide. They’d often sit there in the hot sand beside the boat’s hull, their bottoms atop the orange life preservers they’d carried on board, and they wouldn’t talk so much as stare out at the waters they’d just navigated, as if that long ride hadn’t been quite extensive enough to ponder the world that was unfolding, so nicely, before them. Their tans were remarkable by this time. Perhaps it was their futures, free of war, as open as the sea before them, that gave them such an endless sense of wonder. Perhaps it was the social life sure to unfold those evenings. By this time Howard had persuaded Mark to be, if not altogether accepting, than at least kind toward Megan O’Donnell.

“There was a bit of me that was jealous of you,” Mark had even recently confessed.

“You were snubbing her and me because you were a jealous ass?”

“That’s only ten percent of it. The rest was about the mess between Jews and Catholics. Howard, think about it. You really want that mess?”

Wednesday evening of that third week in August, and just before supper Nina yelled for me from her parents’ bedroom. I was in the kitchen snapping beans, but dropped them in an instant to heed her call. Since Nina had finished
Coming of Age in Samoa
she’d resumed hanging around with me. The book had had a good effect, it seemed. On the heels of reading it she’d been more willing to do things: swim with Ada, Davy, and me, talk in the sun, and walk after dinner from our cottage to Anchor Beach to hang out there, chatting a bit with the other girls our ages.

When I reached her parents’ bedroom, Nina was standing beside her mother’s vanity, her back both twisted and arched as she struggled to zip the strapless sundress that Bec had sewn for her. That Nina had finally put the thing on surprised me. But here it was, that pale yellow cotton with a white floral print that so far that summer had caused such turmoil each time it had been pulled out of the closet. Even though she hadn’t yet gotten it fully on, I could already see how good it looked. The dress’s coloring contrasted beautifully with her newly bronzed skin. Though she wasn’t the kind to flaunt her figure, in fact it was a lovely one, lean and curvy.

“What took you so long?” she asked, giving up on the zipper, exasperated. Her hair, which was usually pulled back, was loose and flowing down her back in curly ringlets.

“Excuse me?” I said. I was as surprised by her rebuke as I was by the sight of the dress and her cascading curls. “I rushed, fast as I could.”

Laughter erupted then from next door—boy laughter: loud, sarcastic. Howard would be changing clothes after sailing and showering, and we could hear that Mark was there too, which meant he was staying for supper.

“Shut the door, Molly,” Nina, alarmed, commanded, and I lunged at the door just in case the boys should emerge in the next second and see Nina—perfectly covered but somehow more naked than ever in this new outfit, this sea change of style.

“Can you help me zip it?” Nina then asked, more relaxed. “I think it’s stuck.”

I stood behind her and gripped the tab of the zipper. “Hold your hair up,” I said, and Nina thrust a hand behind her head, lifting her mass of curls.

We were standing like that, my hands at the small of her back, her hand holding up her hair, the strapless sundress draped precariously over her body, soon to slip off as I jiggled the pull tab to get the zipper going, when we heard the bedroom door creaking open. I hadn’t shut it properly.

Howard and Mark stepped into the hallway. Howard didn’t notice us and simply walked to the stairs, away from us. Mark, though, lagging behind Howard, head bent toward his chest as he finished buttoning his shirt, turned our way.

“Zip it, Molly,” Nina whispered, her tone frantic. “Zip it
now.
” As I struggled to do so, Mark remained standing in the hallway before the open door, his head gradually raised until his eyes were fixed on Nina.

“You wearing that tonight?” he asked, breaking into a bit of a smile.

“Just trying it on,” Nina replied, her voice flat. But she wasn’t calm, I knew. My hands still on her back, I felt her body rapidly warming. The instant I pulled the zipper up and released her, she leaped forward to shut the door again.

Beyond the doorway Mark was still there, staring.

“Looks good!” we heard next through the newly shut door. Then we heard clomping down the stairs and then nothing except the bedroom door creaking open again.

“It doesn’t stay shut,” I noted.

“Apparently not,” Nina replied, slamming it this time, then latching it with a hook so it wouldn’t open again. When she turned from the door to me she softened. “Does it really look good?” she asked. “Did you hear him?”

In fact she looked stunning, transformed. I wondered why in all the times I’d seen Nina change clothes I’d never noticed her square shoulders or long neck. More than that, she had hips and breasts and a solid bump of a behind. Her loose hair looked dramatic rather than merely frizzy. She had come of age—clearly—and not in Samoa but right here, in Woodmont, in front of our very eyes. But when had this happened?

“Do I know you?” I asked, amazed.

