Frost - Marianna Baer

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

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