Leave It to Claire

by Tracey Bateman

  “You really need your morning coffee, don’t you?” Darcy’s expression is one of amused fondness. “Rick is the same way.”

  Okay, then. I shove up to my feet. Finished or not, I have to have caffeine now. And, for the record, that Rick comparison just slashed her two cups of coffee to one.

  “It must be a difficult time for you with your mother moving away.”

  I’d like to explain to Darcy that I don’t discuss personal issues with current wives of ex-husbands, but there’s no denying the warmth in Darcy’s voice. My sense of justice won’t allow for me to hold it against her that I’m in a tough situation. No matter how much I resent the fact that she loves the man who cheated on me, then left me with four kids to raise.

  “I’d love to help out any way I can.”

  I give her an airy smile and set our cups with half-brewed coffee on the table. “Just pray for a quick recovery.” Holy cow, could I be more fake?

  Her eyes sort of cloud over, and I know she finally gets it that I’m brushing her off. I do feel a twinge of sympathy for her, but good grief. Why would I want help from my ex-husband’s wife? It’s just a little too weird, if you ask me.

  Truthfully, I don’t have much against Darcy. Other than the obvious resentment that she’s beautiful, ten years younger than I am, and a lot thinner. In my world that makes her a viable enemy. But I’d resent anyone in that position. So I don’t discriminate. It’s just that I don’t want to be her best friend. It’s not normal.

  Besides, sometimes I get the feeling she wants to take me on as her project. She invites me places, sends me “just thinking of you” cards. Things like that. Makes sure I have plans when the kids are with their father so that I’m not all alone. She’s thoughtful. And it’s nice, if misguided. But I’ve been surrounded by children for the past fifteen years. A full day to myself definitely doesn’t push me into anything remotely resembling loneliness.

  A small pang of guilt pinches me, and I remember my list of resolutions. Do I really have to consider Darcy as part of that? Because if that’s what God is trying to accomplish with this whole twinge of guilt, I’m going to have to rethink it a little.

  I veer off into discussing what Rick and Darcy are hoping to buy each of the kids for Christmas. Darcy is Little Miss Christmas Sunshine, and she takes to the subject like a catfish to a worm.

  We laugh and compare lists for the next few minutes and relief warms me as Darcy stands to leave without having to be nudged along by a subtle but well-targeted hint.

  I walk her back through the cluttered room; again I watch, again she averts, and at the door she pauses.

  “I finished Tobey’s Choice last night.” She’s not looking at me, and I am almost positive I see a glimmer in her eyes. I frown and look closer; my movement causes her to meet my gaze. Just as I suspected. Tears.

  My stomach clenches, unease nips at me like an undisciplined Chihuahua. I don’t want to do this.

  “Claire…”

  “I didn’t realize you enjoy reading Christian fiction. I’d be happy to recommend some other authors.” I rattle off some, hoping that in the meantime she’ll give up this desire to delve deep into a chasm she has no business penetrating. It’s not her place. I’m starting to panic. Where is my handsome knight, Sir Greg? I’m feeling in desperate need of a little rescuing.

  She places her hand on my arm, and I clamp my mouth shut. All right. Let’s get this over with.

  “I know this book was hard for you to write,” she says, her voice trembling with emotion. “I—I just want you to know how much I respect you for having the guts to tackle such an enormously personal subject.”

  I never know what to say in these situations. Again, I’m caught at a crossroads. I want to say I have fully forgiven Rick. That the book was cathartic. Truthfully, it was supposed to be. But I realize I’m still raw from the rejection of being tossed aside and replaced with a better model. Literally. The woman he left me for modeled underwear at the so-called high-class lingerie shop in the mall. Of course six months later, she left him for a fat, balding dentist. I figure she was picturing free veneers. Vindication, but not enough to take away the bitterness.

  Darcy pauses a second. She gathers a breath and I see her brace herself for what she’s going to say. I brace myself, too, and wish a meteor would land in my yard to distract her. Or perhaps she could suddenly be hailed by the mother ship.

  No such luck.

