I flop down on my nice, overstuffed cranberry-colored couch and stretch out like it’s my leg that just got operated on instead of my arm. Darcy appears carrying a tray with—get this—a mug I presume is holding coffee, a little plate with a sandwich (please, God, don’t let it be cucumber), and a tiny vase sprouting a single yellow wildflower, which she most likely picked herself from the little patch of growth next to the fence in the backyard.
She sets it down across my lap. The little legs fit around me, which is a miracle. A pleased smile tips her mouth. “There you go,” she practically sings. “I know you must be hungry. Hospital food, ugh.” She sticks her finger into her mouth in the classic “Gag me” motion. Lovely.
“What kind is it?” I ask, nodding toward the sandwich.
“Peanut butter and jelly.”
Relief washes over me. At least she didn’t attempt anything fancy. I couldn’t have stomached it. And look, she even removed the crusts. I don’t have the heart to tell her I happen to be in that American minority who love bread crusts. Oh, well. “Thanks,” I murmur, embarrassed to be waited on this way, but knowing she’s doing it out of the kindness of her heart. And really, it does feel sort of cozy. Wonder how long I can milk it? Through dinner? “That was really sweet of you.”
“It’s my pleasure.” She is wearing my apron that says, “On the eighth day Eve made chocolate.” Resentment creeps through me. Not that she is wearing it, but because she has to wrap the tie around twice and there’s still give in it. I’m not even going to mention whether I have to wrap it around me more than once. The comparison is getting monotonous.
“Well, I’m going to go fold some laundry,” Darcy says.
“Okeydokey, Alice,” I say, knowing there’s no point in arguing.
“Who?”
If she’s too young to know who Alice is . . .
“Three words,” I say a little snippily. “Nick at Nite.” I mean, I watched them all in syndication, too. I’m not that old.
She nods as understanding dawns. “Oh, from The Brady Bunch?”
Whew!
She giggles. “I’ll be back. Just holler if you need something. Boys, how about helping me with the laundry?” I’m about to laugh at the ludicrous suggestion. Like my boys are really going to stop playing Xbox and just—
I watch with jaw-dropping disbelief as the dirty, traitorous rats follow her like she’s playing a flute through town. I reach for my crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwich, feeling like a ten-year-old with a cold. As I chew the comfort food, I have to admit Darcy definitely has that mothering instinct. Even my kids respond to her style.
My mind suddenly fills with a thought just as I try to swallow. Peanut butter gets stuck on the way down, and I start to cough. For three minutes, I focus on not dying by peanut butter strangulation, until finally some hot coffee dissolves the goo, oxygen returns to my brain, and the images flood me once again. Darcy’s young. She’s going to want children. Rick’s children. Siblings for my kids.
My stomach hurts. I set the tray aside, maneuvering carefully with my one good hand. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I have no appetite. I lay back, fighting tears, and close my eyes. Exhaustion overcomes me, and I feel myself drifting to the sound of muffled voices coming from the laundry room.
Claire?”
Rick’s voice is not the first thing I want to hear when I’m waking up from a dream whereby Greg is serenading me at our wedding. Mine and Greg’s—not mine and Rick’s. That would be a nightmare.
“Ummm,” I say and turn over. “Ouch!” I rolled onto my wrist. Not smart.
“Wake up, Claire. I need to ask you something.”
“Ask someone else.” I’m tired, in pain, and don’t feel like getting along.
“I can’t.”
I slowly open my eyes and try to sit up. Only I can’t push myself up with my wrist. And my other arm is awkwardly positioned.
“Here, let me help.” I’d rather feed my eyes to hungry vultures. But I have no choice but to accept because he’s already gotten hold of me around my waist and is pulling me up. The gesture feels familiar and yet unsettling. It’s too close. Besides, my waist is decidedly thicker since the last time hands were anywhere near me.
“I can get it the rest of the way,” I say, pushing at him. He backs off and I wiggle from side to side in what I’m sure looks like a floor show. Finally, slightly out of breath, I nod. “What do you want?”
