Surface

by Stacy Robinson

  Claire rounded the corner onto her block and pulled just past their house. She sat for a moment, then twisted around in the seat to see her gate, made a U-turn, and drove into the driveway. She watched the property unfold, chimneys and tiled roof first, her anxiety thinning as the rest of the Spanish-Mediterranean came into sight. Automatically she reached her hand up to the visor for the garage door opener, rubbing the barren fabric there.

  She turned off the engine and stepped out. There was no wind, but still Claire felt a smarting in her lungs. She crossed her arms against the chill and walked across the gravel to the lawn, carrying all the weight of the past months with her.

  When she reached the grass, her feet sank softly into the mud beneath, and she looked up at her home. The large Palladian windows seemed to gape at her, and in the reflection of the glass she imagined the sheen of tears. She approached one of the Italian stone planters and plucked a frozen pansy from the border, squishing the faded bloom between her fingers and glancing toward the side of the house. Brown vines hung from the pergola, dripping droplets onto the patio below. She squinted and stepped back, remembering the thirtieth birthday celebration Michael had thrown for her, and the long kisses they had stolen under the pergola that night. Why hadn’t she come up with that story for Richard? she wondered. Stage fright, probably.

  It had been a “Farewell to the Twenties” theme, with guests attired in Gatsby-esque finery. From the tented buffets and badminton court, to the orchestra surrounded by claw-footed bathtubs of gin and champagne, Michael had given her the most sparkling birthday party she’d ever had. “To my ever-beautiful bride,” he had whispered into her ear as they glided across the dance floor to “Yes! We Have No Bananas,” “you still drive me wild.” The stars were lavish, like everything that night, and seemed to bathe them in an ethereal glow. She had been crazy about him, and her cheeks ached from smiling, her feet from dancing. And in the midst of one particularly passionate kiss, she had overheard a woman comment that Claire and Michael looked so beautiful together, just like Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan.

  Claire hadn’t thought about that comment since the party, but as she blinked away tears, she wondered now at the sad irony of the reference. Somewhere along the way, had she and Michael also gotten caught up in the vitality of the illusion like the doomed characters? She backed away toward the Jeep, seeing no beauty in the beautiful house, no warmth in the warm colors. She checked her watch. She needed to retrieve some things from inside, but she just didn’t have the stomach for it. Not right then. And she didn’t want to risk being there when Michael returned from work. No, she thought, feeling the sting of their last encounter, if she was going to adjust to this crazy new chapter, it would be far easier to keep a forward momentum. At least for the time being. She got into the car and drove away, speeding past the country club, and south to her apartment building. She hoped Jackie had picked out something a little better than the LA apartment. Amid the haze and confusion of that first week in Los Angeles, surroundings hadn’t seemed all that important. But now they were a bit more so.

  When she pulled up to the handsome brick building, she was greeted by a row of sculpted junipers that stood at attention like soldiers. They were the same style she had once considered for her own garden. Claire killed the motor, took the key from the envelope in her purse, and glanced up to the building’s roof garden some twenty floors up.

  Unlocking the door to her furnished rental number 611, she dropped her bags in the center of the spacious living-dining-kitchen area, thinking it wasn’t bad. She had almost grown used to living in other people’s spaces. The off-white walls, the beige pile carpeting, the tan plastic blinds. They were all alike in their lack of charm and distinction, these mini-dwellings of the itinerant. Bland palettes where one could create a home if one so desired.

  “Hey, Jax, I’m back,” Claire said, sitting down on the queen bed’s peach floral spread.

  “What?”

  “In Denver. I’m at the apartment. You did great, sis.” She scanned the walls, which sported several hotel-quality landscapes, and the ceiling, which reminded her of large curds of cottage cheese. “It’s nice. Thanks.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here until Saturday. I would have met you at the airport.” Claire could hear the concern in her sister’s voice.

  “I know. It was a last-minute thing. Michael will be leaving for LA to get ready to bring Nicky back. And Nick’s therapist thought it would be better if we didn’t overlap. He needs a little time to regroup before the changing of the guard, and blah blah blah. So, here I am.”

  “Why are you letting him do this to you?”

  She stood and began pacing at the foot of the bed. “No one’s doing anything to me, Jackie. It’s just . . . the best solution at the moment.

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “I’m not sure about anything, other than that it’ll be good for Michael to spend some alone time with Nicholas at the hospital before he brings him home.” Claire said this as convincingly as she could, stopping in front of the closet and pulling open the bifold doors. “And it’ll give me some time to get things together on this end.”

  “You’re being awfully brave about such a sucky situation.”

  “Look, I know you don’t approve. I don’t approve. But given everything, my options were limited. So just keep your fingers crossed that I won’t be here for too long.”

  “I could come down and help if Steve can get home in time to give the girls dinner.”

  “I’d rather take it easy tonight and just get used to the place.”

  “It’s okay, isn’t it? The apartment, I mean. I liked the building, but my taste is a little more Asti than Dom.”

  She pictured Jackie’s crinkled nose on the other end of the line. “The apartment’s great, Jax. Really. Thank you.” She unzipped her garment bag with one hand, fished out a kimono-print robe, and set it on the bedspread in a screaming pattern clash.