  “It’s hard for me to imagine Rick as the man who cheated on you.”

  “I would never have thought it of him either.”

  Now why did I have to go and say that? It was catty and sort of sounded like I was warning her. I see by the wariness flickering across her eyes that she’s not sure what to make of my remark. I know I have to undo what I said. “Look, Darcy, Rick’s not the same guy he was five years ago when we divorced.” There. That’s my concession and that’s all she’s getting.

  It seems to be enough for her because she smiles.

  All right, then. She likes the book. Respects me for writing it. Anything else? Please say no. Please say no.

  “Just one more thing…”

  Shoot.

  “I get the feeling sometimes that…”

  I frown, sensing this is not easy for her to say. And fully supporting her need to just drop it. But she’s not feeling my support, or something, because she forges ahead, heedless of my “Let it go, babe” vibes. “I get the feeling that you don’t differentiate between the woman Rick cheated with and me.”

  My jaw goes slack. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. That’s the most ridiculous . . .

  Darcy takes one step down and pauses again. “And, Claire. I would never be the other woman. I wouldn’t have before I was a Christian, and certainly wouldn’t now.” She draws a short breath and looks me squarely in the eye. “I didn’t take Rick away from you. And I would really like to be your friend.”

  Is it my imagination, or did the whole earth stop spinning?

  5

  A mid-thirties-ish, overweight woman without makeup isn’t a pretty sight to behold. Especially when she’s frowning into my bathroom mirror like I am and every wrinkle (which are really war wounds as far as I’m concerned) reminds me that I’m not getting any younger. Or nicer, apparently.

  I stare at the woman I’ve become. The reflection accuses me, mocks me, and worse still, reminds me of all the weight I’ve gained over the past five years.

  Darcy’s little parting remark left me speechless. And that doesn’t happen often. I’m notorious for the quippy comeback. Now my wings are clipped, the wind has left my sails, and more than anything I wish I could rewind a couple of hours and never answer that doorbell in the first place.

  Of course her accusation or observation or whatever that was supposed to be is completely and utterly ridiculous.

  She looks nothing whatsoever like Gina, the adulterous model, so how could I mix them up? I feel a twinge inside my gut. And that annoys me. The last thing I want to do is soul-search about this. Darcy is Darcy. Sweet, wholesome, put-together like something out of Vogue. Not Gina. But married to Rick.

  Luckily, the phone rings, and I have no choice but to stop thinking about this and answer.

  Mom.

  “Hi, honey. Good news. The realtor just called and says we have a bite on the house.”

  Great. How about twisting the knife just to add a little something to my day? “That was quick. You sure you priced it high enough?”

  “Yes. Anyway. The man is coming to take a look on Monday, and I need to clear out the attic.”

  I inwardly groan, because I know she didn’t call simply to give me an update on the work ahead of her. She’s just mapped out my day. My first free Saturday in weeks, now that the manuscript is on my editor’s desk. The day I was going to clean my house, read a book, relax. Possibly take a bubble bath. I see this vision vanish before me like a puff of smoke.

  “I have to get dressed. I’ll be over in thirty minutes.”
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br />   Twenty-nine minutes later I’m standing on the porch, wondering why she locked the door when she knew I was coming. But I can’t hold a grudge when I see her bright smile. The one I know so well that always communicates her joy at seeing me. It’s nice to have someone in your life you know loves you unconditionally. Sure, I might get aggravated at my mom, but the fact remains I couldn’t have made it through the past few years without her.

  As I step inside the familiar house, the home where I grew up, a feeling of nostalgia sweeps over me. I want to beg my mom not to leave, but I’ve come to accept the fact that she needs to do this for her own sake. Even if I personally think living with Charley is going to drive her into early dementia.

  “Do you want some coffee?” Mom asks.

  “No. I just had some.” But I have no intention of telling her about my morning coffee date. “Let’s just dive right into the attic.”

