Leave It to Claire

by Tracey Bateman

  I see red again.

  Red like Rick is holding a scarf and I’m a snorting bull about to charge.

  Except, Rick isn’t quite finished. He has to drop the last bomb. “It’s no wonder none of the kids respect you; you don’t demand it of them.”

  “Rick, that wasn’t very nice.” Darcy, ever the peacemaker, steps next to Rick and slides her hand into his. He relaxes instantly. I swear Darcy is a snake charmer. But something about the entire situation raises my ire. I don’t want him to take up for me; I don’t want her to take up for me. I don’t want to be here! Oh, Lord, please… My chest is growing heavy, my breath is coming in short bursts.

  Greg… I need Greg.

  “Claire?” I vaguely recognize Darcy’s voice as in a distance. “Rick, come help me. Something’s wrong.”

  Rick sprints into action, like he’s vying for Doctor of the Year. He grabs my hand and presses his two fingers to my wrist. Which hurts, for what it’s worth. “Does your chest hurt?”

  Gasping for air, all I can do is nod.

  “Darcy, go call 911! I think she might be having a heart attack.”

  Idiot! Some doctor he is.

  I grab Darcy’s arm and gather enough breath to force a word. “Don’t.”

  “Claire. Don’t be stubborn. Something’s wrong. We need to get you medical attention immediately.” Rick’s irritation feeds mine.

  I give him the full force of my glare. Any fool could see I’m having a panic attack. Nerves. Greg recognized it for what it was immediately. Twice. And he’s not even a doctor. “Panic attack,” I say with difficulty around the tightness in my throat. A surreal wave is overtaking me. I know where I am and yet time means nothing.

  “Help her into the living room, Rick.” I hear the concern in Darcy’s soft voice. “I’ll get her a washcloth for her head.”

  Rick’s arm, slung around my shoulders, isn’t helping my tension one little iota. But once I’m stretched out on Darcy’s plush, white, pillowy sofa, I start to relax. At least I know that the spinning in my head isn’t going to land me on the ground. Next thing I know, Darcy is standing over me, administering a cool cloth to my head. I sigh and close my eyes.

  “Everything will be okay, Claire,” she soothes as though I’m a child, and I feel comforted. “Just lie there and it’ll pass.”

  “I still think we should call an ambulance. Her heart rate is high.”

  “Claire knows if she is having a panic attack or not, sweetheart. And she asked us not to call. Let’s see how she does and if she continues to have symptoms, we’ll call. Okay?”

  In a full-blown panic attack—at least from my limited experience—life sort of happens around you. That’s how I feel. If I tried really hard, I could get up and participate in the conversation, but everything is so surreal, I just don’t want to. All I want to do for the moment is keep my eyes closed, the cloth on my head, and possibly go to sleep now that my heart is beginning to slow to a more rhythmic beat. I am only vaguely aware that under normal circumstances I’d never consider resting on Rick and Darcy’s couch. But now it just… doesn’t… seem . . .

  My head is pounding. I open my eyes slowly, resisting the light that I’m almost positive is going to slice through my sockets and cause even more excruciating pain. Instead, darkness greets me. For a second, a chill runs down my spine. Have I gone blind? Then my eyes begin to adjust and I recognize Darcy’s living room. I relax for a second until reality strikes me. Did I really sleep on their couch all day? The house is quiet. It’s got to be past ten.

  This is crazy. I stand on legs that are a little shaky—my hangover from the panic attack. I look around and find my purse. My feet slide a little on the waxed tile and I realize I’m not wearing shoes. No doubt Darcy’s doing. I glance around, hoping to spot them without being forced to switch on the light. A thought comes to me as I get on my hands and knees and feel around along the bottom of the sofa. Surely, she wouldn’t have hidden my shoes just to keep me here. Would she?

  I’m not finding anything here. The light’s going to have to go on.

  As if by magic, it does just that. The light. Comes on. I gasp. That’s just too weird. “Claire, what are you doing on the floor. Are you okay?”

  The sound of Darcy’s voice does two things for me: grants me a measure of relief that my mental processes didn’t cause that light to come on, and heaps on humiliation because I’m on my hands and knees facing away from her, so I can only imagine the view she’s getting.

