Family Interrupted

by Barrett, Linda

  “A new baby,” I said, “wouldn’t be Kayla even if it turned out to be a girl.”

  Ian’s eyes brightened. “Of course not. But I’m not killing it. Him or her. Please, Colleen. I’ll take care of you and the baby. I’ll take overtime shifts. I promise. And we’ll save for Nashville. We’ll...we’ll open a special account just for you. Or maybe we can all go.”

  Well, that would never happen—we’d need to win the lottery to have enough money. “A baby is a lot of work, cityboy.” I could feel myself weakening. “And they cry a lot, disturbing everyone.”

  “Have you ever seen me run away from work?” he asked, gesturing at the apartment.

  It was true he’d patched the walls better’n any landlord, and he’d painted every room. Even put in some new door sills and baseboards. It looked great to me. If he owned the place, he’d have repaired every single part of it. He wasn’t lazy.

  “I’ll help you,” he continued, “in every way. I’ll change diapers. I’ll make bottles. You’ll still sing whenever you want.” He paused a second. I could see him gathering more arguments. He pulled me into his arms and softly asked, “Are you afraid of your parents or what the neighbors will say?”

  I’d written off my folks a long time ago. No support there, so my life was my own. “I don’t care about the neighbors. As we say in east Texas, most people will simply think we planted a crop before building a fence.” Shrugging, I added, “It happens all the time nowadays, and I suppose yesterday too.” But God and I both knew I didn’t want to build a fence. I wanted to be free. I needed to be free. What to do? What to do....

  “So, Colleen?” I could hear the hope in Ian’s soft voice. “Are we okay about this now?”

  “You sure want to dot those i’s and cross those t’s, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  I believed Ian would do his share, but...a baby? I really didn’t want a baby. Not now. So you should’ve been more careful! Selfish girl. Now was a fine time for my conscience to holler its fool head off.

  “Well...,” I began, the words almost choking me, “at least I won’t get calluses on my knees praying for forgiveness the rest of my life...”

  I’d barely finished the sentence before cityboy jumped up from the floor, took me in his arms, and spun me around that kitchen.

  “What about your folks?” I added when I caught my breath. “A grandbaby might make them happy again.”

  His frown came and went faster than heat lightning. “You said it before, Colleen. It won’t be Kayla. So here’s the deal. Your folks are out of the picture, and so are mine. We’re on our own.”

  Chapter 17

  CLAIRE

  “The Pedi Unit is impressive,” I said to Anne as we jogged around the lake. “I had my orientation today, which included a tour. The children’s floor is nothing like I imagined. It’s colorful, playful. Large rooms. A teen lounge. There’s a huge mural painted across the nurses’ station, an outdoor scene of trains racing along their tracks beneath a perfectly blue sky and white clouds. You can dream about what lies beyond. The entire floor is the exact opposite from when I was a kid and had my appendix out.”

  “You mean a million years ago?” Anne teased.

  Sometimes it seemed like a million years since Kayla died. Sometimes only a minute. She’d never “stepped down” from the ICU to the general pediatrics unit. But I just laughed with Anne and said, “At least a million.”

  “You didn’t mention the kids. Meet any of them?”

  “Not yet. Not one-on-one. No time today. But I start next week—for real.”

  Jack had done more than raise his eyebrows when I finally told him about my current endeavor. “Sick children?” he bellowed. “Are you crazy? That’s a horrible idea. What are you trying to prove, or do you like being a martyr?”

  “They need me....”

  “I need you! And I need you to be healthy and strong. Remember your priorities, Claire. Work comes first. Before your art, before this volunteering business. We’re not out of the woods yet. As long as the economy’s down, people won’t invest in a new home.”

  “My husband, of course, has a lot of reservations about my volunteering,” I said to Anne.

  “I can actually understand that,” said Anne. “You’re putting yourself in a place that could be hazardous to your mental health. I hope you’ll go slow.”

  “Funny. I think just the opposite.”

  Anne stopped running and squeezed my arm. “I’ll support anything you do, but please, don’t go backwards. It’s no crime if it doesn’t work out.”

