The Girl Made of Clay

by Nicole Meier

  “Long day?” TR asked, turning serious.

  “You could say that.” She flopped into a chair and rubbed at a sore spot on her foot. A hot bath was in order. But first she needed to find Charlie. “Where’s your dad?”

  Sam rotated back around and gripped the TV controller. “He’s in your bedroom. Been in there all night.”

  “He has?”

  “Except to come out and pay the pizza guy, he’s been in there sleeping. I think.” TR offered this bit of information along with a noncommittal shrug. Sara guessed he knew better than to get involved.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  In an act of compassion, Sara got up and went to the kitchen to retrieve a mug of hot water and a bag of herbal tea. Clutching them both, she made for the master bedroom.

  It was concerning to think that Charlie had been hiding out. Perhaps he wasn’t recovering as fast as she’d expected. But then again, if he’d truly been asleep most of the day, he wouldn’t have noticed her lengthy absence.

  Charlie tended to withdraw whenever he got sick. She recalled a couple of years earlier when a rather nasty stomach bug had spread viciously among the airline staff. It had knocked Charlie sideways for a good week. Sara had slept on the couch, providing him with routine refills of sports drinks and cold washcloths. Perhaps now he was seeking comfort burrowed beneath the covers, just as he’d done before.

  With her ear positioned gently against the door, she listened before easing it ajar. A stream of dim light leaked out from under the frame. No sound could be heard. Maybe Charlie had dozed off under the haze of cold medicine. If he was sleeping, she’d stealthily deposit the tea at his bedside and then tiptoe away. At least that way he’d notice she’d been in to check on him when he woke up.

  Extending her arm, she swung the door farther open. To Sara’s surprise, Charlie wasn’t sleeping at all. He was hunched over the bed, jamming a pair of jeans inside a canvas duffel bag. Sara’s cautious hope descended like a lead balloon. Her ever-mobile husband was packing.

  “Charlie? I thought you’d be sleeping. What’s going on?”

  Sara noticed the whites of his knuckles as he shoved a pair of rolled-up socks into the bag next. “I’m going to a hotel, Sara.”

  “Why? For work?” It didn’t make any sense that he’d be taking off for another shift so soon, but it was the only explanation that came to mind.

  “No. Not for work. For peace. It’s too crowded around here. And I need some space.”

  Space?

  Her mouth hung in a stupefied gape. “To get over the flu?”

  “No.”

  “Okay . . . ?” Though her feet were planted, she suddenly had the odd sensation she was floating. Her husband’s blunt announcement had toppled out and loosened a tether, sending her adrift.

  What was she missing? She tried to read his masked expression, to catch a glimpse so she might get a clue as to what he was possibly thinking. But Charlie appeared closed off. Her hands gripped the mug of hot tea for stability.

  Her marriage was in real trouble.

  How could he be leaving her? Like this? This departure of his felt acutely different. And it scared her.

  Charlie continued packing.

  “What then?” she demanded. The boiling temperature was beginning to burn. Annoyed, she banged the mug down on a nearby dresser. “I don’t understand. Why on earth would you go to a hotel?”

  Charlie paused. For a moment a look passed between them. A faint whisper of rising dread told Sara she might already know the reason.

  “I just have to go. I need space to clear my head. This—” He righted and dropped his arms. “This hasn’t been working lately. TR’s crazy-ass world is completely consuming you right now. It’s breaking you. I understand your need to try to help; it’s in your very nature, and I love that about you; I really do. But you’re blind if you can’t see he’s selfishly sucking you down with him, pulling you from your own family. And whether you admit it or not, you’re letting him.”

  Sara steadied her knees. She could almost feel the blood escaping her body. Her lips failed to cooperate as she stammered out a weak protest. “Th . . . that’s not fair. I’m doing the best I can. My dad is my family too. There are things that, well, it’s just been a little complicated, that’s all.”

  A troubled look splashed across Charlie’s face. He let a partially folded undershirt slip from his hands. Sara struggled for what to say. This was happening too fast.

  “We just need more time to work things out.”

