Catching Air (3 page)

“We just need sheets and comforters . . . maybe a few throw rugs,” Alyssa said as she wandered around. “And Pledge. A truckload of Pledge.”

“Your photos on the walls, too,” Rand added. He gave her ponytail a tug and led the way back downstairs, to a door off the living room. Rand leaned against it and pretended to push against something heavy.

“The bodies must be stacked behind here,” he said, and she swatted his butt. He swung open the door and it creaked—“Gotta oil that,” he said—and they ventured down a narrow hallway to where the final two bedrooms awaited.

“Oh.” Alyssa gasped when they stepped into the first doorway.

One entire wall was composed of windows, and a love seat faced a gas fireplace. She looked in the bathroom, which was tiled in sea green and featured a huge, glass-walled shower with five spray nozzles. “You know how I’m not really into material things?” she said. “This shower just changed my mind.”

“Room for two,” he said with a leer. He began opening windows, letting fresh air chase out the musty smell as Alyssa walked over to the corner across from the fireplace.

She and Rand had lived in six different apartments and homes since they wed, and in every single one, Alyssa had known where a rocking chair would go.

She stood in the empty space, thinking of a long-ago scene: the doctor in his white office, wearing a white coat, staring out at them from underneath heavy white eyebrows. By then, Rand’s sperm had been scrutinized and deemed perfectly shaped, mobile, and robust in number. They were practically supersperm. The problem, it was clear, lay somewhere deep within her.

Yes, they told the doctor, they’d been trying for more than a year. No, she’d never been pregnant. Although she had irregular periods, she’d never had an abortion or miscarriage. No sexually transmitted diseases either, other than a brief bout with chlamydia that was a parting gift from a guy she’d met in Spain. And she’d never had any major surgeries.

“Well, other than a ruptured appendix,” she’d added.

The doctor had been scribbling something on his pad, but his hand had suddenly stilled.

“I was only fifteen,” she’d said.

“Abdominal diseases can cause scarring in fallopian tubes,” the doctor had said. He’d cleared his throat and reached for a cartoonish-looking plastic replica of the female reproductive system. “Eggs travel down the tubes from the ovaries to the uterus, but if they’re blocked—”

Alyssa had held up a hand. “I know how it works,” she’d said. “Or doesn’t work, as the case may be.” She’d made a noise that was meant to be a laugh but had turned into a kind of bark. The doctor had mentioned dye tests, an ultrasound, and laparoscopic surgery.

“Would that fix it?” Alyssa had asked.

“It can, in some cases,” the doctor had said. “If indeed a blockage is preventing you from getting pregnant. It could also be stress—”

“We’re probably the least stressed people you’ve ever had in your office,” Rand had interrupted.

Well, not anymore,
Alyssa had refrained from saying. Appendicitis. And to think her biggest worry after waking up in the operating room all those years ago was that her scar would show when she wore a bikini.

The doctor had cleared his throat. “Successful surgery depends on the location of the blockage, and the severity of scarring . . . IVF may be an option, too.”

They’d left his office half an hour later and had walked silently to Rand’s Jeep. Rand had slid inside and started the engine. But he didn’t pull out of the parking spot.

Does he blame me?
The thought had seemed to rip apart all the muscles in her chest, and she’d nearly gasped. She might be able to live without having children, but she couldn’t live without Rand’s love. She’d twisted her hammered silver wedding band around and around on her finger while she waited for whatever would happen next.

“All those tests,” Rand had finally said. “And then what? I have to go jerk off in a cup, and we’ve gotta come up with the money, and maybe that doesn’t work either . . .”

“I know,” she’d whispered.
I’m sorry,
she'd thought.

“Fuck it,” he’d said and finally turned to look at her. When she saw his smile—a real one that made the corners of his dark eyes crinkle—she’d felt weak with relief. “Who needs kids anyway? Diapers stink, and I don’t want to spend every Saturday coaching soccer. If the kid got any of my genes, he’d drink all my liquor. Why does anyone reproduce?”

