“Of course. This’ll be a piece of cake. Like a vacation for me.”
“A vacation from me?” She sounds hurt.
I laugh. “No, Mother. A vacation from working.”
“Oh. Well, good. You need to take some time off.” She reaches up and pats my cheeks—something she hasn’t done since my wedding day when she told me she was praying I’d be very happy. Probably shouldn’t mention that.
Ari’s eyes flood with tears when we say good-bye to Mom at security. I know she wants to beg her to stay. The two have a tight bond that started the day Mother looked into Ari’s serene baby face and declared her the loveliest infant ever born with the exception of baby Jesus Himself.
I’m sorta struggling with my own helpless feelings of abandonment, but I slip my arm around my daughter. My heart swells inside me as she silently lays her head on my shoulder. “Who am I going to talk to now?” she asks, just before sniffing against my new sweater.
The winds of deflation whoosh through my chest. “There’s always the phone and e-mail,” I manage weakly.
Jake is beginning to climb on the aisle dividers, and I see annoyance playing on the faces of the passengers waiting in line for security to make total fools of them. They have enough stress and definitely don’t need some hyper kid slowing down the process by drawing the security officers away from their tasks.
“Come on, guys. We won’t be able to see Granny anymore. We might as well go.”
“Can we go to Incredible Pizza?” Shawn asks.
Now, pizza sounds good. The thought perks me up and lifts my spirits. I feel myself heading to my happy place.
Ari groans. “I’m so sick of pizza.”
I stare at her. Did this child come from my body? She must have been switched at birth, because no daughter of mine could possibly be sick of pizza.
Luckily the boys outvote her, so we spend the next three hours eating buffet pizza while the boys ride the indoor go-karts and play video arcade games and air hockey. Ari sits in morose silence, reading a book I paid way too much for in the airport gift shop just to appease her. I pull out my notebook (not the electronic $2,000 kind) and a pen and begin sketching a new novel idea I’ve been mulling over for the last two weeks. This one isn’t like the others, so I’m nervous to tell anyone about it. My agent might be skittish at the idea of sending it to an equally skittish publisher who brags about “building” my name in romance—like I had nothing to do with it. But the idea dogs me and it must be penned. And who knows? Maybe my current publisher will allow the switch in genre. The unlikely thought makes me feel better.
So I sit blissfully unaware of my kids roaming about the indoor playland while the characters in my head begin to take shape, introducing themselves and demanding airtime. So much for a vacation. But I have to admit, I feel a spark of renewed interest in writing. And some impatience that I have to go through with this surgery right now. But according to my surgeon’s dire warning, putting it off would be a grave mistake. So it looks like I have a week to keep fleshing the characters and building my new plot. Guilt pricks me at this thought and my mind flitters to The List. I made a commitment. I glance at my kids. The boys aren’t fighting for once. Ari is reading quietly. I strengthen my resolve once more. I am taking this time off to do what I promised myself I would do. Tomorrow I’m getting The List out and recommitting to it.
The next morning I cook breakfast and drive my kids to school. I get home and sit to read e-mail when my eye catches the Wal-Mart receipt on which my seven-steps-to-a-better-me list stares at me as a stern reminder. The only one that really bothers me is the exercise part. What was I thinking? But I’ve committed to change. And as much as I hate to admit it, exercise might be part of that. I decide to go for a walk. Four blocks later, I turn around and come back. I’m sweating and my feet are hurting from stiff Nikes I’ve never actually worn before. I resolve to buy some Band-Aids to help with the hotspots before I try again tomorrow.
Baby steps, Claire. Baby steps.
That night I have a chance to work on number one from The List: Go to church more. In reference to number one, I will also pick up a Beth Moore Bible study workbook from the church bookstore after service.
It’s Wednesday. I promised the kids we’d go to church—as if they really had to beg. The truth is, I’m dying to see Greg again. It’s been a week and two days since our meeting at school. I’ve seen him twice during that time. Once last Wednesday night, but the polite smile he gave me from the platform just before leading worship didn’t exactly have me doing cartwheels. And on Sunday we met between services: he was leaving the first as I entered the building in time for the second. I might have to set my alarm a bit earlier next time . . .
