by Karen Booth
“Thanks.” I parked my suitcase right inside the entry, now worried that it looked like I’d presumed where I might be staying for the night.
My horror at the sight of his naked head was pushed aside by a new image, much like the path of destruction left by a tornado. There was a heap of mail on the foyer table, magazines and bills spilling onto the floor. Rows of books were splayed out on the white shag below empty shelves. Someone had apparently taken their hand and relocated them in several fell swoops. Dust bunnies congregated on the concrete floor, the throw pillows were everywhere, and there were a dozen or more empty beer bottles on the coffee table.
He’d taken down all of his favorite pieces of art and propped them against the wall, facing away. The room was depressing and dark, the massive windows hidden behind heavy black curtains. I never even knew he had curtains.
“This is a surprise. What are you doing here?” His voice was weak and gloomy.
“You didn’t return my phone calls and I needed to talk to you.”
He looked down again, at the filthy floor, and crossed his arms across his stomach, pointy elbows jutting. “I forgot to charge my cell phone. Don’t take it personally.” He made eye contact and it felt as though someone with big fat hands was choking me. “I would’ve called you back eventually.”
He was a shadow of the man I knew; ghastly with somber half-moons under his eyes and a greenish-gray cast to all of him. His cheekbones, normally the crowning touch of his ideal face, were so pronounced that it looked as if they might rub holes through his skin. I desperately missed his hair and his scraggly attempt at a beard was no substitute.
I was beyond uncomfortable, my mind racing and fighting to make sense of it all. This isn’t how this is supposed to go. I wanted to jump into his arms and fix everything. Instead, it felt as though he didn’t want me anywhere near him.
“I don’t want to intrude.” I choked at the thought.
“No. It’s fine. Can I get you something?”
“Um.” I swallowed. “Water?”
He shuffled off to the kitchen and I followed.
The sink held a dozen dirty glasses but no plates or silverware and there was no sign that anyone had cooked recently.
“Did you have a party?” I asked, feeling muzzy headed.
He handed me a bottle of water and I saw that except for many beers, there was nothing but a dried-up orange in the fridge. “No.”
“When is Helena coming?” I set my hand on the counter, not that I was relaxed at all, but jerked it back when it landed in something sticky.
“I fired her. She’s so bloody nosy. I don’t need her anyway. The house practically cleans itself.”
“Um, I think you need to get her back. The house could use some help.” I shook my head and washed my hands at the sink, wiping them dry on my jeans. The lone kitchen towel emitted a foul stench.
“Maybe.” He slumped at the kitchen table and brushed crumbs to the floor. “Why are you here?”
The question was seemingly innocent, but enough to bring a sting to my eyes. I trembled, willing myself to hold back the tears. “I’m here because my dad told me what he said to you and I couldn’t stand the thought of you thinking any of it was true.” I sat at the table and reached across for his hand, which he promptly pulled away before staring into his lap. His t-shirt was hanging on him and all I could think was that he was going to fade away if he didn’t eat something. “When was the last time you ate?”
This time his eyes bore into me. “I don’t know. I lose track of time.”
I decided that we were never going to be able to discuss anything important with him in this state. “Let me make you something to eat.” I was going to cook whether or not he wanted it; at least it would mask some of the stale smell in the house. I walked to the freezer and dug past bacon to find frozen chicken breasts and a bag of stir-fry veggies. “Brown rice will take forty minutes. Why don’t you take a shower and put on some clean clothes?”
“I don’t need you to be my mother.”
I’d never heard him sound more annoyed and his bizarre show of stubbornness was already getting old. Why can’t he see that I’m trying to help him? “Good, because I didn’t come here to be your mother. Now go take a shower. You stink.”
After starting dinner, I took a few minutes to clean the kitchen table and counter, but the rest of it could wait. Drawing back every curtain, I opened the massive doors out to the terrace. The breeze was light and I stepped outside for a much needed dose of smoggy LA air. I was completely lost, no idea what I was doing, where I was going to sleep, or what was going to happen. Why is he being such a jerk?
Chris came out on the balcony, showered, and wearing shorts and a t-shirt that looked clean although they were very wrinkly, like they’d been stuffed in a drawer. “Better?” he asked grumpily.
“Yes, better.” I smiled. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
We sat at the kitchen table and although he started tentatively, he was soon shoveling. I relished that moment of normalcy and felt a wave a relief. Unfortunately, that left me unable to stomach the thought of launching back into everything that needed to be said.
Ease into it. “What have you been doing for the past few weeks? How did your interviews go?” I asked, as if nothing was wrong.
He took a drink of water, but didn’t look at me. “I cancelled everything. If anyone wants to know something, they can read your story.”
My shoulders dropped. “What about taking your chance to get back at Elise? And you should be plugging the new record. It comes out next week.”
“I had to let the Elise thing go. The more I participate, the more I’m just prolonging it,” he said, easily the smartest thing out of his mouth since my arrival. “I have no confidence in the new record. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“But that’s giving up on something you worked so hard on. I can’t believe you’d do that.”
He took his last bite of food. “It’s not a priority anymore.” He pushed his plate away. “How long are you in town?”
