The Air We Breathe (17 page)

“Sorry, Shirley,” she whispered.

Back in her room, she dug the Bible from beneath her pillow, opened to the front cover and ran her finger over the squiggle of black permanent marker in the upper left-hand corner. She felt the indentation of a ballpoint pen, barely perceptible. Digging through her pile of schoolbooks, she found her math notebook, ripped a page from the metal spiral, and placed the unlined top part over the marker stain. Gently, she rubbed the side of a sharpened pencil on the paper. A name appeared, and a phone number.

Ellen Josephine Hicks.

555-3127.

Molly went into the office; her mother never shut off the computer. She did an Internet search and found the Colorado Springs area code—719. She slid her hand over the phone.

What am I thinking? What would I even say?

The clock in the corner of the computer monitor read 11:48. She wouldn’t be calling anyone this time of night, even with the two-hour time difference. She wrote the phone number on the bottom of the paper, along with the name. Creased the paper with her thumbnail and, holding it tight over the corner of the desk, tore a thin strip off. She folded it in half, and half, and half again until the scrap was the size of quarter. Back in her bedroom, she taped the square to the underside of her top dresser drawer.

Maybe she would call tomorrow.

C
LAIRE
F
EBRUARY
2009

She watched evening television from the hospital bed, local news and reruns. But even with a canned laughter track echoing in the room, she couldn’t stop replaying her conversation from thirty minutes ago, as Beverly pleaded with Claire to call Andrew and tell him about the episode with the baby.

“It was just a scare. Nothing’s progressing. The doctor is probably sending me home in a couple hours. I don’t want to worry him,” Claire had said.

“Mmm-hmm. He’s not going to be happy when he finds out.”

“Are you going to say anything to him?”

“You’re not?”

Claire rubbed one eyelid with her middle finger, the other with her thumb, listening to the membranes squish beneath the pressure. “I don’t know.”

“Think about this one, Claire. If they’re releasing you, let
me know. I’ll make some calls, get someone from the church to pick you up.”

She sighed. The doctor had examined her, said her cervix wasn’t at all dilated. She’d be monitored for a bit longer, to make sure the baby’s heart rate stayed strong and the contractions didn’t start up again, but he expected it was a one-time thing, brought on by dehydration, or stress, or overexertion. Perhaps a mix of all three?

“Maybe,” she had said.

She closed her eyes. The hospital gown and sheets left her feeling cold, as did the thin cotton blanket the nurse gave her. She wanted to buzz and ask for another, but the nurse hadn’t been happy about getting her the first one. Her feet were ice; she covered her right with her left, trying to warm them, remembering when Caden would climb between her and Daniel in bed, his bare feet always cold, and he’d stick them between her legs. “Go get socks,” she’d growl, her skin sprouting goose pimples.

“I have none that match,” he would tell her.

She adjusted the head of the bed a little higher, pulled the pillow out from under her and covered herself with it.

She wished Andrew were there.

The same unhappy nurse had brought her a newspaper, too, snagged from another room—the Sudoku puzzle half filled, the crossword started, the first five across clues written in, the first two down, and then the fourth, and a half-dozen random words here and there. Most were wrong, and the previous reader had used pen. Claire stretched, her fingertips hooking the strap of her purse on the side table. She rummaged through for a mechanical pencil, licked the top of the eraser, and patted the excess spit onto the back of her hand.
Then she erased the inked words, gently, only rubbing one small hole in the newsprint. Started over. She didn’t bother to look at the clock; just filled in clues, one after the other, like old times.

She rarely solved puzzles anymore, didn’t attend the monthly meetings at the library, didn’t write them, except if she was inspired by a theme she found original, which had happened maybe twice since her wedding to Andrew. The crosswords were part of her
old
lives, the one with Daniel and the kids, and then the one after them. Andrew had said to her, “You know, you don’t need to write these anymore, if you don’t want to. We don’t need the extra money.” She had taken that to mean,
You’re done.