  I close my eyes and shake my head. There’s nothing to do but get up off the floor, turn, and . . .

  Greg is standing above me, once again offering to help me up. He’s probably starting to wonder if I see him coming and hit the floor just so I can hold his hand. He grins that adorable, lopsided grin. “You’re either the most praying woman I’ve ever met, or you’ve lost something.”

  His silly comment eases the tension from the awkward moment and I take his hand. He eases me to my feet and hangs on to my hand just a little longer than necessary. “What are you looking for?”

  Oh, honey. I’ve been looking for you. Where have you been all my life?

  He’s looking at me with a little confusion creasing his brow. Is he feeling the same thing I am? That attraction that sometimes causes the mind to balk in its intensity?

  “I know what she’s looking for.” Darcy’s bubbly voice breaks the spell, and my cheeks begin to burn with the understanding of exactly what it was that Greg was confused about. He asked me a question, and I got caught up in his brown eyes and totally lost my focus.

  “How are you feeling, Claire?” Rick enters the room and my whole body tenses. We still have things to discuss. “Greg told me about Tommy’s incident in the alley.”

  I turn to Greg. No accusation, just wondering if he came all the way over here to tattle on my son. His face colors a little. “Tommy won the skateboard. When I didn’t see your van at home, I took a chance he might be here.”

  Pride shoots through me as I remember the skill Tommy displayed. Then I notice the angry determination creasing every line on Rick’s face. I nod. “I don’t suppose we ought to let him keep it.”

  20

  You’re not serious, right?”My defenses rise in the face of Ari’s horrified query.

  “Mother, please tell me you aren’t actually coming to the carnival.”

  Whoosh. The sound of my deflating pride.

  I’m standing in my kitchen, wearing my “On the eighth day Eve created chocolate” apron, proudly holding out my pan of perfectly baked brownies for Ari to observe, sniff, and rave over. The brownies that were supposed to make up for all those birthday cupcakes I didn’t make for her classes at school. But far from the undying gratitude and promises of perfect behavior, my newly turned sixteen-year-old stares at me as though I’m offering tainted food—possibly sprinkled with rat poison.

  “As a matter of fact I am coming. I’m manning one of the booths.”

  Not to mention the fact that I burned my fingers (the ones sticking out from the end of my wristband) on this stinking pan of brownies. She could show a little appreciation for not only my pain but my efforts in the first place. There’s no way I’m missing out on that carnival after all I’ve been through.

  “I wish you’d just leave it alone.” She flounces across the room and throws herself into a kitchen chair in an Oscar-winning performance.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, Mother, I just don’t see the necessity of you showing up at the carnival.”

  “Mother?” Ari has three words to address me (I don’t even want to think about how many she has to describe me). Mom, which she uses most of the time. Ma, which she uses when she’s trying to weasel something out of me or weasel out of a chore or punishment. And Mother. Mother always signals a problem. She’s upset and gearing up for a fight.

  I slide the pan of brownies onto the burners to cool.

  If there was ever a time I needed Tough Chick, it’s now. In
the face of Ari’s rejection of my sacrificial efforts, I may just melt into a messy puddle of tears. I draw a deep, cleansing breath and turn as I exhale.

  “The necessity of my showing up is that I gave my word to the committee that I would be there to oversee the baked goods booth. I couldn’t very well do that without bringing a contribution to the effort. Now could I?”

  “How about writing a check? That’s the kind of contribution we need the most.”

  “You’re the one who said you wished I was more involved.”

  “When I was little, Mom. It’s not necessary anymore. As a matter of fact, it’s not wanted.”

  “Ari,” I say, grabbing her arm as she stomps by, thus thwarting her retreat. “Why is it so terrible that I’m coming? Are you ashamed of me?”

  Her jaw drops. “Are you kidding? How could I be ashamed of this hole-in-the-wall town’s only claim to fame? Why do you think I’m so popular? I get it, okay! Without you, I’d be just another wannabe following after the cheerleaders and football players.”

