Balance of Fragile Things (27 page)

M
aija woke to raindrops thumping against her bedroom window. She could hear each droplet collide dully with the glass then slide down, as the window was the only obstacle in its path. She could hear the gutters rushing with water and knew that though it was only morning, a tremendous puddle had already formed and would soon burst and flood the tulip and daffodil bulbs that she'd left in the ground the previous year.

She pressed her eyes shut and listened to Paul's soft inhale and rushed exhale. His mouth, she imagined, was closed, and his thick eyelashes, like velvet fingers, were fanned across his high cheeks. His body was an ember against her back. He produced such heat during the night—a gift he attributed to his abundant chest hair—that Maija would only wear light nightgowns through the winter and in the summer she barely wore a stitch. Maija settled against his body and opened her eyes. He's here, she thought. I'm free.

She felt free of the unnecessary burden her sight had inflicted upon her in a series of images, voices, dreams—all of which she was forced by her curiosity and guilt to interpret. Now that Paul was awake from his coma and here in bed, she would not pay attention to silly otherworldly stammering even if it demanded her attention like a child threatening to fall to the ground and unleash a tantrum. That was the promise she'd made when she'd prayed to the image of a faceless god: For Paul's safe return to consciousness, she would disconnect her cord to the supernatural and unplug her ear from the divine socket for good. She couldn't forget her part of the deal; second chances were a rare gift. She was now living solely in the present without having to worry about the lives of strangers. She was free. She hoped.

There was a knock on the bedroom door, and Vic and Isabella entered. Maija smiled at her children and put her finger to her lips; they were excited to see their father. Viewing Paul in his injured state at the station must have affected the children, but Maija knew they were strong enough. She just hoped that Vic would stay peaceful and Isabella wouldn't turn to drugs or boys to fill the void that fear had opened inside of her. Perhaps she would have to keep an eye on them both to make certain they adjusted. Vic pursed his lips when he saw his father's bare head and the gash-like wounds that he would carry with him the rest of his life.

“Hi,
puttar
.” Paul opened his eyes and looked at his children.

Isabella took a seat on the edge of their bed, careful not to shake the mattress. Vic stood in the corner of the room, near the old armoire, with his arms crossed.

“How are you feeling?” Vic asked.

“Like a million bucks. How do I look?”

“Wonderful.” Maija put her robe on and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Papa, I need to tell you what I found.” Vic looked as if he'd put on weight, and his chest had broadened since she'd looked at him last. Vic held out a map to his father. He'd drawn an orange line through Cobalt.

Paul nodded. There was another knock on the door, and Oma and Papaji entered the bedroom. Papaji walked with only a small limp now. Maija was surprised how fast he'd healed. They both sat on a bench against the wall. Though the bedroom was small, it miraculously held everyone.

“I found an empty mine shaft under the town,” Vic said. “The orange line shows how it runs right around PMI, the station, and the school. It covers nearly the whole town. I think it was an old Cobalt mine, or something. Anyway, I found drums inside. They look dangerous. I think they are the key.”

“A mine? Please don't tell me you were crawling around down there because if you were—”

Paul cut Maija off. “Does the air down there smell sweet?”

“Yes.”

“TCE smells sweet when vaporized. Exposure can cause illnesses from nausea, vomiting, to the worst, cancer.” Paul seemed surprised by his own response. “I must have read that somewhere.”

“That means toxic chemicals have infiltrated the groundwater,” Maija said quietly.

Oma said, “Could this have caused the flu epidemic? Isabella's stomach pain? Oh, God.”

“My question is—who owns this land, here?” Paul traced his pointer finger along the area that ran from the station into the forest beyond Main Street.

Maija felt her face go white as her mind turned to the last conversation she'd overheard at the Finch house. She could still hear Eleanora and Herbert's conversation about Tracy.

This is your fault. You couldn't pass up that deal…You're no better than me…Now our daughter has—

“Finch,” Maija said. “They did this. They did everything.”

“What are you talking about?” Paul sat up higher against the bed.

“I was over there delivering medicine. Tracy is sick. She's dying. It might be cancer.” She glanced at Isabella. “I overheard them talking about building here and how they should have known better.”

“Michelle,” Isabella whispered.

“They put za barrels down there?” Oma asked.

“Well, maybe not, but they bought the land with the knowledge and built the Heights on top of it,” Maija said. “That should be illegal.”

Paul winced and put his hand to his head.

“Let's let him rest now.” Maija shooed everyone out of the room.

On his way out, Papaji placed his hand on Paul's shoulder and said, “This was my fault. I called them. I called PMI and told them I was from the Kwicki Fill.”