“I thought I’d take the kids for a few days while you recover. Is that okay with you?”
“Darcy’s idea?”
His face goes red, but he gives a little smile. “Yes.”
“It’s really not necessary, Rick. I can get by fine. It’s not brain surgery, after all.”
He stoops down, eyelevel. “Okay. Here’s the thing. If you don’t let those kids come home with me, my wife is not going to budge from this house until she’s convinced you’re not going to overdo.”
My lips quirk at the panic setting in on his face. “Might have to fix your own dinner?”
His eyes are serious as he replies. “I need her home. I miss her too much when she isn’t there. She is home to me.”
Okay, this is an awkward moment. And made even more so by the fact that during the last eight years of our eleven-year marriage, he never wanted to be home with me, and we are both thinking that very thing. Well, at least I assume we are.
“Sure, Rick. They can go.”
A smile spreads across his face. I’m surprised to notice the lines around his mouth. I haven’t looked at Rick—I mean really looked at him—since he walked out. Then, he was tall, well-muscled, fair, gorgeous, and young—like a Nordic god. But from this close proximity, I really can’t help but notice how his features have matured. The gray at his temples. The hair in his nostrils. Ew. Well, another sign of age. I can be nice enough not to mention it, for a little while, but in order to keep that resolve, he’ll have to get out of my personal space pretty quickly because I’m starting to feel claustrophobic.
“You two having a powwow?” Darcy’s voice brings welcome relief to the tension I’m feeling.
“Yeah,” I say. “Looks like you’re going to have the kids for a few days.”
“You know, I was thinking about that.” A little frown creases the area just above her nose. When I frown I look like Andy Rooney. Darcy looks like a cute, petulant child. Shirley Temple.
Rick is on his feet now. I avert my gaze as he slides his hand possessively around her tiny waist. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”
“I’m just worried that Claire might need help and no one will be here.”
“Oh, please,” I say quickly. “It’s only one hand. I’ll order finger foods for dinner.”
“I don’t know… Oh, wait.” She snaps her fingers. “I have it.” Her eyes brighten and I feel dread coming on. I am not going to like this suggestion at all. I can tell.
“Claire needs to come and stay in our guest room. That way, I can look after everyone under one roof.”
Rick’s face blanches. Zero to 60 in a split second. The look of utter shock and horror, combined with the suggestion in the first place, strikes me as funny. And I start to laugh. I can’t help it. I know Darcy is feeling stupid about now, but I can’t stop. “I’m so-rry, D-d-dar-cy.” I’m gasping for air. Why do I find this so hilarious? Maybe it’s the painkillers.
“It was just a suggestion,” she mutters.
“I know. But come on. Think about how ridiculous it is.”
She shrugs and snatches at the string of her apron, lifting the whole thing from her head. “I thought it was a good idea. Still do. But I can’t force you. I’ll just go tell the kids to get some clothes together.”
We watch her leave and Rick turns on me, his eyes dark. “Why do you have to make her feel so stupid?”
“Okay. First of all, get over yourself. We’re not married. Second, if that wasn’t a dumb-blonde suggestion, I don’t know what is. And third, you just stood
there looking like you’d been run over by a truck instead of taking care of the situation yourself. One of us had to speak up.”
“Darcy is far from a ‘dumb blonde,’” he says, totally blowing off the part of my answer where I made reference to his own responsibility in the situation—typical. “And if you had any discernment about people, you’d know that instead of always giving her a hard time.”
Okay, now I’m spitting mad. “If I had any discernment about people, I would never have married a two-timing jerk like you in the first place, let alone wasted eleven years of my life!”
“Oh, gee. Thanks, Mom. Nice to know you think we’re all a big mistake.”
I turn to find Ari nonchalantly leaning against the kitchen door, totally eavesdropping on her parents. Her expression is a cocky let-me-just-cause-a-little-trouble-for-Mom look.
Rick folds his arms across his chest. He gives a smug lift of his eyebrows.