Who am I kidding? No man is worth getting up in time to make it with four kids to a 9:00 a.m. service.
Darcy’s face is beaming when I walk in at five minutes till seven. She waves at me and scoots over, just like that, assuming I will mosey up the middle aisle amid the buzzing crowd of worshipers and just plop myself right down in the second row. I pretend I don’t see her. On the second row with my ex-husband and his wife is the last place I want to be. I’m trying to figure out a way to politely sit elsewhere when I come face-to-face with Linda Myers, the woman who was able to forgive her husband’s affair after reading Tobey’s Choice.
She takes my hand, her smile warming me and inducing a smile on my own lips. “It’s so wonderful to see you.” She waves toward a seat nearly in the back. “I’m alone tonight. Mark had to work. Do you want to sit with me?”
I glance about. The kids have run to their age-appropriate sections of the seating. I shrug and wave to Darcy. “Sounds good,” I say to the lovely woman who just rescued me from public speculation. Darcy’s face clouds, but she nods and scoots back. That’s when I notice Rick isn’t with her. I frown. It isn’t like him to miss church. The only time I remember him doing so was on Sundays when he had his National Guard drills. Rick’s a weekend warrior. But this is only Wednesday. There is no drill during the week.
Now I can’t keep my eyes off Darcy, sitting all alone on the second row. It wouldn’t bother me to sit by myself, but I know it does her. “Hey, Linda. I need to speak to Darcy Frank. Can we sit together another time?”
Her eyes light with a smile of understanding. “Of course. Hey, you know what? I wouldn’t mind a closer seat myself. Mind if I join you?”
Now, relief shoots through me. That’s better. Another woman sitting with us will even things out a bit and squelch gossip that might start from having the two Mrs. Franks sitting together.
We sashay up the aisle just as the musicians take the stage. I nudge Darcy. “Scooch down two seats,” I whisper. Delight widens her Angelina Jolie lips. “Sure!”
“Where’s Rick?”
“Filling in for Craig at the hospital. He’s on vacation. Must be a full moon. Between both of their patient lists, ten women have been admitted to labor and delivery tonight. Rick’s going to be running his head off.”
I refrain from making a snide comment and lift my gaze to the stage, where the band is warming up.
Funny how I never noticed before that Patrick Devine is the drummer. He grins at me when I notice him and gives me a salute with his drumstick. Linda chuckles and leans over. “Looks like Paddy there is trying to get Mom’s approval.”
I grin. “He’s already got it. But don’t let on. I don’t mind a little flattery and kissing up.”
“Trish said Ari’s date with him is on the calendar for the Friday after her sweet-sixteen. That was some smart parenting.”
I can’t help a laugh at my own cleverness and joy that someone approves. “It’s hard to believe she’s already dating.”
“Tell me about it. Trish turned sixteen in August. Is Ari getting her license on her birthday?”
This is when Darcy joins the conversation. She leans over, her sweet fragrance wafting over me. “She has to have her permit for six months before she can get her license. We’re tak
ing her to take the permit test on Friday after school.”
This makes my brows go up. “You are?”
Darcy’s eyes grow wide. She looks scared. “You didn’t know?”
“Nope.” My jaw clenches. I refuse to make a scene in the Lord’s house.
But Darcy can’t leave well enough alone. “Ari asked Rick last time she was at our house. She said you never have time.”
Heat sears my neck. The music has begun, and Greg is encouraging the congregation to stand up. That’s the way we do the music at our church. Active praise and worship. And the music is upbeat and a little rockish on Wednesday nights. I like it. Usually. Tonight I’m feeling a little blindsided. My baby is getting her learner’s permit in two days, and I had no idea. I feel Linda squeeze my elbow to let me know she understands. I think maybe I’ve found a friend. This goes along with number five on my list: Figure out why my only socialization revolves around my computer. Relief pours through me. Maybe I’m making a little progress.