  “I feel like we’re deteriorating, Sara. We barely see one another. We don’t talk. It isn’t working. I’m not happy. And I have the feeling neither are you.”

  What?

  Hot tears pricked the rims of her eyes. Charlie was punishing her for events that were out of her control. He was also blaming her for their separateness, when mostly his travel was the thing accomplishing that. If he’d just stay put for a minute, calm down, and give her a chance to explain, she could maybe turn this around. He was getting upset over something he knew nothing about. And now he was leaving.

  She looked around the disheveled room, trying to figure out what to say. If nothing else, they had Sam to think about, for God’s sake. And what about the two of them, for better or for worse? Didn’t that mean anything? Despite the growing discontent, she didn’t want to accept that they might be over. She’d spent her fair share of waking hours being angry with her husband, but that didn’t mean she’d given up on them. She wasn’t even being given a chance to save things.

  “I’m here now,” she urged. “We can talk tonight.”

  Charlie paused his packing. Behind his eyes was the darkly distinct shade of melancholy, like someone who’d already accepted defeat. “Are you ready to walk out there and insist your dad goes home? To finally pack his things and return to the coast?”

  Sara hesitated. Charlie was pinning her into a corner. As much as she disliked the idea of an ultimatum, she wanted him to understand. Something in her needed to continue exploring a relationship with both Bo and TR. She couldn’t articulate it quite yet, but one thing was for sure: Sara liked Bo. She could tell there was a level of goodness about him. And if he was the reason TR refused to return, if they’d had a conflict of some kind, Sara wanted to understand it. Because she was already considering Bo to be a brother. Charlie might not understand this, or maybe he would, but either way he didn’t seem to want to stick around long enough for her to explain.

  Sara understood deep in her soul that a shot at a whole family—really whole, not this fragmented unit she’d grown accustomed to having—was at stake. If she just could help bridge a gap, then maybe a real happiness would surface. Because what Charlie couldn’t see was that Sara needed to fill the giant chasm that had been lurking in her heart for most of her adult life. That wide-open, lonely space that had taken up residence the day her father walked out. She desperately wanted the parent who had left to now apologize and stay in her life for good. And remarkably, she also wanted that man to be happy.

  Gathering up her resolve, she looked hard into Charlie’s face. “Not everything is so black and white, Charlie. There’s other stuff my dad has to deal with before a move home can happen. If you just let me explain . . .”

  “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.” The response fell at her feet with flat indifference. He was being unfair. And it felt like betrayal.

  With a final tug, he zipped up the duffel bag and hauled it over his shoulder. “Call me when you’re ready to put your own family first.”

  As Charlie’s words sank in, something snapped inside of her. A raw nerve had been struck one too many times. He knew how much she feared being walked out on, and he was doing it anyway. “That’s really rich, Charlie! You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m the one not putting my family first? What about you? You can’t even stand to be home for more than twenty-four hours before you’re itching to get out of here again. You get to run off, hiding behind your job as an excuse while Sam and I
are the ones left holding the bag!”

  She noticed his jaw tighten as he hoisted the bag farther over his shoulder. “This is exactly why we need a break. I’m going before one of us says something we regret. Plus, I’m not going to fight with you with your dad eavesdropping in the next room. I’m leaving, Sara. I’ll be at Sam’s soccer game tomorrow afternoon. But for now, I’m going to a hotel.”

  And with that, Sara watched her once-steadfast partner turn and walk out without so much as a backward glance. There was nothing left to do but cry.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  TR

  Whatever was going down between those two wasn’t good; TR could tell. It was like a proverbial boxing match, but without the punches. The walls practically vibrated with all their yelling. It caused poor Sam to cower and scoot closer under the security of his grandfather’s arm. TR had a mind to jump up and put a stop to it. And then, not long after it started, things went silent.

  Sure, his daughter and her husband had gotten into rather nasty snits before, but none that had sent ol’ uptight Chuck—Upchuck for short—slamming out the front door in a veritable huff. TR had protectively crooked an elbow around the back of the couch, ready to shield Sam, who watched wide-eyed as his dad melted for a moment and muttered a kind of rushed goodbye to his equally upset son and then vanished. There had been bags and farewells before, but no sir, not like this one. The husband was taking off.