Paul looked surprised. “It doesn't matter. It could have been anything. I was snooping around. I was so frustrated. At least now we know what is going on.” Paul seemed stronger at that moment, as though talking had awakened his spirit.

“You are healing fast,” Maija said.

“I am beginning to remember,” Paul whispered.

T
here was something about the opening night of a play that seemed to ignite an electrical charge in the air of Cobalt. Though
1,001 Cries
was opening in the afternoon for a matinee, and the incessant rain was still trying desperately to put a damper on the entire village, there was a skin-tingling energy bounding about, and Isabella felt it. The Singh household was bustling in preparation for Isabella's debut.

Isabella slipped her stocking-covered feet into her patent leather shoes as she sat on the edge of her recently made bed. She'd performed this action a thousand times before: left foot into shoe, right foot into shoe, and then slide. Though her dressy shoes weren't as comfortable as her red sneakers, she didn't mind. Today, familiarity and comfort were lesser priorities. The way her mattress bounced when she stood, the storm brewing outside, and even the antique scent of rosewater in the air were all commonplace. Today, however, Isabella felt different, confident, as if all the moments leading up to this particular one finally made sense, and she was ready for all eyes to be on her.

For as long as she could remember, she had preferred the name Isabella to Izzy because Izzy was sharp and, in her mind, would belong to someone who knew how to throw a football and French braid her hair. Since she'd seen her name in its abbreviated form in the play's program, she now thought it sounded elegant, something she never thought she could be. Pretending to be a fictional person allowed her to revaluate her identity. Acting turned her inside out. At first, it had been a game, like charades. But the deeper she went into the character, the more she sorted through her own motivations. To appear sad, she had to recognize what made her heavyhearted in real life. When her character held Erik's hand, she set aside her anxiety and embodied Samantha's confidence. The process of pretending unveiled parts of potential selves beneath her thick hair, glasses, and other invisibility-rendering accoutrements. She felt healthy, too, since she'd stopped drinking water from drinking fountains. The nausea had gone away quickly. And when she slid her feet into her shoes on this day, she filled with a new sensation: courage. Isabella stood tall, puffed up with her new feeling, and went to Oma's wooden box. The necklace was where she'd left it; in its dull gold color, she saw the past.

T
he Singh household had changed in subtle ways. Food preparation, for one, was a more involved process because Maija decided they would only eat food grown outside Cobalt and not use the tap water to cook. She wouldn't wait for an official word of warning from the city to tape off her kitchen faucet.

Maija convinced Paul to use his beverage distributor connections to special order two-gallon jugs of Poland Spring water directly from Poland, Maine. The garage, once home to Paul's lair, was now a storage center for gallons of water. Maija was working hard, with a pencil behind her ear and sticky notes stuck to the fridge, computer screen, and car dash. She felt an overwhelming urge to protect her family from poisoned water, nameless attackers, blindness, and, if at all possible, recurrent nausea. Though she was overcompensating for what she considered her personal failures as a mother and wife, her new mantra gave her focus: protect the ones she loved. The water was just the first of many adjustments she made in the household. She added vitamins to everyone's plate at breakfast. To heal her injured stomach and esophageal lining, Isabella received large quantities of raw ginger and holy basil capsules. Maija tested the seatbelts in the car for their durability. She even packed a large emergency box in the trunk filled with a first aid kit, flares, cereal, granola bars, turkey and beef jerky, dog food (she'd heard somewhere that a human could live off kibble for months), and a roll of quarters for potential tolls. Come storm, flat tire, or even car fire, she wanted to be ready. Maija's paranoia grew every second.

“You know, mine dearest, if you put za same energy into feeding za poor, everyone in za world would be fat in a week!” Oma laughed.

Oma was helping Maija draft an emergency checklist mere moments before they were to leave to the theater. It read: “
Fire
: extinguisher under sink.
Blackout
: candles in the garage.
Earthquake
: get under something sturdy and avoid windows.
Hurricane
: tie down porch furniture.
Tornado
: go to the station stock room.
Bioterrorist Attack
: masks, gloves, and hand sanitizer under sink.” Maija felt it was overkill, but it was better to be ready than caught ill-equipped. She taped the list to the refrigerator.

Maija's clairvoyance gave her a particular insight into death. She knew now that the lives of those close to her were no different than those of the people who visited her in their spirit form. Evil people weren't the ones who died in burning buildings or tragic accidents. Decent people who thought they'd live at least as long as their spouses died. She'd turned off her psychic ability as best she could, but she could not erase the lessons she'd learned. Maija only wished she could protect her daughter from seeing ghosts. Thankfully her mother had given Maija her pure rosewater cologne; this was one of the only aromas Maija knew of that could keep the spirits at bay.

