Alex avoided her gaze. “We haven’t been talking as much as we used to,” he mumbled, walking slowly toward her desk.
“I’ve been busy.” The Christmas tree had only come down that morning, but she realized he wasn’t referring to the last few days; he meant over the past year.
“I know,” he said with a shrug, his eyes darting around the room. “It’s just that…”
“Is there something you wanted to tell me?”
He raised his head and their eyes briefly met. Reading her younger son had never been a problem for Clare.
“How about if we talk in the kitchen?” she suggested. “You thirsty?”
The hopeful look on his face convinced her to abandon paying the bills. She’d get back to all that later.
“Sure.” He led the way through the large family room and into the kitchen.
Clare loved her expansive kitchen with its double ovens and large butcher-block island. Shining copper pots and kettles dangled from the rack above, the California sunlight reflected in their gleam. Clare had designed the kitchen herself and spent countless hours reviewing every detail, every drawer placement, every cupboard. She’d taken pride in her home, in her skill as a cook and homemaker.
These days it was unusual for her to prepare a meal. Alex had a part-time job at a computer store, and if he wasn’t at school or work, he was with his friends or on the soccer field. Cooking for one person hardly seemed worth the effort, and more and more often she ordered out. Or didn’t bother at all.
“I’ll get us a Coke,” Alex said, already reaching for the refrigerator handle. Clare automatically took two glasses from the cupboard.
Alex placed the cans on the round oak table. Many a night, unable to sleep, the two of them had sat here while Clare sobbed in pain and frustration. Alex had wept, too. It hadn’t been easy for a teenage boy to expose his emotions like that. If Clare didn’t already hate Michael for what he’d done to her self-esteem, then she’d hate him for the pain he’d brought into their children’s lives.
“Mick and I had a long talk last night.”
Clare had surmised as much. She’d heard them in Alex’s bedroom sometime after midnight, deep in conversation. Their raised voices were followed by heated whispers. Whatever they were discussing was between them and she was determined to keep out of it. They needed to settle their own differences.
“He’s upset with me.”
“Mick is? What for?”
Alex shrugged. He seemed to do that a lot these days.
“Brother stuff?” It was what he generally said when he didn’t want to give her a full explanation.
“Something like that.” He waited a moment before pulling back the tab on his soda can and taking a long swallow, ignoring the glass she’d set in front of him.
“Does this have to do with Kellie?” Alex and the girl across the street had been dating for a couple of months. Mick had dated her last summer and Clare wondered if the neighbor girl was causing a problem between her sons.
“Ah, Mom, we’re just friends.”
“If you and your brother had a falling-out, why don’t you just tell me instead of expecting me to guess?”
He lowered his eyes. “Because I’m afraid you’re going to react the same way Mick did.”
“Oh? And how’s that?”
Alex took another drink of his Coke. Clare recognized a delaying tactic when she saw one. “Alex?”
“All right,” he said brusquely and sat up, his shoulders squared. “I’ve been talking to Dad.”
Clare swallowed hard, but a small shocked sound still managed to escape. She felt as though she’d taken a punch to the solar plexus.
“Are you mad?” Alex asked, watching her anxiously.
“It shouldn’t matter what I think.”
“But it does! I don’t want you to feel like I’ve betrayed you, too.”
“I…”
“That’s what Mick said I was doing. First Dad and now me. Mom, I swear to you, it isn’t like that.”
“Michael is your father,” she said, her mind whirling as she struggled with her conflicting emotions. Alex would never intentionally do anything to hurt her. As much as possible, Clare had tried not to entangle her sons in this divorce. When Michael moved out of the family home and in with his under-age sweetheart, the two boys had rallied around her as if they could protect her from further pain. It didn’t work, but she’d cherished them for their show of sympathy and support.
“He called… Dad did.”
“When?” Now she was the one avoiding eye contact. She distracted herself by opening the can of Coke and pouring it carefully into her glass.
“Last week at Softline.”
“He phoned you at work?” She shouldn’t have been surprised; Michael was too much of a coward to risk having her answer the phone here at the house. Naturally he’d taken the low road.
“He invited me to dinner.”
“And you’re going?”
Clare felt her son’s scrutiny. “I don’t know yet. Mick doesn’t think I should.”
“But you want to, right?”
Alex stood and paced the area in front of the table. “That’s the crazy part, Mom. I do and I don’t. I haven’t talked to Dad in over a year—well, other than to say I wasn’t going to talk to him.”
“He is your father,” Clare said, to remind herself as much as her son.
“That’s what Kellie said.”
Sure Kellie said that, Clare mused darkly. She hadn’t seen her mother betrayed and then dumped like last week’s garbage. Kellie had two loving parents. She couldn’t even imagine what divorce did to a person’s soul or how it tore a family apart.
“I told Mick and I’m telling you. If my seeing Dad hurts you, then I won’t do it.”
Clare forced a smile but wasn’t sure what to say.
“Kellie thinks I should be talking to Dad,” he said, studying her closely, as though the neighbor girl’s opinion would influence her. Clare wasn’t particularly interested in what Kellie thought, but she knew how difficult the last two years had been for Alex, knew how badly he missed Michael.
