Family Interrupted (3 page)

“I still feel like one,” I said between sobs. “I think I always will.”

“No, no. I don’t think it works like that. It’s not forever. But in the meantime, I like having a naked zombie in my arms.”

Jabbing him, I said, “No jokes.”

“I’m just trying to—”

“I know, Jack. I know. You’re trying to pretend we’re okay.”

“What’s wrong with pretending for awhile if it works? I have to believe we’ll get there someday, that we’ll be strong again someday.”

Granted, my numbness had disappeared during our sexual encounter as I’d suspected it would. But I didn’t believe Jack and I would ever be strong again. I didn’t care about “someday,” a nebulous time in a hazy future. My heart was breaking now.

CLAIRE

Ian left at his usual time the next morning, and Jack lingered over his coffee. I could sense his concern before he spoke.

“What will you do today, Claire? I don’t want you spending it alone.”

“I’ll be fine.” I forced a smile and said, “My sister’s working, but maybe Mom will come by. Who knows? Or maybe I’ll clean the bathrooms. Or cook. What would you like for dinner?”

“You.”

“Go to work, Jack!”

He stood, headed to the kitchen door but then turned toward me. “If you can’t come with me, then go back to the university. You were happy there.”

I stood frozen. Couldn’t breathe. A heat wave preceded a hard shiver, and perspiration covered me. I almost puked. “No. No. That’s over. I’m dropping out.”

“What are you talking about? You wanted it so much.”

“Things are different now.” That was all I could manage. Could I confess that Kayla died because I flirted with my professor? Jack figured I was simply running late and ran into bad luck getting the speeding ticket. According to him, no one escapes traffic cops indefinitely, and my ticket was no big deal.

“Yeah. Life is different,” said Jack, “but you need to return to work or school. Part-time, full-time. I don’t care which. I just don’t want you hiding in the house!”

Why didn’t he leave already before...before...?

“But that’s where Kayla knows she can find me!” The crazed words burst from my soul. Jack stared, eyes wide, mouth open, his disbelief apparent before pain kicked in, before tears formed and a sob emerged. A big sob from a big man.

He collapsed back onto the chair he’d been using. “I may seem strong to you, Claire, going back to work and doing the usual chores, but you’ve seen me cry. You know the truth. I miss our little girl. I miss her so much I’m barely hanging on myself.” His whispered confession floated in the air between us. “I love you, Claire, and I’m worried about you and simply want to help. But I guess I don’t know how.”

Of course he loved me. After twenty-three years together, I’d know if he didn’t. I also knew that Jack couldn’t help me harness my grief.

“You’re off the hook,” I said. “Dealing and healing are up to me, not you.” No fairy godmothers, no magic wands. That job would be mine, and I didn’t have a clue.

#

Jack finally left, but not before thrusting one of my drawing pads and pencils at me and demanding, “Draw something.”

Mr. Psychologist. To accommodate him and get him out of the house faster, I drew a circle.

“Oh, c’mon, Claire. You can do better.”

I added the simple features of the iconic smiley face. “Done,” I said.

“Anyone can draw that,” he mumbled as he finally headed out the back door toward the garage.

That was my point. I didn’t want to be pushed and prodded. I didn’t know how I felt about my “talent” now. I’d give it all up in a heartbeat to get my daughter back. Not even worth a discussion. I’d already learned at the hospital that bargaining with God and doctors didn’t work. Begging didn’t either. Maybe they were too used to desperate parents.

I opened the freezer and took out a whole chicken, thinking about a honey-mustard recipe the guys loved.
See Jack? No need to worry. I’m functioning.
After checking for the other ingredients—the spices and frozen orange juice—I sat down at the table again. Now what?

The simple sketch stared back at me. “Stop being so damn happy,” I ordered before sticking out my tongue. I grabbed my pencil and changed the icon’s smile to a frown. “That’s better. Let’s keep it real, my friend.”

I pushed the drawing aside in favor of a fresh page in my art tablet. “And reality would be a police report calling Kayla’s death an accident. According to them, the sun blinded the driver as she turned the corner—like this.” I was talking to a cartoon and didn’t care.

