Family Interrupted

by Barrett, Linda

  Half the garments slipped from my hands. As I bent down to retrieve them, I kept my eye on her. At least, I thought it was her. If not, then my photographic memory had deserted me. On the surface, the sales associate could have been a replica of the woman sitting on the curb the day of the accident. I’d tried not to think about the driver too much. After all, Kayla’s death had been an accident. Everyone said so, including the cops. So she couldn’t be blamed. I stepped forward and put the clothes on the counter.

  The clerk looked at me, her eyes widening. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  All right? I’d never be all right.

  “Do you need a glass of water?”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine.” I breathed deeply, quickly absorbing the creased brow and worried expression of a woman doing her job. Thousands of women had brown, wavy hair and brown eyes. I had to be mistaken. Maybe I was starting to hallucinate. Maybe I did need to see a shrink after all. “Here you go,” I said, handing her Judy’s card.

  She smiled and got to work. I watched her, knowing I’d never say anything about this to my sister. Goodness, if a woman named Sarah Levine worked for Macy’s, Judy would have known. And if a woman who was a doppelganger for the driver who hit Kayla worked for Macy’s, Judy would have known that too. And she would have told me. For crying out loud, as director of Human Resources, Judy knew everyone in the store.

  I heard my family closing in behind me and stepped aside. Judy approached. “Hi, Sarah,” she said. “Sportswear today, huh? How’s it going?”

  Sarah? My sister had called the clerk Sarah. Colors blended into a hazy rainbow behind my eyelids. Garments and shoppers floated around me, and only by sheer force of will did I make it back to Judy’s office where she wanted to leave her purchases before going to lunch. The thought of eating made my stomach heave.

  I swallowed hard, kicked the door closed, and stepped toward my sister. Nothing could stop my verbal assault.

  “That’s her, isn’t it? Sarah Levine? The one behind the counter. And you never mentioned it? How could you? She’s been working here all this time...with you?” My voice hit a high note that only a violin could replicate.

  “No!” Judy turned toward our mother. “Never a dull moment, is there?”

  “Then let’s get to the bottom of this.” Barbara Anderson was attempting her mother role, but her voice quivered, and she grabbed my hand.

  “Mom...i-it’s her. I know it.” I fell into a chair. “I just need a minute, and I’m going back out there.”

  “Oh, no you’re not,” said Judy, squatting next to me. “Because you’re wrong.” She stood again. “Come look and see. I’m going to show you something that will shut you up but can also cost me my job.”

  I held up my hand. “Then don’t do it.”

  My sister stood quietly, so unlike her normal self that the stillness stretched into every corner of the room. “That’s my choice.” She sat down at her computer, punched some keys, and an alphabetical roster of employees appeared on the screen.

  “Look through the L’s,” Judy said. “There are no Levine’s here at all.”

  I browsed slowly and nodded but couldn’t believe it. “What about that sales associate out there?”

  “I’ve got three Sarah’s in the store,” Judy said as she scrolled the list. “A popular name, and she’s simply one of them. Hmm. Let’s see. Sarah Cohen’s in sportswear today. Great attendance; in fact, her first anniversary with the company is coming up. Looks like she’s a floater.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She’s not assigned to any one department, but floats among all of them. Most associates prefer a permanent home where they get to know the regular customers and merchandise. They also befriend their co-workers. But some employees like changing around and feel comfortable anywhere.”

  That characteristic bespoke of a confident person. Constant change. Comfortable anywhere. Probably not someone who’d run down a child with a car.

  “Ooh. I hadn’t noticed this before,” said Judy softly.

  “What?”

  “Sarah Cohen floats to every department except Children’s. She’s made a specific request not to be assigned there.”

  Judy’s gaze met mine. I knew we were on the same wavelength now and said, “Strange that a personable woman doesn’t want to be around kids. Can you still state with certainty that this woman is not Sarah Levine?”

