“Okay, Linda. I have milk, Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Coke, Diet Coke—don’t ask, but there seems to be a vast difference of opinion over cola taste tests in this house—and if I know Darcy, there’s a pitcher of freshly squeezed OJ.” I lift out a glass pitcher filled with pulpless orange liquid. “See what I mean?”
Linda laughs. “That woman is amazing.”
Whatever. “So what’ll it be?”
She chooses one of the diets, and I choose the other. Got to save those calories where we can, don’t we?
“Thanks for letting me stay. I haven’t had a girls’ night in ages.”
“Me neither.” I don’t do girls’ nights out. No girlfriends. I’m not even sure what to do. I mean, sure, I’ve seen my share of Sex in the City episodes, but nothing is coming to mind. But then, a movie is always a safe bet, isn’t it? “Hey, do you like Barbra Streisand?”
She washes down a bite with a gulp of her diet soda. “Are you kidding? Who doesn’t?”
My sentiments exactly. “Ever seen The Mirror Has Two Faces?”
She shakes her head. “I’m married to a man’s man. The only movies I get to watch must include blood, violence, and lots of gunfire. Barbra Streisand is definitely not on the list of acceptable choices when it’s time to pick out a movie.”
I have an opinion about that disclosure, but somehow I don’t think God wants me to toss it out there and give the devil any ammo against this marriage. And guess what? I still feel a little bit responsible to watch over it after my book was a catalyst for their reunion.
Still, why is it that a man won’t watch a chick flick, but he always wants his wife to watch a guy flick? Trying to explain the word compromise to a testosterone-overloaded male is like trying to teach a dog not to sniff. There’s just no training them in that area. If you try to talk them into watching a chick movie, they decide they need to build a doghouse or something.
Okay, my man-hating hormone is kicking in, so I turn to food to calm me down.
“This looks great. What is it, anyway?”
She grins. “Cheesy chicken casserole. What’s that got to do with a Barbra Streisand movie?”
“Not a thing. Except maybe we can eat in the living room and watch the movie. You got time?”
“All the time in the world. Trish is spending the night and going to school with Ari tomorrow.” Her face clouds. “And there’s no telling when Mark’s going to be home. So why should I hang around and wait for him to remember he has a wife?”
Let it go, Claire. Let it go.
“Looks like my lucky night, then.” Okay, I’m over the hump. Once I change the subject, I almost never go back and say what I was changing the subject to avoid saying in the first place.
“Thank you. I’ve been wanting to see that movie for years.”
She’s not the only one.
I stand and take my plate in my good hand. She takes her plate and somehow maneuvers the glasses so that she can carry both in one hand. “You’ve waited tables, I can tell.” I grin at her.
“Is this a past we share?”
“How do you think I got through the first few years after Rick left?”
She’s leading the way into the living room, but I hear her sigh. Now that’s a cry for help if I’ve ever heard one. Anyone who actually sighs aloud is just asking for a little advice.
I sit on the couch and Linda deposits my drink on the coffee table, then takes her seat in my tan-and-cranberry recliner. “So, is everything okay with you and Mark?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice has dropped to such a low volume that I can barely hear her.
“You know, working late doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
She nods and turns to me. “It’s just that… last time…”
“It started with him working late?”
“So he said. Of course he wasn’t really working. He was with his mistress.”
“And you think he’s cheating now?” I wish I would have just stayed out of it. But once I opened that can of worms by asking her if everything was okay, I pretty much committed myself to seeing the conversation through to a natural conclusion.
“I can’t know for sure. And I can’t ask him.”
“Why the heck can’t you?” I just don’t get it. I’m not built to avoid confrontation. It just bursts out of me. I should talk. I mean, good grief. Rick had been having affairs for years before I had the courage to face it. I finally pinned him down one night after he came home late and just demanded the truth. Of course there’s no way I can tell Linda that. Besides, I really just want to let it go. It’s bringing back a lot of painful memories. And I’m recovering from surgery. I shouldn’t have to think about my strong need for inner healing at a time like this.