  “Are you still planning on dinner with us Saturday? It’s lasagna.”

  “I’ll be there around five.” She hung up, smelling the faint remnants of someone else’s life all around her.

  It had already grown dark, and though still on LA time, Claire felt the heaviness of the day closing in on her. She drew the blinds against the twinkle of the downtown lights, and dragged her garment bag and suitcase over to the tiny closet. One bulb hung naked from the ceiling, and she wiped down the shelves and bowed hanging rods as four empty wire hangers clanged together.

  Sleep came fast that night, with dreams of Nicholas as a playful eight-year-old tickling her on a beach blanket on Martha’s Vineyard, his hair smelling of watermelon shampoo.

  Although she promised herself she’d give him his space, Claire called Nick the next morning, hoping he’d be the happy Nicholas who’d kissed her good-bye with a smile, and not the angry, tray-hurling Nicholas.

  “Hey, honey, how are you?”

  “Okay, I guess. Where are you?”

  “I’m back in Denver, remember? And I can’t wait for you to be here.”

  “I’m sick of this place. It sucks.” His voice sounded tired and stressed. “The OT classes suck.”

  “I know, babe. But just hang in there. It won’t be much longer.”

  “They’re making me . . . do all these extra . . . classes and interviews. I supposedly had . . . a drug overdose? And that’s why I’m here?”

  Same shirt, different day. She could hear the sound of plastic pounding on a hard surface—Nicky’s hand, she knew, gripped tightly around his cup and smacking his tray table. And she wondered if Michael’s presence, the shift in the routine, had put him on edge.

  Patience and perseverance, dear. “Yes, Nicky, that’s right. But you’re going to be home soon,” she said, keeping her tone upbeat. “And Aunt Jackie and Uncle Steve and the girls are really excited to see you.” She didn’t mention his friends, whom he alternately missed and dismissed out of apprehension and embarrassment. She would l
et him dictate the terms of inviting his old life back in when he was ready. That part, she completely related to. They didn’t discuss her new apartment or his outpatient therapy.

  “Dad says he’s bringing the plane. So that’s . . . cool. I guess.”

  Claire thought of Michael’s obsession with details, his thrill and expertise at closing a deal. And she hoped that he would keep things together just as perfectly when he walked their son out of those hospital doors forever. “I love you, Nicky.”

  CHAPTER 24

  As she counted down the days to Nick’s return, Claire devoted her time to meeting with the doctors and therapists at Craig and getting all the paperwork handled. She discussed with the new social worker her concern about the times when she would not be at the house with Nick to monitor all the issues that had been handled while he was at Rancho, and got a referral for a retired behavioral therapist who might help them out. He could augment the work they’d do at Craig, while keeping a trained eye on Nick at the house. It was overkill, and Claire knew Nick wouldn’t be thrilled, but until she was confident that he was comfortably readjusted to living at home again, she was more than prepared to risk overkill. On this topic, Michael concurred. By text.

  She filled her remaining hours setting up the apartment and making it feel homey enough. Not wishing to get distracted (depressed, deflated) by all that her real home represented, she hadn’t returned. Removing anything from there and bringing it back with her would only make the temporary seem more permanent, she rationalized. She also didn’t trust her ability to be dispassionate enough to walk into her closet for some extra shoes and not stay. So she pledged to keep her needs basic—which wasn’t so hard. The requisite lightening of her load over the past months had actually felt liberating. And until she was certain how the situation with Michael would eventually play out, she wanted to be careful to maintain her checking account balance at a comfortable level. While she was grateful for the lump sum that continued to arrive there each month from Michael—they’d never shared a joint account, a Montgomery family tradition dating back to the Pilgrims, she was certain—said lump didn’t quite compare to its pre-Andrew heft. But considering everything, she was hardly ready to discuss money with a husband who might, as Cora suggested, really miss her full presence at the house when Nicky got home, and might actually grow to miss her. The idea of contacting a lawyer had crossed her mind, but she worried more about what kind of message that would send if he were to find out. Besides, there would be plenty of time for lawyers later, if the merde really hit.

  After a long morning of errands as Claire headed back toward the apartment, an unexpected splash of red caught her eye on Sixth Avenue. She slowed to take in the bright new awnings and window bays that had popped up at Lillian’s shop. The consignment business, she noted, must be doing well. Given the state of the economy, it ought to have been. And Claire thought of the countless times she’d been in the little boutique over the years. Lillian’s was an elegant and discreet business. Her old friend took only the finest designer clothing on consignment and paid her clients fifteen percent of the original purchase price on their previous season’s Chanels, Armanis, and the like. Claire had been making quarterly trips there since Nick was born, providing a healthy pipeline of luncheon suits and evening couture as she thinned her closets for newer purchases. She and her friends never bought there, but they quietly reaped the fifteen percent reward for their fine taste.

  Tired of the silence that seemed to have shrouded her world, Claire was tempted to stop in to say hello. Like a trusted hairstylist, Lillian knew all the little dramas of her clients—the vacation sagas, the romantic highs and woes, the divorces. But unlike some of the stylists Claire had dealt with, Lillian always put a positive spin on things, always had a kind word. It might be a good place, she thought, to stick her toes back in the water of her old life and test the temperature.

