Leave It to Claire

by Tracey Bateman

  Mom picks up in two rings. She must be sitting in her recliner with the cordless in her lap. She does that so she doesn’t have to get up during her TV shows if someone calls. I told her she should just turn off the phone during her programs and check her voice mail afterward. Pointedly, she said it was rude to turn off your phone unless you were going to sleep. Ouch.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “What’s wrong, honey?” I hear the TV volume go from blasting to mute in a millisecond. Mom can always tell when I’m distressed. Guilt sort of wiggles through me when I remember that I had the phone unplugged all day. What if she had fallen and couldn’t get up? Or what if a robber had broken in and tied her up and left her on the floor?

  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” I say. It’s a little lie. I really only called to talk about me and my feelings. But now that I hear her voice, I do care. As long as she makes it quick so we can get to my dilemma.

  “Oh, I’m fine. Joan and I went to the Center.” (Translation: old-folks hangout.) I think the only reason Mom goes is because she’s the youngest person there by a good six years, looks even younger, and has all the old men drooling over her.

  “Josie cheated at bridge, so we decided not to let her play anymore.”

  “Josie cheats every week, and you always say the same thing until you need another player.”

  “Well, today was the straw that broke the camel’s back. She won the penny pile, and that’s practically the same thing as stealing. So why did you really call? Are the kids okay?”

  “Yes. It’s Friday. They’re at Rick’s.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Why aren’t you writing? That editor of yours isn’t going to wait forever without docking your pay.”

  Mother knows way too much about the process. I roll my eyes (which I’d never have the guts to do in person). “I wrote a lot today. Almost done.”

  “Did you send it to me?” I smile. Mom’s my number one fan. I have to e-mail every rough-draft chapter to her. She oohs and ahhs and loves every word. Thank God for a mom like her.

  Did I actually think that?

  My mind and eyes wander to the computer where Blaine and Esmeralda are still waiting. “Not yet,” I say to Mom. “I’m wrapping up the chapter now.” I hesitate, remembering my incident with Ari, then the boys, and wish I could find a way to confide without it sounding like I’m a big baby. Or, heaven forbid, like I’m soliciting advice.

  “All right. When you get it finished, you send it to me. Are you sure nothing is wrong?”

  I blow out a frustrated breath, knowing I’m about to spill my guts, and that in all likelihood, I’ll regret that decision a second and a half after I finish. Still, that knowledge does nothing to prevent my mouth from spewing forth my discontent. So much for knowledge being power.

  I tell her all about her spoiled, ungrateful grandchildren. And then the diatribe escalates and I cover all the bases. I’m lonely, while Rick (who clearly doesn’t deserve to be happy) has Darcy. And now, to top it off, Rick just started being an usher at church. My church.

  Six months ago, Shawn invited them to the Easter program where he played “Angry man in crowd.” His awe-inspiring dialogue—“Crucify Him!”—sent chills down my spine. Apparently it did to Rick and Darcy as well because they both bawled their way to the front during the after-play altar call and haven’t missed a service since.

  I’m so outraged that I raise my voice a little. “Rick never darkened the doorstep of a church until six months ago. Now he’s an usher?”

  “So what?” Mom’s tone leads me to believe she just shrugged her bony little shoulders. “Why do you care if he’s an usher or not?”

  Okay, that is not the reaction I was looking for. She sounds sort of distant, anyway, and I’ll bet she’s reading the closed-captioned words on the screen instead of really listening to me. That’s probably why she isn’t getting my point. So I decide to give her another chance to respond in a proper manner before I make my excuses, hang up, and go tackle the rest of that pizza.

  “Well, I’m just thinking maybe he’s not ready to serve in the house of the Lord just yet.” Cringe. Even I’m not buying that one. No way will she be able to pass up the opportunity to kick it into “advice” mode.

  “Honey, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but maybe your frustration isn’t anyone else’s fault but your own. Besides, you don’t even go to church half the time anymore.”

