Book Read Free

Leave It to Claire

Page 21

by Tracey Bateman


  Rick’s face colors. “Oh, yeah. Eleven.”

  Clearing his throat, Dr. Goldberg makes a note. “So, eleven years is a long time. What caused the marriage to end?”

  I snort. I have already decided I will not be the one to answer this question. Apparently Rick has come to the same decision, because we’re just sitting there, while time ticks away.

  “Oh, come on, you two. How are things ever going to get better if you won’t even tell the doctor?” Darcy sighs. “Rick was not a Christian back then. And he sort of… cheated.”

  “Sort of cheated?” Okay, how do you sort of cheat? I pose the question.

  “Lay off her, Claire. She’s just trying to get the ball rolling here.”

  “Well, then you answer. How do you sort of cheat? Is that what you told her you did?”

  “For crying out loud. I don’t need this.” Rick shoves up from the couch and heads for the door.

  Typical.

  “Rick, you knew this wasn’t going to be easy.” Darcy’s small voice speaks so much into the small room. “For any of us. Including Claire.”

  His shoulders rise and fall. He turns and comes back to the couch.

  “Thank you for returning, Mr. Frank. Let’s talk about why you had the affair.”

  “Affairs. He just—”

  “He asked me. Not you.” Rick shifts forward and I clam up. So much for taking the high road. “Sorry.”

  “I don’t really have a good excuse,” Rick says. “Claire and I were just not right for each other. We married too young.”

  The memories flood back. Years of dating through college and med school. I knew Rick dated other girls. We had an agreement (his suggestion, of course) that we could if we wanted as long as we told the other one. He went out often. I never dated anyone besides Rick. Come to think if it, I never have.

  “I felt guilty because I took her virginity,” Rick is saying. “I guess I knew we shouldn’t get married. But Claire was the ‘girl back home.’ The one I’d dated through high school and on breaks. When I came home to do my residency it just seemed natural that I would marry her. And I did. Despite my doubts.”

  Worm! Toad-sucker! Jerk!

  I rise on shaky legs. Visions of the years I sacrificed trying to please him slam me like a line drive to the head. My mind is spinning. “You selfish pig! I wasted my youth on a man who didn’t love me? Because I was the ‘girl back home’? What right did you have to deny me the chance at love?” I’m so filled with outrage I can’t think straight. How dare he? How dare he have the audacity to sit here and make me feel so undesirable, so unlovable?

  “I know.” And that’s all he says in his defense. “Claire, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I did love you. The first couple of years of our marriage were good. Remember? When Arianna was a baby? I couldn’t wait to come home to be with the two of you.”

  “But you were never there.”

  “I was on call most of the time. You know what those years were like. First my internship, then residency. I had no choice. At first you were my haven. But when you got pregnant with Tommy you became so demanding that I didn’t know how to please you. You pushed and pushed. For more than I could give.”

  “So it’s all my fault. Is that what you’re saying?” I hear the tremor in my voice and I’m ashamed. I will not cry. Where’s Tough Chick when I need her?

  “Claire. This isn’t about assigning blame.” The doctor’s annoyingly objective voice breaks through the emotional scene. “We have to get through the anger to healing. Being willing to consider two sides of the issue is essential to getting rid of the hostility that is most certainly affecting your children.”

  I nod but really don’t trust myself to speak. Because do they really expect me to accept responsibility for the breakup of our marriage?

  “Claire. It wasn’t your fault that I broke our vows.”

  Okay, then. That’s more like it.

  “Until I started going to church and gave my life to Jesus, I blamed it on you. But there was no excuse for what I did. I tore our marriage apart.” Tears fill his eyes. “I’ve never asked for this before. And maybe I don’t deserve it now…”

  Oh, God, please. Please… Don’t . . .

  “No. I won’t ask for forgiveness.”

  My stomach roils within me. I wanted him to ask. Why didn’t he ask?

  “Forgiveness is something you have to give of your own free will. I know that now. I’ve been waiting all this time for you to admit to your part in our breakup. But I forgive you. For all the pushing, the fighting, the bitterness during and since the marriage.”

