For Life

by L. E. Chamberlin

  “I appreciate that, I really do. And thank you for being real. With me, I mean. Everyone’s so weird to me ever since Carl died. I just want people to stop treating me like a piece of glass.”

  “It’s just because they’re worried, sweetheart. But I get what you mean. It can get a bit…”

  “Claustrophobic,” she declares. “But also lonely. And I have no idea how that makes any sense whatsoever.”

  “It doesn’t have to. Nothing about grief makes sense. Our brains just get us through it as best they can. The rest is just…” I think back to the loneliness I felt when Grady left, the sharp teeth of despair that sunk into me and didn’t let up for months. Frankly, I’m shocked she’s coping as well as she is.

  “Cass, sorry, gotta run,” she says abruptly. “There’s a territory war for Lego space going on in the living room right now, and if they wake Sophie up I’m going to go postal on all three of them. She’s teething and barely sleeping right now.”

  “Okay, go. Love you.”

  “Love you.” After she hangs up I decide to talk to Grady about visiting her again. We’ll be at Donna’s for Thanksgiving next week, but since Renée’s been invited to her sister’s house, we’ll only see her and the kids on Friday. It’s not nearly enough time, and I’m worried about her. I decide I’ll ask Chloe if she’d be willing to go out there over Christmas break and keep her aunt company.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Cassie

  “So.” Chloe squirms in the seat next to me as I drive the kids to school. Instead of her usual fifteen minutes of self-scrutiny in the mirror, she’s been obsessively checking her phone in between staring out the window. I’m happy she’s not making faces at herself, but drastic change is always suspicious where teenagers are concerned.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Baking a cake.” She sounds embarrassed to even say it.

  “What about it?”

  “I need to do that. You know how to do it, right?”

  I almost drive off the road with joy, because if my snarky daughter is saying you know how to do that it means she’s really asking - in her awkward, prickly Chloe way - please teach me how to do that.

  “Sure,” I reply casually. “Do you need to make it tonight?”

  “Next week.” She stares out the window another minute before she continues, “I think I want to do a test run tonight, though.”

  “We can do a test run tonight. The next couple days are a bit hectic, but I can grab the stuff on the way home and we can put it in the oven right after dinner.”

  “From scratch,” she emphasizes. “Not a boxed cake, they’re full of chemicals.”

  I suppress a smile. “From scratch. Got it. Yellow? Chocolate?”

  “Yellow.”

  Caden tugs one of the earbuds from his ear. “Did I hear something about cake?”

  “Your sister is going to bake one tonight,” I call over my shoulder, which elicits exaggerated peals of laughter from my son.

  “Chloe can’t even make grilled cheese,” he cackles, thumping the seat next to him in his amusement.

  It’s true. Chloe cannot, in fact, make grilled cheese sandwiches without burning them. But I don’t dare discourage her, and I’m so thrilled she wants my help I’d gladly stand at the stove with her every night for the next month. “Be nice,” I admonish him. “Besides, baking is different. And you’re going to be sorry when her cake is delicious and you’re not allowed to have a piece.”

  He laughs again and puts his earbud back in. Next to me, Chloe turns and flashes me a look of quiet gratitude.

  * * * *

  Chloe is precise in the kitchen and far more patient than I am. She measures everything out carefully into ramekins like they do on the cooking shows, and I smother a smile. She’s been paying better attention than I thought, and I wonder if she’ll confide the reason for this sudden interest in baking. I’d bet my life it’s about a boy.

  The recipe I use is photocopied from an old cookbook of Donna’s, one that was her mother’s in the fifties. She has some of her own notes in the margins of the page, and when Chloe sees it, she pounces on it delightedly.

  “Hey, that’s Nana’s handwriting!”

  “Yep.” Donna tried so hard to find me a copy of the original cookbook, but when she couldn’t she had a copy made from hers and transferred it to computer stationery with a country goose print on the top and bottom margins. I’ve had that recipe tucked behind the red and white cover of the one she bought me instead since Grady and I got married.