  “I can only say she’s not using that name here, and I have no proof she’s anyone other than Sarah Cohen.” Judy took my hand and squeezed it. “You may have your suspicions, but please don’t go out there and make a scene. You could be wrong. I could lose my job. And what good will it do? I know you don’t agree, Clarabelle, and I can’t say I blame you, but Sarah is really not a murderer.”

  My head swam. I struggled to breathe. “Technical details. I-I just want her to know...to know what she’s done. To feel what I feel just for one lousy minute...”

  “Will it help you move on?” asked Mom. “Will it ease your grief?”

  “Let’s find out!” I stepped toward the door.

  “But you’re not sure it will, are you?” Another challenge from Mom.

  I froze. Our individual breaths reverberated in the silent room. My mother was right. The answer should have been an easy yes. Enacting one of my revenge daydreams should have been sweet. Satisfying. But I was living in the real world now and couldn’t count on that outcome. A zero end game. The thought frightened me.

  “I won’t make a scene out there, but I’m leaving now. I couldn’t eat anyway.” I slipped through the doorway before they could respond, unwilling to verbalize the maelstrom of emotions and the confusion running through me. Could I do anything to ease the grief? The guilt? Oh, God, the guilt had me doubling over sometimes, piercing me as sharply as glass shards cutting flesh. How many miles around the lake would it take to expunge it? How many homes would provide enough decorating challenges? How much art would it take to bring Kayla back to us? Well, as close as I could get her. As for my hospital work? The kids responded to me, and I felt useful there. Maybe I’d put in more hours. Maybe volunteering would fix everything. I had no answers, but I had to keep trying.

  I got into my car and headed toward Barnes Construction and Jack.

  My husband could have been anywhere in the building, but I found him talking to a cross-section of employees, waving his arms, excitement in his voice. He was in the middle of a brainstorm. I stood on the threshold, watching and listening.

  “Active seniors,” he said. “A new type of subdivision for retiring baby boomers. Let’s get ahead of the curve. I’m thinking one-story, wide doorways and halls, walk-in showers, levers instead of doorknobs. Why should retirees think of going to Florida or the Texas Hill Country when we can offer the same amenities right here—a large clubhouse, pools, and most importantly, a lifestyle. A full-time activities director. An exercise club. Crafts. Tennis. Softball. Card games, billiards, shows. On-site dining—a bistro.”

  Jack was at it again, words rolling from his tongue but barely keeping up with the ideas in his head. He was fully engaged. His timing was right, the ideas fit. And he was looking toward the future with eagerness and imagination, leaving Kayla behind. I figured a clear conscience helped.

  Jack usually managed to pull out a win no matter the circumstances. He certainly didn’t need my intrusion into his grand schemes and employee meeting. I turned away.

  “Claire!”

  I felt ten pairs of curious eyes on me.

  “Hey y’all.” I finger-waved. “Sorry to interrupt. I’ll see you later, Jack.”

  “No, wait. Did you hear any of this? Whadduyathink?”

  An echo of the old days. Brainstorming new ideas, next steps, building a business. The question was a no brainer. “Find the land. Get the permits. Houston can use a day camp for adults.”

  “A day camp?” His eyes lit, their corners crinkling. “Bingo!” And suddenly, I was in his arms, being twirled and danced a
round in front of everyone.

  “A new assignment for you, Claire-de-Lune. Go research some practical conveniences for active seniors. Think day camp. Not God’s waiting room.”

  I looked at the group of happy employees, everyone joining the conversation, rejuvenated by one idea. A good idea. The business was Jack’s salvation. He knew how to survive anything.

  “I just came from Macy’s,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  “Bought a mink coat or something?”

  “Or something. A big something.”

  Jack turned to his assembled group. “Think about this new project, but keep it to yourself. We want to be first. Bring me your ideas. You know my door is always open.” He scanned the room, making eye contact with each employee. “Any questions?”

  Five minutes later, Jack and I were alone. I shut the door, took a breath, and blurted, “I saw the driver in Macy’s. I’m sure it’s Sarah Levine regardless of her alias. I know it’s her.”

  He jumped back as though I’d burned him, swear words softly rolling from his tongue.

