“Claire? Claire?” Dad’s voice is cracked and worn, like he’s been yelling or calling. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re freezing cold.” His arms surround me, lift me up, so warm they feel hot against me. I clasp my hands behind his neck and try my best to hold on. He lifts me over the window and begins to walk, holding me tight against him. I feel five years old, and I squeeze my eyes shut, never wanting it to end.
“Mom packed a bag,” I whisper into his shirt when my lips aren’t frozen anymore. “I think she left us.”
He doesn’t stop walking, but his arms tighten around me. “I know.”
His feet crunch on the rocky pavement and wind swishes through the trees, bringing with it the smell of leaves and water and fish. Of home. I nestle my face into his collarbone, let my words fall into his shirt. “She said you didn’t want me.”
His sigh moves through his chest, rolls against my ear, and he stops walking, sets me down. We’re outside BTI now. I keep my eyes trained on the ground, wishing I never said anything, afraid he’ll tell me the truth.
He touches my cheek and I look up. Our eyes meet. “You are the best thing that ever happened to me, Claire.” He pauses like he’s thinking hard about his next words. “Your mom was so young when we married.” Something darkens his face. “And her father wasn’t a good man. She had nightmares all the time and I knew she needed more help than I could give her, Claire bear, but I couldn’t afford it. So I just tried to love her. I thought it would be enough.” A breeze rushes cool over my wet cheek. “Then she got pregnant, and, well, I knew that having a baby wasn’t what she needed, that she was still too sad, too scared.” He inhales a ragged breath, and for a second I think he might cry. I look away because I don’t want to see him cry. “She chose you, Claire.” Dad wipes a tear from my cheek. “And I’ve been grateful to her every day since for being strong enough for all three of us.”
His words strengthen me, dry my tears, and I straighten my shoulders and say what I know is true. “We’re better off without her.”
I think my words take something from him, because for a moment he looks like a shell, empty and lost. Then he nods, squeezes my arm. “For now, Claire.”
I wake up to the phone buzzing against my leg, not knowing where I am and gasping for air, desperately trying to hold on to the tail end of a dream, but it drifts away and I let out a strangled sob.
Breathe in, breathe out, slow and controlled until the facts accumulate. One, I’m in Dad’s apartment; I can tell from his chair and the lingering smell of burned toast. Two, I’m wearing pink socks, which means it’s Monday, which is also Jazzercise day, and based on the workout leggings I’m wearing, I have gone or was about to go. A buzz from my phone and bingo—Shower then Lunch with Sefina. I need to go home and get ready for lunch. I stand, stretch, notice I’m wearing Dad’s flannel, but instead of taking it off, I keep it on, feeling a chill deep in my bones that is warmed by the extra layer. I’ll return it later.
Sefina’s apartment is just like mine except she lives on the fifth floor with a view of the waterfalls behind our building, and her refrigerator is covered with pictures of her girls, not Post-it notes with instructions.
She sets two bowls of beef stew on the table, along with a basket of rustic bread and butter. I dip the bread into the broth, pushing aside carrots and potatoes and hunks of beef, then fill my spoon with the hearty stew. “Really good, Sefina,” I say.
“Thanks; glad you like it.” She puts her spoon down, leans forward. “I heard you ran into Tate?”
The news is an electric shock that I try to conceal from Sefina by eating a spoonful of stew and training my eyes on the notebook.
Tate Dunn is back and he knows everything. I brush a piece of hair from my face, glance out Sefina’s window to collect my thoughts. Outside, the sky is dry but dark with gray clouds that make her apartment light glow in comparison. I stare at my faint reflection in the glass, and it gives me pause. Thin lines weave out from my eyes. I look much the same as I remember but different, too, the impression of the years on my skin in ways I don’t feel inside.