Tears have begun to slip down her cheeks, and I know there’s no way I’m going to get out of having this talk. “Because if I ask him, he’ll think I don’t trust him. And we’ve been through so much.”
“But—”
“I know. If I don’t trust him, I should either confront him or leave him.”
“Living in misery every time he leaves the house isn’t healthy. Not for you or Mark and probably not for Trish, who most likely feels the tension in you.”
She swipes a tissue from a box on the table next to her chair. I don’t remember putting them there. As a matter of fact, I usually grab toilet paper when I need to wipe my nose. Darcy must have thought I needed some in the living room. I silently bless the dear June Cleaver wannabe, because I would have died if I’d had to offer Linda a square of Charmin for her little nose.
“I know Trish is worried. She remembers all the arguing. Many nights she’d hear me crying in my room and come crawl into bed beside me.”
My heart turns over at the mental picture. I know Ari remembers similar things. In my mind’s eye I see my ten-year-old, eyes wide and worried. “Mommy, is Daddy coming home?”
Heartbreaking. My eyes dare to well up with tears. I blink away the hateful reminders of my still-aching heart as fast as they come. It’s not that I still love Rick. Not that I’d ever, in a zillion years, want him back. But the memories of that time bring the pain of that time. I suppose if I could just forgive and forget, the hurt would fade. So far, that’s not happening. That’s what makes Linda’s next question one of the hardest I’ve ever had to answer.
“How did you do it?”
“Do what?” I’m not admitting to anything just like that.
“In Tobey’s Choice, the pain was too real to be imagined. I assumed that’s the reason you and Rick broke up. Infidelity?”
Well, then, Little Miss Deductive Reasoning has it all figured out except for one thing: I haven’t forgiven Rick. God knows I’ve tried. Prayed, fasted (well, okay, only one meal and that was breakfast, so it probably didn’t count since I don’t eat breakfast anyway, but there was effort in the thought of fasting), confessed it over and over, “I forgive Rick for being a toad-sucking cheater. I forgive Rick for being a toad-sucking cheater.” And nothing. No beam of forgiveness light landed on my head and created a magic cure. I don’t know. Maybe this is something I’m going to have to repent of every day for the rest of my life. My Rick-hating sin. I kid you not, it’s a daily battle. I constantly find myself asking forgiveness for wishing he’d get poison oak between his toes or that he’d be at Wal-Mart picking up something for Darcy and someone would key his Mercedes—a really deep key damage all along the driver’s-side door—or something equally annoying but not life-threatening. And I’m really not proud of it. Really. I pray to forgive. But the prayers just aren’t working in this case.
“I’m sorry,” Linda is saying. “I don’t mean to pry.”
“No, you’re really not. And you are right. Rick’s tendency to look outside our marriage for sex is definitely what killed it. But I have to say, neither of us was a Christian back then. Rick is a changed man, and I honestly believe he is and will remain faithful to Darcy.”
Actually, that is true. I honestly believe it,
like I said. I also honestly believe I might have to excuse myself and hurl from the necessity of giving that little spiel in defense of Rick’s newfound fidelity.
Linda’s phone goes off before she has a chance to respond. I have one of those awkward moments where I’m trying not to eavesdrop, but (a) I’m curious as to who is calling her. And (b) I mean, she’s just sitting there. What am I supposed to do? Stick my fingers in my ears and start humming the “Star-Spangled Banner” so that I don’t hear a word she’s saying?
So I listen. I don’t have a choice.
“I brought dinner to Claire Everett’s house. She had surgery today. We’re about to watch a movie.” She pauses. I see her brow go up in surprise and I can’t help but listen closer. “I can’t believe it. I’ll be home in a few minutes.” She hangs up and tosses me a look of apology.
“Mark, I take it?”
She nods happily. “He came home early to surprise me. Even brought Chinese food and everything. Apparently he worked it out with Trish ahead of time so that we can be alone, and that’s why she begged to go spend the night with Ari.”
