Family Interrupted

by Barrett, Linda

  Hers was the first call of the day. After chatting with a few other guests and pretending everything was fine, I began checking Caller ID before picking up. I deserved an Academy Award for my performances so far. Man, I was good at pretending, but then again, I had secrets to keep.

  “We had a great time too,” I’d say. “Thanks for coming.”

  “No, I’m so sorry. Jack just stepped out. I’ll tell him you called.”

  “Thank you. The spitting image? Glad you liked it. Yeah. I didn’t know I had it in me either.”

  The happy messages threatened to send me bawling, and by late afternoon, I was exhausted from keeping up pretenses. I thought about escaping to my studio, even walked to the kitchen door, but turned back before I opened it. A visceral reaction with a bitter flavor.

  Not once was I tempted to tell the truth to anyone. After all, what could I possibly say? That Jack had hated Kayla’s portrait so much he’d walked out on me? Too intimate. Too personal. Too bizarre. My friends wouldn’t understand.

  When I saw my mom’s name on the Caller ID, I almost didn’t answer. Almost. But I knew her well enough to know she’d keep trying until someone picked up the receiver. My hand hovered above the phone as, once more, I braced myself for the role of hostess.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey, yourself, and happy anniversary again. I waited to call in case you and Jack wanted a quiet, lazy day alone. Alone, together.” She laughed as she spoke. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

  I sure did, and I wished it were so. I wished I could laugh with my mother, whose spontaneous good humor had been lacking in recent years. She didn’t deserve another blow. Neither did my loyal dad.

  “Yeah...I...we...ah... Mom?” My voice squeaked, and my Oscar disappeared.

  “What’s wrong, Claire? Oh, good heavens. Never mind. We’ll be right over.”

  “No, no. I’m fine.”

  “Something’s wrong. I know my daughter, and you’re not fine.”

  The next sound I heard was the dial tone.

  Fifteen minutes later, my folks were at the door. My dad embraced me then peeked over my shoulder.

  “Where’s Jack? What’s going on now?”

  It was the “now” that got me. My parents had had a brief respite from my troubles last night. They’d gone to bed happy and hopeful, enjoying a lovely celebration, and had awakened to a new disappointment.

  “Jack’s not here,” I said, leading the way into the family room where my portrait of Kayla stood against the near wall. My voice quivered, but I got the words out. “Jack is...he’s checked into the Marriott.” The last part ended in a rush.

  Confusion. Shock. And then, “He’s done what?”

  Daddy turned on his heel. “Then that’s where I’m heading.”

  “Oh, no you’re not.” Mom at work. She glommed onto his arm and pulled him back. “Listen to Claire. We don’t even know what happened.”

  With an airy gesture, I pointed at the picture. “That’s what happened.”

  Both my parents turned and gazed at Kayla. The silence this time had a softer, poignant quality.

  “I’m admitting,” said Daddy, “that I got all choked up last night when I saw this here picture. And as for your mother...

  “It almost killed me. I had goose bumps everywhere.” My mom cupped my face in her palms. “Not only because I wasn’t expecting to see Kayla but because I actually saw her. You are that good.” She turned from me to look at her lost granddaughter again. “I guess I haven’t seen your studio work in a long time. You are beyond being a hobbyist. You are exceptional.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I whispered. “It might seem so because it’s...it’s Kayla. And...and Jack couldn’t stand it.”

  “He’ll be back, sweetheart,” said my mother. “He loves you, adores you. We saw it last night every time he looked at you, and when he danced with you? It was almost like...Well, let’s just say that nothing’s changed there.”

  “Your mother’s right. You two kids have been together for so long, Jack wouldn’t even know how to go a week by himself.”

  Kids? I hugged them. Hard. “Have I mentioned recently how much I love you? I’m wondering why a grown woman still needs to hang onto her parents.”

  “That’s an easy one,” said Dad. “When times are tough, we all feel like children again, scared and wanting our parents.”

  “Amen.” Mom walked to the picture then scanned the walls of the room. “This is quite large, Claire. Where do you want it? Daddy and I can help you hang it right now.”