My pencil flew back and forth, quickly filling in the scene as I imagined it. I sketched the woman with her eyes closed. We’d been told she’d blinked and sneezed several times, like an allergic reaction.

I turned to another clean page. “And there’s Kayla,” I explained, depicting my daughter running for the football Ian had thrown, her long hair bouncing on her shoulders. I drew another scene where she grinned triumphantly at her brother as she caught the ball. But then, in my mind’s eye, she continued backward into the street...and I...I...

“No, no. Stop!” I threw the pencil across the room, clutched my stomach, my insides on fire. For the first time in forty-five years, imagination had become my enemy, torturing me with Kayla’s last happy moments.

Was it wrong to have daydreams about choking the driver? Of grabbing her shoulders and shaking her to the ground? I imagined myself screaming at her.
Do you understand what you’ve done? Do you understand that Kayla wasn’t simply a twelve-and-a-half-year-old girl going on thirteen? She was my beautiful, loving, delightful child, filled with dreams and laughter and secrets. And a soccer star! Passionate about the game and her team. Can you understand how precious she was—and is—to her father and me?

In a daze, I saw my hands fisted on outstretched arms.

Except for her name, I didn’t know the driver, and she didn’t know me. I guess it was better that way.

#

I crept to the family room, curled up on the couch, and fell asleep. Making art had never been so exhausting. Neither had getting through each day. Napping had become a regular activity since the funeral, but I hadn’t mentioned that to Jack either. When I awoke, my stomach growled, reminding me to eat or at least try. I studied the contents of the fridge. Maybe I could manage some cottage cheese with a few grapes. After mixing the items, I took my bowl to the patio and plopped into a chair.

The heat of summer had started to wane, but the sun was as bright as ever. I moved into the shade. From this vantage point, I could see the entire length of the garage and my art studio behind it. Jack had built this workroom for me several years ago, when my dreams of becoming a studio artist could no longer wait, and my efforts had cluttered up half our bedroom. He’d done a wonderful job, providing the place with full electricity and plumbing. The studio was air-conditioned and had a slop sink. My husband hadn’t stinted on anything. The poor guy wanted a happy wife but also wanted me to view art as a hobby. I guess he figured drawing at home would reinforce that idea. The more I’d painted, however, the more I wanted classes.

I hadn’t been inside the studio since Kayla died, but I could picture it clearly, especially the area reserved for the kids, an unexpected but beautiful bonus. Right from the beginning, Kayla and her friends wanted to know what I was doing in there. Ian made some solo appearances too. So, instead of cautioning, “don’t touch, don’t touch,” I bought a couple of child-sized easels, a table, chairs, and all kinds of arts and craft supplies. And I invited the children in. They called it “making art.”

Sweet memories could kill, especially when unexpected. I rubbed the tears from my face, surprised to find them there. A headache threatened too. How had a simple lunch become an emotional crisis? I took a deep breath, then another, until I regained a sense of calm. No more fainting, no more sleeping all day. I needed to tell Jack I’d accomplished
something
when he came home that night.

I headed to the studio determined to “make art” in some way. Just one item. Even starting one project would do. And no more crying. I would not cry for at least an hour, a worthy goal.

But as soon as I opened the door, memories sucked me in. Memories tinged with the aroma of paints and turpentine. Clay and chalk. Turning on the light, I saw a dozen kids’ work samples on the cork walls. My glance zoomed to Kayla’s offering, and I forced my tears back.

Kayla had imagination and loved bold colors. But the artistic gene I’d gotten from my own mom had passed her by. No matter. She’d had a fun time with her projects, especially when her friends joined her. Jack insisted that Kayla simply loved being with me. The studio had become an extension of her little-girl years when we’d done “arts and crats” together at the kitchen table.

It was Ian who’d inherited the talent. But of course, he never pursued it. He never followed through on anything. How many times had I nagged him to clean his room or take out the garbage? Did he ever take responsibility? No, not even with his sister. A young girl like Kayla shouldn’t be left alone. Sometimes she had to be picked up after soccer practice. Reluctantly, he’d do it. In reality, he only wanted to hang out with his friends. If he weren’t an A student on an academic fast track, he’d have a lot more to answer for.