  “You and Nana are really close, huh?”

  “We were. I mean, we are, but I just haven’t seen her as much. You know I lived with her for a while.”

  Chloe nods. She knows the basics, but I never told her the full story, mostly because I didn’t think she’d be even remotely interested. But now she seems curious, so I tell her.

  “When I found out I was pregnant with you, my parents cut me off completely. They’d already paid my tuition for the entire year, but they took my car away and told me I couldn’t come home.”

  She looks shocked. “They kicked you out? Because of me?”

  And this is partially why I haven’t told her. “Not because of you, sweetie. Because they didn’t like the idea of their daughter going against their plans. They had an idea for my life that did not include marriage or babies at age nineteen. And just so we’re clear,” I say sternly, looking at her, “that’s the same idea I have for your life. I love you and I wouldn’t change the past, but things were a heck of a lot harder the way we chose to do them.”

  “You’re not mad at them?”

  “I’m mad at them for other reasons. I’m mad at them for thinking your dad wasn’t good enough for me, when nothing could be farther from the truth. I’m mad at them for being snobby toward Nana. And I’m most of all mad at them for not falling instantly in love with you and forgetting all about being mad at me. That’s what they should’ve done.”

  She nods thoughtfully, stirring the batter.

  “And just so you know,” I continue. “It’s because they’re sick people. Not bad people. My father is an alcoholic, but he was a good father when I was young. He just lost control to the disease. And my mother was always a snob, but she tied herself to him and made so many excuses for my dad’s drinking…” I shake my head. “It’s called codependency. It’s like a disease itself, really. She chose my father’s disease over me, and you, and Caden. So I’m mad, but not because they kicked me out when I was pregnant. I made the choice to have a baby and be an adult in that way, so I guess that was their right. But the other stuff…”

  “So Nana asked you to live with her?” Chloe prompts.

  “Well, I had nowhere to go for winter break, because my school was closed. So Nana offered me the guest room, which used to be Uncle Carl’s room, and I stayed there when I wasn’t in school and for a few months before your dad and I got our apartment in Pinewoods.”

  She wrinkles her nose at the mention of Grady’s and my first apartment complex, which still stands in an increasingly rougher section of town.

  “It was a little nicer when we lived there,” I say, which is true but also not saying much. “It was tiny, though. Your crib was in our closet.”

  “You stuck me in a closet?” She looks horrified.

  “It was a big walk-in closet and we needed the space. So we made it a tiny little bedroom for you.”

  “Where did you keep your clothes and stuff?”

  “In plastic containers at the foot of our bed.”

  “That’s crazy…” Chloe finishes spreading the batter in the pans and looks at me. “Now what?”

  “Give them each a good hard tap on the counter to clear out all the air bubbles.” She looks at me like I have three heads, so I lift one of the pans and demonstrate. “Do it with the other one.” She does it, albeit not as hard as I did, and we slide them into the oven.

  “Thanks for helping me, Mommy,” she says when both cakes are in the oven. I
try not to react the way I want to, which is by throwing my arms around her and squeezing the life out of her. Instead I fluff her hair and say, “Sure, Chlo. Anytime, sweet girl.”

  * * * *

  I’m doing a spice inventory when Chloe strolls into the kitchen to check on the cake, humming softly, her face peaceful for once.

  “Smells good, huh?” she asks.

  “Smells great, Chlo. Want to peek?”

  We both peer through the oven window at the golden cake layers.

  “Can I open it?” she asks shyly.

  I shake my head. “Leave it. Cakes get offended when you watch them too hard.”

  She stifles a giggle and flops into a chair at the table.

  “So I was thinking…” I begin. “How would you feel about spending part of Christmas break with your aunt Renée?”

  “Just me?” Chloe asks immediately, “Or Caden too?”

  “I hadn’t thought about that, actually,” I admit. “When I talked to Aunt Renée she sounded lonely. I thought it might cheer her up if you went out there. The kids love when you’re there, and she’d probably be happy to have a bit of a break from Kelly.”