  Shock fills me as I listen to her little speech. She never wants me around because I steal her thunder? So the truth is she thinks I made her popular. Father, how can she not see her own worth?

  “Ari, honey.”

  “Please, Mother. Don’t start trying to be nurturing. It’s too late. Besides, Paddy’s going to be here any sec. I need to go upstairs. I forgot my purse.”

  She jerks away and I let her go. I’m too stunned to do otherwise. She honestly thinks no one would even notice her if she didn’t have an author for a mother?

  But I do suddenly understand where she’s coming from. She wants to stand out. To be noticed for her accomplishments. That’s why she works so hard to be the best at everything she does. It’s the reason she gets up at 5:00 a.m. to exercise, why she struggles to make A’s, why she, as a sophomore, is already taking steps toward becoming head cheerleader in two years.

  Her drive astounds me, inspires me, and induces respect in me. I admire her as an individual who makes goals, sets out to meet those goals, and if she doesn’t achieve them, comes pretty darn close. She’s an amazing girl.

  I know I must tell her so. I can’t stand the thought of her living one more second under the false impression that she has to live up to standards I set by mere public perception. But as I walk through the living room to head for the stairs, the doorbell rings. My heart nearly bursts from my chest. That will be Patrick Devine. My Ari is having her first date.

  She skips down the steps, smiling brightly as though our conversation never happened. She even kisses my cheek as she breezes past.

  “Be home by eleven, Ari.”

  “Yes, Mom, I know.”

  We’ve had extensive negotiations during the past couple of weeks. I originally told her 10:30, she pushed for midnight (of course), I settled for 11:00. She tried to push again, this time for 11:30, but I wasn’t budging. So that’s a hurdle we don’t have to deal with tonight. A good thing, given the spirit of our last conversation—which still has me spinning a bit.

  A cool wind puffs through the foyer as the door flies open, then slams shut in a beat. I’m left standing here, alone, like the Rapture happened, only I must have overestimated my position with God.

  I quickstep into the living room and hurry to the window. I am dying to watch her beginning her first date. I push the drape aside just enough to see out. A ten-year-old Mustang sits in my driveway. Mustang? No one said anything about a Mustang. What kind of a pastor lets his son drive a Mustang? A make-out car? Oh, no. My daughter is not going to drive away on her first date with a boy behind the wheel of a car that wasn’t designed to inspire control and respectability in anyone, let alone a hormone-ravaged teenage boy.

  Panic drives me back to the foyer. Another burst of wind accompanies the opening of the front door just before I reach for the knob. I jump back. Red-faced, Ari precedes Patrick into the house.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, trying to slow the rush of adrenaline storming through me.

  “Patrick wanted to come in and say hello before we leave.”

  Hmm. I’m not sure what to think about that. I know boys. Is he trying to get on my good side by pretending to respect and honor me while he’s thinking about unbuttoning my daughter’s shirt? Okay, no. That’s not fair. I think back to all the times I’ve seen Patrick, hands lifted to God with tears streaming down his face. Tears that I can’t believe he faked. “Thank you, Patrick. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” I raise an eyebrow to Ari in a pointed look. She knows what I mean.

  “My parents made it a rule.” He grins. “I can’t go on a date without picking the girl up at the door and saying hello to her parent. So if they ask…”

  “I’ll be sure and let them know.” I can’t help but laugh. Suddenly, I don’t feel like forbidding the date anymore. ’Stang or no.

  “Please, drive carefully.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get her home safely.”

  Now, I know he’s too good to be true. “Eleven o’clock.”

  A flush spreads across his adorable face. “My curfew is ten-thirty, so I’ll have to have her home by ten.”

  Ari’s eyes widen. But I think she’s happy enough to be dating Patrick that she’ll take whatever time she can get.

  “All right then. You kids enjoy yourselves. Got your cell phone, Ari?”

  “Yes.” She’s a little subdued. Hopefully, it’s because Patrick’s respect and politeness are penetrating her consciousness and causing her to see the error of her ways where her attitude is concerned.

  Patrick reaches for the door, opens it, and waits for Ari to step out first. She walks past, and I barely detect a muttered whisper. “Ten o’clock. Sheesh.”

