Family Interrupted

by Barrett, Linda

  Of all our guests that evening, however, Anne Conroy’s smile was the widest. Simply put, she not only looked amazing but pulled her hubby onto the dance floor time and again.

  “Credit to my chicken soup?” I joked as they stopped to chat on the way back to their table.

  “Absolutely.” Anne beamed at me then squeezed my arm. “I’m a survivor!” she said. “I went through hell and came out the other side. So far, I’ve made it.” Now she hugged me with a strength that impressed. “And so will you,” she continued. “Just look at yourself tonight. Gorgeous in that beautiful silk dress. Those shades of green are perfect—totally you. You and Jack...I think the two of you are more than surviving. You’re coming back; the real Barneses are coming back to us.”

  Were we? I would have liked to agree, but I knew some of my excitement came from the surprise I had waiting: Kayla’s portrait. I’d wrapped it in a king-size sheet then in a large woven blanket and brought it over in Jack’s truck early in the day. It now leaned against the restaurant manager’s office wall. But it could wait awhile. Jack looked ready to dance.

  “You remind me of someone,” he murmured, taking me in his arms.

  “I do?”

  “Yes—the girl I married twenty-five years ago. And not looking a day older.”

  “Nice hogwash.”

  “You’re more beautiful than ever and still fit right here.” He pulled me closer, and I knew he was right. My head fit perfectly against his shoulder. We moved to the music in step with one another, as though dancing was part of our daily routine.

  “Fred and Ginger?”

  “Better,” he said with a grin. “Jack and Claire.”

  “I guess we’re muddling through okay.”

  “Tonight is better than a muddle. If all you needed was a big party, I would have thrown you one months ago. Any excuse would have been fine with me.”

  As if to prove it, he whirled me faster as the lyrics urged us to “Celebrate good times, come on.”

  “Are the good times coming back, Claire-de-Lune?”

  “I-I hope so.” I pressed his shoulder and slowed our steps. “I’ve got a surprise for you tonight. For everyone. Later on.”

  I waited for the perfect moment, the pause between dinner and dessert, before the anniversary cake would be cut and served. I waved to the DJ, and he allowed the music to fade out.

  “What are you up to?” asked Jack.

  Instead of answering him, I made my way to the manager’s office, and as previously arranged, he helped me carry Girl Exalted to the front of the room and onto a chair. I stood tall, hands raised, and slowly the noise level diminished as our friends and relatives became aware of me waiting and perhaps noticed the large package still under wraps.

  Jack stared from me to the covered picture, his brow creasing as his eyes focused from one to the other and back again. I caught the exact moment when he became uneasy, the moment he turned to me in silent question. I smiled, urged him to join me, but with a deliberate pivot, he mingled among the guests before alighting at our parents’ table. He was normally one who embraced and conquered the unexpected. Tonight, however, I wondered if he might need support himself or might need to provide it. His distrust after our lovely time together disappointed me.

  “Thank you for sharing the evening with us,” I began, “and stick around. There’s more to come with dessert and coffee and another set of music—if your feet can handle it.”

  I paused for their reaction—laughter and groans. After watching Jack give dozens of talks over the years, always inserting humor and measuring his delivery, I’d learned a little something about timing. But now, my heart raced. My palms felt damp. To speak out loud of the children...of Kayla...made my throat close. And what if my work disappointed? What if no one else saw her as I did? The room seemed eerily quiet.

  “We would have wanted our kids to be here too, of course, for this special celebration. But Ian is out doubling his money tonight with OT and asked me to say hello to y’all for him. So, I guess he’s here in spirit.”

  I’d actually hoped Ian would show, and I hadn’t prepared this speech. But somehow, the words formed and flowed.

  “And as for Kayla, she’ll always be with us in spirit, in love and memory, and as real as I could make her.”

  With a quick movement, I let the covering drop to the floor. And there stood my daughter in her full glory of victory. In her full glory of life.

  Seconds passed. A silent freeze-frame. The kind of awed silence that follows a show-stopping moment. From a distance, I heard the gasps. The murmurs. The “Oh, my God’s.” “Look at her.” “It’s Kayla!” “Amazing.” “Claire’s work?”