  I sniff. Glad you don’t want to hurt my feelings. Clearly, it was a huge mistake confiding in her. Pepperoni is calling my name. “Well, Mom, I gotta—”

  “Oh, don’t hang up just because I said something you don’t want to hear. I need to tell you something else—about me. I’ve been trying to call you all day, but you know how you always turn off your phone.”

  Feeling like a swatted kid, I squirm in my seat. “I only live three doors down, Ma,” I remind her. “And my phone hasn’t been off all the time. What do you need to tell me?”

  She takes a deep breath and it sounds a little shaky. I frown and perk up. This doesn’t sound good.

  “I’ve been talking to Charley.”

  Charley’s my brother. He moved to Texas a few years ago, and now he has a thick drawl that everyone knows is made up. Charley’s younger than me, but his kid count just topped mine. His wife, Marie, recently gave birth to a set of twins to bring his total number of children to five. Funny how Mom only had two kids, but Charley and I have both popped them out like nobody’s business.

  “So how is that ol’ wrangler?” I ask in a really bad Charley-esque drawl.

  “Be nice.” But I hear the chuckle in her tone. “Actually, he bought a new house.”

  “Another one?”

  Did I forget to mention that my brother is also loaded? Not J. R. Ewing loaded, but he owns three new-and-used car lots, and let’s just say that Texans buy a lot of trucks. Okay, I’m happy for him. He has the oh-so-perfect life. But if I have to hear about his new house, I’m going to barf.

  “This one has a large basement apartment.”

  “Wow.” I absently tap my keyboard as the screensaver kicks in.

  “The basement apartment is for me.”

  “Good. You’ll be more comfortable when you go there to visit.” She’s always lamenting having to sleep on my nephew’s twin-size bed. “This is their Christmas with you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. But that’s not the reason for the apartment.”

  It sinks in that she’s trying to tell me something. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m moving to Texas.”

  I blink. My feet slide from the desk and plop to the floor as I sit up straight. “What do you mean you’re moving to Texas. Like for good?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Mom, what am I supposed to do about the kids when I’m on deadline?” Okay, that sounded so much worse actually coming out of my mouth.

  She doesn’t respond, and I’m fully aware that I’ve hurt her deeply.

  I swallow hard and try again. “I’m sorry. You’re just such a part of our lives that I can’t imagine you not being here.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Why are you doing this all of a sudden?”

  “It’s not actually all of a sudden. I told you a year ago I was thinking about it. Charley only just got a place big enough.”

  Did she? A year ago. I rack my brain. I’m coming up with nothing.

  “So, when are we talking? Spring? It’ll probably take that long or longer to sell the house.”

  “Oh, honey. I’m not waiting until the house sells. I’m itching to get my hands on those twins. I’ve already listed the house with a realtor, and you’ll be here to oversee things. The movers are coming in three weeks, and I’ve already bought my plane ticket.”

  I feel so betrayed. All of this going on in her life and I had no idea. All these plans. “Well, I guess you’ve pretty much made up your mind then.”

  “Yes, and you’ll be fine. You’re stro
nger than you think.”

  “Sure I am, Mom.” Already, I feel the walls closing in, the pressure in my chest. How am I going to get along without her? My mom has been my rock since Rick hit the road.

  Who will help with the kids? Make supper when I am buried to my eyeballs in deadlines? Who will write little notes on pink, heart-shaped sticky tabs and press them to my computer reminding me that Jesus loves me and so does she? I feel tears pushing against the backs of my eyes.

  “Claire,” she says in a tone I haven’t heard her use on me since I was twelve. It’s soothing. But doesn’t last for long. “It’s Charley’s turn to have his mom close by. And it’s my turn to be with Charley’s kids. I’ll always treasure the years I was here for you, but it’s time for you to face some things, my girl.”

  “Like what? A rubber room?” I can’t do it on my own. I don’t want to be a stinker. But Charley doesn’t need her. I decide to tell her that. “Charley doesn’t need you like I do, Mom. He has Marie.”

  “Maybe this isn’t about what Charley or you need. Maybe it’s about what I need at this stage in my life.”

