Balance of Fragile Things (18 page)

“Thank you for coming down on such short notice, um…”

“Hermione, but everyone calls me Oma. Yes, it is good you called. I wanted to see za school where mine grandchildren come, neh?” Oma grinned at Isabella.

“Yes, all right then, Oma.” Mrs. Cohen appeared to be in a much better mood.

Isabella was still dumbfounded at seeing the effects of her grandmother's persuasion, and they walked through the fog side by side for two whole blocks before speaking. Water sounds surrounded them as they went; the rainwater drip-drip-dripped off of trees and ran through gutters. Oma slowed her pace and straightened her rain hat. She appeared to relax, as though the weight of authority she'd carried into the principal's office had finally evaporated from her shoulders.

“Oma?”

“Yes?”

“You believe me, right? I didn't do anything wrong.”

“Of course, darlink.”

“Oma?”

“Yes?”

“How'd you do it?”

“Do what, darlink?”

“How'd you handle Mrs. Cohen?”

“I've handled much worse.”

“Oh.”

“You want to know a secret? Always bring a gift.”

P
apaji and Oma were like oil and water: mustard oil from the Punjab and spring water from Mežuļi. Not only did their languages separate them, so did their genders. They were grandparents, yes, but not husband and wife. This fact was difficult for the receptionist at the podiatrist's office to understand. Oma tried to explain over and over again, failingly, why she was going to wait for Mr. Singh when he woke up from the surgery.

“Nonsense,” Oma said as she returned to her chair in the pastel-colored waiting room.

“It's okay, Ma. She's just not that bright,” Maija whispered as she filled in Papaji's paperwork.

“She called me Mrs. Singh.” Oma laughed and shook her head.

“It's a good name, Mini.” Papaji smiled.

The day before, Oma and Papaji had spent time alone together. The house emptied: Maija to work, Vic and Isabella to school, Paul to the station. The stillness returned once the garage door closed and the last youthful member of the Singh tribe exited. The quiet was palpable. Oma turned on a fan over the stove in the kitchen to disrupt the silence. Papaji appeared to assume that she was going to cook, so he turned his chair in the living room to watch.

He smiled.

She smiled back.

She saw his curiosity; even after his substantial breakfast of cereal, pancakes, and eggs she knew he could still eat. Oma was a chef. She was trained in all the pastry ways of Latvia and Europe—from blintzes to
piragis
, cottage cheese cake to Alexander cake, she knew it all. She'd seen this look before in her husband's face, God rest his soul. Heinrich Georg Rainier Mazur died so long ago, his death was part of another portion of time, dog-eared in a history book. He was tall; part German, part Latvian; and together they'd had a child. But when history shifted again, he was drafted into World War II at the bitter end of the bloodshed. He was taken to the Eastern front, and it was there he was injured. As she whisked eggs together, Papaji had asked about her husband.

He died long ago
.

Papaji pressed his hand against his chest and seemed to search for words.
You know, I don't know what to call you. The children call you Oma, and your daughter calls you Ma, but you aren't my grandmother or mother
.

She felt her broad cheeks tinting pink.
Hermione
. She pressed her hand to her chest.

Mini?

She nodded, though the irony was not lost even on her. She was short, but not small by any means; with an ironic nickname like Mini, she'd have to be as round and plump as she was. But whatever he managed to call her would be fine.

First class, you can call me Harbans
.

Hairbuns? Harry? Okay.

And with that, they'd become formally acquainted with each other.

When Maija handed the paperwork to the receptionist, she asked her to call the pharmacy when they were ready to be picked up.

“Good luck, Papaji. I will see you in a few hours,” Maija called as she rushed out the door. A gust of cool damp wind flowed through the waiting room.

The synthesizers and electric drums of the Muzak created an atmosphere of plastic comfort. Oma opened her large purse and retrieved a long piece of yarn, connecting it to her crocheting needles through a series of complicated knots. She quickly went to work on her project and within a few minutes she had a postage stamp–sized piece of orange, purple, and blue fuzz dangling from the two silver needles.

