Family Interrupted

by Barrett, Linda

  When Kayla was five years old, she’d said, “Mama, if you turn the number eight on its side, you know what you get?”

  “What?”

  “Infinity!”

  A grown-up word. She’d giggled, eyes beaming, so proud of herself for surprising me. I hadn’t known how she’d come up with the word, but I’d been pretty sure her brother had some influence there. Infinity. An appropriate description for the days that now came and went, unremarkable one from the other, simply periods of light and dark I sometimes noticed through the windows of my diminished home.

  So, six weeks later, I was still a mess. Jack too. Not sure about Ian. He’d been hanging out with his friends almost twenty-four/seven. Maybe if I started cooking—really cooking—again every day, he’d find his way home for dinner. He loved meatballs and spaghetti. Heck, he used to love anything I’d put on the table. A growing boy needed nourishment, and we all used to laugh about our skinny boy devouring more than his dad. He’d filled out some this year.

  Jack finally returned to work yesterday because he’d been afraid to leave me alone sooner. He’d taken calls at the house after the first two weeks and depended on his staff to keep Barnes Construction going. He had great employees, but we all knew that my Cracker Jack was the engine driving the company. It was his baby, his creation, and certainly his success. I sensed he was anxious to get back to work full-time while I, on the other hand, had no heart for anything, not even painting.

  Thirty minutes after Jack left, the doorbell rang. I sure didn’t want any company, so I peeped through the sidelight curtain, ready to ignore any social caller. But I couldn’t ignore a FedEx delivery. Occasionally, items for Barnes Construction were shipped to the house. This item was a pretty large box, which the driver pushed over the threshold for me.

  Return address: University of Houston, Art Department. I hadn’t stepped onto the campus since that horrible day. I hadn’t contacted the department or the registrar to officially drop out of school. Maybe they wanted clarification. I opened the outside envelope and extracted a note:

  Whenever you are ready, Clara, come back. I am keeping your last painting here. You have much art still to make, and I am saving your place. CC.

  The man would have a long wait. None of it mattered anymore. Only Kayla mattered. I didn’t open the box, didn’t look at any of my portfolio items. Instead, I dragged the carton into the guest room and closed the door. I brushed my hands together and walked to the kitchen. My college adventure was over. Maybe someday, I’d have the courage to retrieve Girl with Secrets.

  I spent the rest of the morning alone, looking through photo albums, torturing myself. Jack called me every hour.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked.

  How did he think I was doing? “Fine.”

  But of course, I’d never be fine again.

  After four phone calls, I threatened to ignore his number on the Caller ID. We finally compromised. He’d stop phoning if I promised to take a walk. He said I hadn’t gone out of the house since the funeral. Somehow, I also promised to track Ian down, cook a real dinner, and then make love to Jack that night. I promised a lot of things because when you lived in a time warp, nothing mattered. Not even promises made.

  As it turned out, however, I did take a walk in the afternoon. Maybe the milder temperatures and gentler sun lured me, or maybe it was the general quiet with everyone else at work or school. I thought a solitary walk would be a perfect first venture outside. Unfortunately, one of my neighbors spotted me, a neighbor I didn’t know well, and I wanted to retreat but couldn’t.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Barnes...Claire,” she said, full of sympathy.

  I just nodded. A tiny nod. I pressed my lips together and began to stride past her.

  “Sometimes,” she continued, “it’s hard to accept God’s will.”

  I jerked to a full stop. My heart pounded, my vision blurred. God’s will? God’s will? I screamed silently. What had my innocent child done to deserve this fate? I whirled and stared at the woman for what seemed hours. Her self-righteousness oozed like the slow-running sap of a sugar maple tree. My palm itched. My fingers curled. Her cheek would make a good target. Don’t do it, Claire! Don’t do it.... But I was in my time warp, watching myself from afar as I lifted my arm and smacked her across the face.

  “That was God’s will too,” I said and walked off, confirming I was a long way from acceptance. If there was such a thing.