“Kellie’s right,” she said briskly. “You and your father should be communicating.”
“You don’t mind?”
His obvious relief was painful to hear. She swallowed and said, “Alex, you’re my son, but you’re also your father’s.”
“I can’t forgive him for what he did.”
“I know,” Clare whispered. She sipped her Coke in order to hide the trembling in her voice, although she was fairly certain Alex had noticed.
Her son glanced at his watch, did a startled double-take and bolted out of the chair. “I’m late for soccer practice.”
“Go on,” she said, waving toward the door.
“Dad said he might start coming to my games,” Alex said, the words rushed as he hurried to the back door.
“Alex—”
“Sorry, Mom, gotta go.”
Oh, great! Now she had to worry about running into her ex at their son’s soccer games. And what about his girlfriend—was she going, too? If Alex chose to have a relationship with his father, that was one thing, but Clare couldn’t, wouldn’t, be anywhere in Michael’s vicinity when he was with Miranda.
The anger inside her remained deep and real, and Clare didn’t trust herself to control it. But under no circumstances would she embarrass her teenage son, and if that meant not attending the games, then so be it. Almost immediately, the resentment sprang up, as strong as the day Michael had left her. He’d already taken so much! How dared he steal the pleasure she derived from watching Alex play soccer? How dared he!
For a long time she sat mulling over her conversation with Alex. She knew how relieved he was to have this out in the open. Alex had been on edge for a while now, and she’d attributed his tension to the upcoming SATs. But it wasn’t the tests that were bothering him, or his relationship with his girlfriend or even his part-time job. It was Michael. Clare
was positive of that.
Once again her ex-husband had gone behind her back.
January 15th
I got the job! There was never any doubt I’d be hired. Dan Murphy nearly leaped across the desk when he realized what he had. He gave me everything I wanted, including the part-time hours I requested. He’ll go ahead and hire a full-time manager and I’ll be more of a consultant.
Damn, it feels good. I’ve never experienced this kind of spiteful satisfaction before—and I do recognize it for what it is. Until these last two years, I had no idea I could be so vindictive. I don’t like this part of me, but I can’t seem to help myself.
“The teeth are smiling, but is the heart?”
—Congolese proverb
Chapter 2
LIZ KENYON
January 1st
For the first time in my fifty-seven years I spent New Year’s Eve alone. I ordered in Chinese, ate my chicken hot-sauce noodles in front of the television and watched a 1940s movie starring Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. They sure don’t make films like that anymore. Then at midnight, I brought in the New Year sipping champagne all by myself. I was in bed a few minutes after twelve, my thoughts full of Steve.
After six years the memories aren’t as painful as they were in the beginning. What continues to haunt me are the last minutes of my husband’s life. I wonder what went through his mind when he realized the huge semi had crossed the yellow line and was headed straight toward him. I wonder obsessively if his last thoughts were of the children or me, or if in those split seconds there’d been time to feel anything but panic and fear. I keep imagining his absolute terror when he knew he was about to be hit. Witnesses said he’d done everything possible to avoid the collision. At the last second, he must have faced the gut-wrenching horror of knowing there was nothing he could do. I’ve lived through my husband’s final minutes a thousand times. The sound of the impact—crunching metal and shattering glass—the screeching tires, his scream.
I thank God he died instantly.
As I lay in bed, I remembered our last morning together, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday instead of six years ago. April twentieth was an ordinary day, like so many others. We both got up and dressed for work. He helped me fasten my necklace and took the opportunity to slip his hand beneath my sweater. While I made breakfast, Steve shaved. We sat across from one another and chatted about the morning news, then he kissed me goodbye as I left for the hospital. I remember he said he had a staff meeting that afternoon and might be late for dinner.
An hour later my high-school sweetheart and husband of thirty-one years was dead. My life hasn’t been the same since; it’ll never be the same again. I’m still trying to accept the fact that Steve won’t come bursting through the front door wearing his sexy grin. Even now, I sleep on the far right side of the bed. Steve’s half remains undisturbed.
The last three months have been hard. I knew when Amy phoned to tell me Jack had been transferred to Tulsa that being separated from my daughter and grandchildren was going to be difficult. What I didn’t realize was how difficult. Spending time with Andrew and Annie was what kept me sane after losing Steve. I miss them so much! And then, as if my daughter and her family moving to another state wasn’t bad enough, Brian had to go and move out on his own. My son always did display impeccable timing.
He got a great job offer and I don’t begrudge his taking it for a minute. And yet I have to admit I wish it hadn’t happened quite so soon. It was hard to let him go and keep a smile on my face. I’m glad he’s happy, though, and adjusting to life in Orange County. At the same time, I’m sorry he’s living so far from Willow Grove. A couple of hours doesn’t sound like much, but I know my son and he’s far more interested in his social life than in visiting his widowed mother. That’s the way it should be, I suppose, only I can’t help feeling abandoned. First Amy, Jack and the grandkids, then Brian—and all at once I’m alone. Really alone.
