As Close to Us as Breathing: A Novel by Elizabeth Poliner

blue sleeveless dress, held her arms outstretched toward the man beside her, who had shifted on his stool so that he faced her and not the counter. Whatever he was saying made her laugh. He leaned forward then, into her arms, and kissed the woman.
    Vivie slowed her steps, fascinated. At some point, just like the woman through the window, Vivie raised an arm, though only to clutch at her chest. Then she stumbled forward. By the time she arrived at the pharmacy she was blinking back tears, embarrassed when the pharmacist called to her asking if he could help. She was fine, she told him, though as she raced home that night, and for many nights and days to come, she felt the deep pain of it: her loveless life, her dull routine, her bleak future, the one without Mort, the man she’d counted on, had seen that future in, the man who suddenly cropped up in her mind—despite everything, despite how far she thought she’d come—again and again.
      
     
    Mid-July, while her parents and Bec, along with Ada and Mort, were away at Woodmont, and while Vivie stayed behind in Middletown to hold down the fort, as she put it, at Dr. Shapiro’s, she decided she would go out to dinner one night with Tillie Hirschfield. Why not? She’d saved her money, could afford a little extravagance. They ate at Angelina’s, one of Middletown’s many Italian kitchens. Tillie wore a string of fake pearls around her neck. Vivie wore an old charm bracelet. They talked about this and that, mostly their childhoods. Tillie was from West Hartford. “It’s pretty there,” she said wistfully, as if the place no longer existed.
    They didn’t meet any single men. The three other tables were filled by families. “Oh, well,” Tillie had said, early into the evening. “Might as well eat up then.”
    And they did. They were delighted with the veal Angelina brought them, along with side bowls of pasta and marinara sauce. Their bellies full, they took a walk afterward, down Main Street, arms linked.
    “I bet you’re some sister,” Tillie told her, leaning her head toward Vivie.
    “I’m not so sure about that,” Vivie answered, matter-of-fact. But when Tillie began laughing for no reason—the wine at dinner probably gone to her head—Vivie laughed too, because even without the aid of so much alcohol she felt strangely carefree. She’d have to buy herself more meals, and maybe some new stockings, maybe even a new dress. That’s what a working woman could do, she suddenly knew. And that thought made her laugh again, louder.
    Early that fall, even before her mother told her about Mort and Ada’s engagement—arriving at Mrs. Bloomberg’s doorstep to do so, sitting with the woman at her kitchen table, the two of them across from “poor Vivie,” as they’d said in unison—she’d heard about it already. A patient of Dr. Shapiro’s had told her by way of congratulating her, assuming she already knew.
    What surprised her upon hearing the news was that it didn’t knock her over. She did open her eyes wide. She also gasped, but almost silently. Then she resumed her work. Seated in the waiting room was that same tired mother she’d helped before, a person she now called Frances, and her son, Thomas, and soon Vivie rose, moving away from the patient who had told her the news and toward Frances and Thomas, both of whom obviously wanted her company, the mother for comfort, the child for some kind of new game to play, some kind of treat.
      
     
    In November there would be a family dinner celebrating the engagement, and Vivie was to come. “You can’t avoid them forever,” her father, Maks, had said firmly, her mother and Bec nodding behind him.
    “I’ll come,” Vivie said, simply enough.
    The night of the family dinner Vivie was seated at the far end of the table, away from Mort and Ada, even away from Mort’s parents. For starters soup was served but her appetite wasn’t hearty. A light patter of conversation ensued, but Vivie remained silent,