  Rick’s blue eyes are glistening with unshed tears. A week ago, in the same situation, I would have sworn he put them on for effect. And even now I’m not 100 percent convinced that he’s not. Still, he says he’s forgiving me? What am I supposed to do, fall into his arms and kiss away his tears while thanking him from the bottom of my heart? Pul-lease.

  What happens next was probably inevitable. I mean, Rick’s going all sensitive on me, so of course he was bound to do it.

  “Claire. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I broke my word to you over and over.”

  And over and over and over.

  “All I want to say is that I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I caused you pain. I’m sorry I caused our family to fall apart.” Tears slip down his cheeks. And suddenly he’s sobbing into his hands. “I’m sorry.”

  The moment I’ve waited for since the fourth year of our marriage when I knew for sure he’d slept with another woman. I’ve wanted to see him cry. Apologize. Grovel, if you will. Now I sit here watching him, a broken man, and I’m numb. I’ve always thought that if he’d just admit he was wrong, if he’d just tell me he was sorry, that all the bitterness would be gone. I was wrong. If anything, now I hate him more than ever.

  Nausea churns my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I have to leave.”

  No one speaks, and no one tries to stop me. I hold back the sobs until I’m halfway down the street, then they come in waves. Droves.

  How can I hold a grudge against him now that he’s broken down in front of me? What kind of a person does that? What kind of a person am I?

  God help me, I can’t forgive him. I want to. But I can’t.

  23

  The thing about crying is that, when the reason is this close to home, something you’ve held in your heart for a really long time, it’s hard to stop the tears from flowing. I’ve been crying for the better part of two days.

  Thankfully, the tears have dried up, for the moment. I’m rushing around trying to get everything ready so that we can be at the school grounds on time when Ari—sweet, self-serving thing that she is—makes a kindly gesture. “Mom, really. If you aren’t up to going, I’m sure they can find someone to fill in for you.”

  I roll my eyes at her obvious attempt to keep me from that carnival. They’ve finally gotten all the booths rebuilt and found a date to reschedule. A week and a half before Thanksgiving. It’s a little colder than it would have been last month, but that’s okay. We can wear jackets. We’ve also added a chili booth and apple cider. It works. There’s always a way to make something fit.

  “Nice try.”

  She gives a huff.

  “Look, let’s not go through this again. I’m going to help out at this carnival and that’s that. You are going to shine like Venus in the night sky with or without me there.”

  “Sure. Everyone will be asking me if I can talk to you about getting them published.”

  I have to laugh at this. It’s hard enough for me to get my own next contract. Even with a hotshot agent. Yet, every so often, a new writer asks me if I can get them “in” with my publisher. Do they really think I can just talk to the right people and boom, here’s a contract for the new author? Oh, and while you’re cashing that million-dollar advance check, how about heading down to the Reality Check Detective Agency and getting a clue!

  “All you have to do is tell them they’ll have to ask me.


  “Oh, sure. Then I’m a snob who doesn’t want to talk.”

  “Well, Ari. You are a snob who doesn’t want to talk. Aren’t all cheerleaders?” I give her a wink-wink.

  She rolls her eyes. “That’s so stereotypical.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was just trying to get you to lighten up.”

  “By accusing me of being stuck-up?”

  Oh, brother. This conversation is going absolutely nowhere. “Did you remember to put your duffel bag in the van?”

  “Yes. Are they coming to the carnival?” “They” refers to Rick, Darcy, and the boys, who started their weekend with Dad last night while Ari stayed to do last-minute preparations for the carnival.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to talk to your dad.” And by “I didn’t have a chance,” I mean I hung up on him the one time he’s tried to call since the counseling session.

  “Don’t worry about it. If they don’t come, I’ll drive you over to his house for the rest of the weekend as soon as the carnival is over.”

  We arrive at the school amid a flurry of mid-afternoon arrivals. I’m wearing jeans. And ladies, my shirt is tucked in. Yeah, baby! I’m not ready for the Levi’s. I’m not getting a pair of 501s until I fit into a 29/30 short. But I’m getting there.

