Marianna Baer - Frost

“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 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.

“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 resting. The circles under her eyes were now dark like plums.

“Let’s go upstairs, Dad,” Celeste said. “We can decide what you want to wear for the party. Mom and I bought you some new shirts yesterday.”

“I’m not going to the party,” Mr. Lazar said. He leaned forward so that his face was practically touching the windowpane.

“That’s okay,” Celeste said. “We still need to get you cleaned up and dressed.”

“Can’t you do that in a bit?” David said. “Leena just met him.”

“Don’t you have to go finish cooking or something?” Celeste replied. “People will be here in a couple of hours.”

I hooked a finger in one of David’s belt loops. “I can see your father later. What can I do to help out?”

“Anything Leena can do?” David said. “To help with your project?”

“I don’t give a fuck what Leena does,” Celeste said.

“Jesus,” David said. “What’s your problem?”

I had to blink away the threat of shocked tears, even though I knew better.

“Nothing,” she said. “Sorry. I have a terrible headache.” She clamped the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger.

“Do you want something for it?” I asked.

“No.”

“I know you don’t like taking stuff. But it will—”

“ Nothing will make it better.”

After Celeste’s outburst and meeting Mr. Lazar, I slipped away to a downstairs half bath and used one of the pills I’d brought with me to take the edge off. I hadn’t wanted to medicate today, mostly because of Celeste’s theory that I had a problem with it. But my first day at the Lazars’ house didn’t seem to be a good time to prove I was fine without them. Not to mention, who cared if I wasn’t fine without them? They weren’t harmful, like alcohol or whatever. They were a valid way of dealing with a stressful situation. If David didn’t have such a harsh view of meds, I wouldn’t have cared at all if Celeste told him.

Ironically, though, after the initial bumps, the day became surprisingly enjoyable. Mrs. Lazar— Phippy —had plenty of things for me to do around the house while we were waiting for people to come, and David needed help in the kitchen. Once everyone arrived, you’d have thought I’d been coming to Lazar functions since birth. Everyone was nice and funny and easy to talk to. And not one person asked me where I was applying to college. That had to be some sort of record for a high school senior at a social event with adults. Most of the time was spent talking about food.

“This pea-pod thing is amazing! Did you try one, Leena, hon?” David’s aunt Jill said. “Davey’s incredible, isn’t he? And do you know he’s like a genius? He was doing multiplication at two or something. Ask Phippy about it.”

I’d definitely learned that the female members of the family thought I’d snagged quite a catch.

“What about the bruschetta?” her daughter, Meg, said. “God. And where did you get that dress, Leena? It’s really cute.”

“Thanks. Anthropologie.” A sticky warmth embraced my hand. One or another small cousin had grabbed it. Which one was the towhead?

“I show you somefing,” he said. Gabe. That was his name.

“Leena’s having some food now, hon,” Jill said. “Later you can show her.”

“Actually, I show now.” He tugged.

Tiny Gabe had an easier time than I did worming through the clumps of people, most of whom were holding plates and glasses. I tried to keep up, so that he wouldn’t rip my arm out of its socket. “Sorry!” I kept saying as I bumped into most of them. Where was David? I had barely seen him.

“Joan Fontaine,” a white-haired man I’d met earlier said as I pushed by. He tapped my shoulder repeatedly. “That’s it. You look like a young Joan Fontaine. I’m sure someone’s told you that.”

“Nope,” I said. I wasn’t quite sure who Joan Fontaine was. An old actress, I thought. My arm was still moving so I couldn’t even stop to find out.

Gabe pulled me to the bottom of the staircase then let go of my hand and scrambled up the stairs like a spider.

“Gabe,” I said, “let’s stay downstairs.” But by the time I said it he was around the landing and up the next flight. I followed.

At the top of the stairs he pushed open a door into a dim room—curtains drawn, a big bed over to one side covered with a mess of burgundy paisley sheets and comforter. Clothes strewn around. The master bedroom. I’d been shown David’s and Celeste’s rooms, but not this one.