I shoot up from the couch, then am forced to regroup as dizziness swarms my head. But I refuse to be taken down by my traitorous daughter or her father. “She knows darn well that’s not what I meant.”
Jake picks that moment to bebop through the room holding his Game Boy and never bothering to look up. “That’s a euphemism, Mom.” And then, to my utter horror, he proceeds to tell his father, not only the definition of euphemism, but the word for which darn is one.
Rick scowls at me. “Nice, Claire.”
“I didn’t teach him that,” I defend myself.
“Claire, what are you doing up?” Darcy returns, carrying a suitcase, which I assume is filled with the kids’ clothes. “See, this is what I’m afraid of; you’re not going to take care of yourself.”
Rick steps forward and relieves her of the bag. “Claire can handle herself, Darce.” He walks toward the door. “Kids, hug your mother good-bye, and let’s go.”
“Can I drive?” Ari asks them while giving me her obligatory squeeze.
I have to grin when Darcy looks at Rick with an expression of pure delight. “Of course you can, Ari. I’ll take the boys with me, and your father can give you a driving lesson on the way home.”
Rick’s face turns red. But in helpless surrender he hands over the keys to the excited teenager holding out her palm.
“Have fun, you guys,” I say as the boys hug me with a little more enthusiasm than did their sister and follow the exiting group milling about the foyer.
When the door closes behind the kids, I sink down once again. Loneliness washes over me. I close my eyes, but for some reason the image of little Rick and Darcy clones won’t leave me be. They’ll be their kids, brothers and/or sisters to my kids. But what will that make me? Auntie Claire? My lips tighten into a grim smile. But I’m not feeling the humor. Not one bit. Because I have a dreaded feeling in my gut. And my gut is hardly ever wrong.
My life is getting ready to change once again.
And I really hate change.
10
I’m an hour into The Mirror Has Two Faces with high hopes of getting to the end this time when the doorbell rings. It’s 6:15. With a sigh, I work around my bandaged arm and shove up from the couch. The wood floor warbles below me, like a time-warp special effect, and for a sec I think I’m about to land in the waves. I close my eyes and the feeling passes just as the doorbell rings again.
I pad across the room, my socked feet slipping along the floor as I walk through the tiled foyer. I look through the peephole, squint to make sure I’m seeing things right, then turn the knob with my good hand.
Linda is smiling and holding what appears to be a casserole dish between two blue potholders. “Hey, I heard you were alone tonight and in pain. Mind if I come in?” Her eyes twinkle in the dusky sunset, and she lifts the dish just a little to draw my attention to it. “I brought dinner.”
She’s dressed in a pair of loose, yellow exercise pants with a matching yellow jacket, and her long red hair is pulled up in a clip. And to my utter amazement, she’s not wearing a spec of makeup. And hey, she doesn’t look that great. Yeah! That’s more like it. This woman is normal. When Darcy doesn’t wear makeup she just looks like she’s a gorgeous woman without makeup. When I don’t wear makeup in public, little children run terrified to their mamas.
I open the screen for Linda and she catches it with her elbow, pushing enough so that she can get through and step inside my (thankfully clean) house.
Curiosity grumbles up from my empty stomach as I smell the heavenly aroma rising with the steam from that dish. Still, I don’t want to appear too anxious. “You really shouldn’t have.” But I’m thinking how I’d like to grab the dish and run to the kitchen.
To my shock and (I admit) delight, she shrugs and makes like she’s going to turn around. “Oh, you don’t want it? Okay, I’ll just take it home and freeze it for the family.”
Her teasing smile is infectious and very much does the trick to lighten me up. “Don’t you dare. I’m starving. I was just about to order myself a pizza.”
“Oh, girl. This is way better than pizza.”
I think my new friend and I have just had our first disagreement. But since she’s the one doing the cooking, I am not going to argue the superiority of pizza to any food on the face of the earth. Not until I’ve eaten anyway.
She looks at me, eyes questioning, head cocked to the side. “Should I take this to the kitchen?”