Nina didn’t wear the dress out that night. Instead, she chose rolled dungarees. But the next night, just minutes before she and I were to head out for what had become our regular evening walk, Nina called to me. She was once again in her parents’ bedroom, once again slipping on the dress Bec had made. This time she’d had no problem with the zipper and by the time I arrived, she was already in the dress and had the matching jacket slung over one of her arms. Her hair wasn’t loose as it had been the night before but pulled back with her usual ribbon. Yet the simple hairdo suddenly looked as stylish as the dress. On her feet she wore sandals and she had even polished her toenails pink sometime during the day. I was in a favorite playsuit of lavender pedal pushers and a matching crop top.

“Can you dress better than that?” she asked me. “I don’t want to stick out so much.”

But this outfit was about as good as it got for me. I told her as much.

“Please, Molly,” Nina implored, lifting one foot and almost stamping it down.

“All right already,” I said. “Don’t go crazy, Nina.”

After I’d slipped on a skirt, she gratefully nodded. Together we emerged from the back bedroom, and as we made our way down the hallway toward the stairs Nina pulled me into the bathroom. She walked straight to a row of shelves by the sink, where she grabbed a tube of lipstick. Even though we’d never done this before it seemed natural enough to round our lips in tomato red then press them together as we’d seen our mothers do.

Our mothers and Bec were in the kitchen having their after-dinner coffee. We could see them as we scrambled down the stairs, but instead of turning their way we turned in the other direction. As we did, Nina let them know that we were on our way out. We’d already stepped onto the porch and into the evening air when I heard my mother calling.

“Molly, let me see you,” she said, and I stopped, mid-porch, annoyed at the delay. Lately she’d been doing this every night: asking to see me before I headed out into the world without her. I didn’t understand what she was looking for. She knew I dressed well enough. And I always remembered to comb my hair. If I’d realized that by giving me a discerning once-over all she was really doing was claiming me as hers for a moment, that this tiresome ritual was actually a part of her love, I might not have minded as much. But I didn’t understand, and the new habit seemed intrusive, ridiculous.

“Here I am,” I said, dashing back, almost scolding her. But when I caught her eye I could see that she was already peering at Nina, standing off to the left, in the dining room, behind me.

“Nina?” Ada said. She shot a look at Vivie and Bec, who then leaned over the kitchen table to better see into the dining room. All three put down their coffee cups.

“Nina,” Vivie called, alarmed by Ada’s tone. “Nina, come here.”

When Nina entered the kitchen a surprised silence took hold. With all eyes on her, Nina stared at the floor as if entranced suddenly by the random flecks of color in the linoleum.

“Honey, look up,” Bec said, her voice calm, encouraging.

Nina slowly raised her head and looked at Bec, who I knew she felt was the least likely of the three to pick faults with her. As she waited for a reaction, she lifted her hand to her hair and needlessly smoothed it.

“That’s quite a fit. Turn, turn. Let me see,” Bec said, gesturing in a circling motion. She was beaming at Nina.

As Nina turned, the others joined in.

“Honestly, I never thought I’d see the day,” Ada said.

“You’re telling me,” Vivie answered, raising her hands and clapping.

“Why so surprised?” Bec asked.

“Why?
Why?
” said Vivie, turning from Nina to Bec in disbelief.

“The girl has spent the whole summer on the goddamned porch is why,” Ada answered, settling it. “I don’t know about you two,” she added, “but I was beginning to—” My mother paused, fishing for the right word. “Wonder,” she finally said, gravely. She raised her eyebrows and glanced at Vivie, then Bec. Though I had no idea what she’d begun to wonder about, I could see the matter was obvious to them. Catching Bec’s eye, Ada quickly lowered her own. She’d been wondering about Bec, too, the dubious eye movement indicated.

Its implication was not lost on Bec. “Oh, come on,” she snapped. “A girl can like to read and still be a
girl.
Ada, you just think everyone should be like you were, that’s all. Boy crazy, insane, baking cakes, trying on shoes,
you.
”

My mother shut up, crossing her arms defensively over her chest, but Vivie suddenly rose, the coffee cups on the table tottering as she did, her chair almost falling backward, and she rushed to the door just off the kitchen, pushing it open while she let loose a quiet but anguished cry. It seemed like a cry she’d held inside for a long time. I wondered if it was the past, referred to in Bec’s comment, or the present that she was wailing over. A minute later she returned, holding a tissue she’d pulled from the pocket of the apron she still wore. She dabbed at her eyes.

“I’m your mother,” she said to Nina, balling the tissue in her hand. “And the truth is, I
have
been a little worried. Not about, you know—” She glanced Ada’s way, then lowered her eyes just as my mother had before. “Just about you. You getting out a little. Not being, you know, always so inside a book, always so afraid.”