  I hesitated. Not about the placement, but whether I should display the portrait at all. Jack hated it, or what he thought it represented. In either case, he couldn’t look at the work.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But let’s just leave it where it is. I might even store it in Kayla’s room for awhile.”

  Jack had accused me of wrapping myself up in Kayla to the exclusion of anyone else. I loved that child. I’d always love her and miss her, but I didn’t want to choose between my daughter and my husband.

  JACK

  Sunday

  When I woke up this morning, I wondered if I’d slept on a bed of rocks. Every muscle ached, including the ones in my jaw. I couldn’t blame the suite. In fact, it contained everything a guy could want—fridge, sink, a loaded bar. I couldn’t blame the bed, although I could have done with something smaller. Glancing at the partly messed-up covers, I put two and two together. It seemed I’d kept to “my half” of the king-size mattress. Just proved that old habits were hard to break.

  I soon discovered the suite’s excellent shower and hot water supply, and when I emerged from the bathroom, I finally felt, if not totally human, at least almost there. Almost ready to face the day on my own without my wife.

  The thought perked me up, imbued me with a sense of freedom I hadn’t known I’d needed until now. Freedom from Claire and her never-ending focus on Kayla. That picture last night? Well, I was sucker-punched when I saw it. Shocked to bits. God knows, I didn’t need any more surprises. I’d been trying with Claire, trying to get us up and running again, and I was failing. One step forward and three steps backward type failing.

  But here I was at the Marriott, trying to coax this stupid, tiny-sized coffee filter into its basket. If my hands would stop clenching the thing, I could do it. But shoot! I forgot to fill the canister with water. So much for facing the day in a good mood...good enough anyway, considering.

  In the end, I suppose, it came down to survival. Every last one of us—man and woman—fought to survive, and we were all selfish. Claire had to do her thing, and I had to do mine. If Claire continued what she’d been doing, would her grief ever ease? And where would I fit in? If we didn’t overlap anymore, well then...so be it. We’d become a divorce statistic in the column labeled: after death of child. I’d tried hard to support her, to support us. At least, I think I’d tried. And I was very tired. Sometimes, I sat and stared out the window, saw nothing, and felt too fatigued to get up. Grief, worry, and stress. What a friggin’ life.

  None of that mattered now. I had the whole day ahead of me, free to do what I wanted. I had no to-do lists, no obligations, no work. I could swim laps in the pool, do miles on the treadmill, or join a group for a round of golf at the local course.

  An hour later, I was at the office immersed in the Active Seniors project. Every ten minutes, however, I wanted to call out to someone on my staff and had to remind myself that it was Sunday. A day off for most people. I jogged to the drafting room to examine blueprints then jogged to Claire’s office for her files on architectural accommodations for seniors. I couldn’t find them. But I wasn’t calling her, not today.

  Note to Self: Tell Claire to give me a duplicate file.

  I began reviewing the art team’s rendition of the acreage we’d develop—the clubhouse with its arts and crafts rooms, gym and aerobics center, library, game room, bistro, and auditorium for shows and events. Outside were the pool, tennis courts, shuff
leboard court, even a dog park. All good work. I focused on the home sites next and the nine models we’d created. Did the layouts make sense? Did we have enough variety? Should the architectural accommodations be a choice for the individual buyer or a constant in every home? Raised dishwashers? A shallow ramp from the garage into the house? Immersion in my work was nothing new. I was damn lucky to be part of such a creative business. Damn lucky my own dad had led the way. If only Ian were here. If only...

  Dusk had fallen when I finally glanced through my window. Evening already? I stood, stretched out the kinks, and listened to my stomach rumble. Shadows filled the corners of my office, too; a single light over the desk couldn’t alleviate them. I looked at my open door. Beyond the perimeter of this efficient, comfortable second home, I knew the entire building was dark. No lights, no people, no noise. Just me and my work. In the past, I’d never considered that a bad thing, but suddenly I wasn’t sure. A full Sunday at the office was not the same as dashing in for an hour or so as I’d been in the habit of doing for years. Even that one hour had normally been broken up by a phone call from Claire or the kids.

  Was this all I had now? Was this what I wanted?

