Family Interrupted

by Barrett, Linda

  I opened a tin of clay and extracted a large handful. At the very least, I’d enjoy kneading it or rolling it. Punching it sounded fine too. After wetting the mound, my fingers pressed hard again and again, and soon I was back in the zone, pushing and pulling, letting my hands lead the way. Sometimes my hands saw more clearly than my eyes; without my sense of touch, I’d be half-blind. My thoughts started to wander. Had I imagined my days at the university? If wishing could make it so, Kayla would be alive.

  Kayla...she seemed to be coming alive right in front of me, on the table. I became more focused as the statue took shape. Her head—chin up, eyes wide open, a playful grin. With a stylus, I etched in her long hair. I added clay to mold her body, clothed with the suggestion of her soccer uniform, her number in front. Time lost all meaning until my neck and back stiffened up, and I had to stretch.

  I stepped away from the table and studied my work. My daughter smiled back at me, and I grinned at her...before the tears rolled. Why had I lingered with Colombo that day? Why hadn’t I paid attention to the clock? If only I’d gotten home on time. If only that driver had been thirty seconds sooner or thirty seconds later. Was that too much to ask? Please, God, I want my baby back, oh, how I want my baby back with me.

  I kissed the statue and covered it with a damp cloth. A day’s work. For better or worse, I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything.

  The rise and fall of children’s voices floated on the air as I stepped outside the studio. I glanced at my watch and automatically headed toward the driveway where I could see the kids clamber from the school bus. Walking between the studio and the driveway had been a familiar route; waving at the children and looking for Kayla, a familiar afternoon routine. But I hadn’t done either in two months. My feet were rooted as I stared at each child, whispering each name as the group filed by.

  A couple of the kids waved to me. I pasted a smile on my face and lifted my arm in return. One girl called, “Hey, Miss Claire.” Petite Madison Conroy, Anne’s daughter and Kayla’s best friend, bounded over, offering a hug so tight I’d be bruised by morning.

  “Hey, Maddy.” I tried to keep my faux smile bright.

  The girl stepped back. Her mouth quivered, and I knew she sensed the truth. “Were you making art today?” She pointed toward the studio, a place she knew well.

  I couldn’t tell her about the clay. Too painful for us both. “Oh, I just played around, a little of this and that,” I said. “It’s actually my first day in there.”

  Her head bobbed. “I bet that was hard, like my first day back at school. Mama said I had to try. So at least now, when I write to her, I can tell Kayla you’re trying too. She’ll want to know.”

  Her information had come so fast, I could barely keep up, but the last part—about the writing—that was the moment my heart ka-boomed. Evidently Jack and I weren’t the only ones on the street trying to grapple with reality.

  “Madison...?” I drew out her name, my hand resting on her shoulder. “Are you writing to Kayla?”

  “Every night before bed.” She looked at me and took a step back. “Isn’t that okay? Mama said I could. In a notebook.”

  My breath came shallow and short; another waterfall threatened. I wanted to run inside and curl up on the couch, but this loving, beautiful girl needed me to be strong. Surely, I could fake it for another minute. I leaned down until we were on eye level.

  “I think it’s more than okay. It’s wonderful. You know what? I talk to Kayla all the time myself. So keep on writing. And if you want to make some art...?” I waved my arm toward the backyard. “You know where the studio is.”

  “With you?”

  Me? Oh, sweetheart. You don’t know what you’re asking. The kid had blindsided me. Maddy and I making art without Kayla? I couldn’t do it.

  “Bring your mom,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

  “Way cool!” She high-fived me, and I watched her stride away. I ran up the driveway, opened the back door, and fell onto a kitchen chair. Then I wept.

  Afterwards, totally exhausted, I threw a frozen lasagna into the oven. No time for the honey-mustard chicken that took several hours to roast. I set three places at the table. If Ian had come directly home from school, he was probably in his room doing homework mixed with a few computer games. On the other hand, if he’d decided to go to his friend Danny’s, then I’d get a call telling me he’d be having dinner there. I couldn’t blame him for trying to escape.

  “Hey, Mom?”