  “No kidding.” Chloe crinkles her nose at mention of Renée’s sister.

  “But Caden could go, too,” I think aloud. “I know Daddy plans to be out there at some point, so if you both wanted to be there I’m sure Renée and Nana would be thrilled.”

  “I’ll think about it. Me and Aunt Renée might want some girl time.”

  She sounds so grown up when she says it that I can’t help but smile at her. “Okay, Chlo. You think about Caden. But can I tell your aunt you’ll go?”

  “Mind if I tell her, actually? I was gonna call her tomorrow.”

  “Sure, sweetie.”

  She smiles and reaches for my phone. It doesn’t even register that she’s scrolling through my photos until she says, “Hey, do you still have that picture of…”

  Her voice fades to deadly silence about the same time I realize what she’s seen. When I turn to look at her, she’s staring at the screen, stricken. “What—” Her voice dies in her throat, and when she looks back at me every bit of happiness that was between us this evening is gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Cassie

  Shit, shit, SHIT! I move across the room faster than I intended. I know exactly what she’s just found. Grady snapped a couple pictures of us on his phone one day when I was lying on his chest and sent them to me. They’re not indecent or anything, but for someone who doesn’t know what’s happening between us, I imagine it’s a huge shock.

  This is not how Grady and I planned this. We were going to talk to the kids together, when we had a timeline figured out. We were going to break it to them gently. Chloe looks like she’s just been slapped. Why, even though I thought to do it a million times, did I not put a security code on that damn phone?

  When I reach for the phone she clutches it tighter. “I don’t understand,” she says, her eyes pleading with me to say something, anything to make what she’s just seen make sense.

  “Is that Daddy?” Her eyes are blazing at me.

  “Um…” I’m a terrible liar, but it doesn’t matter because although I snatch the phone away from her, Chloe doesn’t give me an opportunity to speak.

  “What the hell is that? Why do you have selfies of you and Daddy?” she demands. “And what are you wearing? A bathing suit?” She looks up in horror before screeching, “Oh my God, are you in your bra in this picture?

  “Chloe.”

  “Mom!”

  I take a deep breath and say the first thing that comes to mind. “It’s… complicated.”

  “Oh my God!” she shrieks, leaping from her chair.

  “Chlo, really. Don’t be dramatic.”

  When she turns to me her face is crimson and she looks like she’s ready to cry. “You have pictures of you and Daddy kissing on your phone. And you guys are divorced! How can I not be dramatic about that?”

  Taking a deep breath and gripping the counter, I speak as gently as I can. “I hate to remind you, sweetie, but I’m your mom. You don’t get a say in who I spend my time with.”

  “Oh my God, you guys are spending time together now?”

  The child has a promising future as a lawyer. “Chlo, seriously.”

  “Oh my God…” Something clicks in her brain and she turns to me, horrified. “Oh my God, you and Daddy are…” Hysterical laughter peals from her and then her face twists and she hisses, “You are un-be-liev-able!”

  The urge to slap her percolates within me and I am simultaneously ashamed of and justified at my thoughts about my own daughter. But she has turned on her inner bitch and we’re all about to suffer. She faces off with me over the kitchen island.

  “I cannot even tell you how messed up that is. That’s like—” She pantomimes her head exploding. “We are not one of those families! I thought you and Daddy were, like, normal people!”

  “We’re still normal. Daddy’s still Daddy and I’m still me. And we’re—” I’m at a loss to describe our status. Can ex-spouses date? Are we friends? Lovers? Partners?

  “No.” She shakes her head. “No. It is not normal, Mother, for divorced people to sneak around together!”

  “No,” I agree. “It’s not. But we’re hardly ‘sneaking around.’ That’s not what’s going on. Your dad and I are still really trying to work things out. We haven’t told you and your brother because we haven’t quite figured it out for ourselves yet. When we do, I promise, we will sit you guys down and discuss it. In the meantime, although I know he’s your dad, this is my private business.”