  Someone called my name. Someone else joined in. Claire! Claire! Claire! Soon a chorus of “Claire” filled the room.

  Relief turned my legs to Jell-O. My arms quivered, eyes watered. The spontaneous remarks rang true, and the shout-outs...? The room swam, everyone a blur. I guess I’d done it. I had done Kayla justice. There’s my daughter, I thought, “…looking as if she were alive….” The line from Browning’s poem sprang suddenly to mind. And it was true. Kayla sparkled with life, and I was so grateful. Grateful and happy.

  Happy? Me? Were the trembling corners of my mouth arcing upward?

  People came forward, surrounded me. Surrounded the portrait. But I wanted Jack. I wanted us together, finally sharing a deeply joyful moment. After all, it was our anniversary. And our daughter was here...at least in spirit.

  But Jack wasn’t in the restaurant, and when I finally stepped outside, a quick glance told me the car was gone. Once again, I was lost in silence. Jack gone? Without a word? He must have hated the portrait. Or the surprise of it. Or...or what? Maybe he hated me. I leaned against the wall of the restaurant, my energy flagging along with my hopes.

  “Claire?”

  Mom’s voice.

  “Right here.”

  “People are looking for you. The party’s breaking up, and they want to say goodnight. Your phone rang, and I brought it.”

  I glanced at the missed call. And there he was. I connected.

  “Where are you, Jack? Folks are leaving.”

  “I’m getting the truck. Tell everyone to go home. I’ll speak to them soon.” He hung up.

  Getting the truck? A dozen pickups waited for their owners in the parking lot. I could have gotten a ride with the Conroys, for goodness’ sake, right in our own neighborhood.

  When Jack finally reappeared, I was wiped out from maintaining my smile and making excuses for his absence. The few remaining guests surrounded him now, eager with a new round of congratulations. He laughed but, with a short gesture, cut them off.

  “Need to take care of a certain bill inside,” he said, “or we all stay and wash dishes.”

  It was a poor joke from a guy almost good enough for an improv gig. No doubt, he just wanted to get away from everyone, including me.

  Five minutes later, Kayla’s portrait was wrapped and ready to go, but I needed help getting it to the truck. Just as I approached the manager’s office, Luis appeared and walked toward me.

  “Your husband had some gifts to carry. It is my pleasure to help you once more.”

  “Thanks, Luis. Muchas gracias. I told everyone not to bring presents. Even had it on the invitations.”

  The man chuckled, and together we carefully hoisted the canvas into the truck bed while Jack sat behind the wheel, the engine idling. After thanking Luis again, I climbed into the front seat. Jack pulled out of the lot without a word and kept his silence for a long minute or two. An awkward silence and I wasn’t having it.

  “What’s wrong—”

  “Congratulations, Claire—”

  I settled back into my seat.

  “It’s your best work ever. I could have—” He cleared his throat. “—reached out and hugged her.”

  He seemed to be sincere, but his voice was flat, as though he resented paying the compliment.

  “Well, thank you. I thin
k.” Peering up at him, I added, “You don’t sound very...let’s say, enthusiastic. I’m sorry if I shocked you.”

  He shrugged. “I guess I’m not that teacher you were always yapping about from the college. The one who thought you could do no wrong. Maybe you should go back to school.”

  Jack was changing subjects as quickly as my sister changed clothes in a dressing room.

  “Why are you talking about Colombo? I’ve barely thought about him or my classes since I left. Especially not since he sold my painting without telling me.”

  “Well, you should think about them now. They’ll keep you busy.”

  My nerve endings jingled as the conversation became too bizarre for my liking. “I’ve got enough to do, Jack. Now what’s really on your mind? A-and maybe you should pull over...?”

  He continued driving too fast, heading toward home. “I’m talking about us. You and I. It’s not working out for me. Not anymore.”

  He gestured over his shoulder. I turned my head and, for the first time, saw the bulging suitcase resting on the floor behind us.