  Oh, hadn’t thought of that.

  “I love you, Claire, but you are so self-absorbed that you can’t see anyone’s needs but your own.” My mother is pulling out all the stops now that she’s about to wrangle some steers deep in the heart of Texas! “For the past five years I’ve watched you become a hermit, comforting yourself with food and completely losing touch with your children.”

  Now I’m really miffed. Why did I ever want her to stay? “Okay, Mom.” I speak through clenched teeth, trying to remain polite and respectful. “Thank you for your advice. I will call you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t hang up. I’m not finished.”

  Oh, goodie.

  “You can either sink into deeper bitterness against all the struggles you’ve had, or you can take the bull by the horns and do something to make yourself happy.”

  I can’t believe she just said “take the bull by the horns.” What? Has she been taking a course on quippy Texas lingo?

  “Is that all?” I ask, tight-lipped.

  “No. The main reason you’re so miserable is that you have lost touch with God and fellow believers. We’re not meant to be Lone Ranger Christians. We need each other.”

  I give a hefty sigh, zeroing in on the part where she said I comfort myself with food. Now my mom’s calling me fat? I need to get off the phone pronto. Seriously. So I do the best thing I can think of. I agree with her about something. “I know you’re right about church. I plan on going this Sunday.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I’ll ride with you. That church bus is too rowdy with all those kids.”

  “Fine. I better go now and finish this scene, Mom. Blaine’s going to kiss Esmeralda.”

  “Don’t tell me. I want to be surprised when I read it!”

  I laugh. Mom laughs. But I’m not laughing on the inside. And I have a feeling she isn’t either.

  3

  The week after Mom drops her little bomb on my already explosive life, I’m sitting in Dr. Grace’s exam room, staring at the balding surgeon like an idiot, and trying to wrap my mind around his wretched news.

  Judging from the V furrowed in his brow, I assume my expression gives the appearance of a woman who’s not quite rolling on all four wheels. And to be honest, I think I must be hearing things. Because this cannot be happening.

  “What do you mean six weeks?” I ask.

  He shrugs. I hate it when doctors, lawyers, or IRS auditors shrug like that—nonchalantly, like they’re just glad it’s me and not them. “I mean just what I said. It’s possible that you can heal in four weeks, but not likely, considering your particular career and considering you need surgery on both arms.”

  Considering my career. That’s exactly what I’m doing. Why else would I be here sitting on a cold, hard exam table? (Although I am grateful there are no stirrups.) Six weeks is a ridiculous amount of time.

  I’m keeping this rant to myself because he doesn’t seem the type to put up with a whiny, overweight prima donna. But sheesh, even hysterectomies don’t take that long for recovery. This is just a little carpal tunnel syndrome. I know a lady who had carpal tunnel surgery and was typing e-mails in a week. I give him this information and he doesn’t seem impressed. So I press on. “Can’t you just do a laser thing and get me back to work in a few days?”

  The surgeon looks at me over the rim of his half-glasses and scowls. I scowl back because I don’t think the question is unreasonable, given modern medicine. I mean, mankind can put artificial hearts into the chests of fifty-year-old men and transplant everything from kidneys to hair (and Dr. Grace might want to look into that one), but this little wrist surgery is going to lay me up six weeks or more? Like I said… ridiculous.

  “Isn’t there any other alternative?”

  My file is laid open in his hands, and he makes a little note. Even in my best mental scenario, I can’t imagine that it’s anything flattering. Looking up at me, his expression softens, and I can tell he’s finally connected with my dilemma. “I’m good, but I’m not God. Some things just take time. And healing from the kind of carpal tunnel surgery I recommend for you is one of those things. You’ll have to be patient. Now, you wouldn’t expect to write a whole book in a couple of weeks would you?”

  “Tell that to my editor,” I grumble.

  A sigh pushes from his lungs, and I know I’m getting on his last nerve. All I have to say is that it’s a good thing he’s not a pediatrician because he has no patience whatsoever. A horrible bedside manner. But I’m not going to antagonize the man who will soon be holding a sharp blade to my wrist.