I’m thinking Mark is giving her a guilt dinner. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are rose petals leading to the bed. Diversionary tactic.
Linda is already on her feet. “Do you mind if I take a rain check on the movie?”
“Of course not. Go. Be with your husband.”
Just don’t believe a word he says.
Sorry, Lord. At least I didn’t say it out loud.
Despite my insistence that it’s not necessary, Linda waits while I eat, then refuses to leave the dirty dishes.
“Pray for me, Claire,” she says, squeezing my good hand. “I want to believe him. I want to trust that he loves me. This is so hard.”
I say goodnight, turn off the porch light, lock the door. I think about starting the movie over, but there’s no point. The thought of watching a budding romance leaves me cold.
11
I’m all alone, so is it any wonder I’d like to sleep in? It’s reasonable, and any reasonable person would understand this. So why is my phone ringing at 8:00 a.m., a most ungodly hour? I’ve got to get a caller ID phone up here. The only explanation I can come up with is that a telemarketer must have weaseled through the do-not-call list.
A growl rumbles in my sleep-husky throat and I’m tempted—yes, I am, I’m sorry to say—to use my pervert whistle on the caller. I reach for the whistle then reconsider. I’ve been studying Beth Moore, my new role model for godly womanhood, and I’m almost positive she’s not going to bite someone’s head off over an early call, even a telemarketer. So I count to ten before answering the ringing demon.
“Hello?”
“Claire?” No telemarketer, here. It’s Pod Girl. Flowery, morning-person, pod-girl Darcy, and her voice sounds like she’s not sure she dialed the right number. “Is that you?”
“It’s me. Everything okay, Darcy?” I ask, almost pleasantly. I’m so proud of me.
She’s not buying it. “Oh, good grief. I woke you up again, didn’t I?”
I’m gonna have to say yes to that one. “It’s okay. What’s up?”
“Nothing.” Her voice is small. “Just wanted to check on you. I’m sorry, Claire, I waited as long as I could. I couldn’t stand it anymore.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Well, I appreciate your restraint up ’til now.”
I’m almost positive I hear a sigh of relief. “So how was your night?”
“Okay. I took a Vicodin. Slept like a baby.”
“You know people get hooked on those things.” I can almost hear the tsk-tsk combined with concern in her voice.
“I don’t have an addictive personality.” Unless you count my addiction to caffeine, e-mail, pizza, Lifetime movies, Days of Our Lives… “I’ll take ibuprofen if I need anything to take the edge off today.”
“Good. Since you’re awake, I’ll be over in a few minutes to fix breakfast and straighten up for you.”
Is she kidding me? I’m desperately trying to come up with a good reason why that’s a really bad idea, but I’m almost sure I’m not contagious. And if I know Darcy, any other excuse would be brushed under the rug.
“Do you want to do the Beth Moore daily lesson together today? I haven’t done mine yet.”
“Sure.” Defeated by kindness, I give up. After I tell Darcy good-bye, I push back the covers and haul my behind out of bed a full two hours before I wanted to.
Oh well.
Too bad Darcy has such bad taste in men. Given different circumstances, we might have been great friends.
Trying to write left-handed has got to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Well, besides childbirth and maybe finding out Rick was cheating. Still, it’s definitely frustrating. But I’ve decided if I’m going to have time on my hands—er, hand—for a few days, I’m going to keep working on my new character sketches and plot. I am so excited by the new story that I lose all track of time. Still, when the phone rings just after five o’clock, instinctively I know it’s Mom. Caller ID confirms my suspicion. Showoff Charley had a phone line strung downstairs in Mom’s basement apartment just for her. So the caller ID actually has her name on it. Edith Everett.
“Hi, Mom.”
“How’d you know… Oh.” Newfangled inventions like caller ID still trip Mom up every so often. Affection surges through me and brings a smile to my lips.
“How’s Texas?”
“Too dadgum hot.”
Dadgum? The only times I’ve ever heard Mom use that word are when she returns from Charley’s after vacations. I suppose she’s going to be cussing with the best of them from now on.
