Family Interrupted

by Barrett, Linda

  She nodded. “I was lucky. Stage I, no lymph node involvement so I had a choice between a lumpectomy or mastectomy. It boiled down to a psychological choice, and I chose to—” She made a sharp gesture. “Take it all off. Tom was so scared, he wanted me to have a double.” Rolling her eyes at the absent Tom, she added, “I had skin-saving surgery, and I’ll do reconstruction later on—if I want to.”

  I tried to absorb all the information quickly, but in the end, only one idea stood out. “You’re a strong person, Anne. A lot stronger than I am.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Nah. Not true. I think we’re all as strong as we have to be.” She nodded toward the kitchen where Madison was doing homework. “Maddy doesn’t know how I fell apart when I got the news. Or how sick I really was three days after the infusion when the chemo was fully metabolized in my body. God, I dread that time.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” I offered. “I’m sure Tom has to go to work.”

  “Thanks, but my mother’s coming when I need someone.”

  “Your mother? But doesn’t she live in Atlanta?”

  Anne nodded then shrugged. “It’s hard, but she wants to be here. She thinks if she cooks for me, I’ll eat.” Anne’s nose reddened as she started to cry. “My mom just...just wants to help.”

  I pushed back my own tears. “Of course she does. She’s your mother. But you can tell her to take a break whenever she wants. Tell her that your friend Claire will be coming around as often as needed. ”My thoughts raced. “What foods can you manage to keep down?”

  She stared as if I’d sprouted another head. “Just soup,” she whispered. “My word, Claire. This has not been a good time for either of us or our families.”

  Of course, she was right, but at that moment, I felt stronger than I’d been in a very long time.

  “Whatever you do,” I said, leaning closer to my friend, “don’t get into a conversation with the self-righteous bitch around the corner. She’ll tell you it’s all God’s will, and you’ll have to slap her.”

  We stared at each other with one of those tacit understandings between women that lead straight to laughter. Uncontrollable laughter. On and on we giggled like two little girls. I’d try to stop, then Anne would try, and we’d both start up all over again. But the release felt darn good; in fact, it felt as wonderful as the grin on Maddy’s face when she ran into the living room to investigate our shenanigans.

  “Wow!” she said. “I’m glad you came home with me, Miss Claire. I’ve got so much to tell Kayla tonight.”

  From laughter to tears in an instant. Luckily, Maddy ran away before she could see me cry. Hearing Kayla’s name unexpectedly could still set me off. I guess I wasn’t as strong as I’d thought a few minutes ago.

  I turned toward Anne and gulped, “So, what kind of soup would you like?”

  “If you’re sure...?”

  Sure? I wasn’t sure about anything, but I nodded. “Jack loves my chicken soup, but I also make a wicked lentil...”

  A smile slowly crossed Anne’s face. “Broth, please. No meat.”

  Broth? No wonder she’d become a rail. But I knew a trick with cooked root vegetables and a food processor. Anne’s chicken broth would have strength in it. She’d like it and never know the difference. I kissed her goodbye, waved at Maddy, and with new energy flowing through me, made my way home. By the time I got there, I’d figured out my shopping list. I’d go to the supermarket after dinner then start cooking first thing in the morning. An efficient plan with a purpose satisfied me.

  Two hours later, I returned from Kroger’s loaded with groceries. Jack met me at the kitchen door, silently took the bags I held out to him, and retrieved the rest from the car while I unpacked. Helpful as always, but...I knew the signs. Tight mouth, narrowed eyes. No small talk.

  “I called Tom Conroy while you were out,” he finally said when I’d finished storing the food. “And you know what he did? He thanked me for calling about Anne. Thanked me as though we were mere acquaintances and I’d done him a favor. His wife’s dealing with goddamned breast cancer, and he thinks he has to thank me for a lousy phone call?

  “He told me that’s why they postponed the new kitchen. I said we’d use ours in the meanwhile. Tell me, Claire, how many years have we lived on the same street with the Conroys? How many times did he and Anne visit us after Kayla died? They were here, Claire. They cried with us. They held our hands. And yet, they didn’t call us when they needed friends.

  “Is that fair? I sure as hell don’t think so. And it’s your fault.”

