Invisible as Air by Zoe Fishman Read Online (FREE)
Read Invisible as Air by Zoe Fishman full novel online free here.
Sylvie opened her bleary eyes and stared at the ceiling. Beside her, her husband, Paul, snored intermittently, his broken ankle wrapped in its dirty, beige cast. It was still dark outside, but a lone bird had begun to tweet, signaling morning’s imminent arrival.
She dreaded this day every year because of the memories that arrived alongside it, landing with an ominous thud right in the center of her chest. Three years out, and it didn’t get any easier to see it approaching on Teddy’s school calendar, which hung lopsided on the side of the stainless-steel fridge.
Gingerly, Sylvie sat up and swung her legs over the side of their king-size bed, pausing for a moment to look at the clock. Five thirteen. Great. There were approximately fifteen hours left to endure, give or take.
In the bathroom, she ran a washcloth under ice-cold water and plunged her face inside its folds, relishing the shock of its impact. Holding her breath, she held it there for a few seconds, imagining that when she removed it, her face would be young again. Her left eyelid, with its startling new Silly Putty consistency, would regain its elasticity; the permanent brow furrow her cynicism had cost her would smooth. She removed the cloth, hopeful for just a moment. Instead, her forty-six-year-old self stared back at her.
No, that wasn’t fair, she thought next, grabbing her moisturizer from the shelf. She unscrewed its cap and took a generous scoop, massaging it vigorously into her cheeks, down over her chin, and back up over her closed eyes and forehead before finishing with the sides, careful not to smudge it into her hairline. It wasn’t all bad.
She still had her big brown eyes and even bigger eyebrows, full lips and relatively lustrous head of black hair. She had never colored or straightened it, had barely blown it dry, and so she liked to think it was thanking her by staying shiny, with only the occasional gray surprising her. It hung in a wave against the faint outline of her collarbone beneath her olive, slightly rosy skin. Sylvie tried to smile at herself, but it felt too difficult, like the corners of her mouth were stapled to her chin.
She sighed, pulling open the immense drawer of their marble-topped vanity to retrieve her eye cream. An orange bottle inside rolled toward her, click-clacking its way to the inside edge. She picked it up, considering its contents. Paul’s pain pills. Say that three times fast. Paul’s pain pills, Paul’s pain pills, Pops paint pits.
He had fallen from his bike, her triathlete husband, and broken his ankle just two weeks before, although it seemed like two years. Sylvie had discovered that it was one thing to mother your son but quite another to mother your mate. She did not enjoy it, not one bit.