The music draws me back and I find myself clapping along with Paddy’s drumming. As a spirit of worship filters through the sanctuary, I close my eyes and lift my hands toward heaven. I’m able to push aside the permit/license thing and concentrate on God. The pastor’s sermon—“It’s Not About You”—seems uncomfortably appropriate. Afterward, I head over to the bookstore, a little room off the sanctuary. I browse the study books and locate a Beth Moore workbook that looks especially interesting.
“Oh, we’re getting ready to start that in our ladies’ meeting on Friday morning.” I turn to see Darcy behind me. She must have followed.
“Oh?” I start to put it back. But Darcy’s words stop me. “Claire, why don’t you join us? You’re not working for the next few weeks. It would be the perfect thing to get you out of the house.”
Shoot. Suddenly I remember number six on my list. Which includes Join ladies’ group at church.
I think maybe God is playing a joke on me.
9
Friday night, I walk down the steps wearing a Kansas City Chiefs sweatshirt and a new pair of jeans, slightly snug (but I figure as long as they’re not cutting off the blood flow to any vital organs, they can only serve to hold in bulgy areas—of which there are many).
The doorbell rings.
Linda’s smiling face greets me as I slip onto the porch. “Ready to go?”
“Yep.” The thought of a movie hit me just right. When she called earlier and invited me, I jumped at the chance to get out of the house.
I’m feeling really cool as I slide into Linda’s little red Miata, the kind of car you can own if you only have one kid. I’ll be driving a minivan for the next ten years at least. Bummer.
She pulls out of the driveway and we zoom down the road, small talk filling our conversation.
How was your day?
Fine.
Isn’t this weather gorgeous?
Sure is, so glad the rain held off a few more hours.
The Miata speeds up during a long stretch of straight road. My heart lifts and I feel like a teenager. Until we stop at a red light, that is, and an actual group of teenagers screeches to a halt next to us. The crazy, dangerous, giggling lot of them make me nervous, and I’m glad Ari has a couple of more weeks before she can go anywhere without an adult driver.
“Don’t you wish you had their energy?” Linda’s amused comment tugs a smile to my lips.
“Their energy and bodies, combined with my wisdom and tax bracket.”
Her laughter fills the little car. “Me, too.”
“So, Mark had to work again?”
Her laughter fades and she gives a somber nod. “Again. Always. Lately, he’s just Mr. Employee of the Month.”
My eyebrows go up at her sarcasm. I feel responsible. After all, my book saved her marriage, I can’t let anything pull these two apart again.
“Want to talk about it?”
She shrugs. “Nah. There’s nothing I can do about it anyway. If he has to work, he has to work, right?”
“Right.” I guess.
She whips the Miata into a miraculously close parking space for a Friday night at the movies and kills the motor. “So, did Ari pass the test?”
The topic that is a thorn in my side. I’d like to grunt my answer, but I squash the cavewoman tendency and nod. “With flying colors.”
“Good for her!”
“Yeah.”
Obviously sensing my need for a different topic, she tosses her keys in her purse and opens the door. “When’s your surgery?”
I get out and close the door, slinging my purse over my shoulder. I sigh as it slides down and lands in the crook of my arm. “Monday.”
She looks at me over the top of the car. “That soon?”
“I’ve been off work for four weeks. I’m ready to get it over with.”
“If you need anything, let me know, okay?”
My independent nature rises up. “There’s nothing to this. It’s practically not even surgery. I’ll be fine. Thank heaven for takeout, right?”
She laughs and links her arm with mine. “I guess so. Let’s go watch a chick flick.”
I smile and move in step with my new friend.
5. Figure out why my only socialization revolves around my computer… This one is a no-brainer and goes back to the Bible. To have friends, a person has to be friendly. Who knew?
I look at my right hand all wrapped up in bandages and I’m trying really hard not to scream bloody murder. I’m sitting in the passenger side of my van and my daughter is actually driving me home from the hospital, because the pain meds make me loopy. Too bad they don’t make me loopy enough to stop the fear of my fifteen-year-old daughter’s driving.
I thought I’d be going home yesterday. But the doctor decided to keep me in overnight to watch my vitals. My blood pressure shot up a couple of times. Another sign I need to lose weight before I have a stroke.
