The Year We Turned Forty

by Liz Fenton

  “Can I read any of it?” Colin pressed. “You used to give me pages every night. I haven’t seen anything in almost a year.”

  “I’m keeping this one really close to my heart. I think it’s going to be better that way. But I promise to show you something as soon as I feel it’s ready.” And that was the truth. She wanted so badly to have something to show him, something that was worthy to read and she knew if she could just get pregnant, the book would be unleashed onto paper.

  Colin’s face contorted. “Can you at least admit that agreeing to another round without talking to me isn’t fair? Especially when you know my health insurance won’t cover a fourth cycle.”

  “How can you bring money into this? We’re trying to make a baby, not buy a car!” Gabriela spat.

  “Well, you’re treating this like it’s a pricey pair of shoes you bought without telling me and then hid in the back of the closet. It’s a baby, Gabriela.” He drew out the syllables of the word slowly, as if she couldn’t understand them otherwise.

  “I get that, Colin. Believe me, I’m obsessed with the baby,” she yelled, then kicked the Styrofoam box of medication. “The question is, why aren’t you?”

  Colin took a deep breath. “I don’t know who you are anymore. The woman I’m looking at right now, she’s not the one I married.”

  Gabriela watched him walk out of the room and heard their bedroom door close softly behind him. She knew she’d be sleeping in the guest room again tonight, where she’d been for most of the past two months. She waited for the tears to come, for the feelings of panic to arise in her heart that she could be losing her husband, but she felt numb. So she concentrated on the one thing that seemed to matter. She tore the lid off the top of the box and started sorting through the fertility drugs—Repronex, progesterone, Follistim—plus the packages of needles that she hoped would help bring her the baby she wanted so badly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  * * *

  “Again?”

  Claire could picture Mason on the other end of the phone frowning, disappointed that she was canceling another date, the second one this week. “I’m sorry, but my mom’s not eating. And I wouldn’t feel right going to dinner while she’s in this condition.”

  “I’m really sorry about your mom, but I miss you. Isn’t there any way I can see you? I could bring her some chicken noodle soup.”

  “She doesn’t have the flu, Mason. She has cancer,” Claire snapped, immediately regretting her words.

  “I know. I know. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.”

  “It sucks,” Claire whispered, and felt tears in her throat. “But I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. You don’t deserve that. We’ll see each other soon. I promise,” Claire said, but wasn’t sure she could deliver on it. The more ill her mom became, the more Claire seemed to cling to her.

  “It’s okay,” Mason said.

  “No, it’s not,” Claire said. “I wish you didn’t have to see me like this. I wish you could know the happy Claire.” Last time, Claire and Mason had enjoyed six uninterrupted months together before Mona’s diagnosis. They had been carefree and fun, and it had been a solid foundation for when things got tough the next year. This time, Mason had barely glimpsed that Claire. The only version of her he knew was stressed and frazzled and distant.

  “I like this Claire,” Mason said firmly, and Claire’s heart melted.

  “I’m glad you do, because I can’t stand her.” Claire laughed feebly before saying good-bye and putting her head in her hands. As she listened to the ticking of the clock in her parents’ kitchen, she speculated why she had kept Mason at bay this time. Sure they laughed, both having a deep love for Seinfeld’s humor; they watched basketball games on TV, Claire’s legs slung over Mason’s lap; and they’d talked, but Claire kept the conversation centered around lighter topics, skirting his questions about her mom’s health or Emily’s situation at school. She knew she was holding a big part of herself back. She felt conflicted about Jared—whom she was missing less each day—and about her feelings for Mason, which were deepening each day. It was hard to stop herself from falling back in love with the one that got away.

  Last week, when she’d gone home to get her mail, noticing the front porch light and four other bulbs had gone out, she’d complained to Mason that since she’d been practically living at her parents’ house, she’d been neglecting her own, only going home to water the grass or grab some more clothes. An hour later, Mason was on her doorstep holding a plastic bag from Lowe’s. She’d thrown her arms around his back, buried her chin into his broad chest, feeling his lips brush the top of her head, then cried out, “Let there be light!”

