It was stressful. Claire continually reminded herself that no job was perfect, that all entailed positives and negatives, but the stress was still brutal. As the kids grew up, the load eased, but the threat of burnout remained. She paused on the notion. Did every woman feel the fatigue of her work as much as she had? Home or office, did the pressure of stress feel any different?
She had to believe the answer was yes to the first, no to the second. Whether a woman worked inside the home or out, the common word was “work.” Simone worked and Claire worked. Children grew up and left, just like Mariah and Rebecca. As did sisters, daughters. Claire hugged the photograph to her body. Sarah left. Rebecca was leaving. And where it felt like the end, Claire understood it was only the beginning. For Sarah it had been a new life and a new love. She chose Will and Europe, and where it had opened new doors for her, it closed others. She and Claire grew apart, the relationship became distant.
Of course their mother never looked at it quite in those terms. She was happy for Sarah, even if it meant reducing their relationship to pen and paper. And where her mother and Sarah seemed sustained, Claire was not. She wanted Sarah close. She wanted Rebecca close. The ache to her side was quick and sharp. Epiphany seeped into her body. Was she the problem? Had she ended their connection because it couldn’t continue in the flesh, in person?
Pulling the photograph away from her chest, Claire peered into the face of her younger sister. Immersing herself in the image, the memories, she allowed the idea to sink in. Did Sarah feel let down by her older sister?
It felt like she’d just found the missing piece to the puzzle. Sarah wrote, but Claire was late to respond. She called, but Claire was consistently indisposed, blaming it on family, obligations. The kids were bickering, the house was a wreck, meat was thawing and the laundry needed folding. All of which was true, but none of which could have prevented a conversation, had her heart been interested.
But it wasn’t. Claire didn’t want to talk on the phone. She didn’t want to be pen pals. She wanted her sister home.
The grandfather clock in the front hall chimed, once, twice, three times, echoing throughout the empty rooms. Claire thrust her teary gaze out back, her patio neat but empty. Planters devoid of flowers, metal chairs lacking cushions...the space was barren.
Had she purposely severed the tie?
Struggling to absorb the hit, she wondered why. Why would she do such a thing? Anger? Envy?
Claire eased forward and returned the photograph to its place on the table. She wiped the tears from her cheeks. As though on a mission, she surveyed the room. From the beige Berber carpet to the plaid upholstery, the gorgeous Chippendale furniture to the porcelain collectibles encased in her china cabinet, Claire’s furnishings felt ordinary. Boring.
Where were all her pieces of art? Sarah’s?
She glanced absently about her living room. Her home should be filled with them. It should be a showcase of gallery quality. There should be textured fabric, and deep, rich hues embellishing her walls. Instead, they were run-of-the-mill green. Her upholstery should be striking in pattern, not your ordinary plaid done in earth tones. And her carpet. Her carpet was beige. Beige, for God’s sake!
Claire struggled with the realization. How did an artist, an interior designer end up with beige carpet? How utterly bland had she become? Lamps and vases should be interesting pieces, conversation starters. But they weren’t. They were humdrum, everyday items that could be found in anyone’s home.
Exhaustion wound through her body. She needed time to think. Time to sort through her feelings. Adjusting the photograph of Sarah so her smiling face looked out over the living room, Claire wiped at her eyes. She needed time, but time was the one thing she didn’t have. The kids would be home soon. Dinner wasn’t started.
With considerable effort, she rose and headed for the kitchen. Dr. Sorenson said she should take it easy, get some rest. Well, Dr. Sorenson didn’t understand the life of wife and mother. It was an existence that absorbed every ounce of her being, threaded her every fiber. Claire wondered what Sarah was doing right now. It would be evening in Scotland. Would she be eating dinner? Had she already dined? Was she even in Scotland, or perhaps jetting over the countryside to the south of France?