“Careful, honey. There’s a…” I cringe at the bewildered look of a fiftyish man in the passing vehicle we just barely missed sideswiping. “Car.”
“I know, Mom. I saw it.” I know I’m stressing her out with my nervousness. But sheesh, she’s stressing me out with her driving. I’m just glad the hospital is only five minutes away from the house. I drove myself over yesterday, and Ari took a cab today. I don’t know why I didn’t agree to Darcy’s offer of a lift.
“I can’t believe you’re being so stubborn about this,” Rick said in his I’m-exasperated-but-I-know-you-won’t-budge tone.
I’m a little ashamed to say that I reminded Rick quite firmly that he’s the one who decided his little wife could take my daughter down to the license bureau and get a learner’s permit, so let’s let her use it already. Now, I’m regretting my hasty choice. I see a red light and my daughter doesn’t appear to be slowing down.
“Ar—”
“Don’t make me nervous, Mother. I know the difference between red and green, okay?”
“Then how about acting on that knowledge?”
“I’m slowing down,” she spits back just as the light goes green.
Okay, she’s doing fine. I can’t help but pray the rest of the way home, though.
When we arrive in my blessed semicircle driveway with the slightly askew basketball goal hanging from the garage, I am relieved beyond words. Enough so that I send a “Thank You, Jesus” to heaven and receive a scathing look from Ari.
I step out of the car on wobbly legs—partly from having the surgery, partly from post-traumatic stress disorder due to the ride home. Darcy’s SUV is parked along the curb in front. “What’s she doing here?” I ask. Irritation rises in me and I fight to remind myself of my blood pressure.
“She came to help. Be nice to her, Mom.”
Like I really need my fifteen-year-old telling me to be nice. “I’m always nice,” I grumble.
She rolls her eyes. “Sure you are.”
You’d think I could get a little more sympathy and fewer character lectures at a time lik
e this. “I could have died on the operating table, you know. Then you’d be sorry for being so snotty.”
“There was, what, a million-to-one chance?”
It was a little narrower than that. But she’s close.
We ascend the porch steps and Ari actually thinks to open the door for me. “Mom’s home!” she yells.
The scintillating smell of a pumpkin-scented candle wafts to my nostrils and I feel myself relaxing. Of course not only does my house smell yummy, it looks fabulous, a direct result of Darcy’s presence, no doubt. I can’t see Ari with a feather duster, and I know for a fact she’d be lost if I asked her to vacuum.
The boys bound down the steps. Shawn throws his chubby arms around my waist and buries his forehead in my stomach. “What’s wrong, honey?” I ask.
He looks up at me. “I just missed you.”
I kiss his spiked hair—the angel.
“Can I see your stitches?” Jake asks. He doesn’t turn his gaze from the cast, and I can see his little mind trying to figure out how he’s going to get it off so he can see the gross stuff underneath. “You bleeding?” His blue eyes widen with hope, and I get the feeling he’d have been in heaven if the surgeon had invited him into the operating room.
“Not anymore,” I say drily. “And no, you can’t see my stitches.”
Darcy appears from the kitchen just as I’m disengaging from my boys and heading to the couch. “Can I get you anything?”
Yeah, my house without a Darcy in it. Shoot. I hate it when I think truth and feel guilt. Darcy can’t help that her nature demands she step up to bat for anyone she cares about. Just why she cares about me is beyond my scope, but I will follow Ari’s advice and be nice to her. “Coffee would be great.”
Darcy’s face lights up. “Oh, good. I put on a fresh pot as soon as I got back from dropping Ari at the hospital.”
I glance at my daughter and scowl. Cab, huh?
She shrugs. “She offered. Why waste five bucks to go half a mile?”
Oh, gee, because I said so, maybe? But who am I? I’m just the mom around here. In pain. Unappreciated. Disobeyed. Good grief, the medicine must be making me melodramatic. Reminds me of when Rick and I were first married and I was put on birth control pills that were way too strong for me. Talk about whacked-out hormones!
Leave It to Claire Page 8
