‘No more of that.’ Robert raises his croissant and points at her with an expression of exaggerated admonishment. ‘Think like Simon. Be fearless!’
She’s trying, even if her definition of the word is laughably small when compared to anyone else’s. She has begun to sit back against chairs, and take walks through the city. Ten years ago, when she moved to California, she visited the Castro for the first time since Ruby was born. She tried to envision Simon there, but she could only see him on their walks to Congregation Tifereth Israel, running away from her. Now she imagines him again, but this time, he does not stay within the bounds of the person she knew. As she hikes from the Cliff House to the old military hospital near Mountain Lake Park, she sees Simon pose by the remains of the Sutro Baths, where there was once enough space for ten thousand people to swim. She has no idea whether he walked these bluffs; the Richmond is at least forty-five minutes from the Castro by bus. It doesn’t matter. He’s there amidst the scrub and lilac, his hair whipped by the wind off the water, clearing a trail as Varya follows behind him.
When she returns to the condo, there is an e-mail from Mira.
Dearest V:
Will the eleventh of December work for you? Turns out Eli has a commitment on the fourth, and Jonathan still likes the idea of dragging everyone to Florida in the winter, crazy man. (It will be nice, I think. I just have to get over the embarrassment of telling everyone I’m actually getting married in Miami.) Let me know.
Love – M.
Jonathan is a fellow professor at SUNY New Paltz who lost his wife to pancreatic cancer four years before Daniel’s death. He was not someone Mira had ever considered romantically. After Daniel died, he brought Mira meals – ‘It’s brisket,’ he said, ‘but store-bought; my wife was the one who cooked’ – and stayed with her through the panic attacks she began to suffer before teaching. It was two years before she fell in love with him.
‘Though I didn’t fall. The pace was glacial,’ said Mira, during one of her Sunday night Skype sessions with Varya. ‘I had to surrender.’
Mira put her plate on the coffee table and tucked her feet beneath her. She was still petite, but more muscular: after Daniel’s death, she took up cycling, riding from New Paltz to Bear Mountain as the world rushed past, looking like the blur it felt.
‘Surrender what?’ Varya asked.
‘Well, that’s what I kept asking myself, and I realized that what I had to surrender wasn’t my pain, or my trust. I had to surrender Daniel.’
Six months ago, Jonathan proposed. He has an eleven-year-old son, Eli, whom Mira is learning to parent. Varya is to be her maid of honor.
What do you want? Luke asked her, and if Varya had answered him honestly, she would have said this: To go back to the beginning. She would tell her thirteen-year-old self not to visit the woman. To her twenty-five-year-old self: Find Simon, forgive him. She would tell herself to take care of Klara, to sign up for JDate, to stop the nurse before she took the baby out of Varya’s arms. She’d tell herself she would die, she would die, they all would. She would tell herself to pay attention to the smell of Klara’s hair, the feel of Daniel’s arms as he reached down to hug her, Simon’s stubby thumbs – my God, their hands, all of them, Klara’s hummingbird-quick, Daniel’s slender and restless. She’d tell herself that what she really wanted was not to live forever, but to stop worrying.
What if I change? she asked the fortune teller, all those years ago, sure that knowledge could save her from bad luck and tragedy. Most people don’t, the woman said.
It is seven o’clock, the sky a neon smear. Varya leans back in her chair. Perhaps she chose science because it was rational, believing it would set her apart from the woman on Hester Street and her predictions. But Varya’s belief in science was rebellion, too. She feared that fate was fixed, but she hoped – God, she hoped – that it was not too late for life to surprise her. She hoped it was not too late for her to surprise herself.
Now she remembers what Mira told her after Daniel’s burial. They hunched beneath a tree, snow filtering through the branches, as attendees made their way to the parking lot. ‘I never met Klara,’ Mira said. ‘But right now, I almost feel I understand her, because suicide does not seem irrational. What’s irrational is continuing on, day after day, as if forward momentum is natural.’
But Mira has done it. The impossibility of moving beyond loss, faced against the likelihood you will: it’s as absurd, as seemingly miraculous, as survival always is. Varya thinks of her colleagues, with their test tubes and microscopes, all of them attempting to replicate the processes that already exist in nature. Turritopsis dohrnii, a jellyfish the size of a sequin, ages in reverse when under threat. In winter, the wood frog turns to ice: its heart stops beating, its blood freezes, and yet, months later, when spring arrives, it thaws and hops away.
The periodical cicada hibernates underground in broods, feeding on fluids from tree roots. It would be easy to think them dead; perhaps, in some way – sedentary and silent, nestled two feet below the soil – they are. One night, seventeen years later, they break through the surface in astounding numbers. They climb the nearest vertical object; the husks of their nymphal skins drop crisply to the ground. Their bodies are pale and not yet hardened. In the darkness, they sing.
36.
On the first week of July, Varya drives into the city for her weekly visit with Gertie. Gertie is buoyant: Ruby is visiting. Varya has never understood why a college student would spend two weeks every summer at a retirement home of her own volition, but Ruby suggested this plan as a freshman and hasn’t wavered. Helping Hands is an eight-hour drive from UCLA, where Ruby will soon begin her senior year. Each summer, she arrives in a flurry of sunglasses and stacked bracelets, sundresses and platform heels, as well as a brutish white Range Rover. She plays mah-jongg with the widows and reads to Gertie from the books in her literature courses. On the last night of her visit, she does a magic show in the dining hall, which has become so well attended that the staff bring extra chairs in from the library. The residents are rapt as children. Afterward, they wait for Ruby in long lines, eager to tell her about the time they met Houdini’s brother or saw a woman slide across Times Square from a rope held in her teeth.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Gertie asks Varya. ‘If you aren’t going back to work?’
She sits in her armchair, a bowl of pickles in her lap. Ruby lies on Gertie’s bed. She’s playing a game on her cell phone called Bloody Mary. When she reaches the fifth level, she passes the phone to Varya, who takes particular satisfaction in smashing the spry, hopping tomato that guards a bag of celery sticks.