V
ic was seriously annoyed with his mother. First, she'd demanded that he wear a suit—but he'd managed to finagle his way down to a nice shirt and tie. As he put on his one and only navy-and-white striped tie, he couldn't help but think that he could have pushed for a sweater and slacks; the tie was not a clip-on. He wandered into his parents' bedroom consumed by the difficulty of a Windsor knot.

“Mama? Can you help? I think it's a bad idea I wear this. I mean, it's choking me.”

“
Puttar
, you need some help?”

His father was standing before the mirror that was attached to the back of the closet door, straightening his collar on the outside of his sweater. His turban was on his head, hiding his wounds.

“Come here.” Paul took Vic's necktie and fumbled with it, at times constricting Vic's esophagus. “I can do this in one second.”

“Papa, it's okay. Mama always—”

Paul untied his malformed knot and tried again, with force.

Vic looked at his father's reflection in the mirror. He was here, right here, he thought in disbelief. He felt his father's cold knife in his pocket; he'd meant to give it back to him right when they got home from the hospital, but instead he'd kept it at his side, just as he'd seen his father do for so long. Vic removed it from his pocket and held it in his palm to his father.

“I polished it for you.” The knife shone like newly pressed silver in the bedroom light.

Paul let go of the tie and reached slowly for the knife, but then he turned his hand into a fist.

“I have something better for you.” Paul went to his drawer and took out a larger, more ornamental dagger.

“Wow, that's a big knife.”

“This is the
kirpan
that Papaji gave me,” his father said. “And now it's yours. Vic, you're grown up. After I figure out how to tie this tie, I'll teach you how to sharpen it.”

“I know how; I've watched you do it.”

“See, you already know. Go get your mother for the tie; she's in the bathroom.”

~

When they arrived at the high school, the parking lot was full. The hordes of Cobalt students and their relatives had already taken up most of the asphalt with their Chryslers and minivans. Maija pulled the car into an open handicapped spot near the school. Vic shrugged. Surely they qualified for a placard, with a coma survivor with two healing skull fractures, a blind grandmother, and an elderly man healing from foot surgery.

Vic watched Oma, Isabella, and Papaji scurry toward the theater under the cover of umbrellas. Isabella told her family where to sit so she would know where to look for them in the audience. Maija and Paul shared the last remaining umbrella, while Vic insisted he didn't need the protection from a little water.

With the darkening afternoon light and unending rain, the structure looked like a watermark, translucently blue against an ever-deepening navy sky. Vic had never been here after the hours required of him. High schools weren't supposed to be populated after classes were out, he thought. The school, usually dominated by rules and watchful eyes, was now just a space being filled by eager audience members.

Vic felt odd in his clothes, like a stevedore stuffed into an older brother's nice clothes. It was the blue-and-white bandana around his hair that gave him a seafaring façade. The gift that his father had given him, so much more than the
kirpan
itself, added to his swagger.

“Hi, Vic.”

He turned to see Katie, standing under an umbrella, smiling at him, and he felt his heart leap. “Hey, Katie,” he said, trying to sound casual. He stepped toward her.

“I have your coupon. For the photo contest.”

Vic had nearly forgotten about the contest. It was strange, he thought, how something like a photo had once seemed so important. “Oh, right. Thanks.”

“Your photograph was definitely the best,” Katie said. “But then, I have a thing for butterflies.”

He remembered the butterfly on her notebook. “Really?”

She nodded, then grinned. “You might even call me Butterfly Girl.”

Butterfly Girl—he let the word sift through his brain for a moment. “You're BF Girl? From my blog?”

She nodded again. “It's a great blog, Vic. I hope you plan to keep writing it. Anyway, here's your coupon.”

She held out an envelope, and he took it, watching raindrops dampen the envelope. Their fingers touched, briefly.

“E-mail me,” she said, then took off toward the theater.

“Pretty girl,” he heard his mother murmur, and when he looked at her he caught her smiling her approval.

As they continued along the sidewalk into the school, Vic heard a raspy voice coming from the side of the building. When he turned the corner, he came face to face with Joe Balestrieri and his black eyes. Vic kept walking, leading his family to the high school's entrance. As he was about to collide with Joe, Joe got out of his way.

“You know, bantam weight fighters are even more feared because of their speed.” Paul beamed.

Vic understood his father's comment. For a split second, he considered telling him how he'd punched Joe, not once but twice. But he realized he didn't need to. His father was proud of who he was, as he was, completely.