Marianna Baer - Frost

checked cardboard take-out box from Commons in her hands.

“I ran into David at dinner,” she said. “He thought you might

appreciate this.” She extended her arms.

“Oh, thanks, Viv.” I sat up straighter in bed.

She crossed the room and handed it to me, along with a fork

and napkins. “I wasn’t sure what would agree with your

stomach.”

I rested the heavy box on my lap; warmth spread through my

thighs. Inside was probably everything Commons had offered

tonight: spaghetti, chicken, potatoes, sautéed veggies, bread,

cake.

“This is great,” I said. “I’m starving. I just wasn’t up to

trekking over there.”

Viv sat down next to me. “I don’t blame you. I can’t believe

how sick you were. I was really scared when I found you.”

“Thanks again for helping me.” I tasted a bite of buttery

mashed potatoes. So much better than the infirmary food. Actual

flavor.

“Viv?” I said. “Not to sound all second grade, or anything, but

does this mean we’re okay? Because you know, I’m really, really

sorry about Cameron. About the whole thing. More sorry than I

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could ever say. I feel as awful about it as I have about anything,

ever.”

Viv stared at her lap. “I love you, Leen,” she finally said. “And

it’s so not Buddhist of me to stay angry. But . . . the thing is, I can’t

help getting mad, still, whenever I miss Cam. Not to mention

getting mad about what this has done to him. But at the same

time, I also miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” I said. “So much. And Abby.”

“Abby’s a different story,” she said. “That’s another reason

it’ll be hard for us to really be friends, like before. At least for

now.”

“Oh.” I took another bite; the chicken tasted like dust.

“But we can try, a bit,” she said. “You know, start slow?”

I nodded.

“So . . .” Viv smoothed out the wrinkles on the quilt next to

her. “I watered your plants. And opened the blinds, to give them

sun. And washed the puke out of your clothes.”

“It was you? Thanks, Viv. That was so sweet.”

She kept her eyes on the bed, pressed her lips together, and

smoothed the quilt over and over as if she’d developed OCD while

I’d been gone. “I, uh, I saw something while I was in here,” she

said. “I . . . wanted to ask you about it.”

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Oh, God. “It’s not as weird as it seems, Viv.” How wasn’t a

piece of paper with info about ten or so psychotropic meds not as

weird as it seems? Maybe I was studying for a test, in psych?

About medications?

“Really?” she said. “What do you do in there?”

“In there?”

“The closet. I saw that whole mattress thing you have set up,

the pillows. Do you, like, sleep in there or something?”

The closet. She knew about the closet. My chest tightened.

But, then again, she didn’t know about my conversations.

“No, I don’t sleep in there.” I drew crisscrosses in my

potatoes and searched my brain for a plausible explanation.

“So, you . . . ?”

“I . . . I meditate.”

Viv raised her eyebrows. “You? Meditate? How come I didn’t

know this?”

“Well, it’s not like we’ve been close enough recently for you

to notice.” As I spoke, I realized that the dreamlike state I went

into in the closet was kind of what I imagined meditation to be

like. An alternate consciousness. “It’s helped me be less stressed.”

“You do this in a closet?”

“It blocks out the distractions, being in there.”

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“Gosh, Leen. I’d never have pictured you meditating. Did

you, like, learn it somewhere? Or just figure it out on your own?”

There wasn’t an ounce of humor in Viv’s eyes. Just genuine

interest.

What would she say if I told her the truth? Viv, of all people,

might understand, after all. She was open-minded about these

things. She’d probably love the fact that I’d been coming to terms

with suppressed feelings. Could I . . . ?

“Well, it’s not really traditional. I have my own way.”

“You should come to the meditation center with me

sometime,” she said. “In the Berkshires.”

“I’d love to,” I said. “But, there’s . . . there’s something

different about . . . about the way—”

One minute, I was speaking, then—my throat. Swollen shut.

Hands on my neck—tightening. My hands? I loosened my grip.

Still, something pressed my throat closed. No air. No breath. Viv

leaned toward me. “Are you okay?” Blood rushed to my face.

Eyes watered. No breath.