She’d never loved him more than at that moment, she’d thought. True, she was the one with a much stronger longing to have children. Rand had been a little resistant at first—more scared than anything else, Alyssa had thought—but he knew how much it meant to her, and so he’d come around.

“Maybe this is one of those signs you’re always talking about,” he’d said.

“Or maybe it’s another kind of sign,” she’d replied. “Would you . . .” Her voice had failed and she’d begun again. “What would you think about adopting?”

He’d stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. “I dunno.”

“I thought I could look into it . . . Okay?”

“Okay,” he’d said, and she’d let out her breath.

So she’d found an agency that connected prospective parents with little girls from China and had put together a packet of information, including photographs of her and Rand together. They’d met with a social worker who was young and anxious and had spilled the glass of water they’d given her all over the couch. They’d filled out forms—actually, Alyssa had filled them out, because Rand had a moderate case of dyslexia and paperwork was torture for him—and had accepted a generous check from Alyssa’s father to cover the cost of the adoption, which they never could’ve afforded on their own.

Rand had accepted the change in their course so easily that Alyssa was ashamed to tell him she still harbored a small, secret hope that she’d become pregnant. That maybe the blockage in her tubes had a sliver of an opening.

But as the months and then years passed and her period continued to show up despite the fact that she’d taken up meditation, swallowed daily doses of the herb chasteberry, and switched to a vegetarian diet, her hopes had withered. She was thirty-five now, and her age was yet another enemy of fertility. Rand never seemed to mourn the child they wouldn’t have together, but she couldn’t shake the image of a son. Sometimes she even dreamed about him, a little boy with Rand’s eyes and plump cheeks. He was always in her arms, always laughing as she spun him around in circles.

She walked away from the empty corner. She didn’t think about their phantom son quite as much these days; the passage of time was dimming his image, like the reverse of a Polaroid photo forming. Maybe someday, he’d fade away for good.

She headed into the bedroom next door. It was much smaller, and darker, but sliding glass doors led to a little patio framed by hedges for privacy.

“It’s . . . cozy,” Alyssa said as Rand followed her in. She opened the curtains on the single window. “Do you think Peter and Kira will like it, if they decide to move here? I feel kind of bad that our room is so much nicer.”

Rand shrugged. “They’re getting a sweet deal. We’re covering the down payment and two-thirds of the mortgage.”

“True,” Alyssa said. “So do you think they’re going to do it?” Peter and Kira were supposed to give their decision that day.

“Let’s find out,” Rand said. He reached for his phone and dialed.

Alyssa suddenly felt nervous. She knew Rand wished he was closer to his brother—they’d fought a lot growing up, and there had been a deep rift around their mother’s death nearly a decade earlier that had never been fully repaired. Alyssa still didn’t know the full story, but she knew Rand regretted whatever had happened. When Rand had suggested inviting Peter and Kira along, she’d said yes quickly. Embracing new experiences was a reflex for her. But now it hit her: She’d spent so little time with her in-laws. Was this a mistake?

Alyssa liked Rand’s younger brother. When she and Rand had driven to Florida for Thanksgiving a few months after their wedding, Alyssa had watched Peter chase a spider across the kitchen, capturing it in a paper towel before shooing it out the door, and when he’d noticed her, he’d shrugged and said, “I figured the little guy probably has a wife and kids at home who were getting worried about him.”

Kira was trickier. She was friendly enough, but she seemed stuck in high gear. She’d fluttered around, making sure they had extra pillows and their preferred kind of juice for breakfast. Alyssa had noticed Kira kept a grocery list on her refrigerator with items divided into sections labeled “Produce” and “Dairy,” and during dinner—which rivaled some of the best meals Alyssa had ever eaten in restaurants—Peter had mentioned that Kira was one of the smartest associates at her law firm.

“She’ll be running the place in another ten years,” Peter had said, as Kira blushed and passed around a bowl of her roasted root vegetables spiked with fresh herbs
grown in little pots on her fire escape
. Kira had skipped the second grade, she’d broken a local track record in junior high school, and she’d worked part-time in college to pay for her expenses while pulling in straight A’s.

It was a little intimidating, frankly.