“
Ki halle?
What is that?” Papaji asked.

“A
zeÄ·e
, a sock for you. It will help your heel heal. Don't worry, I will make two.” She smirked and continued to twist the needles around each other as she hummed softly.

“Mr. Singh? We can take you back now.”

The two exchanged a glance, and Papaji followed the nurse through the double doors. Oma was happy to wait, content to knit him a pair of warm wool socks that would keep the moisture away from his injured extremity. She wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue. Perhaps she would have to go to the eye doctor, as her eyes were becoming dimmer by the day. She wondered how long it would take for her to write down all of the things she had seen in her life if she were to lose her sight.

She closed her eyes and found that she could still feel the warmth of the Latvian sun across her face. She could hear the whistling chickadee and smell the layers of pine needles and leaves decomposing under her feet. Four out of five of her senses were extraordinarily precise. Her eyelids pressed tighter over the cataracts as she imagined the feeling of her porch in Jelgava. It had been decades since she'd visited Latvia. One thing she hadn't counted on during the slow process of encroaching blindness was that the memories she'd managed to bury would begin to bubble up to the surface. Then again, she wore history around her neck. Oma's amber necklace was a relic of the sunken forest off the coast of the Baltic Sea. Some said a flood had dragged the forest under the water tens of thousands of years ago. Others said the wicked were punished in a flood and the amber, as it washed onto the shore, was a reminder—the blood of the trees petrified. The ancient sap contained flecks of flora, plant memories. She'd worn the one-inch round beads about her neck since the day her grandmother had given them to her, removing the resin reliquaries only to shower. As soon as she'd dress in one of her handmade outfits—poly-blend pants with a blouse and the sea-green sweater with an orange stripe through the center—she'd put her necklace back on. Familiarity was important to Oma. Her eyes, they'd told her, would soon be useless decorations on her face. The worst part about it was that the doctors described in specific detail the different stages she would experience. First, blurring would occur in the center of her vision. The right eye would go, and then the left. Her peripheral vision would become the only reliable perspective from which she could see the world. Once, when she'd cut her hand on a knife that she thought was a spoon, she realized that squinting no longer worked. She'd felt the floor of her small apartment under her bare feet as she always had, but her own reflection was blurring. At least she had seen Latvia's independence and the rise of the Museum of Occupation alongside the Daugava River. She had been relieved when Maija asked her to move in.

She continued to knit, and by the time she made a complete pair of extra-large multicolored socks, the receptionist mumbled, “He is out of surgery and will be ready to go home in a few minutes. It went well.”

“But of course it went well.” Oma smiled.

As the nurse dialed Maija to pick them both up, Oma retrieved her small tin of raspberry Bon Bons from her sweater pocket and offered her a few. The double doors opened, and an orderly wheeled Papaji into the waiting room.

“You're still here,
ji
,” Papaji whispered sleepily.

“Of course, neh? Where else would I be?”

M
aija's eyes searched for a glimmer of the natural world outside the confines of Jones Drugs. She leaned on the counter as though it were the edge of her cage. Reconnecting with her mother had revived her longing for the outdoors. Searching for fresh air or natural light was not such an easy task, as not only was she trapped in the rear of the store, but the drive-through window was now bricked up. Her eyes searched for a hint of diffused sunlight. Her irises reached beyond the line of disgruntled drug-hungry customers; above the aisle stocked with Ron Popeil products,
As Seen on TV
; past the glaring brand names in the adult diaper section, which offered a false sense of dignity to those who suffered from incontinence (Poise, Certainty, Serenity, and Depends). Maija's eyes watched eagerly as a teenager entered through the revolving door and let in a rush of cool air. This wisp of fresh air, traveling on miraculous wings, graced Maija's cheek, and she shivered.