  Another nightmare. One that shouldn’t happen, not after all this time. And definitely not tonight.

  “I’ve got a room at the Marriott Suites,” he continued calmly, as though he hadn’t just strewn my path with landmines. He pulled into our driveway and hopped outside before I could speak.

  My insides trembled. By the time I managed to unlock my door and make my way to the ground, Jack had retrieved the picture and leaned it against the wooden gate that led to the house.

  I knew Jack hated to see me cry, but I couldn’t stop tears from rolling down my face. I couldn’t let him leave. He was still my CrackerJack, still my best friend. Beyond the rush of tears, I stood in front of him, my hands grasping his.

  “But why, Jack? Why? I thought tonight would be a new beginning, that it was time for one. I was so happy a-and I wanted you to be happy, and you were, Jack, you know you were happy when we were dancing...and...and...” Babble, babble. I was never as articulate as I should be.

  “An illusion doesn’t last.” His mouth tightened. He pulled his hands from mine and pointed at the canvas. “That’s what made you happy. That was the purpose of the whole shindig. You had to show everyone. ‘See? My daughter is still here. Don’t forget her.’ So, what’s next, Claire? A watercolor? A statue? A copper relief? It’ll never be enough for you. You’re so wrapped up in Kayla, there’s no room for anyone else.”

  His voice had risen with every sentence. He was shouting now, and I wanted to cover my ears.

  “Well, I’m tired of waiting for my turn,” he continued. “I’m tired of waiting for you to pay attention, for us to resume a normal life together. A real life. Not make-believe. I’m done here. I’ve had enough. I. Am. Done.” His hard gaze and tone left no room for doubt.

  I was in the fight of my life now, fighting for a way to keep going, for my very existence. So how could I give up?

  “You say you’re done, but I’m not done. You’re wrong about me this time, Jack. You think you know everything, but you don’t. We can’t have the old normal life anymore. We have to find a new normal. That’s what people like us do, and I’m ready for it. I’m ready to try, a-and besides, it’s our anniversary.”

  My voice cracked, my soul ached. Frightened didn’t come close to how I felt because I wondered if he could be right. Instead of tonight being a turning point, maybe the picture had only been a therapeutic exercise for me, and I’d need more of it.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Jack. “A new normal? Does it include keeping secrets from me? Ignoring our son? And as for our so-called anniversary? Well, a celebration is for couples who are truly devoted, who share with each other what’s in their hearts and minds, who think about each other first. We don’t do that anymore. Haven’t in a long, long time. These days, we go through the motions, but we don’t have a marriage.”

  He climbed back into the truck and rolled down the window. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I could barely comprehend the whole of it. Was Jack actually leaving me, or were we acting out a scene where I hadn’t been given the right lines? I felt myself floating, drifting away to another world. Someplace else. What was real? What was not? I began to tremble, full head-to-toe tremors. Goosebumps covered me, and my stomach began a tarantella. A new world without Jack? My arms, legs...so light. I heard someone moan. From far away, someone howled.

  A miasma of haze surrounded me. Maybe I’d float on a cloud. Up. Up. Oh...yes...Just as I’d imagined, floating was lovely, painless. And the moon...only on the far side did the moon shine bright, and the stars were large, as unique as snowflakes. Everything below looked wee small. Was that a tree or a hunk of grass? Talk about perspective. And right over there, that’s...that’s my daughter! I just spotted Kayla—my Kayla—leaning on the fence.

  Wait, wait for me. Don’t leave, sweetheart. I’m coming, I’m coming. Blindly, I reached, my arms outstretched and ready to hug. I locked onto her! She felt real-world solid. Feet-on-the-ground solid. Kisses, kisses, kisses—butterfly kisses in the air.

  My breathing slowed, and with eyes opened now, I saw myself lying on the ground, my arms wrapped around my waist. The air seemed heavy again and hazy. My lids drifted down, and I just breathed. Maybe I’d been in shock. Or maybe that flight-or-fight reaction had kicked in. I didn’t know, didn’t care. Inhale. Exhale. In. Out. Once. Twice. I opened my eyes again. The house, the garage—everything came into focus. Too real. Much too real.