“Should I do the . . . that thing? Whatever it’s called? Leena?”

Don’t know. Oh my God. Jesus. Can’t breathe. Something’s

pressing, pressing . . . I need air need air need—

Air.

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A shift. A release. Yes, finally, a cough. Oh, Jesus. Tears swam

in my eyes.

The cough hurt. Ripped my esophagus. My chest heaved,

sucking in all the air, all the air from the room. Oh. Thank God.

“Leen, are you okay?”

I nodded, still trying to right my breathing. I coughed again.

Tasted blood. I wiped the tears that had spilled onto my cheeks.

“What was that?” Viv said. “Did you choke on the food?”

Did I? The spaghetti-chicken-potatoes lay in the box on my

lap.

“I guess so.” My voice rasped.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Was I? I could breathe. “Yeah. Sorry for scaring you. I’m

fine.”

The food swam into an unappealing swirl of colors and

textures. I set the box aside. I was exhausted. “I think I might

need to sleep a bit more.”

Viv stood up. “Of course. Let me know if you need anything

else. Okay?”

Left alone, I touched a hand to my neck. I lay down and tried

to convince my lungs that there was enough air in the room.

Something wasn’t right, though. The episode had spurred my

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nervous system to go into high alert. My breaths were too fast.

My lips quivered. My skin crawled.

I needed the closet.

As I shut the door behind me, I realized that as unpleasant as

the choking fit had been, it was probably fortuitous—it had

stopped me from telling Viv something she really didn’t need to

know.

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Chapter 35

SUNDAY MORNING THE TEMPERATURE had plunged to

what felt like a midwinter low. Probably not the best day for

someone recovering from an illness to be out, but I had no choice.

As I sat in the car, my breath fogged up the side window,

romanticizing the view of 67 Plainville Road. The house needed all

the help it could get—Plainville was an apt name. A recent faux-

Colonial. Pale gray aluminum siding. Four thin columns with no

structural purpose. Spindly trees out front; the mark of a new

development. It looked just like the house next door. Not at all

what I expected for the family that produced David and Celeste

Lazar.

I forced myself to take the key out of the ignition and

unbuckle my seat belt. Consciously procrastinating, I searched the

glove compartment until I found the butt of a pack of Life Savers

and slipped one into my mouth. My throat had been raw ever

since the choking episode. My neck had been sore, too, from

where my fingers had tightened on it, I guess.

I wrapped a hand around the crinkly paper covering the

bouquet of dahlias I’d spent so much time choosing and stepped

into the bitter chill. For the hundredth time I tried to ignore the

ridiculous thought that I might be meeting my future mother-in-

law. Logically, I knew that was a totally far-fetched idea.

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Within a second of my bell ring, a salt-and-pepper-haired

woman wearing a gray velour track suit and sneakers answered

the door. She was thin almost to the point of concavity. Sharp

cheekbones, high-bridged nose. Gray like the house. Beautiful

once. Now, a little drained.

“Leena!” she said in a tone that was on the brighter side of

the color spectrum. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you. I’m

Phillipa Lazar.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Lazar.” I extended a hand but she

ignored it, saying, “Call me Phippy, please,” and gave me a bony

hug. My hand holding the flowers flailed out to the side.

“Thanks for having me,” I said into her shirt. “And happy

birthday.”

“It is a happy birthday,” she said, releasing me from the

embrace. “With the kids here, and George, and meeting you. I’m

glad you could come early, before the gang.”

George? Frigid wind tickled my ears. “Could I come in?”

“Oh, of course.” Mrs. Lazar laughed and backed into the

house. Warmth and rich cooking smells spilled out. “Unusually

chilly for this time of year.”

I handed her the dahlias. When I bought them, I almost

chose tulips, instead, before remembering the ones that had

strangely died the day Celeste arrived at Frost House.

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“How lovely!” Mrs. Lazar said, sniffing the magenta blooms.

“As are you. I hear you’ve been under the weather. You don’t look

it at all.”

“Thanks.” I unwound my scarf. We stood in a spacious

entryway, mostly blond wood. A decorative niche in the wall held

a delicate sculpture made of birds’ nests and wire—Celeste’s, no

doubt. “I’m still exhausted. Not contagious, though.”