  No. I wanted more. Claire and I could not go on as we were, yet I didn’t know how to fix us. Me! The guy who could fix anything. The guy with the overflowing toolbox. No job impossible. Except this one.

  I began pacing, began mumbling. Focus on what really matters. Figure it out. You’re clever and creative. Fix it! Or get help.

  In a flash, I pulled open my desk drawer and reached in the back for that special printout I’d hidden: The Miss You Foundation website. Attending support group meetings had always been in the back of my mind, but I’d hoped Claire and Ian would join me. I’d never forced the issue and never gotten the buy-in from them. Their cooperation didn’t matter anymore. In fact, I might be better off on my own. I was a dad who’d lost his daughter. The support group would be for me. I picked up the phone and made the call.

  Chapter 30

  COLLEEN

  Monday, noon

  “I’ve got it all figured out, baby girl.” I picked Tina up and snuggled her neck, inhaling her sweet, powdery scent. Delicious. Adorable. And I’d miss her terribly. For a moment, I thought about taking her with me. Or not going at all. Torn between two loves, I was truly in that spot between a rock and a hard place. Talking helped.

  “You’re going to have a fine life, little girl. Your daddy thinks you’re a miracle child. You’ll live like a princess in a big house, and he’ll take very, very good care of you.” I carefully deposited Tina into her car seat, the one Ian had taken an hour to pick out with all the questions he’d asked. Then I grabbed the tote bag that I’d stuffed with lots of salves, diapers and formula as well as a few clean one-piece outfits. I placed it on the seat next to the baby, and we were ready to go.

  I drove across town, the address and directions on a piece of paper on the seat beside me. My spirit lightened because I was doing the right thing. Right for everyone, even Ian. Anyway, that’s what I told myself. Maybe he’d mend fences with his folks. The thought made any last doubts fly away. Surely, the Barneses were good people to have raised a great guy like Ian. Maybe I was nuts to leave him, as kind as he was and a hard worker too. He never got drunk. Never raised a hand. Tina really was lucky to have him for a daddy. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty. I’d never lied to him. Never made long-term promises.

  I started to hum a new tune then began floating a few words around the notes:

  My Texas knight in city armor

  Gave me a home when I had no other

  Saved the life of our unborn daughter,

  I waved goodbye in late October...

  I couldn’t stay—

  Had to be on my way,

  But for them I’ll pray...forever.

  My fingers itched to write more verses, but I had to concentrate on the unfamiliar exits. Not to worry. I had a good memory and a long bus ride ahead with plenty of time to write down lots of melodies and ideas.

  Chapter 31

  CLAIRE

  Monday, noon

  I slammed the phone back in its cradle, disgust and disappointment flooding me after speaking with Jack. I’d been staring at a picture Anne had emailed, one of Jack and me dancing at the party. I remembered the strength of his arms around me, his spicy fragrance of aftershave and tequila, and thought we simply had to speak to each other again—and soon—but not at the office.

  I’d taken the first step and called him, suggesting we meet for lunch. My husband, however, seemed to have other ideas and had made himself perfectly clear.

  “There’s nothing to resolve right now,” he’d said. “And last weekend proved we need a break from each other. Fortunately, the business has started to turn around, so we’ve got options. In the meantime, your mother said she’s available all week, so let’s you and I stick to email for awhile and see how it goes. I’ve already left you a message.” Then he’d disconnected.

  Yet he was the one who’d talked about the importance of communication? Hypocrite. But I logged onto my computer, scanned my Barnes Construction inbox, and sure enough, among the posts from our home goods suppliers and construction foremen, there was Jack’s note. It was a list of on-going projects and their deadlines—as if I didn’t know them—and a demand for a duplicate file on the active seniors project. Not one personal word. Not one. After twenty-five years...and after I worked so hard to make the party a success...