  “I’ve already apologized to Anne for that. So lay off.”

  He gathered all the plastic bags together, shoved them inside the pantry, and pounded his fist against his thigh. “But you’ve been avoiding all our friends. We don’t see them. You don’t return phone calls. You hide away in your damn studio or at the hospital. And your mother’s doing more and more work, instead of you. That’s not fair.”

  My husband’s anger rolled off me. I wasn’t going to make his issues my issues. I responded in a controlled voice.

  “You’re the one not being fair, Jack. Every morning I go to the new home sites, creating and checking displays and layouts. I visit with the building crews and sales agents. How can I be hiding when I’m placing phone orders for custom products or searching samples in our own decorating studio? I’m out there. I’m working hard, just like you.”

  He held my gaze when I would have looked away. “Not quite true. So don’t lie to me about visiting with the staff. You don’t chat with them. My sources say you wave, do the work, and leave. I hardly see you at the office. Are you holing up in the studio in the afternoons? I’m sorry I ever built the damn thing!”

  The ensuing silence roared louder than a Category Five hurricane churning up from the Gulf. I thought of Kayla’s new portrait and all the time I’d spent figuring out what I wanted to do before starting the piece.

  My control vanished as I poked him in the chest. “You stay away from my studio,” I ordered. “I don’t care how sorry you may be, but now it’s mine. Keep out.” I flung open the kitchen door. “I’m going for a walk.”

  I let the door slam behind me and headed for the lake. By the time I arrived, my walk had become a jog, which became a run as I began my first loop around the water. I soon found my rhythm and, a few minutes later, could feel the tension drain away. Jack and I used to complement each other like two pieces in a private puzzle. JackandClaire. ClaireandJack. Our names were linked as though they were one word. Drifting apart seemed too mild a phrase to describe us today. The thought made me ache, but we seemed like two different people now. Maybe we were. I couldn’t remember when I’d last called him my CrackerJack.

  Maybe I’d sleep in Kayla’s room tonight. And I’d talk to my mother tomorrow. I started my second loop, focused on the running, and slowly got into the zone. Bolstered by endorphins, I could have run forever. I sure as hell wanted to.

  Chapter 18

  IAN

  February, Year Two

  I pulled into The House of Wong’s parking lot and saw my dad’s pickup with both parents inside. Dang! as Colleen would say. The restaurant, midway between my old home and my new one, had become the usual place for a father-son dinner a couple of nights a month. Occasionally, my mom showed up as well, but I think she tagged along just to make herself look good in my dad’s eyes, to show she was doing her “mother” thing. I enjoyed myself more when it was just the guys.

  “So, how’s the best apprentice Gulf Coast Oil’s ever had?” Dad’s bear hug almost lifted me from the ground. Almost. As though he read my mind, he added, “I think you’ve gained a pound or two, boy-o. Looking good.”

  “I second that,” said Mom. “Handsome and healthy. So, how are you?”

  “Starved.”

  They both laughed, and I joined in. They had no idea their starving son was going to be a dad this summer. Not such a boy anymore.

  Once at our table, Dad glanced at me and ordered dinner
for four. “Gotta fill you up and then some.” No argument. There’d be leftovers for Colleen, which she’d inhale. She wasn’t nauseous anymore, and Chinese was her favorite.

  Next came conversation. Q and A was more like it with Mom around. To distract her, I plunged in first with a safe topic. “So, how’s your painting coming?”

  Her smile disappeared before she pasted it back on. “It’s just fine, Ian. Coming along.”

  Whooee! Something’s going on there. First time at bat and I’d hit a nerve. Even Dad stared at her as though she’d spoken Mandarin. She must have picked up on our silence because she added, “But you know I never show anything until it’s done. We creative types are funny that way.” She exaggerated her words, rolled her eyes, and I gave her points for the save. “Nothing’s changed about that.”

  It’s true that she always hid her ongoing projects behind a screen or cloth. Kayla and I were trained to ignore those pieces in the studio. So were our friends. When we invaded her space, she always helped us with our pieces. For a moment, I wondered what she’d be hiding now.

