Family Interrupted (23 page)

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, shuffleboard 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.

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.

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.

“In the tote bag, and besides, Ian knows everything.”

With those last words, she got into the car, pulled away from the curb, and headed out of the neighborhood with a fine sense of direction.

I, on the other hand, was not so fine.

#

“Just get yourself home, Jack. We have an emergency that requires both of us to handle, and I’m not kidding.”

“Is the house on fire?”

“No.”

“Then all else can wait. I’m busy.”

“Don’t you dare speak down to me like that. After what went on between us this weekend and your attitude earlier this morning, do you think I’d call you without a good reason? This involves Ian.”

“Ian? Why didn’t you say so? Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll take care of it.”

Just like a man. Tackle and stomp a problem. “Absolutely not. This...this situation requires a mother and a father. You’ve got to trust me and see for yourself.” I slipped the receiver into the cradle. Knowing Jack as long as I had and knowing the distance between home and office, I figured he’d be here in fifteen minutes.

It took him twelve. He stormed into the kitchen after a preemptive knock. I was surprised but gratified he’d bothered with that much, a subtle acknowledgement that I was entitled to privacy. Or a subtle reinforcement of our new marital status.