Family Interrupted (10 page)

“Pole-axed! You are more than good. You’re great.” Impulsively, I hugged her.

“Thanks.” She took my hand and looked at the next singer to take the stage. “One of these days,” she said, “I’m gonna get to Nashville. One of these days...”

I believed her then, and I still did now.

After my tough day at the cemetery, I hit the sack, thinking about Colleen on stage with her knockout body and genuine smile. Since meeting her, I’d spent every Wednesday and Saturday evening at the Roadhouse Café with her and some new friends, and I’d gotten to know Colleen’s smiles. Their warmth calmed me now, and I slept.

Reality surged with a bucket of ice water the next morning at work. Colleen showed up in huge dark glasses that couldn’t hide the swollen cheek, the purple bruises.

“Wha...?”

She turned away before I could finish. “I’m too old to make up tall tales about walking into a door or falling down the stairs. Daddy got into one of his drunks last night. As mean as a wolverine, he was. There’s no dealing with him when he’s like that.” Still avoiding my eyes, she added, “Go start your day, city boy, and don’t forget to clock in.”

But I couldn’t focus on anything except her puffy face. I imagined big fists battering her and felt steam rising under my skin, my own hands clenched at my sides. I’d never met her old man, but if he’d been there, I would have busted his head open and worried about assault charges later.

“You can’t go back home,” I said.

She twirled to me. “What are you sayin’? I’m not spending one red cent on a motel. Besides, he’ll sleep it off all day. I’ll be fine tonight.”

“What about tomorrow? And next week? It’s no way to live, Colleen, not for anyone, but especially not for you.” My thoughts were twirling faster than Colleen had just done, and my mouth began working overtime too. “You could stay at my place if you want. It’s only one step better than a dump, but at least it’s sort of clean, and you’d be safe. I’d take the old couch in the living room; you can have the bedroom.”

She didn’t seem to hear me. “What did you mean,
especially
not for me?”

Other employees were clocking in, chattering, milling about. Not a great time or place for this conversation, but what choice did I have? I stepped closer to her and squeezed her hand.

“I think you’re great, Colleen. Special. You deserve a whole lot better than being black-and-blue. I-I never saw a woman with a beat up face before. I promise you’d be safe living at my place.”

I meant every word, and she must have believed me because, with a quick nod, she said, “Thanks, Ian. I’ll...I’ll think about it.”

On Tuesday, she drove to the refinery with a suitcase in her trunk and cartons on the back seat. Seemed I’d gotten myself a roommate. That’s exactly what I told my dad when he called me that afternoon wanting to meet me for dinner. I had to turn him down and could tell he was real disappointed.

“Next week,” I said. “Promise.”

“Why did you take on a roommate? If you’re short on cash, I can—”

Love that man. “Thanks for the offer, Dad, but I can pay the rent. No problem. Just helping someone out. A friend from work who needs a place to live.”

“Well, he’s lucky to have you in his corner.”

I didn’t correct his impression about my friend’s gender. Didn’t want him to read too much into it or get a hundred phone calls checking up on my “girlfriend.” Especially when I didn’t know how long Colleen would stay with me. But two weeks later, Colleen and I were living together in every sense of the word.

CLAIRE

I took Monday and Tuesday off from work. I needed some alone time after Kayla’s memorial, time to hold her close and understand that an entire year had gone by. I wanted privacy in order to browse the family photo albums at my own pace and work on art projects during daylight hours. Jack wasn’t too happy about me being gone from the office and not because I’d fall behind with customers. I was challenging his notion that being busy was the best defense against crying.

I’d held my ground, however, and joined him for a quick breakfast while still in my pajamas and robe.

“You’d better not spend the day like that,” he said, a line creasing his forehead. “Don’t go back to bed.”

“I won’t.” But I was tempted. The man knew me well. “I don’t usually wear bed clothes in the studio.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“You’ll have to trust me.”
No, he shouldn’t. I cost him his daughter. My daughter.

Those blue eyes of his stared at me without wavering. “I trust you to try.” Then his lips covered mine with a hunger that spoke more of concern than passion. As he left the kitchen, he turned in the doorway. “Why don’t you get your hair done? That should pick up your spirits.”

