She slowed her thoughts, concentrated, focusing on the smallish grains resting in her soup. Oblong. Thick in texture.
“I get couscous,” she said.
Another sip, a round solid substance, fibrous, with a give, her teeth sinking in. “And carrots. Mmm. Is that cumin?”
“A dash of harissa, too,” her mother answered.
Alice nodded, the name providing access.
Her mother handed her what she said was challah bread. Mom stumbled over the rough ch, her effort game and respectful and a bit comic.
Alice dipped the spongy slice, soaking it; she took a bite, let out a groan of appreciation.
“The world can open in new ways.”
“Sweetheart?”
Alice felt for and gripped and squeezed her mother’s hands, enveloping their bony strength. She took a breath and exhaled.
“I can exist like this.”
—
That afternoon, when Oliver came back from the other office, and entered the darkened bedroom, she was beneath Gramma’s patchwork quilt, in a fetal curl.
“Get out while you can,” she moaned.
Without delay he was on the move, heading right for the walk-in closet, in short order emerging with a sealed plastic bin. “I’m an idiot. Why I didn’t think of this sooner?” Overturning the container, dumping out small black objects shaped like bats. “All these just stored away,” Oliver said. He picked up a pair, checked the lenses. “How do you tell if one has lots of protection?”
She settled on a pair of oval couture Versaces that looked superpunkish, their arms crafted to look like steel safety pins. Today their appeal lay in their streamlined dark lenses, curving around the ridges of the eye like swimming goggles, sealing off all angles of light. Alice remembered them as a score, the primo takeaway item from a goodie bag given to her by a friend of a friend — a model turned trophy wife who’d decided to launch her own line during Fashion Week, hold her own, guerrilla-style show right on the sidewalk outside Bryant Park’s tents. Alice had pulled an all-nighter, alternately sewing and fixing like a banshee, holding the hand of this coked-up madwoman. Somehow, they’d managed to get the cocktail dresses close to wearable. The goodie bag had been Alice’s payment, the sunglasses worn five times then lost in the bowels of her closet.
An aftershave she’d given Oliver for the holidays had a subtle combination — cloves and cinnamon and pepper. It reminded her of the pleasure of snuggling into his chest late at night. The connection between her senses and memories provided a small charge. A belief in her own abilities.
She could open her eyes, Oliver promised, it would be fine.
She ran her hand down the side of his face, appreciating the sandpapery feel of fledgling facial hair, as well as the lightly oiled flesh beneath. Bracing, she creaked her eyes a sliver.
The lenses did their job, layering the room in brown film. And it was indeed a pleasure to recognize features she well knew, the patient concern in his brow, his widening smile.
He’d shaved recently, she noticed, which charmed her no end.
“Let me take you to the care center,” he pleaded again.
“All I need is fresh air. Maybe we could take a little walk?”
Just around the block? A walk would give her some exercise. So her legs didn’t atrophy? And it would give her mom a chance to change the sheets and air things out — this room was so claustrophobic. Alice’s pulse raced through each spoken phrase: she had the perfect floppy straw hat, the hugest brim. She’d put on a thick medical mask. Alice knew her blood levels were still low, she promised Oliver she didn’t want to make anything worse. It would be so good for her.
The ringing intruded, always at the worst moment. She could tell from Oliver’s shift, his low Jesus, this could be a problem.
But no. She would not let it. Jeans that once had formed a second skin now were comically baggy, and Alice played this up, taking a while to belt them a second time. Though her feet had inflated into small rafting devices, a pair of running sneakers could fit as long as she didn’t wear socks. She completed the ensemble with a knee-length coat of distressed denim, its neckline fringed, white cotton shredded to look like feathers. “After all these years”—Alice laughed—“I’ve become Little Edie. Finally.”
She felt immediately ashamed, wallowing like that; nonetheless, momentum was flowing, the evening under way. “A respite from my own private Grey Gardens.”
Oliver pressed on her shoulder, and joined in with the fun, kissing her cheek, throwing his own idea into the soup.
Now Doe saw Daddy taking the harness from off the closet door. Recognizing that she, too, was going on an adventure, the baby drooled, spat with glee, little limbs flailing.
Alice reminded: Doe should face inward, toward him.
“Way ahead of you.”
Out of the elevator, into the short hallway, overhead halogen sending crackles of fear through her ears, Alice tightly closed her eyes, said “Oliver.” Her cornstalk legs trembled and her balance was unsteady, those ridiculous clown feet like sponges. Yet again, there he was: his arm a solid brick anchor around her waist, his prompts deliberate, his words soothing, his manner careful. “Small steps, all right, that’s it, doing great.” He propped open the front door, his body providing leverage, his hand guiding her forward. “In three steps, you will have the first stair, we need to go down it to get to the street. Okay, one step and now, step. Now, again, step.”
The false spring hadn’t fully disappeared, but nights were getting cooler. Tonight’s air was thick, sticky with the promise of rain. Streetlamp light was diffusive, the neon from stores carrying in small, thinning clouds. Alice shielded her eyes, looked away from brighter areas. With each step she measured and placed herself firmly on the uneven sidewalk. She also used each taken step as an exercise; first to acknowledge the fear in her, and then to gather resolve, continue onward. A few times she felt around Oliver’s arm, tightening her grip, signaling he should slow. The residual stench of dry ice remained, even stronger out here. Still, being outside was a pleasure, the gloom of the Meatpacking District a treat. Even her developing sweat felt delicious, almost libidinous. Doe’s neck was craned as well. Staring at Mommy, her eyes sparkled, that consciousness dawning, thinking what?
At the intersection of West Thirteenth, beneath the near edge of the elevated tracks, a pair of transvestite hookers were at their usual spot, one fixing her wig and applying mascara, the other scarfing popcorn. Donette and Michelle’s thing: they dressed up as identical schoolgirl sisters. Alice had long grown accustomed to them coveting her boots, mangling pronunciation of the brand name of the pencil skirt they swore they’d cut her for. Tonight, however, their cattiness gave way to stone silence. What she must have looked like. She mentioned as much to Oliver.
He did not respond. Rather, she felt a different transition taking place inside him, his fingertips tensing, now gripping her hip, his posture going rigid.
She looked to him and saw his eyes squinting, his attention focused.
“Motherfuck,” he said.
Alice tried to follow, to see what he saw; what met her were blurs, black streaks.
“What?” she asked, but knew, a horrible thrill. “Not again.”
The anger consolidating through him was her answer. But he wouldn’t, he couldn’t abandon his blind cancerous wife on the street, just take off — not with their baby strapped to his chest? He couldn’t make chase.