  “I love you, Claire,” Mason whispered into her ear, the way he used to, and Claire’s breath caught in her chest. When they broke up, and she’d watched him walk to his car, his shoulders hunched in a way that made him appear to have lost several inches of height, she was sure she’d never hear those words from him again. And now, his I love you felt like hearing her favorite song playing on the radio.

  But she already had a man back home in 2015, whom she loved and was planning to marry. And even though she knew that in this alternate time she and Jared weren’t together, it still felt wrong to say it back to Mason, especially since she’d been telling herself she was returning to her old life when the year was up. So she stayed silent. Because the relationship they had in this life was not built on truth. Mason had no idea who she really was, where she had been, and where she was going in just three short months. She wished she could tell him everything. That it had shocked her how easy it had been to fall back into step with him, that the love she felt for him rekindled faster than she’d been comfortable with. That it made her think she didn’t love Jared as much as she thought she had. That this realization scared her most of all. But she didn’t say any of that. Instead she sat in place, her lips glued shut as Mason held her gaze expectantly, kicking the welcome mat with his toe.

  Finally he’d mumbled something about an appointment with a general contractor, gave her a quick peck on the lips, and hurried to his car. It hadn’t come up since, but had hung in the air during each conversation. Claire knew she needed to address it, that he deserved to know why she couldn’t love him. Or at least why she was unable to say it. But she just wasn’t ready to go there yet, to let him down. So she allowed the elephant in the room to hang out with them—in the spaces of silence during their phone conversations, in the backseat of the car as they traveled to dinner, on the couch next to them when they watched TV—praying he wouldn’t bring it up again before she was ready to let go.

  • • •

  Mason hung up the phone and popped the top on a can of Budweiser. He took a long drink, wondering if Claire was distancing herself from him because of what he’d said. He knew it was probably too soon to have told Claire he loved her, but the words were out before he could stop them. And even though it had stung when she hadn’t said them back, he wasn’t sorry he’d told her. Because he’d wanted her to know—from the morning after they’d slept together if he was being completely honest.

  When he’d first noticed Claire standing by the chocolate fountain at the birthday party—watching her tuck a piece of hair behind her ear before she glided a strawberry through the fudge, laughing as she’d popped it into her mouth—he’d felt something almost physical in his chest. He’d felt his feet moving toward her, his boldness surprising him. But he had to meet this petite woman with the large laugh. And then he’d pressed his business card into her soft hand and squeezed, feeling an electric current run up his arm. And when she’d called him the next night, he couldn’t believe his luck. Women like Claire didn’t go for men like him. He knew she was out of his league. Claire was gorgeous—reminding him of a porcelain doll with her fair skin and large brown eyes. He knew from their brief chat at the party that she was a successful real estate agent and a single mom. Although he had height on his side, towering over her at six foot four, his hair
was thinning and he had a few crooked teeth his parents couldn’t afford to fix with braces. People sometimes told him he reminded them of a skinnier and taller version of the guy from King of Queens. He’d take it! He was a carpenter who hadn’t finished college, but he was a hard worker with plenty of money in the bank.

  At first, she’d flirted with him tentatively on their date, pausing every few minutes to take a work call with an apologetic smile. But as the night wore on, she’d finally relaxed as she sipped her wine, and eventually slipped her phone into her purse, letting it vibrate without answering. And when the bartender announced last call, they’d shared a tequila shot right before she’d blushed furiously and shyly invited him home. He’d practically jumped into the busy street to hail a cab and they’d made out in the backseat, Claire only coming up for air to give the driver directions. Once there, they could barely get inside the house before their clothes were off, then he’d picked her up and carried her into her bedroom, her laughing and directing the way. He figured, to her, it would be just a one-night stand. A busy mom with not much of a dating life—she’d told him that—letting off some steam after having some liquid courage.