  “Speaking of art,” I said, “do you happen to have any cheap prints I could use to cover the barracks’ walls?”

  “Barracks? Good grief. Is it still bad? I thought you cleaned it up.”

  “I did, structurally. But it needs...something. I’m refinishing some furniture—cheaper that way—but we figure pictures would help.”

  “We?”

  Shoot! I had to watch myself. Be cool, be cool. “Yeah. I’ve made some friends, and the girls say I live in an igloo. Every wall is white.” Of course, it was Colleen who said that, and I would have repainted the walls in any color she wanted, but paint fumes wouldn’t be good right now.

  Dad was grinning like that old Cheshire cat. “Girls, huh? Anyone special, son?”

  And dang if I didn’t feel my neck get hot. Real cool, idiot. “Nope! No one special. Can’t a guy have buddies of both sexes? In fact, we’re all watching the SuperBowl this Sunday at my place. That’s why I mentioned the pictures.”

  “Nice. Very nice,” said Mom. “So I guess your new life is working out. The new job...and new friends...a whole new beginning where you can...can for—” She heaved a deep breath. “Oh, forget it.”

  She was fishing for more, and I knew why. She thought I’d put the accident behind me. My own mother—and she didn’t know squat. But she’d given me an opening, and I’d seize it. My heart began to pound, my palms felt damp. Maybe we could talk about some important stuff now.

  “New job, new friends, and Kayla’s picture always in my wallet. Are you thinking I’ve forgotten about her, that I’ve forgotten about that day?”

  “Ian!” Dad’s voice in warning.

  “No!”Mom’s knuckles whitened as she grabbed the table’s edge. “I never said...never thought...”

  “Then why do you try to make me feel guilty for moving out? Moving on?”

  “You’re imagining things, Ian. I just said how glad I am that life’s good for you here. That you’re happy.” She took my hand in hers and kissed it.

  Too weird. I pulled away. “Mom?”

  “I want you to be happy, Ian. For God’s sake, I’m your mother!”

  “You’re Kayla’s mother too.” I forced myself to look her in the eye. “You know it was an accident, don’t you?”

  She rose, leaned over the table toward me. “Of course I know.”

  “And that it was random chance and nobody’s fault,” I added, still not sure she understood my point. I had not been careless.

  But that’s when her gaze shifted over my shoulder to the windows beyond. And that’s when my hopes fizzled again. No matter what I said or did or how I explained, she’d always blame me.

  “Nobody’s fault that Kayla died? That’s not true,” she whispered.

  Her voice sounded odd, a sad note...almost frightening. But a spark of hope rekindled inside me one more damn time. Was it remotely possible she was referring to someone else?

  Dad twisted in his seat. “What are you talking about, Claire? Accidents are accidents.”

  “Have you ever checked the dictionary?” she asked, pouncing on him like a cat with a ball of string. The woman had attitude to spare. She was looking for a fight.

  Dad shook his head. I said nothing.

  “An accident is ‘an unfortunate event resulting especially from carelessness or ignorance.’ So an earthquake is a random event beyond human control. With Kayla, someone was careless. Someone was ignorant—”

  “For God’s sake, Claire! Accidents just happen. Don’t blame Ian. And don’t blame yourself. I doubt we can even blame the woman behind the wheel. A bright, blazing sun could blind anyone. It wasn’t intentional, and God knows she’s suffering.”

  How did he know that? Dad glanced at me then at Mom. He shook his head and squeezed my shoulder. I got the message and agreed. Mom made no sense, but her words still had the power to hurt.

  JACK

  The meal arrived, and I turned toward Ian. “You’ve given so much attention to the barracks,” I said, “I’m thinking you might want to buy the place and fix it up right.”

  My son grinned an honest down-home grin. “Have you ever heard of a money pit? Trust me, Dad. Not worth it. The dump is good enough only for now.”

  An idea ignited, an idea that excited me. “I agree about money pits, but since you’re getting to know this area, you might keep an eye out for some real estate. I’m not adverse to developing or managing some property, especially if you’re a part of it.” I’d manage a whole city to entice my son back to Barnes Construction.

  For an instant, a gleam appeared in his eye, and happiness surged through me. My boy’s roots were all Barnes. All construction. I knew it!