  My net weight loss is finally up to fifteen pounds. So my size 12 jeans are looking nice. Not too tight. Not loose by any stretch of the imagination, but definitely better than the 16s I was wearing before I started walking and watching the sugar and fast food. I’d love to be in a 10 by Christmas. But again, I have to consider holiday candy and cookies. Summer sausage and cheese. I mean, there’s a month of that stuff coming up. What, I’m supposed to just sit there while everyone else is munching on goodies? Well, okay. I guess I know the answer to that.

  Mrs. Lincoln greets me with a toothy smile. Ari’s cheerleading coach is wearing shorts and her legs are tanned. It’s fifty degrees out. I just don’t think I need to comment further about that. Except to say she is wearing a sweatshirt, too. And a beanie with a Chiefs logo across her forehead.

  There’s an exhibition football game this evening and Ari is cheering. It’s a fund-raiser between the faculty and the football players.

  Within thirty seconds of our arrival at the check-in booth, the masses sense her presence and suddenly Ari disappears amid a crowd of admirers. Yeah. She really needs to worry that I’m going to upstage her. I plaster a smile and try not to stare at Mrs. Lincoln’s tanning-boothed legs.

  “Any new books coming out?” Mrs. Lincoln asks. I know this woman couldn’t care less if I have a new book coming out or not. It’s the common question anyone asks when they don’t have a clue how to start conversation with me.

  Still, I smile, trying to be conscious of the fact that this woman spends every Friday and Saturday night at the lounge connected to the local Mexican restaurant. She hangs all over any man who will show her a little attention and, I suspect, make her feel like she’s still prom queen. My heart aches a little for her. “Not for a few months,” I reply. “Where do I take the brownies?”

  “Oh, gosh. Sorry. Just take them over to that booth. You’ll share with Darcy.”

  I nearly drop the platter. “Darcy… who?”

  Her face goes blank. “Um. Darcy Frank. Ari mentioned you wanted to share the booth?”

  “She did, huh?” So Ari is either (a) trying to heal the rift between her stepmother and me, or (b) getting me back for offering to help. “I wasn’t aware that Darcy was even planning to be here. I thought the mothers of cheerleaders were supposed to do this.”

  Mrs. Lincoln gives an airy laugh. “We’ll take all the help we can get.”

  “That’s fine, then.” I mean, what else can I say, really? Shall I throw a temper tantrum? I could, but I won’t. “I’ll just go get set up.”

  I set the individually wrapped brownies on the booth. There are already a few other baked goods on the counter. I assumed they were dropped off by mothers manning different booths. As I start arranging things in an appealing, tasteful manner, a tantalizing aroma wafts over to me from the next booth.

  Man. No one told me they were selling bratwurst. I can feel my jeans getting tighter with every sniff, and I feel the urge to untuck my shirt and let it hang over my hips.

  My stomach responds to the scent and suddenly I feel the tug of gravity, pulling me toward that booth.

  Before I make it that far, I see Darcy coming toward me. My appetite leaves as nerves replace hunger in my gut. She gives me a tentative smile and sets a platter of… oh, dear Lord, is that fudge? With walnuts. “You brought candy to a bake sale?”

  “I thought with the holidays, people might be in the mood to get a head start.”

  She’s a genius. I’m sooo ready. I give a nonchalant shrug and nod. “Good idea.”

  Tension is thick between us—thicker than the saturated air. I’m so relieved to see Linda pop up to our booth that I grab her in a tight hug.

  “Mmmm,” she says, eyeing the brownies, cookies, pies, and cakes and zeroing in on the fudge. “If I didn’t have a wedding gown to fit into in a mere two and a half weeks, I’d buy up a little bit of everything.”

  “Be strong, my friend,” I say, knowing full well she could eat the entire booth and not gain an ounce with that fourteen-year-old-boy metabolism of hers.

  “Do you have all the wedding plans finished, then?” Darcy’s small voice pipes in. I suspect, more than anything, she just wants to remind us she’s present.