  The next morning, he was mystified. She wasn’t the same woman he’d met at the party or even talked to on their date or the one he’d gone to bed with. The one he’d met at the party was sweet, but very reserved, buttoned up, focused—maybe too much so. But this version of Claire—the one who woke up beside him and let her guard down, who acted frazzled, who forgot who the president was, who’d looked at her phone like it was a foreign object—he liked a lot more. She seemed more real, more human, more like a girl he’d want to get to know better.

  And it was the strangest thing: even though they hadn’t gotten to know each other as well as he would’ve liked—Claire always turning the conversation away from serious topics and thinking he didn’t notice—he felt like somehow he knew her, like he’d known her for years.

  • • •

  The front door of her parents’ condo opened and Claire jumped at the sound.

  “Mom?” Emily called out.

  Claire looked at the clock. She’d lost track of time since hanging up with Mason, realizing she’d been sitting at the kitchen table for over an hour. “In here,” Claire answered, a smile crossing her lips. Things between her and Emily were better than ever. Recently, they’d started watching the show Gilmore Girls together once a week, Claire drawing hope and inspiration from the fictional mom and daughter who lived in an idyllic town and, despite their problems, always seemed to figure things out. Emily had also been helping to care for her grandmother more and more. Mona even taught her to play cribbage on one of her better days.

  When Claire felt enough time had passed after their argument about the letters Emily’s father had sent, Claire had carefully broached the subject of the classmate she had bullied and asked again why she had done it. Emily had dissolved into sobs, finally stopping and making Claire promise she wouldn’t be upset. Claire had nodded, hoping she could handle whatever was coming.

  Slowly, the story spilled out that the girl had made a snide remark to Emily about having a single mom, asking her what she’d done wrong to make her dad leave. When Claire pressed Emily on why she hadn’t just told her what the girl had said, her heart dropped when Emily confessed she’d been afraid to tell Claire because she didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  Claire was livid, of course. It took all her strength not to phone the girl’s parents and tell them what had really happened. That their child didn’t deserve that perfect kiss on the head they’d given her. But she didn’t, because it was the sadness that dominated. Sadness that Emily had to carry the burden of having only one parent. Of course, Claire said all the right things—that even though that girl had been cruel, it wasn’t okay to fight back that way. But inside, guilt overpowered Claire—she could feel it from the buzz in her head to the twitch in her toes.

  But then Emily had hugged her, hard, folding her body into Claire. And instantly, the twitching and the buzzing and the anger all fell away. She decided to focus on the positives—Emily’s grades were improving and she’d made two new friends that she now hung out with often. Claire had met them both and had been incredibly relieved that they seemed kind and sweet and had normal-colored hair.

  Things had been going so smoothly that Claire had almost convinced herself that Emily might never bring up her dad again. But then just last night, there had been a commercial on TV, a father wrapping his arms around his daughter at her high school graduation, and Emily had said sarcastically, in not much more than a whisper, How sweet for them. Claire had known she should turn the TV off and talk to Emily about it, that she was testing the waters, wanting to see if Claire had softened her position about her dad’s involvement in her life. Claire had opened her mouth to answer, but no words came. She knew she needed to be brave, that she needed to have a discussion about Emily’s father, and that her daughter deserved a say about whether or not to let him back into their lives, for better or worse. But instead she told herself it wouldn’t matter in three months, she would disappear back to a life where Emily had no idea the letters existed. So instead, Claire was a coward and said nothing, ignoring the burning in her gut telling her to do otherwise.

  “How’s Grandma today?” Emily said, dropping her backpack on the floor and grabbing a bag of Lay’s potato chips out of the pantry.

  “She’s sleeping. But she still has zero appetite.”

  “I’ll try to get her to eat when she wakes up.”

  “Thanks. How did you do on your Spanish quiz?”