  When Jack arrived from work, a home-cooked meal waited for him. Ian sat at the table too, thanks to my meatball bribe. The men ate with gusto. I managed one bite to ten of theirs and hoped Jack wouldn’t notice. When their first hunger pangs had been satisfied, I announced, “I might go to jail.”

  Ian’s mouth made a perfect O.

  “You might what?” asked Jack. But when he heard the story of my walk, his blue eyes glowed, and his grin stretched across his face. Then he swung me around, laughed, and cried. “I couldn’t survive without both my girls, and you’re coming to life again. I love you so much, Claire. We’ll get through this. Somehow, we’ll get through.” Then he looked at me with his I-have-a-great-idea expression.

  “It’s been more than a month, Claire. How about coming back to work? The company needs you. More importantly, I need you. You know how the economy sucks, and I might have overreached, but we’ve contracted to build in the Eagle Ranch subdivision. We’ve got four brand-new models for you to work your magic on.”

  I felt myself shrivel. Jack depended on me to dress up our models to their best advantage. I supposed I could manage the decorating part, but interacting with all the people involved in the business? Making intelligent conversation with Realtors, decorators, home buyers, vendors, and municipal departments was beyond me. I couldn’t focus for more than ten seconds on anything but the family photo albums I’d browsed through that day. I couldn’t fathom how Jack managed to handle his responsibilities.

  “Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not ready.” When I saw his disappointment, I added, “But I am ready to keep my promise about this.” I snaked my arms around his neck, tugged him toward me, and tilted my head back. His eyes brightened again, and our kiss sizzled at first contact.

  “Yuck. I am so outta here.” Ian grabbed his backpack and left the room, calling, “I’ll be at Danny’s.”

  “The kid has great instincts,” mumbled Jack, his lips on mine again.

  I wanted this raw encounter with Jack. I’d been thinking about it on and off all day, knowing I needed it more now than when I was twenty-one. I didn’t know why. Didn’t care about the reason. Not then, anyway. I just wanted the numbness to go away, if only for a few minutes.

  Interlocked, we headed toward our bedroom, automatically kicking the door shut before pulling at our clothes. I was desperate to be skin-to-skin, touching, rubbing, stroking. Feeling! Feeling Jack’s muscles move under my fingers. Borrowing his warmth, his strength. He knew my hot spots...just where, just how.... I knew his, too...just where, just how....

  We twined closely around each other on the bed, our limbs weaving like yarn on a loom enveloping each other, so in synch, so frantic that soon there was no rhythm at all. And then, and then...oh, God...approaching that point of no return...vibrating through shimmering reds, scarlet and crimson, heading toward the neons, gold and hot orange...until the sun shattered, and we shattered. Together.

  Our first communion since Kayla died.

  I burst into tears.

  Jack was still trying to catch his breath, but he reached out and coaxed me against him, across his chest. A very familiar position. “Aww, Claire. Don’t cry. You’re all right. You’re all right.”

  No, I wasn’t. “I shouldn’t feel this good. Kayla—” But I hadn’t thought about my daughter for the past ten minutes. Had it taken the most basic of human instincts to break through my grief? As though in punishment, a new wave of grief surged through me. I’m sorry, sweetheart.

  “We can’t bring her back,” Jack whi
spered. “But it seems that you and I are still alive.” He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “In fact, we’re very much alive. That was good, Claire. And healthy for us. So keep it on your to-do list, will ya?”

  I couldn’t blame him for wanting to reclaim as much normalcy as possible in our abnormal world, and intimacy had always been a healthy part of our marriage. However, my tears kept dribbling onto Jack’s chest.

  “If you keep on crying, my love, then I will too. And we’ll both go back to being zombies like in the beginning.”

  “I still feel like one,” I said between sobs. “I think I always will.”

  “No, no. I don’t think it works like that. It’s not forever. But in the meantime, I like having a naked zombie in my arms.”

  Jabbing him, I said, “No jokes.”

  “I’m just trying to—”

  “I know, Jack. I know. You’re trying to pretend we’re okay.”