Alyssa watched Rand’s face as he listened to Peter talk. Then Rand smiled.

“Awesome,” he said.

Chapter Two

“HOW ARE YOU TODAY,
Ms. Zukoski?” the bank teller asked.

“Great!” Dawn said, and the teller gave her an odd look.

Tone it down,
Dawn warned herself, softening her overly broad smile. She thought again of the German shepherd at the bus stop and imagined scent cones of fear spreading out around her body.

She slid the checks forward, under the Plexiglas divider, and the teller looked through them one at a time. Her red fingernails clicked against her computer’s keyboard as she began to slowly enter the amounts.

Dawn glanced around. The bank was wood-paneled and opulent, with a trio of dark leather sofas clustered over an Oriental rug. A few people stood behind her in line, and an armed security guard, a muscular young man, kept watch by the door. He met her gaze, and Dawn quickly looked away.

Why was it so quiet in here? Dawn could hear her own shallow breathing. She opened her mouth to comment on the relentless rain, then closed it. She needed to get out as quickly as possible.

“Three hundred and forty thousand dollars,” the teller finally said. She pushed the deposit slip toward Dawn. “Thank you, Ms. Zukoski.”

This was how their routine always ended. But today Dawn was working from a new script.

“I need to wire some money into a client’s account,” she said. She’d rehearsed that line a hundred times, saying it aloud as she paced her apartment at night to get just the right inflection, but now the words felt sharp and coppery in her mouth. She realized she was clutching her handbag so tightly that her fingers were turning white, and she loosened her grip.

“Of course,” the teller said, her face betraying no surprise. “Could you step over there”—she gestured to the couch closest to the security guard—“and wait for our manager?”

“The manager?” Dawn asked. She felt faint. “Is that . . . the standard practice?”

“Yes,” the teller said.

Was she lying? Dawn wondered. Maybe the firm had learned of her plans. An errant e-mail, a conversation overheard—she’d thought she’d been so careful, but what if she’d made one tiny, crucial mistake? This could all be a setup. Maybe the other customers were undercover cops. Maybe the teller had been wired by the FBI.

“Lady, let’s get a move on,” called an older man with a gruff voice from the back of the line.

As Dawn walked over to the couch, one of her pumps skidded on the polished floor. She regained her balance just before she fell.

The manager approached, his hand extended. “Ms. Zukoski?”

How did he know her name? Dawn almost bolted, then she realized the teller might have told him.

“I need to wire some money into a client’s account,” Dawn repeated, hoping her hand didn’t feel clammy in his. Her rehearsed line kept running through her mind, like one of those continual advertising loops in Times Square. Dawn wished she were there now, losing herself in the crowds of tourists, blending into the masses.

No one will get hurt
, she reminded herself. She was just shifting funds around for a few days—something banks did all the time, ironically.

“Certainly,” the manager said. “Will you accompany me to my desk?”

She followed him, and he pulled a form and pen from a drawer. “Please fill out the necessary information,” he said. “And I’ll need your identification. Do you have the account numbers for the transfers?”

Dawn nodded. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. She’d been entrusted with some of the firm’s banking duties her first month at work. It had surprised her, until she’d realized that the firm had copies of her passport, driver’s license, address, and social security number as well as bookkeepers who regularly scrutinized every transaction.

She pulled her license and a slip of paper out of her purse. She’d printed a fake document on the firm’s letterhead, so it would look official, but she’d used her home computer to do so. She copied down the account numbers carefully, pressing hard with the pen so her numbers wouldn’t reveal that her hand was shaking.

“One hundred thousand dollars?” the bank manager asked as he reviewed the form.

Dawn nodded again.

“Just a moment,” the manager said.

This was it. If she was going to be arrested, it would happen now. She couldn’t help it; she looked toward the security guard, but he was gone. Where was he? Could he be behind her? She glanced around wildly before she spotted him opening the door for an elderly woman with a walker.

She exhaled slowly. The manager was coming back now, and he was smiling.

“Excellent,” he said. “The transfer will go through by the end of the day. Is there anything else we can do for you?”

“No,” Dawn said. She got to her feet quickly. “Thank you.”

