“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. But your mom, Claire, she’s different.”
“How?”
“She loves you, for one.”
My heart beats steadily, shoulders are relaxed away from my ears, hands lightly holding the tablet. It occurs to me that I’m not angry. I think about Mom and I see my hands reaching out, empty, as the door closes behind her, and I’m holding my breath because I do understand what I feel now that I’m told she’s back in my life. “I’m scared she’ll leave again, Tate.”
We’re in the tunnel; lights clip past the truck like the rolling of an old-time film. I watch the snow melt into pathways on the window that break apart, form glassy balls that spiral down in twisted droplets.
“She w . . . w-won’t,” he says with such conviction it lifts the heaviness around my heart.
“How do you know that?”
“Because she left when she couldn’t . . . get better and be your mom.” He smiles at me before turning back to navigate the narrow tunnel in front of us. “She fought her w . . . w-ay to sobriety, Claire, and I think she deserves a second chance to be your mom. Don’t you?”
On the tablet screen, his last words finish typing themselves out on the notebook-paper graphic.
deserves a second chance to be your mom
A calm rushes over me, slides down to where it settles inside my chest, and I lean into the seat, enjoying the moment. I press the screen and it brings up a keyboard. My name appears in a bubble on the screen, and I type, give Mom a chance. Then I look up from the tablet and outside the window to the water, flat and still, protected by a sheer gray mist that moves languidly above it.
We’re coming into Whittier now, parking in the gravel lot on the side of BTI, when Tate shuts off the car and turns to me, forehead creased.
“There’s something I n . . . n-eed to tell you, Claire. I’ve been meaning to tell you for some . . . time now but—”
“Is that Mom?” She’s across the parking lot, arm in arm with another woman, both swaying, listing to one side, then the other. I know the walk. My nostrils flare and I’m out of the truck, hurrying across the lot toward the pair.
“Claire! Wait!”
I ignore him. “Mom!”
They both turn to face me, the woman beside her hardly able to keep her eyes focused, but Mom is clear-eyed and looks tired. “Claire?”
The school playground is behind the parking lot, and I can hear the delighted screams of kids playing outside, but they get drowned out by a buzzing that builds in my head. The smell of alcohol kicks up with the wind, surrounds me in memories and feelings that curdle in my stomach. “You’re drinking?”
The woman, hardly dressed for a winter day, no matter how nice the weather today, leans heavily against Mom.
“It’s not what you think, Claire. I’m helping Jory, and I need to get her home, okay? I’ll stop by this afternoon.” They walk away, passing a little girl, who hops up in the air with a wave at the pair before heading in my direction.
“Ms. Claire! Hi!” She’s dressed in a thick pink winter coat, mittens, and a hat that sits high on her forehead to accommodate her large cat-eye glasses. “It’s me, Maree, from guitar lessons and quiet activity time, and—oh, hi, Daddy! What are you guys doing here?”
I turn around but all I see is Tate smiling at the girl, who runs to hug him around his legs.
My body turns cold, too heavy to move even though I want to run.
Tate leans down to pick her up, but his eyes flick toward me, the corners pulled down in a worried slant. “You’re supposed to be at the playground, Maree. I can see Ms. Kiko doesn’t look very happy.”
“Oh, yikes! Okay, see you after school! Bye!”
Suddenly, I’m thrust back in time, standing in a hotel room, shirt clutched to my bare chest, face wet. I’m . . . married, Claire. Her n . . . n-ame is Maria. I’m sorry. I should have t . . . t-old you. I love you. I’ll always love you. You know that, right? I’d run, not wanting to hear his excuse, afraid that nobody would ever love me enough to stay.
I look from the girl to Tate, see the resemblance in her dark hair, the shape of her nose.
Tate is looking at me, and he seems . . . afraid? As though he’s worried that, what? I can’t figure it out, so I reach for my notebook, but I don’t have my bag or my phone, and I’m wearing leggings and a long-sleeved shirt, ski socks tight on my calves, and despite the clothing I am naked and vulnerable, an interloper in lives I have no right to be a part of. I back away, hope that he will just let me go.