  “I’ll ask Daddy,” she says defiantly, tossing her hair, and now I really want to slap her.

  “Sure, you ask him,” I reply, using every bit of my strength to keep from saying something really sarcastic. “I think he’ll tell you the same thing, Chlo.”

  “It’s weird,” she declares. “And I don’t like it.” Her voice breaks at the end. “I don’t understand why you guys are doing this!” Her eyes well with tears and she tries valiantly to blink them back, looking for all the world like she did when she was five. Despite all her sass and bitchiness, she’s still my baby.

  I sigh and reach for her hand. “I’m sorry, Chloe. This is why your dad and I wanted to wait and talk to you guys together.”

  But she cringes away from me and shakes her head again. “This isn’t happening,” she says softly. “Oh my God, Caden will die.”

  “Please don’t say anything to your brother. We’ll have a family sit-down. Let us tell him then.”

  “So you and Daddy have each other, and I can’t even have Caden? What if I want to talk to him about it? He’s the only one who could possibly understand how I feel about this!”

  “Do you want to upset him?” I flare. “Are you really that selfish?”

  “Oh, you want to talk about selfish!” she spits. “What’s selfish is parents who think it’s okay to be divorced the whole time their kids are growing up and then get back together! That’s what’s selfish, Mom, if you really want to know.”

  Before I can recover from the shock of her words, she turns on her heel and stomps out of the kitchen and up the stairs. When she slams her bedroom door the entire house shakes, and I clench my fists and stand perfectly still so I don’t scream the place down, which is exactly what I want to do.

  Immediately I text Grady. Chloe found those pics you sent me. She knows. Just got in a huge fight.

  —Shit.

  —She’s really mad at me. She threatened to call you.

  —She’s calling now.

  The screen goes silent and from the other side of the house I hear the hysterical rise and fall of Chloe’s voice, interspersed with muffled weeping, as she talks to Grady. It lasts a long time while I wait, and then another text chirps.

  —Be there in a few.

  Caden is in his room, and as usual when Chloe and I are battling it out he stays put when he hears the stomping an
d slamming. He tends to tune us out, so he still has no clue what’s going on. Although if either of our children will support us in this, it’s my sweet boy.

  But what if he doesn’t? What if he freaks out like Chloe did? What if he thinks we’re selfish for what we’re doing?

  What if both our children, who are a big part of the reason we want to be together, never forgive us for this?

  * * * *

  When Grady arrives, I’m standing in the kitchen with two unfrosted cake layers cooling on the counter, fighting the urge to pour a glass of wine. I tell myself that if he can’t use any liquid courage to get him through this uncomfortable conversation, I shouldn’t, either. Best to just get it done and over with so we can move past it.

  The only way out is through. I have no idea who said it first, but the words give me strength as I turn to Grady and take further comfort in the broad plane of his chest.

  “She hates me,” I sob into his shirt.

  He presses his lips to the top of my head and holds me tight. “She doesn’t hate you. She’s confused and she feels betrayed. But she doesn’t hate you, Cass.”

  “We just had the best night, too. She talked to me. She called me Mommy. And now she’s never going to speak to me again.”

  “Shhh, stop. It’s okay. Really, it’s going to be fine.” He squeezes me tightly.

  When I squeeze back he asks, “They both in their rooms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pour yourself a glass of wine and I’ll go round them up.”

  “No, I shouldn’t—”

  “Hey.” He tips my chin up and looks me in the eyes. “You’re a bundle of nerves. If you don’t want to have a glass of wine, don’t. But don’t not do it because of me.”

  “Okay,” I whisper, grateful that he doesn’t mind, because I would surely welcome something to help me calm down.

  “I love you,” he vows, pressing his lips to mine. It’s a sweet kiss, the kind of kiss meant to reassure me. And it works. He heads upstairs and I pour myself a glass of pinot grigio and take a swallow, letting the cool, crisp wine flow over my tongue.