  But it had to work out. I had to make peace with Kayla.

  I started jogging again, Anne at my side. Time to change the subject. “How’s the book business these days?”

  “How’s any business these days?” Anne sighed. “As a part-timer, though, I think my job’s secure. I’ve always wished I’d become a librarian. Maybe one day. Just like one day I’ll remodel my kitchen. I want it to look like yours.”

  Granite. Cherry cabinets. Double wall ovens. Corner carousels. “My whole house is Jack’s on-going experiment with products so he can talk to customers ‘from experience.’ Unfortunately, the kitchen is the most expensive room in the house to change.”

  “But the most important room, in my opinion,” said Anne. “This neighborhood is twenty years old and so are most of the kitchens. Maybe Jack should take on remodeling jobs. I’d hire him in a heartbeat if I had the money. And I bet others would too.”

  Just what I didn’t need. If Jack jumped on Anne’s good suggestion, I’d be sucked under at work again.

  When I arrived home, I heard Jack’s voice joining the canned laughter of a TV sitcom and wondered how he could laugh at anything. I needed a shower and told him not to fall asleep.

  A half hour later, I pitched Anne’s idea—with a big caveat up front. “If you forge ahead with what I’m going to propose, then you should know you’ll be hiring another person for the design staff. I will not-not-not take on more.”

  “I can’t make a promise if I don’t know what it’s about.”

  “But I can. You know where I stand up front. So, here’s the idea: Change Barnes Construction to Barnes Construction and Remodeling. Motto: No job too big or small. I think if you do the research, you’ll find that remodeling is the way to go when money’s tight. Folks think it’s almost like living in a new house.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Check out Sunday’s paper. We’ve got a display ad announcing the remodeling side. I would have told you, but you never seemed to be around.”

  “Of course I’ve been around.”

  He shrugged. “I guess we’re those two ships in the night, except it’s daytime. Neither of us is tied to a desk for eight straight hours. We could be anywhere.”

  Thank goodness. I needed some flex time. “So, are we in agreement about my role here?” I’d learned to get it in writing, at least verbally, when it came to Jack and his ideas for the company.

  “Let’s see how it goes,” he temporized. “A boom or bust could get you off the hook completely.”

  What he didn’t say was that most ideas had to take root and grow. And while it grew, I’d be stuck again.

  Wasn’t going to happen.

  “By the way,” said Jack, “tell Anne that if we can use their kitchen as a model for the people in our subdivision, I’ll provide free labor and materials at my cost.”

  He wasn’t kidding, and I knew Anne would snatch up the offer. But I was choking. Jack’s generosity sounded like a bribe, a tacit understanding that one good turn deserved another. He wanted something from me.

  “What you do for Anne and Tom is your business,” I said. “It has nothing to do with me. I don’t owe you for being good to them. They’re your friends too.”

  “What you ‘owe’ me is some attention. This hospital work is a huge mistake. You’d be better off decorating homes and helping buyers. We’d both be better off, and I’m not talking only about the company now
. I’m talking about us. You and I are not on the same page. That’s what worries me.”

  I took a moment and replied in a calm tone. “But everyone’s journey is different.”

  His eyes widened, brows lifted.

  “I read it in a book.”

  “But where does the journey end?” he asked quietly.

  For that, I had no answer.

  December

  A month after starting my volunteer work, I took Friday off from work and returned to my studio, hoping I’d finally make progress with Kayla’s new portrait. Drawings of Kayla littered the place, but nothing appeared on the canvas yet. I’d begun this picture almost two months ago, revved up and ready to dive in—or so I’d thought. I didn’t know then that I’d create dozens of small sketches first—charcoal, pencil, and pastel too. I’d had no idea I’d spend many evenings and weekends studying all the clay figures I’d produced of Kayla. More than a dozen of her, walking, running, sitting, kicking, pointing, laughing, laughing, laughing, oh, she loved to laugh.