I understand why I went to bed with thoughts of Steve. All my distractions have moved away. Even with the champagne, I couldn’t sleep. After an hour I gave up trying. I sat in the dark with an afghan wrapped around my legs and contemplated my future. During the holidays I put on a brave front, acting as though I’m okay about being alone. I didn’t want the kids to know how wretched I was feeling. Brian was here for Christmas, but he has friends he wanted to see and there’s a new girl in his life. I wonder if that son of mine is ever going to settle down. I guess he’s one step closer now, living on his own; at least that’s what I tell myself. Amy and I talked, but she phoned me and I know that with a single income and a large mortgage, they’re on a tight budget, so the conversation was short. Normally I would’ve called back but it sounded so hectic there with the kids opening their gifts and all the craziness of Christmas morning. I put phoning off until later and then just didn’t.
As for New Year’s Eve, spending it alone was my choice. Sean Jamison casually suggested we get together for dinner. The problem with this doctor is that outside of his work, everything’s casual with him. I’m not going to make the mistake of getting involved with a man who has a reputation as a womanizer (although I readily admit his interest flatters my ego).
Besides, I’m older than he is. Not by much, six years, maybe seven, just enough to make me a little uncomfortable…not that I’d seriously consider dating him, anyway. My major complaint, in addition to the age difference, is that he’s the exact opposite of Steve, who was genuine and unassuming. The good doctor is stuck on himself.
Still, he’s obviously an interesting man. I wouldn’t mind talking to him on a strictly-friends basis. Nothing romantic or sexual. Just conversation, maybe over coffee or a drink. After all, everyone can use another friend.
Speaking of friends, when Clare, Julia, Karen and I met after our last journal-writing class, we decided to continue the friendship by meeting for breakfast every Thursday. I came up with the suggestion that we should each take a word for the year. A word to live by, to help us focus our thoughts. A word to reflect what’s happening in our lives and what we want to do and be. I’m not sure where that idea came from, probably some article I read, but it struck a chord with me.
Karen loved the idea, but then Karen’s young and enthusiastic about everything. That’s what makes her so much fun and why she fits in so nicely with the rest of us. We each bring something individual to the group, and yet we connect….
Last night, I started thinking about my word, considering various possibilitie. I still hadn’t found the right word. It’s like trying on dresses at Nordstrom’s for a special occasion. I only need one and I want it to be perfect. It has to fit properly, look wonderful and feel great. My thoughts went around and around—Steve, my job, Amy and Brian. My word for the year—love? Change? Something else? Strangely, unexpectedly, I found myself remembering Lauren. Lauren. My baby daughter, whom I never had a chance to know. The baby I held in my arms so briefly. Born too soon, she died during the first week of her life, nearly thirty-six years ago. Every year on the date of her birth, Steve would bring me a bouquet of daisies, to let me know he hadn’t forgotten her or the pain we endured as young parents, losing our first child. I’m really not sure why I started thinking about Lauren just then.
Determined to dwell on the present and not the past, I turned my attention to searching out a suitable word for the year. It took a while but I found one that feels right for me. As I sat in the shadows, unable to sleep, listening to the grandfather clock tick away the minutes, my word came to me.
TIME.
I’m fifty-seven. In three years I’ll be sixty. Sixty. I don’t feel close to sixty and I don’t think I act it. Still, it’s the truth, whether I choose to face it or not. There always seemed to be so much time to do all the things I’d planned. For instance, I always thought that someday I’d climb a mountain. I don’t know exactly why, just because it sounded like such a huge accomplishment, I guess. Now I know I won’t be doing any mountain-climbing, especially at this stage o
f my life. It all comes down to choices, I guess. Besides, I’ve got other mountains to climb these days.
At one point, when we were in our twenties, Steve and I wrote a list of all the exciting things we were going to do and the exotic vacations we planned to take. The years slipped away and we were caught up with raising our family and living our lives. Those dreams and plans got pushed into an indefinite future. We assumed there’d always be time. Someday or next year, or the year after that. This is a mistake I don’t intend to repeat and why the word time is appropriate for me. I want to be aware of every moment of my life. And I want to choose the right plans and dreams to fulfill in the years that are left to me. As soon as I settled on my word, I was instantly tired and fell promptly asleep.
Because I didn’t go to sleep until after two, I slept late. I didn’t make breakfast until past noon. I had the television on for company, but football’s never interested me. That was Steve’s game, though, and I found it oddly comforting to keep the channel on the Rose Bowl. For a few hours I could pretend that my husband was with me. The house didn’t feel quite as big or as empty.
The house…that’s something else I have to consider. I should make a decision about continuing to live here. I don’t need three thousand square feet, but this was the home Steve and I bought together, where we raised our family. With the way real-estate prices have escalated, I’m sitting on a lot of money that could well be invested elsewhere.
It’s silly to hold on to this place. The house was perfect when Andrew and Annie came to spend the weekend. Two rambunctious grandchildren need all the space they can get. It didn’t bother me then or when Brian lived at home. We needed a big house in order to stay out of each other’s hair, but for just me… Actually it’s the thought of getting it ready to sell—sorting through all the stuff that’s tucked in every nook and cranny, then packing up fifty-seven years of accumulated junk—that’s giving me pause.
Thursdays At Eight Page 2