  I whirled toward the sound of Ian’s voice. “Oh! You scared me. I guess I was lost in thought.” He stood in the entryway from the hall, and I was glad to see him. I’d sensed something wasn’t right between us but kept hoping my imagination was working overtime. Maybe we’d have a quiet conversation now and iron it out.

  “I saw the light on in the studio when I came home,” he said. “So, are you getting back to normal again?”

  In an instant, my good intentions took flight. Was my son that immature? Staring at him in disbelief, I said, “Normal? Don’t you understand? Your sister’s never coming back. This family is never going to be ‘normal’ again.”

  His mouth compressed to a slit across his face, and he took off toward his room.

  Oh, why had I snapped at him so quickly? He’s just a kid. My child too.

  I was right behind him, but he’d had a head start and his door was locked by the time I arrived. Music began to blare. I could hear the lyrics through the walls.

  “Open up, open up,” I yelled while banging on the door.

  No response.

  “I’m sorry, Ian. Come on. Let’s talk.” Not that I seemed to say the right thing. Maybe the truth hurt too much to put into words. Maybe a hug would have been better. What the hell did I know except Kayla was gone. Gone forever.

  So why had I expected to see her charge into the house, full of chatter about her friends and school, chatter about her very important life. I would never forgive myself for lingering with the professor. I wondered how my heart still beat.

  I glared at Ian’s doorknob, knowing I could jimmy the lock with a tiny tool used for fixing eyeglasses. Jack would know where it was, and thankfully, he’d be home soon.

  Making my way to the family room, I sat on the couch to wait. Funny how drained I was for someone who hadn’t put in a hard day at work or school.

  Jack’s voice woke me up. “Something’s burning in the oven, and where’s that god-awful music coming from?”

  I jumped from the sofa, caught my balance, and ran to the kitchen, Jack at my heels.

  “Oh, everything’s a mess, including this lasagna!” I pulled the casserole out of the oven, relieved to find it still edible. “Ian’s in his room, not talking to me. And Maddy’s writing letters to Kayla, so I have to call Anne. And then, in the studio today, I felt Kayla everywhere, like she was wrapped around me, and I was wrapped around her.

  “More importantly, I want to know how the cops could call our daughter’s death an accident. Dropping a bag of groceries is an accident. Tripping on a garden hose is an accident. But killing someone...? How do you compare them? That woman—Sarah something—should be arrested. And then I almost burned supper.”

  He held me tight and rocked me like I was a baby, my face hidden in his chest. I felt him shudder a couple of times. “Are you all right?” I asked. “Or have I scared you too?”

  “Holding you is right. But everything else?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure what to think. If Maddy’s letters help her cope, then it’s good. Just like I keep busy at work.” A smile flickered. “Juggling projects distracts me. Lots of planning and details to oversee. And,” he sighed, “one more day passes. I think we need to keep busy.”

  At that moment, I could have told him about my sculpting today, about the hours I spent creating the clay statue of Kayla. Instead, I held back. Perhaps I wanted the close mother-daughter relationship to remain private, just between Kayla and me. Or maybe I didn’t want Jack to think I was obsessed wit
h her. Not that he wasn’t! Or maybe my artistic self wanted its usual privacy until the project was complete. Whatever the reason, I kept silent while Jack trotted down the hall to Ian’s room.

  Chapter 3

  IAN BARNES

  I heard Dad calling my name. Then came the pounding on the door. The good cop was cleaning up after the bad cop. That was the way they’d been working lately.

  Mom blamed me for the accident. No matter how she tried to hide her feelings or apologize, I could tell she blamed me because she never looked me in the eye. Everyone knows that looking someone in the eye meant they were telling the truth—unless the person was a sociopath. So Mom was lying.

  I opened the door and let my dad in. He scanned the room and turned to me. “Geezus, Ian. Your mother’s not wrong about this. It’s a mess.”

  “So what? It’s my mess. I know where everything is. She doesn’t have to come in here.”

  “Nice attitude. You’re acting more like seven, not seventeen and off to college next year.”