  “I got an A!”

  “That’s great, Em. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Do you have homework tonight?”

  Emily nodded. “Science and current events.”

  “Okay, get started on it. I need to write up an offer and get two listings into the Multiple Listing Service. By then, your grandmother will probably be up.” Claire started walking toward the den.

  “Hey, Mom?”

  “Yeah?” Claire said, turning around.

  “I wrote something, and I was wondering if you’d read it.”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “It’s a letter,” Emily said, stopping to chew a chip. “To my dad.”

  Claire quickly readjusted her face from a shocked expression into a smile. “I’d be happy to.” She accepted the two sheets of folded notebook paper from her daughter, wondering whether Lauren Graham’s character in Gilmore Girls would have done the same.

  • • •

  “So how’s it been going with the men in your life?” Claire asked Jessie the following night after their waitress left to get their drinks from the bar.

  “Things are so much better with Grant.” Jessie smiled.

  “And the other one?” Claire asked.

  “Lucas? He’s doing awesome!”

  “Nope. Not that one. The one you don’t like to talk about.”

  “He’s fine.” Jessie frowned.

  “If he’s fine, then why do you have that look on your face?”

  “Dammit. He’s just so great with Lucas.”

  “And that’s a problem?” Claire laughed, then wished she could pull it back the second she saw the defeated look in Jessie’s eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be flippant. I get it. You want him to be terrible. You want him to go away.”

  “Do you get it? Because I feel a little weird talking to you about this. It’s like you’re biased.”

  “Why? Because I’m a single mom and my daughter’s father has been MIA?” Claire said. “So you think I can’t be objective?”

  “Sorry, but that’s exactly why. Be honest, are you really being objective?”

  Claire nodded as the server delivered a glass of red wine to her and a dirty martini to Jessie. “Of course. And I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel otherwise.” Claire knew her own issues were starting to cloud the way she viewed Jessie’s.

 
Jessie took a sip of her drink before continuing. “Okay, here it is. Despite the fact he’s clearly a good father, I wish he weren’t; every time we meet, I watch him getting closer with Lucas, and it scares the hell out of me.”

  Claire’s stomach twisted, knowing now was the time she should tell Jessie the truth about how she’d kept Emily and her biological dad apart. How there had been a man, despite his flaws, who wanted to be a father to his daughter and Claire hadn’t allowed it. Maybe if Jessie could see the outcome it had on a child later, she might make different choices now, even at her own expense. Claire had read Emily’s letter over and over last night, sobbing as she took in the words. Some of them seemed so young, but others conveyed a wisdom far beyond her years, leaving Claire scared shitless. If she sent it to David as Emily had requested, he might never respond—or even scarier, maybe he would.

  Claire pictured her daughter’s loopy cursive handwriting. It was near perfect, as if she’d been trying to show him her best penmanship, trying to impress him.

  Dear Dad, Daddy, Father?

  What would I have called you? I guess we never got to find out, did we? I’m sorry we don’t know each other. I wish we did. More than ever after reading your letters. I was always curious about you. I wondered what you looked like, what your favorite sports team was, what you liked to do for fun. But I knew Mom didn’t want to talk about you. I tried, but bringing you up made her sad and I didn’t want that. I figured you would’ve been in my life if you wanted to be. Because you’re my dad. But I’m smart (my mom always tells me I’m wise beyond my years) and I know that dads bail sometimes. It happens. So I decided that’s what you’d done. That’s why Mom was upset. But after reading your letters, I’m more confused than ever. Because it sounds like you wanted to see me. And Mom wouldn’t let you. Mom explained that she was doing what she thought was best. But it was MY decision to make. Wasn’t it? You’re my dad, not hers. I don’t know what’s going to happen from here, but I want to get to know you. I hope you still feel the same. By the way, I’ve enclosed my most recent school photo (ignore the braces!), my favorite sports team is the Dodgers, and I like to go to the mall for fun.