  No matter how I tried, however, neither the final sketches nor sculptures lived up to my memories of Kayla’s sparkling eyes, the funny way she wrinkled her nose, and her body constantly in motion. Maybe creators—composers, writers, and artists—were never satisfied.

  Or maybe they never tried to reproduce their own dead child.

  Colombo haunted me, and once again I studied Michelangelo’s magnificent sculptures—David, the Pieta, Moses. I worried that I was procrastinating the real work. I hadn’t gone through this huge preparation in art class to produce my first portrait of Kayla, but I couldn’t help myself now. I called it “the getting ready stage.” I suppose I should have labeled it the “psyching myself up” stage. I needed time because I was plain scared.

  I was afraid to fail. The mere possibility immobilized me. Failure was unthinkable.

  I walked around the room, studying each piece, trying to be objective, finally admitting they weren’t bad—Colombo would have called them good—and perhaps they’d provide the strong foundation for the final portrait. I took a deep breath. Preparation time was over.

  “I’m ready, sweetheart, finally ready.” I said. “And I’ve got lots to tell you about too.”

  Only then did I glance at Kayla’s soccer uniform, still on the hanger beneath plastic. I slowly removed the protective cover and reached for a piece of charcoal. Across the top of the canvas, I printed Kayla at Twelve. Of course, she’d be twelve. Twelve was the child we all knew, loved, and would most remember. Any decent artist could capture her likeness, but only a mother could capture the inner essence of her child. My child.

  I stared at the uniform again, remembering the dozens of times I sat in the bleachers cheering the team. The kids played fiercely—leg action, head action, running, running, running—but nothing beat the excitement of a win. The high. The unfettered joy. My mind’s eye became clear. I knew exactly how I wanted to paint her, and for the first time in over a year, peace filled my soul.

  “Here we go, baby.” I took a breath and traded the charcoal for my palette. I used acrylics now—the oils would come later— and squeezed out a line of each color I’d need to create a variety of flesh tones. My breathing became regular as I got lost in the work, studying Kayla’s photos then blocking out shapes of light and dark on the canvas.

  “So, sweetheart, I’ve been volunteering at the hospital with lots of kids, some your age,” I said. “I keep them entertained with books, games, art. One little boy had a broken arm. He was there for a few days, cracking a thousand jokes. I laughed at them all even though they were pretty bad. He said I was his best audience.

  Really?

  “Well, his mom was probably sick of them.”

  I wondered if I should tell her about the regulars. The chronically ill who stayed awhile, left, then reappeared when in crisis. My mom had gotten upset when I explained it to her earlier this week, after my third time at the hospital.

  “The unit’s like a home away from home for those kids,” I’d said. “Like with Megan Sullivan, who I met yesterday. She’s fifteen years old and has cystic fibrosis.”

  “CF? Oh, dear. Her poor lungs, digestive tract...that child has a tough road ahead.” Mom bit her lip then startled me by squeezing my hands hard. “We know the nurses are wonderful, but Claire, please don’t get too involved. Just visit for an hour and fly away...like...like a butterfly. Leave it behind you.” Her eyes filled. “I’m...I’m afraid for you.”

  “Goodness! You and Anne both. But I’m stronger than you think and feel great helping out.”

  At that moment, I’d meant every word.

  I left the studio and Kayla’s painting just as the yellow school bus pulled up. Three o’clock on my wrist watch. Whoever coined the term “creature of habit” must have been thinking of me. I could have darted to the house, but like hundreds of times in the past, I watched the kids traipse from the bus. When I spotted Maddy, I waved, but she stared at the ground, putting one foot slowly in front of the other.

  “Maddy,” I called more loudly. She raised her head, searching the air as though my voice had come from a million miles away. Or perhaps she had been a million miles away in her own imagination.

  “Hey, Miss Claire.” Her fingers flexed in a tiny wave as she trudged toward me. No smile. No spark. A well-mannered child acknowledging an adult.

  “Homework getting you down, honey?” I gestured toward the studio. “You’re welcome to throw as much clay as you want.” Throwing clay was a term for working with it; the girls used to giggle over the double meaning.