  I’d been wrong. They were now bad cop on bad cop, both ganging up on me. Just as I was about to shoot my mouth off, Dad did his dad thing as only he could.

  “Come here.” He grabbed me and hugged me like he’d never let go. “I love you, son. No matter what. And your mother does too.”

  I had to think about that for a minute. These kinds of discussions made my brain hurt. Math, science, grammar...they were so much easier to understand. Master the basics and run with them. Everything made sense. But psychology had no rules. Behavior had no rules, only emotions. People just did whatever they felt like doing.

  “Mom wishes I’d never been born,” I said.

  “What! That’s ridiculous, Ian. Not your mother. She loved you even before you were born.” He went to the doorway and called her name. “Where did you get that stupid idea?”

  I shrugged. He’d have to see for himself. We’d always been close, Dad and I. Those first days after the funeral, we’d cried on each other’s shoulders. Two guys hugging and crying. Then all the visitors stopped coming, and we were alone. Mom, Dad, and me. The three of us at that kitchen table. Three, not four. And Mom barely looking at me, thinking it was my fault.

  “Hi, guys.” Mom turned from me to Dad. “Supper’s ready. The lasagna’s okay, and I made a big salad too.”

  “That can wait a minute, Claire. We need to straighten out something first with Ian, and I’m not talking about this bedroom.”

  Her brow narrowed. “Good. Because I’m not touching it.”

  Promise? But I kept my mouth shut.

  “Let’s sit down,” said Dad, glancing pointedly at me.

  I moved my clothes, baseball and glove, earphones, and books from my bed to my desk and offered the desk chair to my mom. Dad and I sat on the bed.

  “Ian thinks you blame him for the accident, Claire. He needs to hear that you don’t. It’s time to clear the air about this and begin again.”

  Mom’s forehead wrinkled before she shifted toward me. “Think about this, Ian. Were you driving the car that hit your sister? The answer is no. Did you push her in front of the moving vehicle? Again, the answer is no. Therefore, you’re not guilty.” She paused and gave me a quick smile. “You seem confused, honey. I thought you liked logic.”

  I did, but she was hiding behind it. Using it to distract.

  “Forget the accident,” she added, jumping from the chair. “Want to know what really ticks me off, what you’re really guilty of? Let’s start with not taking responsibility. Like with this messy room. Like playing video games all the time and hanging out with your friends instead of coming home. Like arguing with me about looking after Kayla when I asked. All you want to do is fool around. All you think about is yourself. How are you going to go off to college when you can’t get organized? You’re spoiled rotten.” Her eyes flashed at my dad. “That’s what he’s guilty of, and it’s our fault.”

  Mom was on a roll. It must have made her feel better. “None of my friends have to—”

  “Our son’s a good kid,” said Dad, breaking in. “His report card proves it with all those As. And now I’m confused. We were talking about the accident. How did we ever get onto this topic?”

  “I think they call it being passive-aggressive,” I said, mentally flipping through the psych chapters I’d had to read for school. “She’s pretending to be calm about the important question, the one about blaming me for Kayla, which, by the way, she never directly answered. And then she switched everything around and yelled at me for other, less important things.”

  My folks were silent. They stared at me with wide eyes and open mouths, stunned, especially Mom. I hadn’t been looking for a “gotcha” moment. Just wanted the truth. And I got it. Mom saw me as a spoiled brat. She’d like to blame me—or someone—for Kayla’s death. She needed a scapegoat, but she wasn’t sure who it should be.

  I guess psychology came in handy after all.

  Chapter 4

  JACK BARNES

  January, four months after accident

  I dreaded going home today. Dreaded my upcoming talk with Claire. As if the recent holidays weren’t bad enough for the family, my business concerns had become worse. With the lousy economy, home buyers were drying up. Potential buyers thought two and three times before investing in a house, and when they did, they wanted everything for free! Did they think we were HGTV or something?

  After meeting with my accountant that afternoon, I headed home and hoped for the best. Claire would have to pull herself together and come back to work. At this point, she had no choice.

  “Something smells good,” I said, walking through the back door into the kitchen. My wife was bending over the oven. “But I like the view better.”