  “What’s wrong with pretending for awhile if it works? I have to believe we’ll get there someday, that we’ll be strong again someday.”

  Granted, my numbness had disappeared during our sexual encounter as I’d suspected it would. But I didn’t believe Jack and I would ever be strong again. I didn’t care about “someday,” a nebulous time in a hazy future. My heart was breaking now.

  Chapter 2

  CLAIRE

  Ian left at his usual time the next morning, and Jack lingered over his coffee. I could sense his concern before he spoke.

  “What will you do today, Claire? I don’t want you spending it alone.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I forced a smile and said, “My sister’s working, but maybe Mom will come by. Who knows? Or maybe I’ll clean the bathrooms. Or cook. What would you like for dinner?”

  “You.”

  “Go to work, Jack!”

  He stood, headed to the kitchen door but then turned toward me. “If you can’t come with me, then go back to the university. You were happy there.”

  I stood frozen. Couldn’t breathe. A heat wave preceded a hard shiver, and perspiration covered me. I almost puked. “No. No. That’s over. I’m dropping out.”

  “What are you talking about? You wanted it so much.”

  “Things are different now.” That was all I could manage. Could I confess that Kayla died because I flirted with my professor? Jack figured I was simply running late and ran into bad luck getting the speeding ticket. According to him, no one escapes traffic cops indefinitely, and my ticket was no big deal.

  “Yeah. Life is different,” said Jack, “but you need to return to work or school. Part-time, full-time. I don’t care which. I just don’t want you hiding in the house!”

  Why didn’t he leave already before...before...?

  “But that’s where Kayla knows she can find me!” The crazed words burst from my soul. Jack stared, eyes wide, mouth open, his disbelief apparent before pain kicked in, before tears formed and a sob emerged. A big sob from a big man.

  He collapsed back onto the chair he’d been using. “I may seem strong to you, Claire, going back to work and doing the usual chores, but you’ve seen me cry. You know the truth. I miss our little girl. I miss her so much I’m barely hanging on myself.” His whispered confession floated in the air between us. “I love you, Claire, and I’m worried about you and simply want to help. But I guess I don’t know how.”

  Of course he loved me. After twenty-three years together, I’d know if he didn’t. I also knew that Jack couldn’t help me harness my grief.

  “You’re off the hook,” I said. “Dealing and healing are up to me, not you.” No fairy godmothers, no magic wands. That job would be mine, and I didn’t have a clue.

  Jack finally left, but not before thrusting one of my drawing pads and pencils at me and demanding, “Draw something.”

  Mr. Psychologist. To accommodate him and get him out of the house faster, I drew a circle.

  “Oh, c’mon, Claire. You can do better.”

  I added the simple features of the iconic smiley face. “Done,” I said.

  “Anyone can draw that,” he mumbled as he finally headed out the back door toward the garage.

  That was my point. I didn’t want to be pushed and prodded. I didn’t know how I felt about my “talent” now. I’d give it all up in a heartbeat to get my daughter back. Not even worth a discussion. I’d already learned at the hospital that bargaining with God and doctors didn’t work. Begging didn’t either. Maybe they were too used to desperate parents.

  I opened the freezer and took out a whole chicken, thinking about a honey-mustard recipe the guys loved. See Jack? No need to worry. I’m functioning. After checking for the other ingredients—the spices and frozen orange juice—I sat down at the table again. Now what?

  The simple sketch stared back at me. “Stop being so damn happy,” I ordered before sticking out my tongue. I grabbed my pencil and changed the icon’s smile to a frown. “That’s better. Let’s keep it real, my friend.”

  I pushed the drawing aside in favor of a fresh page in my art tablet. “And reality would be a police report calling Kayla’s death an accident. According to them, the sun blinded the driver as she turned the corner—like this.” I was talking to a cartoon and didn’t care.

  My pencil flew back and forth, quickly filling in the scene as I imagined it. I sketched the woman with her eyes closed. We’d been told she’d blinked and sneezed several times, like an allergic reaction.