  “And what if it is?” he finally asked, his moderate tone a burr under my skin. “She’s got to earn a living somehow.”

  “Does she? Why? Why should she go on smiling at customers like nothing’s changed? Like she didn’t kill our daughter!”

  His face scrunched up until his eyes almost disappeared. I saw his Adam’s apple bob a few times as I waited.

  “The woman’s not my favorite person, but she’s not a murderer either.” His chest heaved as his words came and, for some reason, the movement satisfied me. My husband wasn’t as sanguine as he pretended. He was hurting, still hurting, just like I was.

  “It wasn’t premeditated,” Jack continued. “And if it makes you feel any better, Levine’s suffering too. She gave up her teaching career, which she loved. Doesn’t trust herself with children anymore. So I’m guessing she took a job that was meaningless to her, where she could go through the motions and only pretend to care.” His breathing morphed into a wheeze as he spoke. “Kayla ran into the street, Claire, her eyes on the football instead of traffic. And life has to go on.”

  “No, it—”

  “Yes! Not only for us but even for the Levines and their two kids. Can’t you understand? The woman’s seeing a shrink and a rabbi; she’s taking medication.” His gaze met mine. “But maybe she’s not the only one who needs a psychologist.”

  I jumped backward as though he’d struck me. “Dr. Freud, I presume?” Pausing only for a second, I asked, “How the hell do you know all this, and for how long have you known it?”

  Jack emitted a huge sigh, but his eyes continued to look into mine. “Her husband called me about six months ago, about the time of the memorial service, and almost cried on my shoulder.”

  “Six...months...ago? And you didn’t say a word about it? How could you not tell me?”

  “Easy. You slept on the couch that night—too angry about a lousy haircut and too busy sending out your own message to hear anyone else’s. And despite your working again, not much has changed inside you. You’re still deaf to everything but your own ideas.”

  I ignored the personal comment. “What else did the husband say? Was he looking for sympathy? Calling you took a barrel full of nerve.”

  Jack blinked. His shoulders slumped, and he turned away, collapsing into a chair. “The man was looking for a spark of hope,” he murmured, “and wondered how you were coping.”

  “Hope? Then he’s either stupid or naïve. Doesn’t he know that hope died with Kayla? No joy in Mudville anymore...You’d better have told him the truth.”

  “Oh, yeah. I apologized for disappointing him. No encouragement to be found at the Barnes’s house.”

  He expected too much. “That woman...Sh-she still has it all. She still has her two children...her precious children...

  “But do they have her?” he asked softly. “We weren’t the only ones devastated by the accident. Marc Levine was desperate when he called, at his wits’ end.”

  I shrugged. “That’s tough but not my problem.”

  “Nothing’s your problem anymore. You walk away from everyone who wants to help. Your family, your friends, and even me.”

  “That’s not true. I helped Anne. I have lunch with Judy and Mom. And as for you?” This was tricky. “You’re a good man, Jack, and I love you, but we’re bumping heads all the time. Or maybe hearts. We’re not...not in agreement about anything. Maybe we need some space.” Maybe I’d sleep on the sofa again.

  Chapter 20

  JACK

  I watched Claire leave my office, knowing my marriage had gone from a roller-coaster ride of hope and despair to a steep downhill spiral. I didn’t know how much longer Claire and I could go on this way. Maybe we needed a break.

  Kayla. My sweet, wisecracking, little girl. I could sense her presence as if she were cuddled against me, like a solid memory. She was with me every day and night whatever I was doing. When I mowed the lawn, I brought her up to date on what was happening. Then I told her how much we loved her and always would. No one could take her place. No one. Not ever.

  I fumbled in my desk drawer for my antacids then reached for my cell with Marc Levine’s phone number. I’d hoped never to call him unless I could provide good news. But I wasn’t sure what Claire would do next. She wasn’t herself, and I didn’t know if I’d ever again recognize the girl I married.

  I connected to Levine’s number, and he picked up on the first ring.

  “Mr. Levine, this is Jack Barnes.” My voice was low, hoarse.