She and Andrew had married not long after Hanna disappeared—seven months—and with two words she had become a wife and mother again. “I do.”
Poof.
She’d wanted to impress her new husband, so threw herself into the proper-wife role with abandon. Schooling Jesse, running errands, having meals on the table when Andrew walked through the door, keeping the house clean, including those pesky tasks she rarely did previously—dusting the ceiling fan blades, wiping down the floor molding under the beds, folding underwear first in thirds, and then in half. By the end of the first year she had exhausted herself, and she cried to Heidi, telling her she couldn’t let up because this was what Andrew had thought he married. A dynamo. Not a dud.

“He just wants you,” Heidi had told her. “But who is that anymore?”

She hadn’t lied to him about who she was, not really. Not intentionally. She’d presented the picture of the woman she strove to be, who she honestly thought she should be. Andrew
liked that picture.
“That’s just how I feel, too,”
he’d said over and over, his eyes brightening each time the two of them stumbled onto common ground.

Later, Claire found herself not telling him things she thought he might disagree with; she didn’t want the light to dim, to lose her chance with him. Commission. Omission. She told herself there was a big difference.
Yeah, two less letters.
Two missing letters in a crossword puzzle meant
unfinished
. Still she ignored the pressure building up, walled herself up into the perfect Christian woman model advocated from periodical and pulpit. After she had worn three-inch wedges to church all summer, Heidi pointed to her feet and asked, “What is that?”

“Andrew likes it.”

“There’s a big difference between doing something for your husband because he likes it, and doing it because you don’t want him to find out you don’t.”

And her friend’s words had wrapped her marriage into a pretty package with metallic paper and ribbon and gift tag—perfect on the outside, but when Claire shook the box, it was hollow.

Empty.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

That was why staying on Dorsett Island was so important. A little bit rebellion. A little bit adventure. A whole lot of telling the world,
Yes, I still have a mind of my own
. A chance to get back to the woman she was before her marriage to Andrew. Not that she wanted that whole package—she could do without the loneliness and confusion and TV dinners—but at least she could put on a pair of pants without thinking,
What if he doesn’t like me in these?

A knock on the door. Claire jerked, looked over, saw that pizza boy standing there, the one she’d met the other day at the museum. “Can I come in?” he asked.

“Sure, yeah.” She sat up, moved the pillow back behind her. The boy helped her, shimmying it down so it fit in the hollow of her neck. “Thanks.”

“No prob. And it’s Tobias.”

“Sorry.”

“No big deal. You just had that look.”

“I guess I did. I am really bad with names, like I said.”

He swept his hand over his head, removing his hat. Stuck it in his back jeans pocket. “Are you okay? The, you know, um, baby?”

“Yes. Everything’s good. False alarm.”

“Oh, good. I, uh, hope you don’t mind me coming by. I know it’s really rude, but I wasn’t sure I’d have another chance to talk to you. I guess I’m sorta cornering you.”

“I don’t know what you’re expecting from me. I already told you I can’t tell you what you want to know.”

“I already know,” Tobias said. He unzipped his fleece jacket, took out a thick, rumpled rectangle of white paper. Unfolded it.

“The twelve-year-old girl who recently returned home after being abducted has disappeared again, police said Sunday. Hanna Suller and her mother, Susan Suller, were reported missing by family friend Claire Rodriguez after she showed up at the Suller home for a visit. According to Avery Springs Police Detective John Woycowski, police found blood at the scene, and a van registered to Susan Suller has not yet been located. ‘There was no
sign of forced entry,’ Woycowski said, ‘but some sort of struggle took place in the house.’

“When asked if police had any leads, Woycowski replied, ‘Not yet.’

“Hanna Suller was kidnapped from FSR Bank when it was held up by three men in May. Her father, Henry Suller, professor of Entomological Studies at Sutcliffe College, and security guard Ralph Pitkin were killed during the robbery. Hanna Suller escaped two weeks later when one of her captors, Bobby Bailey, died of a heart attack. Police are still looking for Bailey’s accomplices. ‘We’re not ruling out the involvement of someone with intimate knowledge of the Suller girl’s case,’ Woycowski said. ‘With recent news reports that Hanna had started speaking again, there could be someone out there who didn’t want her to talk.’