Riding on the back of that gift of fresh air was the scent of the ground outside, wet and musky from the decomposing leaves and drain overflow. Maija knew she would have to get outside if only for a moment. The phone rang, seemingly at a slightly higher pitch than usual. Tom and Shandy were both dealing with customers, so Maija lifted the receiver and pressed line three.

The line was quiet. Then she realized
she
was the one expected to offer a greeting.

“Uh, hallo.”

“Is this Jones Drugs?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Who answers a phone at a business like that?”

Maija knew the voice. It sounded pink and glittery even over the phone. Maija disguised her voice the best she could by making it as deep as possible.

“Can I help you?” she grumbled.

“This is Eleanora Finch. I have a request about my prescription. Is there a chance someone could deliver the medicine to my home?”

“Deliver?” She coughed.

“Yes, to our home.”

“We don't usually—”

“It's important,” Eleanora said.

“Fine.” Maija coughed again. “I don't see why not.”

“You should be happy to have an errand to run. The gate code is our address.” And she hung up the phone.

Three very clear thoughts simultaneously waltzed through Maija's mind. The first was most disconcerting: Eleanora was alive and had lived long past her vision. Maija had never been one for
schadenfreude
, but now, and for only one single second, she actually wished Eleanora had smacked her perfect little head on the floor of her shower and had been ushered toward unconsciousness. The second thought was strangely exhilarating: Perhaps the note she scribbled on the back of the PTA membership form had somehow altered the path toward her demise. The third and most pressing thought was that she had just agreed to deliver a prescription to the Finch residence, and she had the code to the gate that led directly into the Heights. Now she could inspect that haunted community to find out exactly what was going on out there.

Without looking directly into Tom's eyes, Maija simply said, “I have a very important delivery for Mrs. Finch,” as she grabbed the small white bag and left the store. He must have filled the prescription earlier. What a guy, she thought. He actually could do his job when he had to.

As soon as she sat down in the car she rolled down the windows and took a deep breath. It didn't matter that the sky was mere moments from raining again; the cool air revived her completely. She drove toward the Heights and expected the surroundings to be somewhat familiar. However, everything appeared foreign and curious. The shadows from the storm clouds above painted the road a dark ominous black; the center trees that lined the road appeared gnarled; thick fog obfuscated the view of the village below, making the Heights feel separate from the rest of earth, unaffected by the goings-on in Cobalt. Maija was climbing the Jacob's ladder that connected the Flats to the Heights. As she drove, she heard a little inner voice inside her head whisper,
Just turn around
, but still she climbed. Within minutes she found herself face-to-face with that dominating wrought iron gate.

Maija was reaching through her open window to type in the code on the keypad when it began to rain. The cold water chilled her bare arm, and goose bumps sprouted instantaneously. After driving through the gate, she rolled up the window and put the car in park as the rain blinded her, the downpour eliminating all visibility. What was she going to do when she arrived, anyway? Ask Eleanora if she'd slipped in her blue-tiled shower? Or ask if she'd been taking her medicine? She'd been so focused on the gate, the Heights, and Eleanora's vitality that she'd completely forgotten to look at the drugs she was delivering. There were three bottles inside the bag: a broad antibiotic, a narcotic pain reliever, and an anti-nausea medication. These medications spelled out infection, but of what kind, Maija had no idea. They were too broad to deduce a specific problem. As she slipped the bottles back into the bag, she noticed that the letter E that she'd assumed was in front of the last name was actually a T. Tracy? Isabella's former friend?

A car behind her screeched past, startling her from her realization. She noticed it was an expensive car; she'd never seen it before in town.

She began driving again. The roads were eerie and empty. Her windshield wipers worked overtime. Every house was white with black or dark-green trim. Two windows, like eyes, looked out from beside each double front door in the neighborhood, which made it seem as if the houses were watching one another. Smoke billowed from a few chimneys here and there, but otherwise there were no signs of life. She turned left on the first street, then made a right. Nestled at the very rear of a cul-de-sac, at the very top of the Heights development, was the Finch house.