Tate Dunn is back and he knows everything. I want to remember this bit, want it seared into my brain. In my mind he stands before me in the lobby of BTI, dark hair long around his face, shoulders broad on a thin frame. I’d sneaked out to meet him when I was fifteen, tiptoed past Ruth asleep on the couch. It was only one of many times we broke the rules together. Mom had been gone for two years by then, and Dad was still driving, waiting for the building manager position to open up. Ruth had fully stepped in, practically moving in when Dad was on the road, making me breakfast every morning before school, dinners at night. I was capable of staying by myself, but Ruth would have none of it. She said a teenage girl needed someone around, and while I loved her for it, my mom’s absence had left a hole inside me, and amid hormones and a growing anger, it ached with a loneliness that only Tate seemed able to fill. We went to the Buckner Building with flashlights and blankets and a joint. The scarred and lonely building was our version of a clubhouse, and we went there whenever we needed to get away, never venturing much farther than the loading dock. Outside the building that night, we stood eye to eye, and Tate reached out to tuck a blonde flyaway behind my ear. You look pretty with your hair like that. I can still remember the way my skin tingled at his touch and how all I could do was stand there and blink. Then he kissed me—just a brief meeting of our lips, but it flooded me with a sweetness that left me longing for more.
The memory evaporates into a bleakness that is echoed in the gray light outside. I have no right to think of Tate in this way, and I write that in my notebook, underline it three times. I look up; Sefina waits with her arms folded on the table, spoon abandoned in her stew.
I point to my notebook. “Yes, I saw him but we really have nothing in common anymore, Sefina. It was good to see him, though.” That’s not in my notes, but it’s not hard to guess either.
“And Alice? You have it written down that she’s back in Whittier, right?”
A cube of beef falls from my spoon, splashes stew onto the table. I put my hands into my lap to stop the shaking. She’s moved back? I scan my notebook, see a line about Mom being back and Ruth keeping it from me. I’m suddenly hot, and I slide my arms out of my dad’s flannel. “Yes, it’s right here, but you know that doesn’t change anything, right?” I ask what upsets me the most. “But why didn’t Ruth tell me she was back?”
Sefina sighs, takes a long sip of water before answering. “She has, Claire. But it’s hard for you to accept, and sometimes you are so distracted trying to write everything down that you miss the really important bits. Like”—her eyebrows raise—“Ruth telling you probably a thousand times by now.”
Her words sting, but I write it down anyway, including the fact that Ruth has been trying to tell me the truth. It does soften my uneasiness to know she’s tried.
“It would be good for you to try to see Alice more,” Sefina says, her voice heavy with something I can’t figure out. “She’s really changed and she wants to be here for you now that—”
“She’s sober?” I finish for her, not entirely sure where it came from but knowing, on some level, that it’s true.
Sefina’s eyebrows move closer together. “You remember that?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“That’s amazing, Claire. Truly.” She shakes her head, smiles, and taps her chin like she’s thinking. “You know, it’s possible to remember some things, like out of habit. I read this article once about a person with amnesia who, in the beginning, had to be told he had lost his short-term memory, so they wrote it on a card that he kept in his shirt pocket.” Her face brightens. “You did something similar, I think.”
“I did?”
She nods. “Only in the very beginning, before you figured out your notebooks and calendars. But this guy from the article would read the card whenever he needed to be reminded about his memory loss. Eventually, he stopped needing the card to remember. He just kn
ew. He even stopped carrying the card, but whenever he got upset or confused, his hand would automatically touch his shirt pocket. Like it had comforted him in some way, and on some level he remembered that comfort.”
I’ve heard most of what she’s said, but only one thing sticks. “You read articles on memory loss?” I pull at the ends of my hair. “Because of me?”
Sefina’s face softens. “You’re my best friend. I wanted to learn everything I could about what happened to you and figure out how I could support you.” She taps my notebook. “Although you left me in the dust years ago with this whole system.”
I’m speechless and touched and also horrified to think of how the people I love have had to adapt to me and my needs. Like caregivers. All of them. Dad especially. Suddenly, I’m holding back tears, hating myself for my weakness, desperate to pretend that none of this bothers me. “How does my dad do it?”