They traveled there often. The Earlthrops had a home on the coast. They had several homes, but that was Sarah’s favorite. Her photographic study of the landscape told why. Harbor and city were cloistered between mountains and sea. Yachts were extravagant, buildings colorful, the Mediterranean a palette of varying degrees of blue. Monaco was Sarah’s kind of place. Bold and beautiful, classic and exciting—it represented her lust for life.
Claire walked into the pantry. Locating a box of pasta, she went to the stove. Maybe she should call Sarah. As she opened one of the long boxes, Claire was buoyed by the thought. Yes, maybe she should make the move and call Sarah. After all, phone calls and letters were something she was going to have to get used to if Rebecca were to live in Paris. Claire pulled out a large pot and filled it with water. And while it pained her to admit she had let her sister down, allowed their relationship to wither in the wind of bygones and apathy, there was no way she could do the same with her daughter. None. Life was about choices, yes. But more importantly, life was about reaction. Whether it was her sister’s move, her daughter’s, or the disease flowing through her veins, life was about action and reaction. We choose, we live, we react—and live anew. It’s the cycle of nature, a cycle of harmony.
Or the contrary.
Turning the gas to high, Claire wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her before. How did she lose sight of the bigger picture? Adverse circumstances come and go, but our choices define who we are, how we live. They might take the form of someone else’s choice—like a move, a divorce—or they might come in the form of unexpected illness or hardship, but either way, how we choose to react holds the key. Claire stood idle, and stared at her pot of water. She would not let this diagnosis of leukemia stop her from living. There wasn’t a single brain cell that allowed for such outcome. She would fight and she would win. Why had she let Sarah’s move stop her from loving?
She wouldn’t. Not anymore.
MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS
Simone stood at the doorway to Mariah’s bedroom. Leaning against the doorjamb, she watched as her daughter deposited book after book into the cobalt blue Vera Bradley backpack, stoically ignoring her mother’s presence. Thick textbooks, spiral notebooks, a laptop computer fitting snug in between—Simone forever worried the weight of it all would throw out Mariah’s back. With today’s technology the students should be using e-readers instead of hardcover, submitting homework online instead of physically turning in page after page of loose leaf. Revolutionizing the way schools operated should be a no-brainer. But the education system wasn’t responsible for the uncustomary angst in Simone’s belly.
Watching Mariah pack her bag gave rise to a different kind of fear—the permanent kind. The kind that didn’t dissipate after a cooling-off period but penetrated deep into the bones like the chill of a Chicago winter. It felt like Mariah was packing for a big move, one that would take her far from home. Her daughter was moving away from her, not only changing her address but changing her heart. This business venture of hers was coming between them, wedged like a fork in the road. At the moment, they still stood side by side, contemplating the way ahead. They could choose a single direction and walk it together, or they could choose separate paths, never to meet up again.
Could Simone really bid farewell to her child? Could she really let Mariah venture off without guidance, without support? Let her walk toward the horizon of a life that didn’t include her mother? As Mariah zipped the bag closed, Simone asked, “Do you really want to be so different from me?” Am I that awful? she added silently, unable to voice the same for fear of the answer she’d receive.
Mariah stopped mid-motion and looked at her for the first time since she’d been standing by her door. Her daughter seemed a l
onesome figure in a brightly lit room, a room of aqua and yellow, pink and lavender. Green eyes swam with unease as Mariah took her mother in, frowning, as though she were actually pondering the question. Simone took heart in the hesitation. Maybe there was hope yet. “All I ever wanted was what’s best for you,” she said, her voice quiet, tentative. “And if sometimes I seem overzealous and controlling ... well, I can’t help it. It’s who I am.” Why admitting as much should make her feel ashamed, Simone did not know. She was proud of who she was, and always had been. She never expected others to be like her, agree with her one hundred percent of the time—only that they accept her decisions.
The thought gave her pause. Staring at her only child, the navy-clad figure silhouetted against the pale aquamarine walls of her bedroom, the polka-dot bedspread, a shimmery burnt-orange sky outlined trees and buildings in the window behind her, Simone inhaled deeply. She filled her lungs with air and slowly released. Wasn’t that all Mariah was asking of her?