Maija parked near the mailbox and turned off the engine. There was a new Mercedes in the driveway. The windows, covered by sheer curtains, glowed. She grabbed the umbrella from the backseat and opened the door. During her mad dash to the house, she managed to avoid all but one very large puddle, which covered her trousers in chilly water. The doorbell was a gargoyle with a glowing orange button inside its mouth. Strange choice of décor, she thought as she pressed the button firmly. A complicated series of notes rang emptily through the house. She heard a series of beeping sounds, then a click as the door swung open. Maija stood eye-to-eye with Eleanora.

“Yes?”

“I brought Tracy's medicine from the pharmacy. They said you requested a delivery?” Maija held the bag out before her. “I thought I could help.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Maija took a moment to absorb the décor. Beautiful marble tiles lined the floors. A wide spiral staircase spun to the second floor. She looked to her right and saw an extensive security system panel.

“How's Tracy? Is she feeling okay?”

“Oh, sure. It's just the flu or something.” Eleanora seemed nervous.

“Good, good. Um…” She knew she had little time. “And how are you feeling?”

“What?” Eleanora pressed her hand to her chest and held her breath.

There was a noise on the staircase, and Maija saw a man staring down at her. He was short but still seemed to suck up all the light in the hall—Mr. Finch. He never looked cheery. He wore a rain-soaked jacket, and his damp hair fell in his face.

“Fine, I'm fine.” Eleanora took the bag from Maija's hand and stretched a smile across her face.

“Mom? Who is it?” Tracy came out as well. She wore a tank top with pajama bottoms, and her face seemed flushed with fever. Maija could see a bandage sticking out from the edge of her armpit. “What's
she
doing here?”

“Tracy, why don't you go back to bed? The doctor said that you just need to rest.”

“I'm done resting. I've slept for, like, four hours already.”

“Tracy, go to bed, now.” Mr. Finch's voice was tinny and sharp. Tracy didn't budge.

Maija edged closer to the door; her visit was about to end, and she hadn't unearthed any information out about Eleanora. She looked inside along the wall, desperate to find another conversation topic that could carry her a little longer.

“Wow.” Maija eyed the large security panel. “What a, um, thorough security system.”

“Yeah, Mom's paranoid since she got some weird letter. Now she thinks someone wants to kill her.”

“Tracy! Shush!” Eleanora turned to Maija. “All right then, have a
nice
day.” Eleanora put her hand on the door.

“Would you mind if I use your restroom? The rain, you know…” Maija looked expectantly at Eleanora.

“Okay, I guess.” She looked at Maija's wet shoes. “It's just down the hall on the left.”

Maija entered the house and immediately felt a cold draft. She knew Eleanora's eyes watched her as she walked down the hall and into the palatial powder room. The brushed nickel doorknob had been recently polished, and the lock that turned easily in her fingers was shaped like a human face, mouth wide and ready to consume. Beige tiles covered the room from floor to ceiling. Maija ran water in the sink and inspected the porcelain. The bathroom she wanted to peruse was upstairs, or at least she imagined it would be. What did it matter anyway? She felt silly. Did she really need validation, or some kind of physical proof to feel better about her vision? Maija turned off the water and went back to the foyer.

“Okay, then, bye.”

Eleanora was still standing by open the front door.

Maija stepped out and then turned around to look at Eleanor. “If you have some time, I'd love to—“ Then the front door closed abruptly, only a few inches from her face.

That was strange, Maija said to herself while jogging to her car. She could have at least asked me in for tea or the like on such a dreary day. So Eleanora was alive, but now her daughter was ill. She was hiding something. She definitely seemed afraid when Mr. Finch entered the picture. Well, who wouldn't be? He wasn't exactly a ray of sunshine. As Maija sat in the car and realized she'd have to drive directly to the doctor's office to pick up Papaji and Oma, she looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror and said aloud, “No more of this bullshit. No more psychic business.”