Sefina’s smile drops. “Do what?”
“Take care of me.” I try to picture him as he is now but can’t, and the emptiness of my memory taunts me, a gigantic black hole that consumes everything. “Have I ruined his life?”
Sefina reaches across the table and puts her hand on top of mine. “No, Claire. He would have done anything for you. You did not ruin his life. Write that down, okay?”
“Okay.” And I do, unable to shake a persistent sadness that envelops me, writing that down, too, so I can figure out why I feel this way.
“I just wish you’d give yourself a break.”
I look up, confused by her words. “What do you mean?”
“You work so hard to remember everything with your notebook and calendars and even your phone. And I know it helps you to feel in control, and you are so amazing with how you’ve dealt with all of this.” Sefina tightens her ponytail, smiles, and shrugs. “Sometimes I wish you’d trust me too.”
“I don’t?” I’m taken aback by her honesty, but I don’t know what to do with it, how to absorb it.
“To be your friend, yes, of course. But you stick to such a strict schedule, and we all understand why, and frankly it’s what makes you so remarkable, but it seems”—she breathes in—“stressful, and lately, especially, it feels like you’re missing out on other kinds of experiences in favor of writing everything down. It seems so overwhelming.”
“But how can I experience anything if I don’t write it down?” The ground shifts and I struggle to keep hold of this conversation. My blood races around my body, and I jiggle my knee. “How can I remember anything if I don’t write it down?” I rub my hands across my thighs, try to make the aggravation I feel go away.
Sefina sits back in her chair, looks unsure of herself. “I mean, sometimes I wonder if you’d get to enjoy life more if you could just experience it and let the people who love you help you to remember it. Not all the time, of course, just some of the time.”
I hold up my notebook. “But this is my memory, Sefina. I can trust it.”
Sefina doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at me. Then she leans forward. “That’s my point. Maybe you could trust people too.” Her smile touches her eyes. “Like me.”
“You?”
She spreads her arms. “All of us.” She frowns. “Well, maybe not Karen, because that woman is just plain mean, and certainly not Mr. Needs-to-Keep-His-Hands-to-Himself Joe.”
My body tenses at the implication that I need help to remember, but Sefina’s joke about Karen and Joe brings a smile to my face. Karen moved in next to Sefina when her girls were little. She shares one wall of Sefina’s apartment and goes to great lengths to complain to the homeowners’ board about Sefina, her girls, TV levels, cooking smells, anything and everything. One time she even complained because Sefina had cooked something that smelled delicious and didn’t offer any to Karen. And Joe has been interested in Sefina since she first moved here, and she’s right: he’s just a pervert, plain and simple.
Sefina continues, “But you’ve got me and Harriet and Ruth and . . .” Her head tilts to the side. “Aren’t you going to write this down?”
Suddenly, I am laughing. “You just told me to stop writing everything down!”
Sefina is laughing now too. “Oh, crap; right. Okay, just write this down: ‘Sefina wants you to stop writing so much and start experiencing.’”
I do because Sefina is my friend, and I know she means well, even if the idea turns my breathing shallow.
CHAPTER NINE
Tuesday, October 2
Today I volunteer in Kiko’s classroom. It’s on my calendar. Kiko taught third and fourth grade when I was a student here. She is generous, stern when she needs to be, loving to every kid, even the annoying ones like I was, and she gives hugs that make the saddest kid feel important and safe. I help during quiet activity time, when the kids can choose from drawing pictures with the nice art markers, writing stories, doing puzzles, or reading to Ms. Claire. It’s in my notes, and it’s something I do twice a week. I love it, I’m sure.
I pause and wonder if it’s hard for me to be around kids. As a teacher, I enjoyed it, and when I found out I was pregnant, instead of being scared because I was alone, I was elated. Dad was the one who was scared. How was I going to do it on my own? I’d assured him that all I needed was right here in Whittier. I stood tall and poked him in the chest and said, I’m going to be an amazing mom. His eyes had gone soft, then, and he’d surrounded me with his arms. I never doubted that, Claire bear.