Mom’s still complaining. “I miss my fall weather.”
I knew she would. “Well, it’s barely October. It’s still in the sixties here.”
“Are the leaves turning yet?” I hear longing in her voice. My heart aches a little. I miss her. I wish she were here just to share a cup of coffee with on her deck. Or mine. I miss running down the street to borrow a couple of eggs or flour or whatever. I hate that my life has changed so in such a short amount of time.
“Not the evergreens.”
She chuckles. “Hardy-har-har.”
I hesitate. I don’t want to be the one to bring up my pain, but doesn’t she remember about my surgery?
“Any calls about my house?”
“Not this week, Mom.”
“Well, maybe I’ll just move back.”
She’s fishing. No doubt prompted by missing the gorgeous Missouri autumn weather, my children, her friends at the center. It wouldn’t take much for me to drop a few hints and whoosh—the sound of Mom rushing to the airport after only a week in Texas.
“You ought to give Texas a little longer to prove itself to you, Mom. You’ve always loved your visits.”
Her sigh reaches me and I feel her indecision. Only one thing to do in this situation. Talk about me to get her mind off it. I’ll make the sacrifice.
“My surgery went well yesterday.”
“Oh my goodness! I plumb forgot.”
Plumb?
“How are you feeling, Claire?”
“Other than the throbbing pain in my right hand, I guess I’m feeling okay.”
“It’s bad, huh?”
“Only when I’m awake.” I admit it. I’m milking this for sympathy. But sheesh, if a girl can’t beg for sympathy from her own mom, who will feel sorry for her?
“Do you have plenty of help? Is Ari taking care of the boys for you?”
Yeah, right. What world is she living in? The only “taking care of” Ari is bound to do for her brothers is knock the tar out of them if they look at her funny.
That’s why a laugh escapes my throat. I can’t help it. Mom is completely out of touch where Ari is concerned. “Well, she did drive me home from the hospital yesterday. Although whether that was help or not is yet to be determined.” I leave out the part about my daughter nearly side-swiping a poor grandfather innocently driving down t
he street or the red light she almost didn’t see.
“Ari… is… driving?” She ekes out the words, her voice suddenly dropping in volume. I picture her slightly arthritic fingers pressed to her throat, a telltale sign of her worry. “When did this happen?”
“Ask her father,” I say with a sniff.
She sniffs right back. “Her father isn’t part of the family anymore, remember?”
Inwardly, I groan. I’m being taken by my own words.
“Well, Rick okayed Ari getting her learner’s permit, so he’s teaching her to drive.”
She hesitates, and I think she’s about to give me an earful about the dangers of inexperience behind the wheel. “I guess she isn’t a little girl anymore, is she? How’s she doing, then?”
Okay, not the response I expected but probably the healthiest for her blood pressure. “I made it home alive, but I think I might need to take a Valium any time I get in the car with her.”
“Well, she can’t be any worse than you were.” Mom’s laughter sprinkles through the line, a sound I’ve longed to hear during the past week. “I gained a new appreciation for on-the-spot prayer when you were learning to drive.”
I laugh with her. “I think my driver’s ed teacher is still in therapy from the months she had me in her class. To this day, I have to remind myself to pay attention to the road.”
“So you never answered. Are you taking it easy?”
“Rick and Darcy are keeping the kids for a few days so I can rest.”
“That’s good. But who is taking care of you, Claire? You can’t cook and dress all one-handed.” I hear disapproval in her voice and it washes over me like a spring rain. There’s something about having someone care about you. Being concerned on an adult level.
“I can dress just fine, and a friend dropped by with dinner last night. There’s plenty left over for me to heat up later.” I don’t want to try to explain my bizarre relationship with Darcy, so I refrain from mentioning my breakfast casserole, freshly squeezed OJ, and whole wheat toast, lightly buttered. That Darcy. What a Martha Stewart. Well, Martha Stewart meets Miss America.
“What friend?”
Leave It to Claire Page 10