  Linda turns an affectionate smile on the younger woman. “Almost. I just need a singer to croon a sappy love song, and I’m all set.”

  “How about Greg?” I say, a little faster than I wish I had. Greg. Like we’re some super couple and I can just speak for him.

  “Greg… There’s a good idea,” Linda agrees with a nod. She turns to Darcy. Pod Girl gives a chirpy giggle and I have a sneaky feeling Linda gave her a “look” that sings, “Claire and Greg, sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g…”

  I shrug. “Whatever.”

  Linda laughs. “I’ll catch you two later. I’m manning the dunk tank. Can you believe we’re having a dunk tank in this weather? How busy do you think I’m likely to be?” She turns to leave, then steps back. “Okay, wait. I have to have some of that fudge, dress or no dress. But don’t let me come back for more.”

  I feel a little hung out to dry when she leaves, mainly because now I have no choice but to face Darcy. Someone has been thoughtful enough to provide chairs for us to sit on behind the booth, so we sit. Darcy nearly blinds me with a bright smile. “When Ari told me you wanted me to come, I almost couldn’t believe it.”

  Wow. I can’t believe it either. When I get my hands on Ari I’m going to wring her scrawny little neck.

  Darcy gives a little gasp, and I can tell by the look on her face she’s figured it out. “You didn’t ask for me, did you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Why would she lie?”

  “I guess she wants us to talk it out.” Or quite possibly she just did it for sport.

  “She knows what happened?”

  Irritation slams me. What kind of mother does she think I am? “Of course not. But she does know we aren’t really talking. I don’t have anything against you, Darcy. So don’t take this personally. I have things I just need to work out. And right now… you and Rick go together…”

  She nods in understanding. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No, I don’t want you to leave. It was sweet of you to come in the first place. Let’s just try to act normal for the rest of the evening and we’ll get through this.”

  Turns out, Darcy and I are quite the team. Our booth sells out fairly early. By seven, though, snow flurries are flying around in a hint of early winter. It won’t last. It probably won’t even dust the ground, but somehow it makes me feel good. “Hey, Darcy. Let’s go get a bratwurst and some apple cider.”

  “Really?”

  I nod.
“We can watch the rest of the exhibition game.”

  Her eyes brighten in the glow of the generator-controlled lights. “That sounds like so much fun. Let’s do it.”

  We each buy a juicy barbecued brat, then make our way to the cider counter just as the players begin filtering in from the field. We look at each other. Darcy wrinkles her nose in a cute, disappointed frown.

  Darcy Frank, I miss you. And I’m fully aware that the very fact that I miss her, given the circumstances, is just… wrong.

  “Oh, well. I guess we missed it.” I take a bite of my brat. then wash it down with cider. Hmm. When did they get so greasy?

  I pull out my cell. “Let me call Ari and get her up here so she can ride home with you.”

  She nods. “Sure.”

  Her voice mail answers. I flip my phone shut. “She must have forgotten to turn it back on after the game. Do you want to walk down to the football field with me?”

  She nods, taking another bite of her brat. We start the walk across the damp ground. We’re quiet at first. I mean, we agreed to get through tonight, right? Our future friendship is sort of in limbo. And what is there to talk about, really? “Oh, did you hear Rick apologized? What a toad-sucker.” See? I can’t talk about the stuff that’s really going on. Still . . .

  “Listen, Darce. We don’t have to let this come between us, do we? What if we just forget about that dumb counseling session? I have to work this out on my own.”

  “Oh, Claire. The counselor has really helped Rick deal with some things. If you’d only give it a chance…”

  Utter lack of understanding. This is what I get for holding out the white flag. “I have given it a chance. And it didn’t work for me. Maybe it worked for Rick because he had deeper issues.”

  She chews her lip. I know she’s holding in her opinion. And I’m not going to pry. I don’t give a flip what Barbie thinks about it. Well, I care a little. “All right, what do you want to say?” I blurt.

  “That was really hard for Rick. I just thought if he finally apologized it might help you deal with it.”

 

‹ Prev