Marianna Baer - Frost

“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.”

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.”

“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.

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 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.

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.

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.

“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 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.