“Rodriguez could not be reached for comment.”

Tobias refolded the pages.

“How did you find that?” Claire asked.

“I knew your first name. I knew Mol—Hanna’s. You mentioned the town you two used to live in. It didn’t take all that long.” He sniffed. “Molly always says the Internet is her friend. Maybe not now, huh?”

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Can I do anything?”

Tobias waved the wadded paper at her. “Tell me this isn’t true.”

“It’s true.”

“Well, then, what happened?”

“You’re looking at almost as much as I know,” Claire said, switching her left toes beneath her right, trying to warm them now. “Hanna’s aunt would only tell me they didn’t want to be found. Beyond that, there’s nothing.”

“But you came to visit her.”

“Yes . . . but they weren’t there.”

“No. I mean the other day, at the museum.”

“It was a . . .” What could she say? Not coincidence. Not fate.
A miracle?

Was she seeing another? Her proper Evangelical faith was leery of declaring anything miraculous. Oh, she had no problem saying “God did it,” but she never meant He reached down His hand from heaven and touched a situation, stirred it, nudged all the pieces exactly where they needed to be.

Not like when He rescued Hanna.

She twisted in the bed for a more comfortable position, for a more comfortable explanation. “I didn’t know she was here. We were visiting a friend. My stepson wanted to see the wax figures.”

“So it was a God thing.”

“I guess.” The baby moved inside her; she covered the pulsating spot with the heel of her hand, pressed back a little. “Are you and Ha—Molly close?”

“I want to be.”

“You don’t know her well, then.”

Tobias shrugged, hooked the chair against the wall with his foot, pulled it toward him and sat down. “She moved in six years ago. I barely noticed her. There’s a big difference between twelve and fourteen. And she didn’t go to school or anything.”

“No?”

“Homeschooled. Guess I can see why. Not sure I’d ever let my kid out of my sight if something like that happened to her.”

“You said she doesn’t leave the museum.”

“She used to. I remember seeing her outside sometimes, in front of the place, you know? I didn’t even realize she’d stopped going outside until recently when I, you know, started paying more attention.”

“To her.”

“Ayuh,” Tobias said. He hadn’t removed his jacket but huddled down into it instead, his chin disappearing into its thick collar.

“She’s a special girl,” Claire said.

“I know. She doesn’t.”

Claire nodded. The doctor walked in then, glanced at the monitor printout and said, “Everything looks good, Mrs. Brenneman. We’re sending you home. The nurse will be in soon to get you unhooked and ready to go.”

She thanked the doctor, and after he left, Tobias stood. “Well, that’s my cue, I guess.”

“Listen, are you heading back to town?”

“Yes.”

“Can I trouble you for a ride? Since you’re here.”

Tobias nodded. “No prob. Least I can do, since I barged in on you and all. I’ll pull the car around front.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“It’s okay. I’ll wait.”

Forty minutes later, release papers signed and warm clothes back on, the nurse wheeled Claire downstairs to the entrance, where Tobias sat waiting in his car. She lifted her pregnant
girth into the passenger seat and buckled the belt under her stomach. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s all good. I can move the seat back, if you want,” Tobias said.

“I’m fine.”

They didn’t talk about Hanna, or the past, or anything. Tobias drove with the radio on low, more murmur than music, but every so often he’d hum along to whatever he was listening to. Claire closed her eyes and thought about Andrew, about Jesse, and how she wanted to be home. When Tobias turned into Beverly’s driveway, he helped her from the car and walked her up the steps, saying, “Careful, they’re slick,” as she leaned on him for balance. She thanked him and went inside, and when Beverly saw her, she had questions. Claire waved her off. “I’m fine. I just need to sleep,” she said. Her friend hugged her and said, “I’ll bring tea up to you in a few minutes.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be asleep in a few minutes.”

Claire climbed the stairs like an old woman, or a toddler, both feet coming to rest together on the same step before moving to the next. She took off her shoes, pants, and bra—nothing else—and climbed into bed. The red light on her cell phone blinked; she flipped it open. Three new voice messages, all from Andrew.

She didn’t listen to them.