Хлоя Бенджамин - The Immortalists

When she returns to the condo, there is an e-mail from Mira.

Dearest V:

Will the eleventh of December work for you? Turns out Eli has a commitment on the fourth, and Jonathan still likes the idea of dragging everyone to Florida in the winter, crazy man. (It will be nice, I think. I just have to get over the embarrassment of telling everyone I’m actually getting married in Miami.) Let me know.

Love – M.

Jonathan is a fellow professor at SUNY New Paltz who lost his wife to pancreatic cancer four years before Daniel’s death. He was not someone Mira had ever considered romantically. After Daniel died, he brought Mira meals – ‘It’s brisket,’ he said, ‘but store-bought; my wife was the one who cooked’ – and stayed with her through the panic attacks she began to suffer before teaching. It was two years before she fell in love with him.

‘Though I didn’t fall. The pace was glacial,’ said Mira, during one of her Sunday night Skype sessions with Varya. ‘I had to surrender.’

Mira put her plate on the coffee table and tucked her feet beneath her. She was still petite, but more muscular: after Daniel’s death, she took up cycling, riding from New Paltz to Bear Mountain as the world rushed past, looking like the blur it felt.

‘Surrender what?’ Varya asked.

‘Well, that’s what I kept asking myself, and I realized that what I had to surrender wasn’t my pain, or my trust. I had to surrender Daniel.’

Six months ago, Jonathan proposed. He has an eleven-year-old son, Eli, whom Mira is learning to parent. Varya is to be her maid of honor.

What do you want? Luke asked her, and if Varya had answered him honestly, she would have said this: To go back to the beginning. She would tell her thirteen-year-old self not to visit the woman. To her twenty-five-year-old self: Find Simon, forgive him. She would tell herself to take care of Klara, to sign up for JDate, to stop the nurse before she took the baby out of Varya’s arms. She’d tell herself she would die, she would die, they all would. She would tell herself to pay attention to the smell of Klara’s hair, the feel of Daniel’s arms as he reached down to hug her, Simon’s stubby thumbs – my God, their hands, all of them, Klara’s hummingbird-quick, Daniel’s slender and restless. She’d tell herself that what she really wanted was not to live forever, but to stop worrying.

What if I change? she asked the fortune teller, all those years ago, sure that knowledge could save her from bad luck and tragedy. Most people don’t , the woman said.

It is seven o’clock, the sky a neon smear. Varya leans back in her chair. Perhaps she chose science because it was rational, believing it would set her apart from the woman on Hester Street and her predictions. But Varya’s belief in science was rebellion, too. She feared that fate was fixed, but she hoped – God, she hoped – that it was not too late for life to surprise her. She hoped it was not too late for her to surprise herself.

Now she remembers what Mira told her after Daniel’s burial. They hunched beneath a tree, snow filtering through the branches, as attendees made their way to the parking lot. ‘I never met Klara,’ Mira said. ‘But right now, I almost feel I understand her, because suicide does not seem irrational. What’s irrational is continuing on, day after day, as if forward momentum is natural.’

But Mira has done it. The impossibility of moving beyond loss, faced against the likelihood you will: it’s as absurd, as seemingly miraculous, as survival always is. Varya thinks of her colleagues, with their test tubes and microscopes, all of them attempting to replicate the processes that already exist in nature. Turritopsis dohrnii , a jellyfish the size of a sequin, ages in reverse when under threat. In winter, the wood frog turns to ice: its heart stops beating, its blood freezes, and yet, months later, when spring arrives, it thaws and hops away.

The periodical cicada hibernates underground in broods, feeding on fluids from tree roots. It would be easy to think them dead; perhaps, in some way – sedentary and silent, nestled two feet below the soil – they are. One night, seventeen years later, they break through the surface in astounding numbers. They climb the nearest vertical object; the husks of their nymphal skins drop crisply to the ground. Their bodies are pale and not yet hardened. In the darkness, they sing.

On the first week of July, Varya drives into the city for her weekly visit with Gertie. Gertie is buoyant: Ruby is visiting. Varya has never understood why a college student would spend two weeks every summer at a retirement home of her own volition, but Ruby suggested this plan as a freshman and hasn’t wavered. Helping Hands is an eight-hour drive from UCLA, where Ruby will soon begin her senior year. Each summer, she arrives in a flurry of sunglasses and stacked bracelets, sundresses and platform heels, as well as a brutish white Range Rover. She plays mah-jongg with the widows and reads to Gertie from the books in her literature courses. On the last night of her visit, she does a magic show in the dining hall, which has become so well attended that the staff bring extra chairs in from the library. The residents are rapt as children. Afterward, they wait for Ruby in long lines, eager to tell her about the time they met Houdini’s brother or saw a woman slide across Times Square from a rope held in her teeth.

‘What are you going to do now?’ Gertie asks Varya. ‘If you aren’t going back to work?’

She sits in her armchair, a bowl of pickles in her lap. Ruby lies on Gertie’s bed. She’s playing a game on her cell phone called Bloody Mary. When she reaches the fifth level, she passes the phone to Varya, who takes particular satisfaction in smashing the spry, hopping tomato that guards a bag of celery sticks.

‘It isn’t that I’m not going back to work,’ Varya says. ‘I’m just not going back to the Drake.’

She has told her mother that she made a critical mistake, something that compromised the integrity of the experiment. Soon – when Ruby leaves, perhaps – she’ll tell Gertie about Frida, and, most of all, about Luke. Their relationship has been too fragile to share, and though it is less fragile now, Varya still fears she’ll lose him as suddenly as he appeared. They’ve begun to exchange snail mail, photos and postcards and other small things. In May, Luke sent a picture of him with his new girlfriend, Yuko. Yuko is at least a foot and a half shorter than he, with an asymmetrical haircut dyed pink at the ends. In the photo, she is pretending to pick Luke up, one of his long legs slung over her arm as they squint with laughter. Another month passes before Luke admits that Yuko is his roommate, the one who posed as a Chronicle editor – though it wasn’t romantic then, he hastens to add – and that he kept this a secret because he did not want Varya to resent her.

Varya flushed with pleasure, both to see his happiness and to think he cared what she thought. That week, she passed a farm stand advertising homemade fruit preserves. She pulled to the side of the road and picked through the glass jars, their contents jewel-like in the afternoon light. When she found cherries, she bought two jars, keeping one and mailing the second to Luke. Ten days later, his reply came:

Not exceptional, but steady. Solid. The almond extract is a nice touch, and brings out the muskiness of the cherries, so they’re more than just sweet.

Varya grinned at the postcard and read it twice more. Unexceptional but steady and solid was not the worst thing one could be, she thought, and she went to the pantry to retrieve her own jar, which she had waited for his reply to open.