More than anything, I wanted that baby. Wanted to be a mother. I touch my stomach, remembering how I used to imagine what it would be like to hold her. From my notes I discover that I spoke to Tate yesterday, told him about the baby, and he wasn’t even surprised. I rub my temples, a headache flirting around the edges of my eyes, shock that Tate is here and already knows, and my mind slips backward to graduation, his hotel room.
I have a job and an apartment, I told him. Come back with me. We had been lying naked in bed, his body wound around behind mine, warm and strong, my head cradled in his arms. He felt the same but different too—sturdier, older. Being with him had been like coming home after a long trip, familiar and new, intoxicating in all the right ways. But his words were a slap in the face:
I’m m . . . m-arried, Claire.
You’re what? His admission stripped me down, made me feel more naked than my own bare skin. What’s her name?
Maria.
He wanted someone else, not me. Didn’t love me enough. Just like Mom. I’d clutched at my chest, a painful pressure building inside that threatened to overtake me. I had to get out of there, away from him, away from this feeling that I was never good enough. So I fled, ignoring his calls, erasing him from my mind as much as was possible. I didn’t need Tate. I didn’t need Mom. Everyone and everything I needed was right in Whittier.
Then I discovered I was pregnant.
And instead of making me scared or nervous, the news was sunshine, igniting all that could be good in my life. I could do this. Maybe I was even meant for this. I would love this baby the way a child is supposed to be loved.
I stare at my colored tabs, notebooks, calendars, reminders and slump forward, weighted down by the ugliness of my reality. What kind of life could I have given a baby, anyway? So I wipe my face, sip cold coffee, and return to my notes.
After volunteering at the school, it’s Home for lunch, followed by my afternoon errands, which include a trip to the market and pharmacy, and after checking the weather, I add afternoon walk, and then it’s back to my apartment for the evening, which I’ve blocked off for reading. Sometimes it feels pointless because I can’t recall what I’ve just read, but I still find the act of reading soothing and normal.
I sigh and lean back to survey my preparation. It’s a full schedule that fills me with a sense of accomplishment as I set my reminders and make my shopping lists. I should be content with this level of preparation; instead, I feel an expanding emptiness. My arms wrap across my stomach, and I wait for the sensation to pass.
Befo
re it does, there is a knock on my door, and a woman stands opposite me. I grip the doorknob hard, blink fast. She is older, thinner, but with the same dark-blue eyes and thick chestnut hair I remember, even if gray strands run through it. “Mom?”
She hands me a foil-wrapped plate with a note on top and a quote.
The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experiences. —Eleanor Roosevelt
I live in Whittier, I’m sober, and I love you, Claire. You amaze me.
The words blur but I don’t look up. She doesn’t get to see me cry.
“Part of my recovery has been to learn how to live in the moment.” Her voice is warm honey, and hearing it, I am six years old again, loved and important to her, and it weakens my resolve to act like I don’t care.
I try to keep my face impassive, hard. “What do you mean?”
Lines crease the skin in her forehead. She is older and beautiful in a quiet way that comes with age. “My father was a hard man, Claire. But I had to hit the darkest, rockiest bottom to realize that his demons didn’t have to be mine.” She wrings her hands, nervous, and I soften. Dad has said as much to me. “In recovery, I learned how to stop letting the past define the person I am now.” She tilts her head. “I know that you think you have to compensate for all that you’ve lost. But I want you to know that the person you are right now, at this exact moment, is beautiful and perfect and exactly right.” She taps the note card. “Eleanor was a wise woman.”
I don’t realize my face is wet, don’t understand why my heart squeezes painfully until I taste the years we lost in the aroma of buttery pastry drifting from under the foil. With a gentle smile, she takes the plate from my shaking hands and brings it into my apartment, sets it on my desk, pins the card to my bulletin board, stops when something seems to catch her eye.
“What’s this?” She lifts a piece of paper from the wire basket.
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