Just accept me, accept my decisions.
Tears pierced Simone’s eyes. Mariah’s slender body looked fragile beneath the thin hoodie, her shoulders narrow points at the top, her skinny jeans sticks beneath her. Had she refused her child the one thing she herself demanded above all else? Had she withheld the most important words her daughter needed to hear? “Mariah, I’m sorry,” she said suddenly.
Mariah picked up the bulky backpack and dumped it to the floor near her desk. She turned. Framed within flat-ironed locks of sandy blonde, her eyes hardened to stones of jade. “A little late, don’t you think?”
Yes, but Simone couldn’t go backward. She could only move forward. She stepped into the room and with a deep inhalation, expelled in a flush of breath, “If this is what you feel you need to do, then do it.”
Mariah homed in on her. She rubbed her arms as though to ward off a chill, suspicion filling her gaze. “What’s with the sudden change?”
“Because sometimes circumstance demands it,” Simone said bluntly. “But I mean it.” She took another step, venturing deeper into the room, the teen décor permeating her senses. “If this business deal is what you really want, then following through with it is the only way you’ll ever know. You’ll never know what you’re made of if you don’t try.”
Mariah’s face went slack.
Tears blistered behind Simone’s resolve. She could barely believe the statement herself, but she had said it and she meant it. Losing her daughter over this business was not worth it. Mariah was young, she still had time. Mitchell was right. Not everyone had to work on her time clock. Not everyone had to go to college to be successful. With each rising thought, the decision became easier, though fear pounded hard within her chest. If this business venture succeeded, then more power to Mariah. While it might not be the path Simone would take, if it’s what her daughter wanted, than she wanted it for her, too.
Much like Simone had always wanted for herself. She had always wanted her parents to be proud, but she wanted them to support her in what she wanted for herself.
“Are you saying you’re okay with me not going to college?”
“No. I still think you should go to college.” Simone eased down onto the bed, her mind crazy with concern, yet the brunt of her burden lifted as she gave in. The decision was made. Simone was walking down this path with her daughter, albeit not the path of her choice, but the path of unity. “What I’m saying”—she centered on Mariah, seeing her again for the first time—“is that if you truly believe this is the right path for you, that this is the right decision, then you need to pursue it.”
Mariah angled her face in wary reluctance. “What about Logan?”
“I’m not going to lie to you.” Simone held her gaze and held on tight. “I’m not thrilled about his involvement. But if you believe in him, then no one should stand in your way. This is about your success or failure, not mine, not your father’s.” It was the hardest thing she had ever had to say to her daughter, but now that it was out, tension swept from Simone’s body like a passing thunderstorm, promising rays of sunny relief in its wake.
“Are you serious?” Sweet, trusting, the familiar look of affection tiptoed into Mariah’s eyes as Simone drew near.
Simone nodded. “I’m serious.” She reached out for Mariah’s hand, grateful she met no resistance. And I’m sorry that you have to ask that question. She had always prided herself on being blunt and direct. She never wanted to be misunderstood in her intentions or desires, not at work and not at home. Beating around the bush, playing games—she had no use for any of it. Say what you mean and mean what you say, that was her motto. “The only condition I must stipulate is that you do not move in with Logan.”
Caution returned to Mariah’s expression and Simone held her breath, holding her daughter’s hands firmly within her own. Simone knew she had no power to enforce the ultimatum, only that it must happen. Somehow, some way, she must convince Mariah not to move in with Logan. “It’s not what your father or I want for you.” Emotional ties were much harder to untangle than professional ones.
Mariah tugged free from her mother’s grasp. She locked arms over her chest. Animosity returned to her tone. “Then where will I live?”
Simone dropped her gaze to the released grip of their hands. Mariah’s withdrawal felt like a spit of rejection. But it was a fair question. Simone had told Mariah to move out. Now she needed to reopen the door. Raising her head, she replied in no uncertain terms, “You can live here.”
Mariah stepped away. “I can?”