The little girl hops down from her father’s arms and waves at me. “Bye, Ms. Claire!” She spins around and jogs backward to add, “I’m Maree from guitar lessons and when you volunteer and stuff!” With another wave, she turns and runs to the playground.
“Claire,” Tate says, gentle but firm.
I stare at the ground, shiver, realize I’m standing in the parking lot of BTI without a coat. A cold wind bites through my cotton top, and I wrap my arms across my body. Tate is married.
As if he reads my mind, he says, “I’m not married anymore, Claire. It was over a long time ago.”
“Her name is Maria,” I say.
He nods.
“And Maree is your daughter.”
Another nod, slower this time, like he thinks I’m a wild animal, about to run away or attack. I don’t know. I can’t focus and I can’t identify enough clues to connect the dots. I breathe in, remind myself of who I am now. A broken woman with no memory and no life. Frozen in the present. I have no right to be angry with Tate. Not anymore. I try to smile but it slips away. “I’m happy for you, Tate, really happy for you. She seems like a lovely girl.”
His eyes are soft and pained, and I don’t want to stand here a minute longer. “Thanks for . . . um . . .” I don’t know what we’re doing standing in the parking lot. “Oh.”
“We went skiing.” His voice is strained.
“Skiing. Okay, I’m uh . . .” I can’t finish because I need to be away from him. I need to be alone. I walk away, a sob trapped inside. You’re better off alone. You’re better off alone. A mantra I repeat all the way home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I’m lying on my bed, reading fragmented thoughts captured inside the pages of my notebook. Tate had a daughter with his wife. His daughter is Maree, the girl you give guitar lessons to. A sinking feeling makes me question what I should already know. Was he keeping it from me? The shock I feel battles with a genuine happiness that Tate is a father. I always knew he’d make an incredible one.
There’s a knocking on my door that I ignore, and I stay on my bed with an arm slung across my eyes. I just want to go to sleep. But the door opens to Ruth’s voice.
“Claire?”
“Back here,” I call, keeping my eyes covered, too damn tired to pretend I’m not upset.
“It’s open-mic night tonight. Did you forget?”
I slide my arm away, give her a look. “Hah,” I say, and turn on my side with my back to Ruth.
“You’re still in your ski clothes?”
“Tate is a father.”
I feel the bed move when Ruth sits, her hand on my shoulder. “He wanted to tell you. I think he wanted to find the right time.”
I flip over, meet her gaze. “Did you ever tell me?”
She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t think it was my place.”
I add it to my notebook, not disagreeing with Ruth’s decision. It really wouldn’t have been her place to tell me. I breathe in and sit up, trying to ignore the pounding in my temples. “Where are we going?”
From the living room booms Harriet’s voice. “Open mic at the bar tonight.”
Ruth stands. “I think one of your guitar students is playing.”
I bite my lip, wonder how many guitar students I have, decide to let the question go and get ready instead.
We leave BTI and head into the frigid wind of another cold and dark winter evening. The weather is harsh here, near-constant wi
nd, snow, rain, clouds, and fog. It’s not for delicate flowers. But even those of us seasoned by the climate can still feel the cold deep in our bones, especially on an evening like this when we’re outside instead of staying in.
Ruth and Harriet flank me on either side. Ruth has on her winter coat, which falls to her ankles, inhibiting her from taking full strides so that she ends up walking in small, stuttering steps. It’s comical, but I try not to laugh. She wears a yellow winter hat pulled low and under a fur-lined hood, and her scarf is wrapped twice around her face so that all I can see are the wedges of her eyes peeking through the layers. She grumbles as we walk. “Why didn’t we drive? It’s too dang cold out here.”
Harriet gives the kind of sigh that means she’s heard this more than once from Ruth. “It would take us longer to scrape the ice from our windshields and warm the car than it takes to walk.” She also wears a long coat with a heavy scarf wrapped around her neck and over her hair, earmuffs, and winter mittens that might be bigger than her head. “You know, when Pete and I were living in tents in Iceland, we taught our bodies how to acclimate to the coldest of temperatures. This feels like a day at the beach to me.” The scarf muffles her voice, and the wind dissolves the volume, but I still hear her.