  TR recognized that brand of indignation from a mile away. Hell, he’d been that indignation before. And he couldn’t believe he was witnessing it right there in Sara and Sam’s life. It was like a cruel record of the past. And it killed TR to see the crushing effect it had on the stunned little boy sitting by his side.

  “Don’t worry, Sammy boy,” TR cooed reassuringly. He gripped the boy by the sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt and gently shook. “It’s just adult stuff. Adults can be stupid sometimes. Did you know that?” He’d wanted the boy to laugh, to catch a bit of levity in an otherwise disheartened countenance of a suddenly somber ten-year-old kid. But all he got was a pitiful slant of a smile. TR huffed. It would have to do for now.

  TR settled deeper into the couch, hoping his body language would be enough to tell the boy he’d sit there with him as long as was needed. I’m not going anywhere, kid. Not tonight. He rubbed his jawline. Who would have sat here with Sam if he hadn’t been around? TR wondered.

  Sara shuffled into the living room with red eyes. She attempted to comfort Sam, hugging his tiny shoulders from behind, trying to hide her face while covering up Charlie’s departure with a lame excuse about work. But no one bought it. TR was grateful he was there. Someone needed to remain steady for the boy. His daughter, whose troubled appearance struck him, was currently not this person.

  Sara mumbled something inaudible and drifted into the kitchen to heat a slice of pizza. TR craned his neck and watched as his stunned-looking daughter mutely worked her jaw over a mouthful of deep-dish crust. A large glass of milk was poured next, spilling over the sides as she dumbly gazed off in the distance. Without bothering to mop it up, she dragged the plastic milk carton across the wet counter and plunked it into the refrigerator. She gulped down the drink and went back to her pizza, her movements sluggish and leaden.

  It wasn’t like his otherwise pulled-together daughter to act in this manner. It was as if she were in shock or something very close to it. Clearly, this was the husband’s doing. Whatever Chuck had said, or not said, before storming out had knocked the sense out of Sara. TR guessed this must have been their biggest row since he’d come to stay. Disturbed, he continued to examine Sara as she nursed her milk and stared, brooding out the window.

  And then another thought came. TR found the backs of his legs bracing against the couch cushions with alarm. This must have been what it was like for young Sara when he’d walked out on Joanne all those years ago. She’d been the unknowing kid on the couch, just as Sam was now, silently watching as her parents brawled and then fiercely detached. Sara had been the one to endure the brunt of her reckless parents’ behavior, just as Sam was doing now. Seeing the ugliness of it through the eyes of that beautiful boy, who regardless of it all still radiated a bright, unconditional love, practically made TR want to weep.

  And here was poor Sara, going through it all over again. Another man in her life walking out, hitting that same raw nerve that surely was exposed once more. It killed him to know this. She deserved so much more.

  He supposed the same could be said for Bo. That kid had been handed two fathers, yet he got along with none. TR was sorry for all the recent fights he’d had with Bo over his chosen career and inability to see his higher potential as an artist. The boy had real talent, yet he always pushed back with force against TR’s suggestions. They never saw eye to eye. Marie always got involved, inserting herself into their arguing and chasing TR around the property as she hollered in stilted English about the need to support their son. That blasted woman could really sink her teeth into something when she wanted.

  TR only wished Bo would pull his lazy head out of his ass and make something of his life, to recognize his unique gifts and do something profound with them. The objects Bo created with his bare hands were breathtaking. The kid could take a raw piece of wood and manipulate it, giving something as simple as a coffee table a surprising sense of fluidity. It was remarkable. But maddeningly, that stubborn adolescent refused to share his work with anyone else. True, he’d made TR a splendid worktable. And for just one day, the hope of intimacy between them had emerged. But it was snuffed out when Bo refused to do more. His son claimed he’d rather spend his days toiling as a handyman than trying to hock his furniture. TR had tried to make Bo see the error of his ways. He’d even gone as far as threatening to kick Bo out of the house, off the property for good, if he didn’t try harder to harness his talent and maybe even earn a paycheck. But all that got them was a nasty feud.