He must have read my “are you crazy” expression correctly. “Okay, okay,” he added, “it would pick up
my
spirits.”

“You’ll be disappointed. The shop’s closed on Mondays.”

He shrugged. “Well, there’s always tomorrow. I’ll call you later.” The door slammed behind him, leaving me with the quiet I’d wanted, the solitude I craved to peruse our photos. Jack would have told me to put the albums away.

First, I poured myself another cup of coffee and reached for the pile of untouched newspapers. Okay, so maybe I also needed a delaying tactic to psych myself up. I grabbed the Sunday edition, and by habit, I started with the Home and Garden section. The
For Sale
listings were interspersed with half-page ads by developers and builders. I nodded with satisfaction when I saw Barnes Construction represented in the various subdivisions with a couple of models pictured. Jack was being aggressive with his “it takes money to make money” approach.

Fifteen minutes later, as I was ready to fold the Community News section, my eye caught a display ad labeled
Volunteers Wanted.
Like I had time to volunteer for anything? But there it was, a listing for West Side Hospital:

Pediatrics Department is looking for volunteers to visit young patients during the day. Play games, read stories, draw pictures. Weekly commitment. Call...

West Side Hospital. Kayla’s hospital. My heart pounded, and my breath caught in my throat as I tasted the idea. I could do it. I could help the kids. Hadn’t I helped Maddy? Kayla had never left the ICU, so the pediatric floor wouldn’t bring back memories. I paced and wrung my hands, my thoughts crashing into one another. Jack’s reaction. My mom’s and sister’s too. The time element. But in the end, I thought Kayla would approve. Definitely. My daughter had a big heart. She’d hate knowing that sick children were alone all day lying in a hospital bed while their parents couldn’t be with them. For Kayla. I’d do this for Kayla.

With shaking hands, I picked up the phone and made an appointment with Mrs. Elena Garcia, the director of volunteers. I wouldn’t mention it to Jack until after my interview.

The family pictures would wait. An hour later, I was in the studio, sculpting again. The clay soothed me. I hadn’t really painted all year, but I wasn’t worrying about it. In the meantime, dozens of Kayla statues were keeping me company.

#

After saying goodbye to Jack the next morning, I refilled my coffee cup, took a deep breath, and opened the door of a bottom cabinet. I reached for my handy stash of photo albums as stealthily as an alcoholic with a hidden stash of bottles. With Jack not around, I had no fear of getting caught and suffering one of his rants. I sat at the kitchen table and opened a page at random. There was Kayla. Seven years old, arms wide, face tilted up and alight with joy—running toward me. So alive! Alive and well. I remembered taking that shot. I remembered taking hundreds of shots.

Sipping from my mug, I turned pages and stared at Ian, Kayla, Jack, and myself during that year. I saw my mom and dad, then Judy and Charles with their boys. Everyone happy, everyone busy. When I closed that book, I opened the next and the next until finally, I held the last album. I studied every picture until my eyes burned, until I reached the final shots. Kayla at twelve. She would always be twelve, an unfinished story, always a girl with secrets.

The painting! I hadn’t thought about it since I’d left school, but now it called to me. I wanted it. I wanted my
Girl with Secrets
here, at home with me. Now where had I put Colombo’s contact card? I riffled through my purse, my wallet...found it. And punched in his office number.

“Clara! Wonderful, wonderful. How good to hear from you. You have caught your breath, no? And now you will return. To study. To paint. To do what you are meant to do.”

As ebullient as ever. But clueless. I could never study with him again. So why did I feel like crying?

“I’m sorry, Professor. But no, I’m not coming back. I just want to pick up my work. You remember...it’s that portrait o-of my daughter.” I’d started out strong, but now I could hear my voice tremble, matching the tremble in my body. “So, when should I stop by?”

Silence. Then, “Clara, think again. Come back to class. Your easel is waiting. I am waiting to see more of you and how your work develops.”

“You don’t know how it is...I’m sorry. I just can’t. So, about the painting. When can—”

He cut me off. “Then I’m sorry, too, Clara. It isn’t here. It was a beautiful portrait, and it now has a new home. I knew it would sell. Others see what I see on the canvas.”