  But Madison shook her head. “I’d only throw it at the wall, on the floor, at everybody.” Her voice came in puffs, her little chest heaved, and then her tears came. I took her in my arms. Holding her...just holding her felt so natural. A child to embrace. But her sobs shook me.

  “What’s wrong, Maddy?” This girl was no actress. If she was crying, there was a reason.

  She shook her head. “I-I can’t tell you.”

  Uh-oh. “I can keep a secret. I know how to do that.” And if her secret was serious, I’d figure out a way to deal with it.

  But she pulled back, rubbed away her tears. “Mom said not to tell you or Mr. Barnes. She said you had enough to deal with. And I promised.”

  My stomach lurched. Something was terribly wrong in Madison’s world. Anne and I hadn’t jogged the lake in...let’s see...at least two weeks, maybe three. Come to think of it, I hadn’t spoken with her lately either. I wondered if Jack had started on their kitchen. What could have happened in a few weeks? And how stupid was that question? Plenty could happen in seconds.

  “Is Mom home now?” I asked, not having kept track of Anne’s part-time schedule at the bookstore.

  Maddy’s eyes widened and she nodded. “But...but I don’t know if she wants...com-pan-y.” Her words ended on a whisper. My fears rose, but I forced my voice to remain calm.

  “Well, why don’t we ask her?” Various ideas swirled in my brain, most of them dealing with illness or...or could it be marital troubles? Not my business if Anne didn’t make it so. I’d soon find out.

  Maddy unlocked her front door, stepped inside, and called for her mother. I heard Anne’s light footsteps approach. But nothing prepared me for her colorful head scarf or her fragility. Had it only been a few weeks since I’d seen her? My friend looked pounds thinner than her usual trim self. She glanced at her daughter then at me and sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find out until after my treatments were over or at least for a while longer. Come on in.”

  Treatments. I didn’t like the possibilities.

  She put her arm around Maddy. “How was your day, honey?” A mother’s voice, filled with love and tenderness...I stared at them, mother and daughter, and hunger rippled through me, a yearning that exceeded words.

  “Good,” said Maddy. “But Miss Claire was outside in the driveway, and she called me. I-I didn’t tell. I didn’t.”

  I jumped in. “That’s the tr
uth, Anne. I sort of forced myself on her when she looked so sad.”

  Anne’s complexion reddened; she blinked rapidly. “A mom fighting cancer makes a child sad. But—” She hugged her daughter again. “Maddy knows I’ll get better. It will take time, though, for all the treatments. Right?”

  The child nodded quickly. “Right,” she echoed, as though she’d been brainwashed into understanding.

  “And I haven’t felt any side effects yet, so I might be lucky.”

  My friend lied like a trouper. Of course she’d experienced side effects. Weight loss, hair loss...

  She motioned Maddy away. “Miss Claire and I need some privacy in the living room. You grab a snack and do your homework. Some things haven’t changed around here!”

  Maddy grinned. Finally. A familiar expression, a touchstone to normalcy. Anne led me to her sofa then tapped her scarf and modeled for me, turning, inclining her head to the left, to the right.

  “It’s the latest in chemo gear. And I’ve got a lot more. Just wait till you see my wig. She’s called Donna. When I wear it, Tom says he’s on a double-date.”

  I burst into tears, and she sat down beside me.

  “My goodness, Claire. I’m so sorry. That’s why I didn’t want you to know. You’ve had such a hard time, and I knew this would be too much to deal with...and everything happened so fast anyway. I got diagnosed right after we talked about kitchens. Mammogram, surgery a week later, and my first chemo this week. My hair hasn’t really fallen out yet, but Tom and I were advised to shave it in advance, a week’s difference. Who needs the added stress of waiting for it to fall in clumps?”

  I took her in my arms. “I’m so sorry, Anne. About the cancer and because you didn’t feel you could count on me. What a lousy friend I am.” She was so damn tiny. And then I discovered something else.

  “You’ve had a mastectomy?” I asked, leaning back.