Ruth groans. “Harriet, was Iceland before or after the time you camped inside an active volcano?”
I laugh. Harriet and Pete had many adventures before settling in Whittier, but Ruth is of the opinion that they are also purveyors of tall tales.
“Oh, Ruth,” Harriet says. “After, of course, but before the archeological dig in Belize.”
Ruth barks a laugh, and despite the temperatures, their company adds a lightness to my step. We are walking in the direction of Whiskey Pete’s, but I can’t recall why, so I take a guess. “Is Dad joining us for dinner?” The question feels wrong, the words like blocks in my mouth.
Harriet and Ruth don’t answer at first, and with the wind, I’m not sure they’ve heard me. Their coats make a loud shuffling sound.
Ruth touches my arm. “Vance died five months ago from a heart attack, Claire. It’s something you know. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
My legs feel heavy and I want to sit down, but I tell myself that I know this, because Ruth would never lie to me about something like that. Dad died from a heart attack. I inhale, repeat it silently while we walk the rest of the way against the wind, fighting to keep our layers in place.
Harriet pulls open the door to Whiskey Pete’s, and I’m met with warm air layered in fryer grease and popcorn oil. Our boots squeak across the sticky wood floor when we make our way to the bar. Pete stands with his back to us, pouring beer from a wall tap into a smudged pint glass. He turns, raises one eyebrow.
“You three look like the zombie apocalypse if zombies couldn’t hack the cold.”
Harriet laughs, unwinding her scarf and setting her earmuffs on the counter. “Nice to see you, too, handsome.”
Ruth unbuttons her coat first, leaving her scarf in place so that her eyes are the only visible part of her, making her look more like a mummy. “You’re lucky to have us, Pete.” She swings her head around the mostly empty bar. “We’ve just tripled your sales.”
Once we’ve finally shed our layers, we choose a table by the bar, loading our coats and mittens and scarves in the empty fourth chair. I lay out my phone, open my notebook and pen. Harriet places a paper boat full of popcorn in the center of the table, and Ruth sets down three glasses of sweet iced tea.
“Your mom is playing the guitar for the open mic tonight,” Ruth says. “She’s not half-bad, actually; she even sings too.”
My mouth falls open and I touch my pocket, pull out a note card with three facts, feeling a pang when I read each one, freeze when I see the one about Tate. He’s a father now.
Harriet leans over to me, her eyes bright. “You remember the time you snuck out to come here with Tate?”
“Of course,” I say. “I had to sneak out because Dad had grounded me for something or other.”
Ruth shakes her head. “Both. He grounded you for something and the other. You and Tate were such troublemakers.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know how you put up with us.”
“The two of you waltzed right in here like you owned the place. Somehow you’d forgotten how small this town is and that Pete knew you were grounded. He called Vance when you were trying to pick a song from the jukebox.” Harriet shakes her head with a laugh. “Was that after the time Vance found you smoking pot with Tate?”
“Sure was,” says Ruth. “And the other was when he saw her kiss the boy.” She sips her tea. “Vance came over and paced a hole in my floor. He said he had no idea raising a teenage girl would be so hard.” Ruth is laughing—a rare occasion, but it utterly transforms her face, makes her eyes squint shut, her cheeks round.
“I told Dad he was the one,” I say, shifting in my seat when I think about how deeply I believed that, having to fight the feeling even now.
“Even back then?” says Harriet. “Skinny little Tate?”
I nod. “He said all he wanted was to live in Whittier.”
“That’s all you talked about,” says Ruth.
Harriet nods. “You never wanted to leave.”
I take a long drink of tea, let the sweetness roll around on my tongue. “What does Dad think about Tate being back . . .” I hesitate because something isn’t right; I sense it from the deep wrinkle in Harriet’s forehead.
Ruth covers my hand. “Vance died from a heart attack five months ago, but you’re working really hard to remember that.”