My brain froze. Fortunately my tongue still worked. “Wait, wait. Let me understand. You sold it? You sold
Girl with Secrets?
But I never said you could. It can’t be legal. Get it back!”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. It’s paid for. I left it showcased in the
galleria
and last week, gone! Thirty-eight hundred dollars. You’re an unknown artist, Clara. A sale should make you proud. Your commission is being mailed from the college, all but ten percent.”

I tasted vomit. “You had no right. I don’t care about the money. The portrait was mine!”

“Was. Was. Was. In the past tense, no? So you will paint another. Future tense, yes?”

I wasn’t born yesterday. The guy was a conniver, a manipulator. “If this is some kind of joke...a scheme to get me...”

“Thirty-eight hundred dollars is not a joke.” Click.

He’d hung up. On me! The man had gall. Nerve. I wanted to kill him. Jack—I had to tell Jack. He’d been annoyed at me this morning, but so what? I called him and exploded into the phone.

“Want me to get our lawyer in on this?” he asked.

“Definitely. A lawyer will scare them into retrieving the picture.”

“Not if it’s been sold on the up-and-up. University policy or something. And not unless the buyer is willing to return it.”

“And do you know what else that man said to me at the end?”

“What?”

“‘Paint another one.’ As if I could just whip up a piece. Whip up another portrait of...of Kayla.”

I heard him breathing, felt him thinking.

“You and I finally agree on something,” said Jack. “It’s a lousy idea. Don’t do it.”

I disconnected and slowly replaced the phone in its cradle. The photo albums remained arrayed on the table, the last one still open to shots of Kayla. My fingers brushed across the pages with reverence.

Accept it, Claire. Keep her in your heart and find peace.
But when I finally closed the back cover, my hand lingered.
No goodbyes! I couldn’t let her go. Not yet, not yet.
I grasped the book tightly then abruptly opened it again, this time scanning every photo of Kayla with a critical eye. I pulled the best pictures from their sleeves.

Why must Kayla’s story end? Why must she always be twelve? The hell with Colombo! The hell with Jack....

I grabbed a pen, a bunch of colored pencils, and reached for a pad of paper. I didn’t pause, think, or worry. My body tingled at the possibilities. Colombo thought I had talent, so who better to capture my young daughter as she matured? Police artists did it all the time. I could bring Kayla to life—for the second time.

Sketches. Sketches came first.

Kayla at fourteen:
pierced earrings, baby fat all gone and cheekbones visible, hair in ponytail and out of the way...still playing soccer...some breast development...

At fifteen:
Was she still playing soccer? Yes. A French braid would work. I turned the page and continued drawing....

At sixteen:
eyelids half closed...ah, my girl had big secrets again...and multiple piercings. Spiked hair. A rebel? Oh, please no tats.... Would she still confide in me? My chest hurt.

At seventeen:
hair longer, more flattering. Her brown eyes dark, mysterious. Maybe a boyfriend?

One drawing followed another, each one building upon the last. I added details and saw Kayla emerge as the young woman she might have become. I arranged the pictures neatly on the table, one next to the other, each one visible. The big wall clock hummed in the background as the final portrait appeared:

Kayla at eighteen.
The lopsided grin with the tiny dimple alongside it just like Grandpa Dave’s. Straight nose. Hair a bit darker and shorter, cropped behind the ears... My pencil kept gliding, filling in, a line here, a shading there....

Finally, my arm dropped to my side, the pencil hitting the floor as I stared at the final portrait. Stared until my eyes ached.

Ian. It was Ian who looked back at me.

My son. My beautiful boy. A prickling sensation traveled through my body all the way to my fingertips, and with my heart racing, I picked up the phone.

#

Jack arrived home at his usual time. I was anxious about the sketch, anxious about the call to Ian. My nerves were stretched not because I wanted Jack’s approval but because I didn’t understand what was happening to me. Jack would know. He always sensed the inside of a person. Colombo said I had a heart that sees, but he was wrong about that. I noted the outside details most of the time.

Jack’s broad smile needed no words of explanation when he first saw the drawing. “Exactly right! Ian could step right off that page.”

“Thanks, but...but I thought I was going to draw Kayla, and out came Ian. A-a bad feeling came over me, which I know sounds dumb, but I called Ian immediately. Just to make sure he was all right.”