Oh, duh. For the record, let me just admit I’m a terrible hostess. “It’s that way.” I jerk my thumb toward the kitchen and she leads the way. As I step into my second-favorite room in the house (the first one being my office), I’m surprised to see the sparkly clean everywhere I turn. My dream kitchen had always been furnished with stainless steel appliances. Then, when I got them I realized they are so much harder to keep looking nice than the other kind. Smudges jump out from them and call, “Hey, slobby housekeeper, you want to grab a towel and wipe me down? I’m way too expensive for a dull shine. Perk me up, already.” Apparently, Darcy heeded that call earlier, because my appliances haven’t looked this good since the cute Sears guys delivered them two months ago.
So Linda sets the dish on my counter. “Are you hungry now?”
She must see the famished-wolf look in my eyes, because she doesn’t wait for an answer, but opens the cabinet just above the dishwasher. She looks at four boxes of cereal and turns to me with a bewildered frown. “Where are your plates?”
A little sheepishly, I point to the cabinet next to the stove.
Okay. I know I have a funny system for organizing (and I use that term loosely) my cabinets, but here’s my thinking. We rarely put dishes away anyhow, so bowls are almost always in the dishwasher. We grab a bowl. Set it on the counter, open the cabinet and grab the cereal. See? Using your head a little is a huge timesaver. The same reasoning holds true for the stove cabinet. Finish cooking, grab a plate, fill it, and go sit down. No need to use serving bowls when it’s just the kids and me, and the plates are right there handy. I don’t know. I think it makes sense.
I don’t go into this with her, though. And to her credit, she doesn’t pry. She grabs two plates and looks around at the drawers.
No way am I going to have her trying to figure out that system. “I’ll get silverware.”
She smiles. “I hope you don’t mind if I eat with you. Trish is with Ari, and Mark is working late again.”
I wonder if I’m detecting a note of worry in her voice. I don’t know her well enough to recognize voice patterns, but as the former wife of a man who cheated, I recognize the worry when I see it. Regaining that trust is difficult. It’s not my place to pry, and I don’t get the feeling she really wants to open up, so I offer her the best thing I know to offer: friendship.
“I’d enjoy the company,” I reply truthfully. “With the kids gone, it’s pretty quiet around here. I’d get online, but typing one-handed is too frustrating.”
She grabs the potholders and the casserole dish and heads for the table. “Do you have something to put down so we don
’t mess up the wood?”
I slide a forest-green place mat to the center of the table. “That ought to work.”
With a melodic burst of laughter, Linda sets the dish down. “You’re low-maintenance, aren’t you?”
I think that’s a compliment. I realize now that she assumed I’d have one of those coaster things you put down on the table, but to me, I figured there was a place mat right there—why not use it? Part of me hates that I take the path of least resistance in any given situation. It means I don’t have the spotless home I’d like to have or the most decorated walls. It means I wear short, spikey hair that only takes ten minutes of wash, gel, and go instead of the long, flowy styles that are in fashion. But there’s no need to defend myself. Linda’s guileless expression confirms that her statement was a compliment, not a criticism.
I nod. “I have to be low-maintenance. Nitty-gritty details make my busy life too stressful.”
“That’s admirable.” She sighs and dishes up a spoonful of the casserole that looks like some kind of chicken cheesy bake.
“Is it?” I walk to the dishwasher to find a couple of glasses, only to see it’s empty.
Darcy strikes again.
“Of course it’s admirable. You don’t get sucked in by the idea that you have to keep up with Mrs. Jones. Perfect house, perfect yard, perfect figure.”
Hey, what’s wrong with my yard? That thought is eclipsed by the last remark. I don’t have to ask what’s wrong with my figure. “Yeah, well. Perfect, I’m not. That’s for sure.”
“I hope you know, I just mean that you are yourself and don’t pretend to be anyone else. You don’t change to suit other people’s ideals.”
“Sure, I knew what you meant.” All too well.
I open the cabinet next to the refrigerator and take out two glasses, maneuvering pretty well one-handed, if I do say so myself. I open the fridge and take inventory.
Leave It to Claire Page 9