  Claire straightened, a tinge of pink in her cheeks. “Just in time. Turkey breast with sweet potatoes on the side.”

  “In the middle of the week? That’s quite a meal.” I hoped she’d eat a lot of it.

  Shrugging, she said, “It’s easy, and the turkey will last a couple of days, ready to pop into the microwave.”

  I put my attaché case down and washed my hands. “Where’s Ian?”

  “At Danny’s. He called to check in with me. But I knew he’d rather be at the Goldbergs’ than here. So I said okay.” She bit her lip, shook her head. “I yell at him too much. I’m too impatient. Why am I picking on him?”

  “Claire...?”

  “What?”

  “You’re really not blaming him, are you?”

  “No,” she replied quickly, turning away from me. “If only I’d gotten home on time...”

  Her back was to me. I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around her. “Don’t talk that way. You couldn’t know.” I kissed her temple and nuzzled her neck. “It’s just as well Ian’s not home this evening. We need to talk privately.”

  “We do? About what?” She jerked away, then grabbed my arm. “Don’t tell me! Has someone else died? At work, maybe? Oh, my God.” Her complexion paled to an alabaster white, and before more horrible thoughts tripped from her tongue, I cupped her face and kissed her. “Rein it in, babe. No one’s died. Stop it. Stop thinking the worst.”

  “Then don’t scare me.”

  “For crying out loud, Claire, you’re going to have to toughen up. What did you do today? I sure hope you left the house.”

  She began setting the table while I brought the turkey platter over. “Anne and I ran around the lake a few times this afternoon,” she said. “We did two miles. So how’s that for keeping busy, bigshot?”

  I examined her closely, up and down. Too slender, almost skinny. Her clothes hung, shapeless. “Did you manage a two-mile run? I’m really impressed.”

  “Well...I kinda walked toward the end. I won’t lie about that, but at least I completed the circle.” She spoke over her shoulder as she brought a salad and the sweet potatoes to the table.

  “Good for you. And if you eat your dinner every night, soon you’ll be able to run the entire distance
.”

  She glared at me, eyes smoldering, chin high. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “But now you’re going to have to do better,” I said quietly. “Barnes Construction is hurting.”

  I’d gotten her attention, so I began my spiel. “You know that with any business, if you don’t grow, you die. And home building is tough right now with the down economy. I need you back with me, Claire. The temp I hired while you took this ‘leave of absence’ has got to go. She’s an expense we don’t need.”

  With her posture alert, she seemed to be listening hard, but I couldn’t detect whether she was onboard or not. I plunged ahead.

  “What we need to do is bring in as many dollars as possible. We need to maximize every sale. One area where we can accomplish this is in the design center. If we expand it and offer more customized services and selections, we can increase profit margins. Customized color schemes, upgrading backsplashes, tile, fixtures, and window treatments.... Are you listening?”

  “I hear you, Jack. But I don’t think I like where you’re going.”

  Damn! “Well, like it or not, I need you in that new design center. Instead of just taking on the model homes and helping buyers with basic selections, I’d like you to run the expansion. This is your bailiwick, Claire, a natural fit. I have full confidence in you.”

  But she was already shaking her head. “It’s too much. I can’t concentrate on all those people. It’s not what I want to do. I’m working in the studio every day now, a-and I’m happy there. At least...happier. It’s tolerable.”

  “Happy? Who said anything about being happy? That’s a luxury for people like us.” As I spoke, I realized how true my words were, and I wondered if we’d ever laugh again.

  “I know you’re grieving, Claire. We both are. But you’re wallowing in it. Don’t you think I miss Kayla every minute of every day?” I tapped the left side of my chest. “She’s here with me, in my heart, all the time. Or do you think I’ve forgotten?”

  She was crying by this time, but so was I, and I wasn’t ashamed. Grief had a way of sneaking up on a person. It lay in wait and pounced when your back was turned. Or it clung with sticky fingers twenty-four/seven, giving no reprieve. Claire and I had been bungling along day by day, just trying to get through each one without drowning.