In twenty steps she’d be out the door. Maybe she wouldn’t go back to work today; she could pretend she’d come down with the stomach flu. But no, she had to go back—she had to act normally! Fifteen steps . . .

“Ms. Zukoski?”

She froze. The bank manager was calling her name, and the security guard stood between her and the door, his gaze fixed on her. She knew when she turned around she’d see her boss flanked by a dozen police officers.

I’m sorry, Tucker,
she thought. She felt the bank manager’s hand touch her arm.

“Lollipop?” he offered, holding out a bright orange one.

• • •

“There’s got to be a gas station nearby,” Kira said, peering into the darkness.

It was close to midnight. They were somewhere near the border of North Carolina at the end of their first day of traveling, and all Kira wanted was a hot shower and a soft bed. At this point, she’d happily settle for a cold shower and a lumpy sleeping bag. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, then resumed searching the road ahead for a sign indicating the way to a gas station, a motel, a McDonald’s . . . anything resembling civilization.

“Check your iPhone again,” Peter said.

She glanced down and shook her head. “Still not getting a signal.” All they had to guide them was a map Peter had purchased when they’d set off, and that crinkly rectangle of paper seemed hopelessly antiquated now. It could show them a few different routes to the highway, but not which ones featured gas stations.

Instead of taking I-95, which cut a straight, industrial path along the East Coast, they’d decided to travel along smaller back roads and stop to visit fruit stands and wineries and antique shops on their way to Vermont. “It’ll be fun,” Kira had said to Peter in what now seemed like one of the more foolhardy statements of her life.

But it
had
been fun, at least for a while: They’d sung along to a Miranda Lambert CD, affecting a country twang, while Kira had dangling her bare feet out the window as the stress of the past six years seemed to peel away in the wind. They’d followed the signs to a state park and had spread out a blanket and taken an afternoon nap by a pretty lake.

The nap had left them feeling so refreshed that they’d decided to drive late into the night, and now they seemed to be the only ones on the two-lane road. Their easy chatter had tapered off into silence as the line on their gas gauge had dipped into the red zone.

“There!” Kira shouted, pointing at a flash of color in the distance. “A gas station.”

“Thank God,” Peter said.

They pulled in next to the single pump, and Peter looked at the small structure with a wooden sign advertising cold drinks and cigarettes in uneven lettering.

“It isn’t open,” he said.

“Are you sure? Maybe if you knock on the door, someone will answer it. They could be in the back or something.”

“Kira, there is no back. And the lights are off.” Peter started the engine again and drove around to park behind the gas station.

“What are you doing?” Kira asked as he killed the headlights.

“We need to stop for the night,” Peter said, his voice as low and calm as ever. She’d seen her husband lose it exactly twice—once when he’d dropped a can of juice on his bare toe and once when they’d lost power during an electrical storm and he’d fried an expensive computer belonging to a client.

“We’re about to run out of gas,” Peter said.

“Don’t you think we should keep going?” Kira asked. “There could be another one up ahead.”

“If there is, it’s probably closed, too,” Peter said. “At least this way we can choose where we get stuck. We’ll gas up as soon as they open.”

Kira exhaled loudly, but she knew he was right. Peter’s logical mind and his steadiness were among the traits she’d always prized most in him. She reached into the glove compartment and grabbed a napkin.

“I have to pee,” she said. “Yell if anyone’s coming, okay?”

“Trust me, no one’s coming,” he said.

She squatted down a few yards away from their Honda, trying to avoid splattering her flip-flops. A young couple running out of gas on a shadowy, deserted road . . . wasn’t this how most horror movies started? She finished up quickly and hurried back to the car, then reclined her seat as far as it would go as Peter took his turn using nature’s facilities.

“I hate not brushing my teeth before bed,” she said when he returned. “It feels disgusting.”

“We’ll find someplace that has a bathroom first thing tomorrow,” he said. He popped the trunk and walked around to the back of the car. “Need anything?” he asked.

“Did we pack a Marriott?” she said.