  Being the brave young thing I am, I venture forth ahead of Mom. I duck and beat at cobwebs, feeling like Indiana Jones, minus the bullwhip and sardonic grin. I breathe in the musty smell of forty years’ worth of memories. My memories. Charley’s. Mom’s. Suddenly, I’m missing my dad. A gentle giant with a voice like Sinatra. In the corner sits his fishing gear, tackle boxes, old rods and reels. I laugh and snatch up his pride and joy: a gray fishing hat, decorated around the rim with fishing lures and hooks taken from the lips of the unfortunate “big ones” he caught in his lifetime. I plop the hat on my head and rummage through the tackle box. “Remember when Dad used to take us camping?”

  Mom gives a snort, and I’m not feeling the love.

  “What’s that for?” I ask.

  “I hated every second of those outings.”

  My brow lifts with my utter shock. She might as well have said she never loved my dad. True, Mom never was one to complain, but in my mental slide show, I don’t see anything that looks like misery. I have a feeling she’s overstating her case. “I always thought you were having a great time like the rest of us.”

  “It meant so much to your father to take us on these little excursions to the middle of nowhere. And you kids lived for the summer campouts; I couldn’t very well disappoint you all.”

  “I thought camping was fun. Still do. How come you didn’t like it, Mom?”

  She shuddered. “Bugs. I hated the bugs.”

  I roll my eyes. “Well, who doesn’t?” Okay, I’ve had this conversation once today.

  “Don’t get smart with me.”

  I grin. Mom so gets my sarcasm. No need for unflattering analogies.

  “So, what do you want me to do with all this stuff?”

  Mom shrugs. “I suppose we’ll have to throw it out.”

  I gasp so hard I take in a lungful of dust and start to cough. Mom pounds me on the back, and I’m thinking this woman is not the frail old lady she pretends to be. She could probably take me in a street fight.

  When I finally compose myself and convince Mom to stop beating me half to death, I look at her to see if dust has affected her ability to focus. “You really want to throw out Daddy’s fishing gear?”

  “Well, I can’t very well take it with me.”

  “Charley might want it.”

  Mom laughs and I see her point. “Your brother doesn’t know one end of a hook from the other. Do you suppose Rick might want it?”

  “Rick’s not my husband anymore, Mother. Remember?” I know I sound huffy. But when will she get it through her head that she doesn’t need to be nice to him anymore, and as a matter of fact, I wish she’d be mean?

  “Of course I remember. But your father always thought so highly of him. Well, until… you know.”

  “Until he started having a lot more sex than I was?”

  “Well, there’s no reason to be vulgar. You could have simply said he was stepping out on you with other women, which I know very well that he was.” Even in the dim light of the attic I can see her face is glowing red.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. Do whatever you want with the fishing gear.”

  “Would you like to keep the hat?” She nods to my head.

  “Yeah, I would. Thanks.”

  After hours of digging through the attic, deciding what to throw away, what she wants to keep, I plod home covered in dust with cobwebs adorning my hair. I trudge through the door and beeline it for the couch, where I flop. I stretch out fully, thinking about all the boxes lined up on the curb, waiting for the garbageman on Monday morning.

  And just for the record, I’m a little heartsick at all the things Mom doesn’t want to hang on to—I mean, what was the point of saving baby teeth in the first place if all she’s going to do is throw them away when I’m almost forty? Did she think I might want to make a necklace of them someday?

  Is that what’s going to happen to me? My mind flashes to my own attic, where boxes of my children’s baby stuff clutter the floor. What am I going to do with the silky blond strands of hair taped to each baby book under the heading “First Haircut”? Will they want the memories I’ve collected when they grow up, or will the day come when Ari is helping me clean out the attic so I can go live with Tank and his wife, Machine Gun? My lips twitch as humor returns, lifting my spirits a little.

  First of all, the thought of Ari getting her manicured hands dirty is truly laughable, and Tommy would rather slide headfirst into a vat of boiling oil than have me come live with him. The kid is counting the days until his eighteenth birthday as it is.

  Still, the question begs to be answered. What good does it do to build a lifetime of memories if they’re only going to be tossed away like yesterday’s garbage?