  Bo had dug in his heels. Words were exchanged, and emotions exploded. Then TR had hit the bottle a little too hard. Another mistake. He should have handled things better. It wasn’t Bo’s fault he’d had the rug pulled out from under him when he learned about his father. He’d been dealt a shitty hand.

  But unlike Sam, Bo was practically a grown man. In that sense, he was far better equipped for the cruelties of life than a small boy. Bo had had time enough to figure out his place in the world. Well, sort of. TR rubbed his forehead. He couldn’t think about that now. One crisis at a time.

  Clasping the side of Sam’s arm, he sighed heavily. What a mess they’d all made of this life.

  “Hey.” He leaned over. Sam smelled of pizza sauce and Popsicles. What a marvelous combination of things was this little boy. “What time do you usually hit the sack? You know, on a school night?”

  Sam looked up. “It’s not a school night. Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “Ah. You’re right. That’s why they call you the smart one. Well, what time do you go to bed anyway?” He was hoping to scoot Sam off to brush his teeth in order to spare the boy seeing his mother like this. It was clear Sara was in a different stratosphere at the moment. If she were anything like her old man, it wouldn’t be long before she gave up on the milk and craved something harder. Sometimes a little numbness helped.

  “Eight-thirty.”

  TR frowned. “What was that?”

  “Eight-thirty. You asked when I’m supposed to go to sleep. It’s at eight-thirty at night.”

  TR squinted at the TV monitor, their video game set on pause. “That was twenty minutes ago, kid. Let’s say you and I wander on back to your room and get the nighttime ritual knocked out together. Sound good?”

  Sam scrunched up his angelic face, puzzled. “You mean get my pajamas on and read a book and all that?”

  Grateful for the direction, TR pumped his head. “Yes! All of that. That sounds right. Let’s do that.”

  “Okay.”

  TR heaved himself from the couch and followed Sam down the hallway. The boy stopped
only once, casting his tearful mother an inquisitive glance, then kept going. Sara acknowledged the two of them with a weak but grateful smile.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed. Her watery eyes grazed over the pair of them. “You’re tucking him in? Thanks, TR. Good night, Sam. Remember I love you. Your dad does too. Hopefully, you guys can FaceTime in the morning. Sleep tight, honey.”

  “Good night, Mom.”

  “Okay,” TR replied, ushering Sam farther toward his bedroom. “We’re headed off to brush our teeth now.” TR gave a thumbs-up sign before shuffling away. He’d need to come find her when he was through with taking care of Sam. His daughter clearly needed a shoulder to cry on, based on her quivering chin. He had a feeling it would be a long night.

  Sam scampered off, announcing to TR he needed to clear a path of dirty soccer clothes and debris before anyone entered his room. Sara normally kept that kid’s bedroom as neat as a pin. But he supposed in all the confusion the normal household duties had been pushed to the side. Seems both parents had been gone a lot lately. TR was glad he’d been around as backup.

  It struck him he’d never really been anyone’s backup before. It felt good for a change. He figured it was the least he could do after staying with Sara’s family all that time. He knew changing all those gooey bandages couldn’t have been a walk in the park for his daughter. But she’d done it anyway. TR had never really expressed the sentiment at the time, but he was grateful she’d been around to take care of him as he healed.

  “Sammy boy,” TR said as he darted the corners of his grandson’s rumpled sheets and neatened up the bed. “I’m sure glad I got to spend this time with you. You’re my most favorite grandkid.”

  Sam scampered onto the twin mattress and grinned. “Aren’t I your only grandkid?”

  “Well, yeah. But that’s not the point.”

  “It isn’t?” He pushed his narrow, little feet under the covers and leaned onto the fluffy pillows.

  “Nah. The point is even if I had a million grandchildren, you’d still be the best one. You’ve got your mother’s good wisdom and, if I might add, your grandpa’s artistic sensibility. Wrap that all up with your charm and good looks, and man, what a prize!” He winked as he pulled the bedding up and over Sam’s chest, patting him on the head for good measure.