  “Hello! I’m glad to hear from you...I think.”

  “Well, forewarned is forearmed, so I’m doing what I can for you.”

  “That doesn’t sound good, but I’m listening.”

  “Claire recognized Sarah in Macy’s today, and only my sister-in-law prevented a confrontation. I’m afraid Claire won’t let this rest. Maybe your wife should transfer to another store or something.”

  Silence reigned at the other end of the phone. Then he spoke softly. “It’s so ironic.... She used her maiden name for this job search to avoid being recognized, at least on paper. The newspaper accounts scared her. She thought she was under a microscope. But I guess you can’t hide forever. The real problem is that if she goes backward one more time, I don’t know what we’ll do. Maybe my in-laws are right. Maybe we should move in with them. At least they’d provide more security for the kids.”

  Was he looking for affirmation? Or just thinking out loud, struggling to make decisions? “Grandparents could be a great idea.”

  “You know why Sarah was on your street that day, Mr. Barnes? She was checking out a house for sale a few blocks over. We thought it was time for a new place, larger than this condo, and with my oldest starting school and everything... And now we’ll probably share with my in-laws.” I heard him sigh then say, “But...if it will help Sarah, we’ll do it.”

  I felt myself step back. Housing was my business but not with the Levines. Some boundaries couldn’t be crossed.

  Chapter 21

  CLAIRE

  As weeks passed, I got to know my regulars at the hospital. The chronics: Megan Sullivan, Aisha Brown, and Colin McCarthy with their cystic fibrosis treatments. Neil Schulman with his kidney dialysis and a half dozen other children with a variety of conditions from gastro-intestinal to neurological.

  I also saw the staff in action, not only the nurses but the allied health professionals: respiratory therapists clapping chests to loosen phlegm, physical therapists with their exercises to strengthen muscles and balance, and occupational therapists with their games and tasks to reinforce patients’ skills.

  I started to feel like part of the team when they took an interest in the kids’ art projects and started chatting with me about particular patients. Their questions and comments, however, also made me nervous. The staff was always searching for clues about their patients and thought I could share some new insights. It seemed my devotion to the volunteer
schedule had caught their notice. The youngsters had come through with a variety of projects, giving the staff new areas to explore.

  “My goal is for the kids to have fun,” I said one afternoon as I was packing up. “That’s why I bring a lot of different media to work with. I can’t read their minds, and I’m not here to give them therapy.” I wasn’t qualified, had never considered the medical field, and wanted no responsibility for guaranteeing results. Or improvements. Or whatever they were looking for.

  Rose Taylor, the head nurse, patted me on the shoulder. “You’re the whipped cream on the cake. Just keep doing what you’re doing. We’ve had other volunteers before you, but we’ve never seen the pride or, frankly, the hidden talent that’s coming through. Look at Neil’s cartoons! Who knew? He’s only ten years old.”

  “Neil?” I chuckled. “You can’t measure all the kids by Neil. He’s the exception. He’s got real talent. Reminds me of my son.” Which was probably the reason I liked him so much.

  Rose smiled. “Well, he’s never shown off his talent before. It’s made Dr. Henderson very happy too.”

  “His nephrologist?”

  “His shrink. According to Henderson, Neil’s cartoons show he’s feeling good about himself. That’s half the battle, maybe more, when you’re dealing with life-threatening illnesses.”

  That’s the part I didn’t want to consider. The complex medical issues. I planned the art, brought materials, and worked with the kids in groups or individually, but I tried never to think about their futures. Although these kids did have a fighting chance, something would go wrong someday. Hopefully, a far-off someday. I couldn’t help Kayla when she most needed me, so maybe I could help these children have fun whenever they could. And I reminded myself that medical miracles were being made all the time.

  “Art should be for healing,” I said, surprising myself. “I know that psychologists use play therapy—dolls, puppets, drawing—when kids won’t talk, but that’s when they’re trying to discover the problems. I’d argue that art could be used at the other end, the healing end, to gain confidence and...and open up the world once more.” Maddy Conroy was proof.