  I couldn’t force him to have a meaningful conversation, not until he was ready. What a concept. The idea lingered a moment. Was it a concept that applied to me as well? I had to admit there’d been plenty of times when I wasn’t ready either. I recalled all those instances when I’d disappeared into the studio because...because...the pain! The grief. Jack had begged me to talk, but speaking about Kayla...so many words, words, words. And words wouldn’t bring her back. Jack and I weren’t in synch then, and time was slipping away from us now. If we lived separate lives and never spoke, we’d be doomed. A few tears escaped, but I forced the rest back. He’d been gone only a day and a half. I couldn’t allow myself to break down so soon.

  And my poor mom. She hadn’t signed on for a full-time position, but I knew she’d push herself to help us. To help me. So unfair. I glared at the phone. You know what, Jack? You can take your email and shove it. I’ll be back to work in the morning.

  I heard the doorbell ring but didn’t feel like investigating. Who’d be visiting in the middle of the day anyway? Everyone I knew was working. Except...maybe Anne. Part-time Anne who’d barely missed a day through her treatments, and whose schedule I never remembered. Maybe she figured I’d be home today after the big party. Good. A power-walk was exactly what I needed, and a friend was exactly who I needed. The thought energized me, and I ran to the hallway, eager to see Anne and get into my running shoes.

  I felt my smile disappear when I saw the pretty girl in front of me. Nothing personal, just disappointment. Her car idled noisily at the curb.

  “Car trouble? Or are you lost?” I asked, noting the paper she held and aware how easily a first-time visitor to the subdivision could get confused with all the cul-de-sacs and winding streets.

  She read from the paper. “Ma’am, if this is 3225 Bluebonnet Drive like it says on the mailbox, and if you’re Claire Barnes, then I’m exactly where I should be.”

  Her country-flavored speech fell pleasantly on my ear until her impatience came through as she repeated, “So, are you Claire Barnes?”

  Nervy. She must have seen the suspicion on my face.

  “Please, ma’am, it’s very important.” She reached forward, beseeching me, her brow wrinkled and her bright green eyes darkening to olive. Whatever this was about was important—at least to her.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Colleen Murphy.”

  I mentally rummaged through our contact list of friends and relatives and came up empty.

  “I
-I work with Ian.”

  My stomach tightened, and my mouth went dry. “Ian? Is something wrong? At the plant? Was there an—”

  “No, no. Not that kind of accident anyway. But now I know you’re really Ian’s mama. Wait right there.”

  Hot pokers couldn’t get me to leave.

  She scampered to the car, opened the back door, and lifted out a big—I didn’t know what—by the handle. I stared until I identified what she carried. An infant seat. She reached into the vehicle again and came out with a tote bag.

  Good Lord, was the girl in trouble? Had Ian said his mother could help her? Maybe she had no mother? A dozen possibilities scurried through my head as I watched her come closer and then gently place the “packages” on the ground.

  “Gosh, now that I’m here, my tongue is all tied up,” the girl said. “Maybe the best thing is to come right out and introduce you to each other.” She took a deep breath, deep enough so I could see her chest rise. “This is Martina Faith Barnes. She’s Ian’s daughter and mine. S-so she’s your granddaughter. We call her Tina. She’s healthy. I brought most of her stuff because I can’t take care of her anymore. And I even brought her birth certificate. She’s a good baby. I’ve tried not to love her too much because I never promised Ian I would stay forever, and he knew that. I’ve got other plans, big plans, far away from here.”

  She spoke fast, without pause, and I had to listen hard. And then she walked backwards toward the car.

  “Wait a minute, Colleen,” I said, panicked. “Don’t run away. Tell me what happened. I’ll help. We can talk....I bet you’re a good mother. Maybe you’re just scared, maybe you’ve got some postpartum depression. I can help you learn.... ” If this baby were truly my granddaughter, I’d help her every single day. Mamas don’t give away babies like they’re cupcakes.

  “I left Ian a note. He’ll understand.”

  “But you’re her mother....”

  She slammed the back door, turned toward me, and said, “It wasn’t my idea.” I watched her scurry around to the driver’s side.

  Oh, dag nab it! This girl—this Colleen Murphy—was really going to leave, disappear. I glanced at the innocent baby sleeping on the ground in her car seat. My granddaughter? Somebody’s granddaughter? She needed care. “What kind of formula?” I called out, thinking about how I’d sterilized bottles.