  Dr. Grace gives me a stern glance and the V returns to his brow. “Wait much longer to get the procedure done and we might have to do something more drastic. And, trust me, the recovery would be much longer in that case.”

  I grumble to the door and say I’ll get back with him when I have a free six weeks on my hands, which, according to my online calendar, is… never. I twist the knob and frown. Is it my imagination or is my hand tingling more than usual? The surgery’s got to happen before I start my next project or I won’t be able to finish it at all, let alone by deadline.

  On the way down in the elevator I’m relieved that I’m alone in the mobile cube. Too many people in an enclosed space give me the willies. As if in reaction, my gut tightens as the doors swish open to reveal the busy first floor of the medical building. Unease creeps through me and waves of heat wash my entire body. I’m thinking I might be having a hot flash. Like maybe menopause is going to strike early. That’s about my luck lately.

  Confusion sifts through my mind as I step out of the elevator, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing and yet somehow knowing where I am. It’s very surreal. I’m certifiable, that’s all there is to it. I stop walking, frozen.

  I think how this whole picture is an analogy for my life. Standing still in the middle of the floor while people whiz by me, not noticing that I’m here. I am invisible. My heart starts pounding and sweat is beading on my brow. Panic is rising. I have to get out of here before I blow a gasket and end up drooling applesauce down my chin in some psych ward.

  I’m gasping for breath and my head is woozy. My eyes squeeze shut, and I’m still unable to budge from the middle of the first-floor hallway where dozens of people are maneuvering around me—like this is the Indy 500 and I’m the car that just blew a tire. I gather breath and reopen my eyes, determined to put one foot in front of the other and walk to the end of the hall where I see sunlight beaming in through the double doors. The proverbial (and literal) light at the end of the tunnel.

  Oh, God. I think I’m having a heart attack. Please, please get me home. I promise I’ll take better care of myself. Cut back on pizza, exercise, stuff like that.

  My breathing is coming in short bursts and I have no confidence in my feeble attempt at prayer/negotiating with the One who holds my life in His hands.

&n
bsp; Seriously, I’m not going to make it, God. I need help.

  “Claire? You okay?”

  Oh my, there must have been power in that prayer, after all. I’ve never had one answered so quickly.

  I look up at the sound of the masculine voice. Familiar, dark, Andy Garcia eyes are looking down at me beneath a brow furrowed in concern.

  Hello, Gorgeous, I think in my best Streisand voice.

  Someone blows past me on the other side, and I feel my body start to tremble.

  “You okay?” he asks again.

  Somehow I know this man (and being a Christian, I am fully aware that there’s no chance it was in a former life), but my mind is numb and coherency is a thing of the past. I can’t place him. “Get me out of here!” I gasp.

  Warmth floods the small of my back as he wordlessly presses his palm there and guides me to the end of the hall. I keep my eyes focused. Finally we are outside the building. Relief washes over me. I try to breathe deeply, except that two men in white doctor coats are lighting up and the smoke makes me cough.

  Coming down the walkway, an elderly woman steps haltingly next to an equally elderly man who is maneuvering an electric wheelchair in our direction. Andy Garcia Eyes opens the door for them. With a pointed glance at her husband’s oxygen tank, the woman scowls at the smoking docs, who both look away lickety-split.

  The cowards. I have to shake my head at the paradox. The dangers of smoking should definitely be addressed in medical school. But I let it go as my hero grips my elbow and leads me away from the secondhand smoke.

  Clarity is beginning to replace my earlier confusion and my heart rate is returning to normal, despite the downright chivalry (not to mention close proximity) of this six-foot two-inch gentleman with movie-star good looks.

  He stops at the crosswalk and pushes the button to halt traffic so we can cross. I know the silence needs to be broken, so I say the first gracious thing that pops into my head. “Thanks for the rescue.” I intentionally refrain from sentence structure that would require me to address him by name or title. He seems to know me well and this puts me at a distinct disadvantage.