  Saying a little prayer for safety (and chastity), I close the door after them. Kids. You can’t put them in a tower, locked away until the craziness of those teen years subsides, can you? As much as I’d like to hide her away now, I realize Ari has to walk it out like everyone else, enduring the pain and heartache, the joys and successes, everything that goes along with stepping out of childhood and into adulthood. Tears form in my eyes. Where did the years go?

  I see her face as I held her for the first time—completely overwhelmed by lack of experience, and yet loving her with a fierceness I’ve never known. Her precious head, swollen from her trip into the world. She barely cried. She just looked around as if to say, “Well, Mom, here I am. Don’t screw me up, okay?” I’ve tried to do right by her. But deep inside, I know I have failed in so many ways. The pain of regret slices through me. And suddenly the heat from the oven seems to have instantly created a sauna. I figure it’s perimenopausal.

  “Boys,” I call upstairs where they’re playing, “I’m going outside for a while, if you need me.”

  No answer, which, even on a good day, usually signals trouble. “Boys!”

  I hear scrambling. “Yeah, Mom?”

  “What are you doing up there?”

  “Playing.”

  “Playing what?”

  “Lord of the Rings Risk,” Shawn calls down.

  Hmmm. I don’t believe it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from parenting these four children it’s that they do not play games together until I make them do it during the occasional game night. My skepticism spurs me up the stairs. Hey, I’m not proud of my lack of faith in the boys. Really. But come on. I smell trouble.

  I quietly slip down the hall. I’m a mouse. Unheard, unseen. The little boys’ door is wide open, so I get a view of the empty room. I slink forward in my crime-stopping venture and halt at Tommy’s room. “I’m attacking the Shire.” I hear Jakey’s voice pipe in.

  “You better not.” The warning in Tommy’s tone is unmistakable. Is he bullying his little brother over a game? I’m about to fling the door open and confront him. But I stop short at his next words. “Look, if you attack Shawn’s Shire, you’re going to leave yourself wide open on the other side. He’s going to take his Shire back and probably wipe you o
ff that territory altogether.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Shawn grouses. “Stop helping him. That’s cheating.”

  “He’s just a kid. I can help him if I want.”

  “Yeah.” Jakey’s one-word response brings a smile to my lips. Okay, they’re getting along, after all, for the most part. Still, I tap the door and enter.

  My heart swells in my chest as I take note of the three of them, seated Indian style on the floor around the game board. I’m suddenly feeling proud, maybe a little optimistic that perhaps the attention—and/or the family counseling—is paying off. Certainly, they wouldn’t have been caught dead playing a board game three months ago.

  “Having fun?” I ask as three expectant faces turn to me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure.”

  “Whatever.” It’s been over a week, after all.

  “I’m going outside for a little air.”

  They look at me with disinterested acknowledgment and then back to the board as Jake and Shawn roll the dice simultaneously.

  I close the door and stop off at my room for a jacket.

  Outside, I sit in the coolness of the autumn night, watching the last of the fall leaves sway in the breeze, as though fighting to hang on just a little longer. The hint of a chill in the air alerts me to the fact that winter will soon be upon us—images of the coming rush of events play like a slideshow across my mind. First Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas. Plus the little events accompanying each holiday. Parties at church, family dinners, Christmas luncheons (Ugh—don’t want to think about the Christmas luncheon at the ladies’ meeting).

  Ladies’ luncheon notwithstanding, I’m eagerly anticipating the fun of the next two months. This will be my first holiday season in several years without the stress of a deadline. I look forward to it with relish. I intend to decorate more lavishly—albeit tastefully—than ever before.

  I turn to the glow of headlights coming my direction. As the vehicle draws closer, my heart skips. The motion light above the garage pops to life as Greg’s Avalanche drives by. He’s rolled his window down. He waves and smiles. I wave and smile back. Greg’s officially my neighbor now. He and Sadie have moved in. As the kids say, “It’s weird for anyone else to be living in Granny’s house.” But you know what? It’s exciting, too. I have this feeling about Greg. I think he really likes me.