Simone nodded. “You can.” And in those two words, her future shifted.
# # #
“Mom, do you have a minute?” Rebecca quietly entered Claire’s bathroom, hovering by the doorway.
Wedding ring in hand, water running in the sink, Claire replied, “Of course, sweetheart. What is it?”
Rebecca nibbled at her lower lip and browsed the contents scattered across the vanity. A bottle of dish soap sat open and next to it, an old toothbrush lay on its side. An open washcloth lay beside them. “I wanted to talk about school. About Paris.”
Claire turned the faucet off. She set the ring on the cultured marble counter and concentrated on her daughter. Staring at the girl, she couldn’t help but see in her all the hopes and dreams she herself held over the last twenty years. She knew Paris was about Rebecca, not about herself. Claire understood her baby was becoming an adult and that it was time for her to make her own decisions. But in truth it still hurt. Knowing she would rarely see her remained a vise-grip to her heart. “What’s up?” she asked cheerfully.
Rebecca visibly struggled with her reply. The teeth pull to her lip became pronounced—to the point that Claire thought it must be painful.
“Everything okay?” Claire asked.
Rebecca shook her head, sorrow pouring into her expression. A sea of tears swamped her lids. Claire’s heart wrenched at the sight. “I think I should stay home.”
“Stay home?” Claire was confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t think I should go to college in Paris. I think I should go to Rhode Island instead.”
In a gush of realization, Claire’s heart ripped open. “Oh honey...”
Swollen and red, Rebecca’s lower lip quivered. “You need me here and—”
“No.” Claire went to her daughter. “No, no, no,” she said, wrapping both arms around the child. “You can’t do that. You have to go to Paris. You’ve already been accepted.”
“But you need me.”
Oh, she did, she did—there was no denying it. Looking ahead to all the tests, the medication, Claire wished she could have Rebecca close. And under different circumstances, she would. Nestled in the warmth of the embrace, she would keep Rebecca near like a downy soft blanket, a living breathing reminder that all was right in the world. When snuggled up with her kids, Claire didn’t worry or wonder or want. She was at peace. Complete and total peace.
But keeping Rebecca from Paris wouldn’t be fa
ir. This illness wasn’t her daughter’s battle. It was hers. Claire pulled away and looked at Rebecca directly. “I do need you. And I’ll always have you,” she whispered fiercely, “in the center of my heart, my soul.”
“But you said it yourself.” Rebecca’s voice trembled, her gaze wavered. “Paris is too far. We won’t be able to see each other very often and—”
She couldn’t finish the sentence. Rebecca couldn’t voice the sentiment that Claire knew she must be feeling. But Claire couldn’t let guilt throw her child off course. “A mother always wants better for her daughter than she had,” Claire said. “It’s the way life works. I had my opportunity, my chance for dreams. It’s your turn now.”
“Mom.” Rebecca became stern. “Your life is nothing to be ashamed of.”
It made Claire sad that her daughter sensed her regret, felt the need to defend her mother and her choices. It compounded the gnawing sense of failure eating away at her as of late. Claire had never become what she could have been. She never realized a career in design, never owned an art gallery. All good intentions aside, having her daughter recognize that truth did nothing to assuage her longing. Instead, it provoked, inciting old desires, empowering them to wind their way to the surface.
But Rebecca was right—she had nothing to be ashamed of. Her life was good. While it wasn’t the life Claire dreamed of at eighteen, it was the life that fulfilled her at forty-two. Her error occurred when she missed the fact she had been planning her future around her daughter’s. Gazing at her oldest child, her only girl, Claire pulled her into another hug. “C’mere, you.”
Slender arms slid around her waist and Claire surrendered to their strength, their powerful reminder that she was happy and the future was bright—leukemia or no leukemia. Rebecca was chasing her dreams. Her child was healthy and happy and a mother couldn’t ask for more.
Taking her hand, Claire led Rebecca over to her bed and sat, patting the section of quilt-covered bedspread beside her. “Sit.”
Condemn Me Not Page 13