  But a moment later, his expression changed. “Sorry, Dad. I won’t have time. Ben Parker’s beginning to count on me. He’s a great guy. Said I was the best rookie he’s ever had.”

  “I’m not surprised, not at all surprised.”

  “Of course,” Ian continued, “he could be full of bull, but I can read a set of blueprints like no other beginner.” A satisfied grunt followed his words, and my stomach began to burn. I needed an antacid but continued chewing my House Special Lo Mein.

  “What kind of blueprints?” Claire asked, her voice sounding suspicious. In Claire’s world, blueprints meant houses. Nice to know she was on my side—for once.

  “Pipelines, Mom. Pipelines. I need to know the kind of pipe and tools to use when I replace corroded sections.”

  “He’s a pipefitter, Claire,” I added, “or more exactly, training to be one. Ain’t that sweet?” I couldn’t contain the trace of bitterness in my voice and actually winced when I heard it.

  Ian pushed his plate away. “Thanks for the meal. Sorry you’re disappointed, Dad, but that’s the way it’s got to be.”

  Spoken like a man, but I didn’t want to listen. Didn’t want to hear it. I signed for the check, watched the waiter box the leftovers, then signaled Claire.

  “Before we all leave,” Claire said to Ian, “we have to tell you about Anne Conway.”

  Ian froze. “What happened? More bad news?”

  Claire explained about the cancer, and Ian’s hands turned into fists on the table. “Poor Maddy. What a crappy year for her. First, she loses her best friend, and now she’s afraid of losing her mom.” Shaking his head, he mumbled, “I can sure relate. I’ll call her later.”

  Pride mixed with pain as I watched him walk away. He found time to do the right thing with everyone except his old man.

  Chapter 19

  CLAIRE

  March, Year Two

  18 months after accident

  Late again. I pushed open Macy’s big plate-glass door, took a sharp left, and headed for the Human Resources office. Ever since the first “intervention,” Mom had urged us to lunch together on a regular basis. Judy backed her up immediately and suggested meeting at her office each month on one of her working Saturdays where we could sele
ct from a variety of restaurants. Mom was thrilled at the idea.

  “What could be better than sharing a meal and shopping with my daughters?” she’d ask.

  How about shopping with a granddaughter?

  I found it difficult to thwart my stubborn lifeguards, however, who insisted on keeping me afloat. Maybe I needed them more than I’d wanted to admit.

  My sister had always been an entertaining raconteur, and she usually kept Mom and me chuckling with stories about her job, her sons, and their antics. But it was the large department store, with its detailed selections of clothes and accessories, that returned me to periods of before-the-accident normalcy. Shopping offered me a comfort zone. I was used to being surrounded by fabric and styles, to making choices, whether dressing homes or people. Even now, as I walked toward Judy’s office, colorful displays nabbed my attention—the cut of a dress, the ruffle of a blouse, an asymmetrical hemline on a skirt. For a moment, my heart trembled as I pictured Mom, Kayla, and me poring through the racks together—three generations on the hunt.

  I plowed forward. Nowadays, Mom and I focused on Judy, whose interest in clothes was limited to business suits or jeans. “Jackets and skirts match,” she said, “and I don’t have to think about it.” I was convinced Judy was dropped on our doorstep. However, she was smart enough not to complain about having personal shoppers.

  “Woo-hoo, my second handmaiden has arrived! What more could I want?”

  I hugged Mom and smiled at my sister. “That’s easy. You’d prefer us to do the dirty work without you.” I shook my head with mock sympathy. “Not going to happen, baby. Let’s go.”

  Thirty minutes later, Judy slumped on the dressing room bench, handed me an unwanted blouse, and begged, “Can’t we have lunch now? I’m starv-ing.”

  After glancing at the sportswear arrayed on our “taking” hook, I winked at my mom. “Has she been punished enough?”

  “Her! What about us?” Mom wiped her brow.

  “Point taken.” I grabbed the merchandise along with Judy’s credit card and headed toward the register. And that’s where I spotted the driver. Sarah Levine. She stood behind the counter—wavy, brown hair, brown eyes, slim, in her thirties.