“As long as it takes to fix things between us.”
He looked right through me. “That’s a long time.”
My hands shook and I hid them under the table. “Why would you say that? This has been a big misunderstanding.” I stopped when I saw his expression, stony and cold. It’s like he isn’t even listening to me. I knew I should tell him everything about my dad, but my head felt like it was bursting at the seams.
“Where are you staying?” He seemed annoyed, again.
“I was hoping I could stay here. I didn’t book anything. I just went to the airport and got on a plane.” My voice grew softer, now unsure of everything I did or said. When he did things like hop on a plane, he was being bold. When I did it, I was being desperate.
He tossed his napkin on his plate and stretched his arms above his head, a habit of his that I’d always adored. “You could stay in the guest room. I suppose I owe you that much.”
I watched as he set his hands on his stomach. I felt exhausted and like I might say something worth regretting. “Why are you being like this?”
“Being like what, exactly?”
“You’re so grumpy. And you aren’t even listening to me.”
“I’m a grumpy guy. You never knew the real me.”
“That’s not true. We were happy. Together.”
“Happiness is temporary. It never lasts.”
My eyes stung. “Don’t say that. How are we supposed to work things out if you’re like this?”
His eyes darted in my direction and then he laughed, under his breath. “Give it a rest, Claire. You’re a smart girl. There’s nothing to work out.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
It took me hours to fall asleep that night and not merely because of everything weighing down my mind. I knew how wonderful it was to sleep in Chris’s bed with him—one of the best experiences I’d ever had sat waiting in the other room and yet there I was, do
wn the hall, alone and missing him.
Day one hadn’t gone down as planned. I’d foolishly thought everything would be simple—waltz in and tell Chris what my dad had said and everything would be back to the way it used to be. Now, bringing us back together felt hopelessly complicated, like a puzzle that had too many pieces. After all, even if that were straightened out, we would still have our old obstacles, baby and location at the top of that list.
I went for a run first thing to clear the clutter in my brain. Chris was still in his room when I left the house. It killed me to stand in that hallway and look at his closed bedroom door knowing that I was no longer entitled to enter without knocking.
He was up when I returned, sitting at the kitchen table.
“You found the coffee,” I said, noticing that he’d closed the curtains while I was gone.
He didn’t turn. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Of course.” I chugged a second glass of water. Let’s see how this goes over today. “Can I make you something to eat?”
He turned, his eyes showing a trace of life, but only a fraction of their former brilliance. “You don’t have to take care of me. You’re not my girlfriend anymore.”
It hurt like someone was crumpling me into a ball. “I want to take care of you. You used to like it when I made you breakfast.” After some frustratingly awkward eye contact, a sliver of me felt like telling him to fuck off, but I kept it together.
“Let’s see,” I mumbled, digging deep in the freezer for anything suitable. That was a bust so I retreated to the pantry and returned victorious with pancake mix. “Pancakes and bacon?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t find you in the pool this morning.” I thawed the bacon in the microwave and measured the mix into a bowl, making small talk to fill the leaky chasm between us.
“I haven’t been swimming.”
I closed the box of pancake mix and shook my head. “But that’s your thing. I thought you’d want to get back to it after spending weeks without a pool.”
“I haven’t felt like it.”
“You should go get in.” I took the butter from the refrigerator. “Go. I’ll have breakfast ready when you’re done. You’ll feel better.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Humor me. Try a few laps.” I felt his eyes on me when I pulled out the griddle pan, but had no clue what he was thinking.
“Fine. I’ll humor you for pancakes.” He left and I resisted the urge to call him a good boy for listening.
I opened the curtains as soon as he was gone. Minutes later, there was a splash. I crept out onto the terrace, but stood right outside the glass door. I didn’t dare move closer to the railing.
He was beautiful skimming through the water, heartbreakingly perfect. I was still getting used to him without hair and it bothered me to see him so skinny, but he was otherwise as he used to be, at least on the outside. I remembered the way I’d felt the first time I’d watched him in the pool, when it felt too good to be true and love was taking hold, before everything came crashing down around us.
On my way back to the kitchen, I grabbed the stale smelling beer bottles in the living room. With my arms full, I poked my finger into the neck of the last bottle and noticed a paper square with familiar handwriting, stuck to the bottom. I peeled it off once I’d slipped the bottles into the recycling bin in the utility room off the kitchen. Seeing the photo of Chris and his father was different the second time, perhaps because it was accompanied by the image of Chris downing bottle after bottle of beer. I couldn’t be sure that was how it had happened, but it wasn’t hard to imagine.
I heard the slide of the terrace door and took the photo to the kitchen, setting it on the counter. Chris walked in with droplets of water on his collarbone and a towel around his waist. His pull on me was commanding, but the barrier between us, the force field he used to protect himself from me, felt impenetrable.
“Do I have time to shower before we eat?” The flush in his cheeks had returned.
“Sure. I still need to make the pancakes.” It was torture to watch him walk away. I wanted so desperately to sneak up behind him, take his hand, and have him walk me down the hall to his room. I longed for it to be like it used to be.