“Hang on, let me see. No . . . we’ve got a Holiday Inn here, but that’s about it.” He got back into the car and handed her a sweatshirt to use as a pillow.

“Thanks,” she said, shifting around to find a comfortable position. The night air was thick and moist, and their windows were unrolled, so the sounds of crickets chirping drifted toward her. Of course, the open windows would also make it easier for a psychopath in a hockey mask to get into the car, but it was too hot to roll them up, so she’d have to risk being hacked to death. If only it wasn’t so
dark
out here. She tried to focus on the crickets’ melody and not on the fact that something smelled—she had a sneaking suspicion it was her armpits—and that her back was already sore from so many hours of sitting in the car.

“Yuck,” she whispered. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned starting a new chapter of their life together. A carefree road trip had sounded romantic and spontaneous, and those were two elements sorely missing from her life these days. She was always so tired after work that sometimes a week or two—sometimes longer—passed before she and Peter had sex. That wasn’t normal for a healthy young couple, was it?

She doubted Rand and Alyssa ever let a week pass without having sex.

Whoa!
Where had that thought come from? She glanced over at Peter, feeling guilty, but he seemed to be asleep. His pale profile was barely discernible in the moonlight. His arms were folded across his chest, and he’d taken off his glasses and placed them on the dashboard. He always looked a decade younger without them.

She closed her eyes and reclined again. As they’d packed for the move, she’d wondered if she would miss Florida. But today, as they’d driven past her old elementary school and the spot that once held the frozen yogurt shop where she’d worked during high school, and so many other physical locations that were emotional landmarks for her, she’d realized she was relieved to leave the state behind.

Kira had lived in Florida for her entire life, save the years when she attended college and law school at Duke, and at least in the beginning, she’d loved it. Back then, though, her father was still around.

As a child, Kira had always felt a deeper connection with him. Her mother was harried and snappish, but her dad flung open the front door after work, filling the quiet rooms with his loud voice. He read bedtime stories and gave princesses funny, growling voices. He pulled quarters out of her ears and flipped her over his shoulders and sang to her in his low, sweet voice, changing the lyrics to lullabies: “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, Papa’s going to buy you an elephant . . . and if that elephant won’t dance, Papa’s going to put him in underpants . . .” She’d giggle hysterically until her mother appeared in the doorway, telling them to settle down, that Kira needed to go to sleep. Her father would turn on a flashlight and make shadow bunnies on her wall before he left, giving her the flashlight with a wink. He was larger than life; he was coated in glittering magic dust, like a character in her storybook.

If his gait wasn’t perfectly steady as he entered the house, if he forgot to ask about her track meets, if she sometimes thought she caught a whiff of perfume that smelled as sweet as Juicy Fruit gum clinging to his clothes—well, it didn’t matter. Not back then, anyway. But as she matured, Kira’s eyes grew clearer, and her sympathies tilted toward her mother, who was always bent over the sink or laundry basket, mending and cooking and sweeping. Creating the illusion of a nice home, as if that could help tamp down the turmoil swirling within it.

“Why do you and Daddy sleep in different rooms?” Kira had asked her mother once.

“Because he snores,” her mother had responded, and then she’d turned on the vacuum cleaner, which was her favorite way to end conversations.

Sometimes Kira wondered: Had her parents ever been happy? And if so, who had taken the first steps toward destroying their marriage? Or maybe it wasn’t anyone’s fault. They could just have been a mismatch, another young couple who’d mistaken passion for love, and whispered promises for lifelong commitments.

By the time Kira was near the end of her elementary school years, her mother’s face had seemed creased in a permanent frown, her features sunken inward like a prune. Her dad often came in at dawn, pretending he’d had to work through the night. It was almost comical, given that he was so often between jobs. At least it would have been comical, if it didn’t hurt so much. Because he wasn’t just abandoning Kira’s mother, he was leaving her behind, too.

His bag of tricks no longer enthralled her, and she was old enough to read her own books. Her father didn’t seem to know what to do with her once she was no longer a little girl and had questions and accusations of her own, so he stopped trying and began to avoid her. His sparkle dust had worn off, revealing the flawed, ordinary man beneath it.