  The melancholy is weaving through me, first into my brain, then downward into my heart, then, as I try to ease the pain with three scoops of rocky road ice cream, into my stomach. It doesn’t work. I can’t help but be swept away on a tide of childhood memories. They’re so sweet. Those memories. I feel like Ralphie from A Christmas Story and I consider, for a moment, writing my life story. Okay, so maybe the time I had chickenpox and Dad, Mom, and Charley put on the entire Nutcracker ballet to ease the pain of missing out on my school’s field trip wouldn’t mean anything to the rest of the world, but to me, those memories are priceless.

  With a sigh, I toss the bowl into the sink and head upstairs to shower off the dust. As the steaming water flows over me, I’m struck with the idea that all I truly have left of my childhood are the sweet memories my parents created for me. My mind goes to my own children. What have I built for them to remind them of me when they grow up? Days and nights at the computer, fast-food meals in the living room while I sit with my laptop, weekend plans gone awry because of an unexpected line edit that has to be attended to in three days. It seems as though the only fun my kids have is when they’re with Rick.

  This thought weakens my knees. There’s no denying that Rick was a sorry excuse for a husband. But guess what? He’s the better parent. I think I’m going to be sick. I slide The Mirror Has Two Faces into the VCR and crawl into bed with the remote. How did Rick become the fun one? He’s the one building camping memories with our kids. Of course, for all I know, that could be his way of compensating for breaking their hearts by leaving me when they were little. Furthermore, it’s easy to be the fun one when you only have the kids two and a half days a week.

  I listen to the music signaling the opening credits, but my brain is focused on that list I made out earlier in the week. Number three on the list: Reconnect with my children. Excitement begins to build as I realize what this new “me” is going to mean to my precious offspring. I imagine their joy, their utter relief that I’ve finally seen the light. No more will I be the evasive mother of the past. Oh, no. All of that is behind me. I’m turning over a new leaf. From this moment forward, my number one mission in life is to begin building memories for my children to cherish when they’re all grown up.

  And yes, part of that reasoning is because I don’t want them to look back on Rick with more fondness than me. I’m man enough to admit it. But mos
tly, I want them to one day look through old memorabilia and cherish the moments those things represent.

  I close my eyes and listen to my movie playing in the background. I’ve watched the beginning at least a hundred times and I’ve yet to see how it ends. I fall asleep every night at various points. I know I could just start from where I left off the night before and that eventually I’d finish, but I can’t do it. I have to watch it all the way through in one sitting or it’s ruined for me. I can’t help it. That’s just the way I’m wired.

  So, here it is, less than thirty minutes into the movie, and I feel myself drifting into the shadows of unconsciousness. Then an idea springs to mind, and I’m bolt upright before I fully open my eyes.

  Family night! One night a week, we’ll have a special dinner, watch a movie, maybe have a nice discussion about the movie if it’s one with a particularly good message, like The Lord of the Rings. Play a game. Maybe some nights we’ll go minigolfing or to Incredible Pizza and play in the arcade.

  My excitement builds as the ideas zoom in and out of my brain. I’ve got enough activities to see us through to Jakey’s high school graduation by the time the music from my TV crescendos and words come up at the end of the movie. I stare blankly as Barbra Streisand and Jeff Bridges dance in the street, laughing, hugging, kissing, and I have to wonder, what just happened? I finally made it to the end of the movie wide awake, and I have no idea how it ended.

  6

  It’s Sunday afternoon. The kids and Rick got home just in time to clean up and make the 10:45 service at church. They should have been home at 7:00 a.m., but a thunderstorm blew through, forcing a slow drive. So now the kids and I sit in Pizza Hut in the round booth, waving at half the church as they breeze by headed to their own tables.

  Tommy is playing around with the Parmesan cheese shaker. Note to self: check the lid before I use any.

  “So, that’s my idea,” I say, knowing full well that the smile on my face is way too bright for the response I’m getting from the kids. I almost hate to ask the next question, but my penchant for emotional abuse spurs me to ask. “What do you think?”