Quick thuds of sock feet on wood came from a nearby

staircase.

“David says you’re a strong one,” Mrs. Lazar said. “Not

easily—”

“Hey!” David jumped the last three steps and slid across the

floor to where I was standing. “You made it! Take off your coat.

Didn’t you ask her to take it off, Mom?”

David’s hand rumpling my hair and his “so happy to see you”

smile made it clear Celeste hadn’t said anything about me.

“Where’s Celeste?” I asked, shedding my puffer.

“Resting,” David said. “She’s been kind of out of it. I hope it’s

not the start of what you had. If it hit you that bad, I can’t imagine

what it would do to Celeste.”

Was this part of whatever was wrong with her? Maybe it

really was a blood disease or other serious illness. I hated the

responsibility of knowing something David didn’t. Not that there

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was anything he could do. He wasn’t a doctor, and Celeste

already had an appointment with one. Or maybe she had already

gone. I hadn’t seen her to ask.

“I hope she’s okay,” I said.

“Where’s Dad?” David asked his mother.

I felt my jaw open slightly.

“The living room,” Mrs. Lazar said. “Best to introduce Leena

now. He’s feeling okay.” She rested a hand on my arm. “This is a

momentous occasion, you know.”

“Oh, right,” I stammered through my surprise. “Fifty is a big

one.”

“No, no,” she said. “Fifty is just an excuse for a party.

Momentous because this is the first time David has brought

someone home to meet us. Celeste has been falling in love since

kindergarten, but not this guy.”

“Mom.” David sounded like an annoyed little kid as he

grasped my hand. “Come on, Leen.”

My pleasure at being the first formal Lazar girlfriend was way

overshadowed by the realization I’d be meeting his father. Why

had I assumed that Mr. Lazar wouldn’t be here? It was his wife’s

party, after all, and I would think he could come and go from the

facility he was in; it’s not like he was a prisoner. I just hadn’t

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thought about it, among all of the other issues crowding my brain

for attention. I hated to admit it, but I was scared.

In the living room—more like a library, there were so many

books piled around—a man sat folded into a large armchair. His

face held none of the sharpness of David’s and Celeste’s. Like in

the family photo, it seemed almost blurry, even though he was

sitting perfectly still. He was mostly bald on top, except for a thin

but longish section that was awkwardly combed to one side. He

stared out a window. Classical music—a piano concerto—played

softly.

“Dad, this is my friend Leena,” David said. “This is my father,

George Lazar.”

“Hi,” I said. “It’s so nice to meet you.” I stood next to his

chair, my hands dangling uselessly. I clasped them behind my

back.

“Nice to meet you.” His eyes strayed up to me, and then

back to the window.

“You feeling okay, Dad?” David asked.

Pushing with one arm and then the other, Mr. Lazar shifted

himself up to stand. Although his face wasn’t too heavy, his body

filled his sweatpants and sweatshirt and then some. He walked

with stiff legs over to the window. Side effects of his medicine,

probably—weight gain, movement difficulties. And I shouldn’t

take it personally that he wasn’t interested in meeting me.

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“Did the mail come yet?” he asked, then moved over to the

next window. “I should probably wait outside. Until it comes.”

“No mail today,” David said. “It’s Sunday.”

I studied the books on the shelves, the wallpaper’s light

brown bamboo pattern. Flat affect—that’s what it was called, the

way his voice just slid out like a robot’s, no expression.

“I should wait outside,” he said. “Sometimes they bring

something on Sunday. I ordered something for your mother.”

“Stay inside, Dad.” Celeste’s voice came from the doorway

leading into the hall. “It’s cold out.” She hunched over her

crutches, wearing the very un-Celeste outfit of a denim skirt and

an oversize Hooters T-shirt. Long sleeved, of course.

“Hi, Celeste,” I said.

“How’s it coming?” David asked. He turned to me. “She

wasn’t really resting upstairs. She’s making this incredible thing

for the party—one of those painted caricatures where you stick

your face in and get your picture taken.”

“Fine,” she said. She looked like she should have been