  “Dah-rrling, is that you?” Lillian purred in her Hungarian accent, rushing over to Claire from behind a rack of evening gowns. “How wonderful to see you. When did you come?” As always she concealed her large frame in a simple black suit, and her eyeglasses dangled from the gold-and-pearl chain around her neck. She spoke with the measured dignity of one trying to conceal the remoteness of her origins.

  “Just this week. You hadn’t heard I’ve moved back?” Claire asked casually.

  “No, no.” Claire watched as Lillian looked her over for signs of something. Wear, perhaps. “Everyone was in with their collections at the beginning of the month, but it’s been quiet now.”

  “I just thought I’d drop in to say hello.”

  “I’m glad you did. It’s been too long.” She wrapped her arm around Claire’s shoulder and led her to the sofa where they used to share tea after their business was done. “And your Nicholas, how is he doing?”

  Although she expected the question, facing her old friend under the shadow of tragedy was harder than she’d expected. She sank back and willed her eyes to stay dry. When they didn’t cooperate, Claire dabbed at them with her knuckle and looked sheepishly through the hair that had fallen over her face. “I’m sorry. We’re all doing much better. And Nicholas will be home soon.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Lillian pulled a linen handkerchief from her pocket and placed it in Claire’s lap. “You take this and I’ll get us some tea.” She let her hand linger gently on Claire’s leg as she stared into her face with her dark, sympathetic eyes. Then she stood and walked to the back room of the shop, the swish of her slip and hose beneath her skirt the only sound Claire could hear. Moments later she returned with two porcelain cups, steaming and frothy with milk. They sipped in silence.

  “Ah,” Lillian said, suddenly placing her cup on the table, then clapping her hands, “I have something you will adore.” She gave Claire a sidelong smile. From one of the small racks by the mirror, she removed a suit and held it out for inspection. “Yes,” she said to the hanger.

  Claire looked at it with curiosity. It was a lightweight cobalt blue wool Chanel with the signature double-C buttons and a satin camellia brooch.

  “Come.” Lillian motioned for Claire.

  “It’s exquisite,” Claire said as she approached the mirror, still uncertain what Lillian wanted from her.

  “This came in while I was on vacation. I just noticed it this morning.” She held it up in front of Claire. “The color brings out the green in your eyes.”

  “But Lillian, I don’t—”

  “Shh. Try it. I want to see it on someone, and it’s your size.” She slipped the jacket off the hanger and guided Claire into the dressing room, handing her the garments. “I’m waiting outside,” she said as she closed the slatted door behind Claire.

  Claire looked around, bemused and equally embarrassed at the thought of trying on someone else’s clothing. She pushed open the door and stepped back out, voicing her apologies, but Lillian would have none of her noncompliance.

  “Just for fun, my dear. No one’s here.”

  So Claire did the only polite thing she could and a moment later walked out, zipping the skirt and feeling as if she’d been thrust lampless into an unexpected fog.

  “What did I tell you, my dear? It’s divine, no?”

  She fussed with the jacket hem and tugged at the waist of the skirt in front of the three-way mirror, despite the flawless fit. It was lovely, she had to admit. But maybe it just seemed so lovely in contrast to her functionally drab uniform since the accident, or because it accentuated the slim sway of her hips and rounded her out, instead of hanging lifelessly on her as most of her clothes now did. She’d given so little thought to clothing and appearance since the accident, and the shock of seeing herself again filled her with an odd wistfulness.

  She removed the flower brooch from the lapel and placed it on a pocket, then arched her shoulders back and stood high on her stockinged toes, unsure what else to do. “Well, that was fun,” she said, flat-footed again, “but I really need to be going, Lillian.” Claire laughed awkw
ardly and started for the fitting room, but Lillian handed her a pair of high satin heels.

  “Now try.”

  Claire glanced around the empty store, only to be met with Lillian’s persistent eyebrows. She stepped into the shoes, and when she looked in the mirror she was surprised to see not exactly her old self, but a refreshed version of her new self. The lifelessness had gone from her demeanor. She felt almost . . . good.

  “My dear, sometimes it just takes the most surprising little something.” Lillian beamed behind her.

  “Oh, Lillian. I’m not shopping. I just came to say hello.” She hurried back into the dressing room and as she started to unbutton the jacket, Claire caught her reflection again and hesitated. She fluffed her hair, checking herself from the side. When she took the jacket off, the price tag dangled in front of her, revealing the amazing discount of “gently worn.”

  “It will be good for you,” came the husky voice from behind the door. “A little pick-me-up, my dear. Trust me.”

  Claire pulled on her sweater thinking that Lillian, in all her good grace and tact, could sell a ball gown to a plumber. She carried the suit to the front of the store and draped it on the counter. She ran her fingers over the fabric, shaking her head, still feeling the awkwardness of the whole situation. “It was lovely to see you, Lillian,” she said as she pulled her car keys from her purse. “Thank you for the little diversion.”