  I sat up, disappointed, and reached toward Kayla’s picture. I stroked the frame. “Not your fault, sweetheart, not your fault. Mea culpa.”

  Slowing rising, I grabbed the top of the fence for balance and watched Jack back out of our long driveway and onto the street.

  I guess my long flight took only a few seconds. Jack! Wait. Tonight was supposed to be our new beginning....Soon the truck’s headlights illuminated Bluebonnet Drive while the truth illuminated my senses: I’d been too late to save my family again. Once more, I was too late. All my good intentions gone awry, not only here but at the hospital too. Why did I have such poor judgment that I’d failed everywhere?

  Kayla was gone. Ian had left, and now Jack. I was alone, the only family member still at home.

  What a laugh. How could our house be a home if no one wanted to live there? My husband had just walked out drenched in anger and disappointment; my son didn’t trust me. My family was disintegrating before my eyes. Was it all my fault? Jack said he was done. Done with us. But I knew he loved me, at least I think he did. And I loved him. Why wasn’t that enough?

  What to do, what to do...I had no idea how to fix us, and God knows we needed fixing. I didn’t want to believe our life together was over. I wanted to make love to Jack again and help Ian through whatever he was going through, and I wanted to continue painting—maybe a portrait of Anne and Maddy. Tom would love that. And Jack needed me in the business. Unless he hired a replacement now.

  I gazed at the empty house. If I was the underlying cause of all our problems, then I’d better figure out how to resolve them. Was there a superglue for families, or would that be too easy? All I knew was that as long as Jack, Ian, and I continued to walk on God’s green earth, I couldn’t give up.

  Part II

  Children are the anchors

  That hold a mother to life.

  —Sophocles, Phaedra

  Chapter 29

  CLAIRE

  Sunday morning

  Too much thinking kept me up last night. The sofa had seemed more cramped than usual, but I’d chosen it over the bedroom. Facing a half-empty closet had been beyond my capabilities. I'd tossed and turned, haunted by a kaleidoscope of scenes from the party and the horrible after-party where my high hopes for a new beginning with Jack had burst in my face like an overfilled balloon. His disappearance from the restaurant was my first clue to his distress. His silence going home was the second. Even without the kudos from our friends about the portrait, I
knew he wasn’t ashamed of my work. He’d said something about Kayla being so real he could have hugged her. But then he’d driven home too fast, his mouth clenched, his words coming through lips that barely moved. Angry barely described him.

  But why? Analyzing behavior had never been my strong suit, and as the hours crept by, I wondered where I’d gone wrong. Or had it been Jack who’d screwed up? He’d said I didn’t care about him. But hadn’t I just given him the most wonderful present I could imagine giving anyone? I’d put in the work—untold hours—on something I thought he’d cherish. Why was all the blame mine?

  Oh, Lord, did assigning blame really matter at this point?

  I’d known enough couples who’d separated and divorced to understand there was usually plenty of blame to go around. The he-said-she-said arguments accomplished nothing. A marriage at the breaking point required a lot of untangling between two people. A lot of talking.

  Whoa, Claire. Breaking point? How could that be? Jack and I...we...We were the grounded, steady couple. Everyone said so. We’d said so. We’d always had the epitome of a great marriage. I groaned. How could I ever make sense of this? Jack was the people-person. He could figure out somebody’s modus operandi after one conversation. Me? I went to my studio and worked alone. I used to tease him about a picture being worth a thousand words. I guess I really proved it last night.

  At noon, I sat at the kitchen table with my second cup of coffee. When the phone rang, I grabbed it, thinking it was Jack...maybe to apologize? Wrong. Cousin Marilyn’s cheerful voice thanking us for a wonderful party, wishing us well one more time on our special anniversary, and praising Kayla’s portrait with heartfelt enthusiasm. I thanked her, of course. And that’s all I said. I wasn’t broadcasting the problems my talent had wrought. Nothing was official. And besides, maybe those problems would be resolved quickly.