He downed a huge breakfast when he returned, much more like the old Chris, and had a hint of a grin on his face when he finished. “Thank you. I feel better.”
“Good. That makes me happy.” I cracked a smile and raised my eyebrows, hoping he would take that as an invitation to talk. Do I really have to be the one to start this conversation again?
He looked at me seeming puzzled, and then abruptly got up and put his plate in the sink. “I’m working on something in my music room.” He walked away, not even glancing at me.
I set my fingertips to my lips, as if I could keep all of the questions and unhappiness inside me. It didn’t seem possible that he could be so oblivious to my feelings.
I took my shower in complete confusion, feeling like a coward. Why can’t I ask him what in the hell is going on in that head of his? Why can’t I just say everything I need to say? It’s not like things could get any worse.
My wardrobe was its own hurdle. I wanted to look good, to remind him of what he was missing. I dug through my suitcase and at the bottom was the Tiffany box. I shoved the clothes back on top of it. The bracelet was the least of my worries.
I walked out of the guestroom and saw that Chris’s bedroom door was open. Curiosity had me in its clutches. I wanted to see if he’d done to his bedroom what he’d done to the rest of the house. I called out his name and when there was no answer, I crept ahead, but stopped after only a few steps. The extra bedroom was right there, the door closed, as always.
My heart thundered in my chest as I turned the knob and crossed the threshold. I’d never looked inside before. There was no furniture, no lamp in the corner of the room; it was even quieter than the rest of the house if that was possible. I turned and the pale green walls were a slow blur as it dawned on me whose room it was.
We can make the room next to the master bedroom into the nursery.
Everything he’d said the day we talked about where to live, the day he was so excited about everything ahead of us, was there in my head. This was our baby’s room. Our baby. If my foot hadn’t slipped off the brake, my belly would be swollen and full of life right now. We’d be together, talking about cribs and rocking chairs, having the discussions I never had when I was pregnant with Sam because I’d been alone.
I continued to turn but I listed, and caught sight of something through the cracked closet door. There were three worn hardcover books on the shelf. I opened the cover of Horseshoes and Handlebars by M.E. Atkinson and inside it read: For Christopher on his 8th birthday, in the same lovely script from the back of the photograph of Chris and his dad. At the bottom of the page, written in pencil, was: Property of Christopher Penman in a young boy’s imperfect handwriting, with an adorable mix of capitals and lower case. The tears I’d been fighting for minutes rolled down my cheeks. I closed the book and held it to my forehead. I couldn’t bear to look at the others.
I needed a project, something to keep my mind occupied. Otherwise, I was on the brink of collapsing into an all-too familiar heap of misery. My mom popped into my head and gave me the perfect idea—food. Chris was actually nice to me for five minutes after I’d cooked for him. I brought my purse into the kitchen and found a piece of paper to make a list.
The photograph of Chris and his dad was waiting on the counter and I propped it up against the gray and white glass tile backsplash. I felt like Chris’s dad and I were getting to know each other. He had deep soulful eyes and the same smirk as Chris. Perhaps he and my mom could become acquainted some day.
Logically, I went to the fridge to take inventory, but closed the door when I remembered that the only thing he had was beer. I tapped the pen against my temple, recalling his favorites: meat, potatoes, and cheese. Some veggies would have
to sneak in somewhere, for my own sanity and digestion.
A muffled version of an unknown song rang from the depths of my bag and I jumped. Sam was constantly changing my ring tone so I was often surprised by the sound of my own phone.
“Hello?”
“Claire, it’s me.”
“Hey, what’s up?” I’d relaxed my attitude toward Kevin since he’d stopped calling me by his asinine pet names. He must’ve found a new girlfriend or even better, a therapist.
“Hey, I’m glad I caught you. I just spoke to Laura Simmons at Vanity Fair. She asked me about you. She loved the Penman piece and she wants to meet you. Call her. She’s in LA right now but I think she was hoping you’d fly up to New York next week.”
I bit my lip and my heart plucked an erratic rhythm. “Vanity Fair? Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. I would not kid about this.”
“I’m actually in LA right now.”
He laughed. I was glad there was a man somewhere that still found me amusing. “Of course you are. Thanks for calling, by the way. Seeing your boy toy?” Kevin always had the perfect way of putting things, annoying or not. That was what made him such a good writer.
“Something like that.”
When I finished talking to Kevin, I called Laura right away. When I got off the phone with her, it took everything in me to keep from screaming.
“Holy shit.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
“Have you lost your bloody mind, Claire? You take my car, the Nine-eleven no less, without asking?”
I switched the phone to my other ear and dropped some green beans in one of those grocery store produce bags that take some secret talent to open. “I left you a note.”
“You’re the last person I want driving that car.”
I realized I was blocking the aisle and the woman behind me wasn’t happy so I waved her around me. She stormed past with her cart as if I’d told her she could stand to lose a few. “I’m doing your grocery shopping,” I said quietly, through my teeth, stopping short of tacking “asshole” on at the end. “I’ll be back soon. You can hold me personally responsible if anything happens to your precious car.”