  I turned to another clean page. “And there’s Kayla,” I explained, depicting my daughter running for the football Ian had thrown, her long hair bouncing on her shoulders. I drew another scene where she grinned triumphantly at her brother as she caught the ball. But then, in my mind’s eye, she continued backward into the street...and I...I...

  “No, no. Stop!” I threw the pencil across the room, clutched my stomach, my insides on fire. For the first time in forty-five years, imagination had become my enemy, torturing me with Kayla’s last happy moments.

  Was it wrong to have daydreams about choking the driver? Of grabbing her shoulders and shaking her to the ground? I imagined myself screaming at her. Do you understand what you’ve done? Do you understand that Kayla wasn’t simply a twelve-and-a-half-year-old girl going on thirteen? She was my beautiful, loving, delightful child, filled with dreams and laughter and secrets. And a soccer star! Passionate about the game and her team. Can you understand how precious she was—and is—to her father and me?

  In a daze, I saw my hands fisted on outstretched arms.

  Except for her name, I didn’t know the driver, and she didn’t know me. I guess it was better that way.

  I crept to the family room, curled up on the couch, and fell asleep. Making art had never been so exhausting. Neither had getting through each day. Napping had become a regular activity since the funeral, but I hadn’t mentioned that to Jack either. When I awoke, my stomach growled, reminding me to eat or at least try. I studied the contents of the fridge. Maybe I could manage some cottage cheese with a few grapes. After mixing the items, I took my bowl to the patio and plopped into a chair.

  The heat of summer had started to wane, but the sun was as bright as ever. I moved into the shade. From this vantage point, I could see the entire length of the garage and my art studio behind it. Jack had built this workroom for me several years ago, when my dreams of becoming a studio artist could no longer wait, and my efforts had cluttered up half our bedroom. He’d done a wonderful job, providing the place with full electricity and plumbing. The studio was air-conditioned and had a slop sink. My husband hadn’t stinted on anything. The poor guy wanted a happy wife but also wanted me to view art as a hobby. I guess he figured drawing at home would reinforce that idea. The more I’d painted, however, the more I wanted classes.

  I hadn’t been inside the studio since Kayla died, but I could picture it clearly, especially the area reserved for the kids, an unexpected but beautiful bonus. Right from the beginning, Kayla and her friends wanted to know what I was doing in th
ere. Ian made some solo appearances too. So, instead of cautioning, “don’t touch, don’t touch,” I bought a couple of child-sized easels, a table, chairs, and all kinds of arts and craft supplies. And I invited the children in. They called it “making art.”

  Sweet memories could kill, especially when unexpected. I rubbed the tears from my face, surprised to find them there. A headache threatened too. How had a simple lunch become an emotional crisis? I took a deep breath, then another, until I regained a sense of calm. No more fainting, no more sleeping all day. I needed to tell Jack I’d accomplished something when he came home that night.

  I headed to the studio determined to “make art” in some way. Just one item. Even starting one project would do. And no more crying. I would not cry for at least an hour, a worthy goal.

  But as soon as I opened the door, memories sucked me in. Memories tinged with the aroma of paints and turpentine. Clay and chalk. Turning on the light, I saw a dozen kids’ work samples on the cork walls. My glance zoomed to Kayla’s offering, and I forced my tears back.

  Kayla had imagination and loved bold colors. But the artistic gene I’d gotten from my own mom had passed her by. No matter. She’d had a fun time with her projects, especially when her friends joined her. Jack insisted that Kayla simply loved being with me. The studio had become an extension of her little-girl years when we’d done “arts and crats” together at the kitchen table.

  It was Ian who’d inherited the talent. But of course, he never pursued it. He never followed through on anything. How many times had I nagged him to clean his room or take out the garbage? Did he ever take responsibility? No, not even with his sister. A young girl like Kayla shouldn’t be left alone. Sometimes she had to be picked up after soccer practice. Reluctantly, he’d do it. In reality, he only wanted to hang out with his friends. If he weren’t an A student on an academic fast track, he’d have a lot more to answer for.

  My head started to throb, and I cautioned myself not to think too much.