I inhale; yes, I know this, damn it. I dig my fingernails into my thigh. I have to know it.
“It’s okay, Claire,” Ruth says. “And Vance was thrilled when Tate moved back.” She pauses, raises her eyebrows, but the note card is sitting out on the table, and I’ve just read the bit about Tate and his daughter.
She continues, “Right before Vance died”—she coughs and blinks hard—“he said you’d all wasted too much time being apart. That everyone needed to be together again.”
“I have all of you,” I say.
Harriet touches my arm. “But you deserve to have everything, Claire.”
I read the line about Tate and his daughter, try to feel happy for him and ignore a terrible loneliness that expands into self-pity. But I keep reading the note card, and a piece of me falls away. Tears collect in my eyelashes, and I swipe at them, angry for this surge of emotion that makes me feel weak. I slide my glass to the side, turn to get Pete’s attention.
“Another one, Claire?” he calls.
“Whiskey this time, Pete.”
“Claire.” Ruth says my name low, a warning tone I remember from my childhood like it was yesterday. “Easy. You came to hear Alice and one of your students play.”
“Here you go, Claire.” Pete sets it on the table.
It’s gone before he turns to go. “Another one, please.” He gives Ruth a wary eye, so I tap the glass on the table once, hard. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
From the direction of the stage comes a scuffling sound. I look up to see a tall skinny guy with a guitar strapped to his back drag a stool to the middle of the stage and set it under the microphone.
“Here you go, Claire.” Pete sets a small tumbler in front of me; ice cubes clink against the glass, and my attention diverts. I inhale smoky fumes. Mmm, whiskey.
Pete’s hand is still on the tumbler, eyes dancing from Ruth to Harriet, and the idea that I’m being censured in some way raises the hair on my arms. “Maybe you should stop at one, you know, with Alice here and all and . . .” He trails off, an eye toward Harriet, and the look makes it clear that I’m doing something that bothers them. It fuels a guilty churning in my stomach.
But it doesn’t stop me. I pull the glass from his hand and force a smile. “Thank you, Pete.”
He bows his head and steps back. Thick salt-and-pepper hair piles around his ears and the
back of his head in unruly waves. Deep creases pan out from his blue eyes. Pete’s the kind of Alaskan old that weathers like the rocks along the shoreline, the years wearing upon him slowly, taking only a little bit at a time.
The first sip burns. The next is smooth, with hints of apple and woodsmoke.
Harriet and Ruth stare at me. I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve had whiskey. I take another sip and can already feel the alcohol spreading its fingers through my limbs, touching my lips, making the note card on the table that tells me Tate moved on and has everything I wanted with him blur.
“One more please, Pete.”
Ruth makes a noise, but I ignore her and smile, look around, take in the guy playing a scratchy tune—some Bob Dylan song, I think, but the young guy’s voice is no Bob Dylan. Too high, more boy-band material, and his guitar playing is mediocre, beginner at best—no match for the song he’s attempting. I sit back in the chair. “He’s not very good,” I say in a low voice.
“He should have listened to you, Claire,” Ruth says.
“Listened to me what?”
“He’s your guitar student. You suggested he wait before he signed up to play open mic. Told him he needed much more practice.”
My head is already spinning from the alcohol, and the idea that I’m teaching this guy how to play the guitar only adds to it.
Harriet clears her throat and tries to find something positive. “But his guitar playing is better on this song, isn’t it? I mean, he’s not having to stop and find the right notes, so good for him!”
Ruth grunts and I eat a whiskey-soaked ice cube.
The door opens, bringing in a blast of cold and a woman wearing nothing more than a light jacket, no hat or gloves, her cheeks ruddy and heavily lined. She walks with her head low, makes a beeline for a barstool. There’s a tightness in my chest. “Who’s that?” I ask.
Ruth makes a clucking sound. “Jory Woods. Her husband just up and left her when the fishing season ended, and her mother died last year. She’s got two young ones at the school, but this winter has been hard on her. I thought she was trying to quit. Hmmm, where’s Alice?”
Memories in the Drift Page 21