My head started to throb, and I cautioned myself not to think too much.

I opened a tin of clay and extracted a large handful. At the very least, I’d enjoy kneading it or rolling it. Punching it sounded fine too. After wetting the mound, my fingers pressed hard again and again, and soon I was back in the zone, pushing and pulling, letting my hands lead the way. Sometimes my hands saw more clearly than my eyes; without my sense of touch, I’d be half-blind. My thoughts started to wander. Had I imagined my days at the university? If wishing could make it so, Kayla would be alive.

Kayla...she seemed to be coming alive right in front of me, on the table. I became more focused as the statue took shape. Her head—chin up, eyes wide open, a playful grin. With a stylus, I etched in her long hair. I added clay to mold her body, clothed with the suggestion of her soccer uniform, her number in front. Time lost all meaning until my neck and back stiffened up, and I had to stretch.

I stepped away from the table and studied my work. My daughter smiled back at me, and I grinned at her...before the tears rolled. Why had I lingered with Colombo that day? Why hadn’t I paid attention to the clock? If only I’d gotten home on time. If only that driver had been thirty seconds sooner or thirty seconds later. Was that too much to ask?
Please, God, I want my baby back, oh, how I want my baby back with me.

I kissed the statue and covered it with a damp cloth. A day’s work. For better or worse, I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything.

#

The rise and fall of children’s voices floated on the air as I stepped outside the studio. I glanced at my watch and automatically headed toward the driveway where I could see the kids clamber from the school bus. Walking between the studio and the driveway had been a familiar route; waving at the children and looking for Kayla, a familiar afternoon routine. But I hadn’t done either in two months. My feet were rooted as I stared at each child, whispering each name as the group filed by.

A couple of the kids waved to me. I pasted a smile on my face and lifted my arm in return. One girl called, “Hey, Miss Claire.” Petite Madison Conroy, Anne’s daughter and Kayla’s best friend, bounded over, offering a hug so tight I’d be bruised by morning.

“Hey, Maddy.” I tried to keep my faux smile bright.

The girl stepped back. Her mouth quivered, and I knew she sensed the truth. “Were you making art today?” She pointed toward the studio, a place she knew well.

I couldn’t tell her about the clay. Too painful for us both. “Oh, I just played around, a little of this and that,” I said. “It’s actually my first day in there.”

Her head bobbed. “I bet that was hard, like my first day back at school. Mama said I had to try. So at least now, when I write to her, I can tell Kayla you’re trying too. She’ll want to know.”

Her information had come so fast, I could barely keep up, but the last part—about the writing—that was the moment my heart ka-boomed. Evidently Jack and I weren’t the only ones on the street trying to grapple with reality.

“Madison...?” I drew out her name, my hand resting on her shoulder. “Are you writing to Kayla?”

“Every night before bed.” She looked at me and took a step back. “Isn’t that okay? Mama said I could. In a notebook.”

My breath came shallow and short; another waterfall threatened. I wanted to run inside and curl up on the couch, but this loving, beautiful girl needed me to be strong. Surely, I could fake it for another minute. I leaned down until we were on eye level.

“I think it’s more than okay. It’s wonderful. You know what? I talk to Kayla all the time myself. So keep on writing. And if you want to make some art...?” I waved my arm toward the backyard. “You know where the studio is.”

“With you?”

Me? Oh, sweetheart. You don’t know what you’re asking.
The kid had blindsided me. Maddy and I making art without Kayla? I couldn’t do it.

“Bring your mom,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

“Way cool!” She high-fived me, and I watched her stride away. I ran up the driveway, opened the back door, and fell onto a kitchen chair. Then I wept.

#

Afterwards, totally exhausted, I threw a frozen lasagna into the oven. No time for the honey-mustard chicken that took several hours to roast. I set three places at the table. If Ian had come directly home from school, he was probably in his room doing homework mixed with a few computer games. On the other hand, if he’d decided to go to his friend Danny’s, then I’d get a call telling me he’d be having dinner there. I couldn’t blame him for trying to escape.

“Hey, Mom?”

I whirled toward the sound of Ian’s voice. “Oh! You scared me. I guess I was lost in thought.” He stood in the entryway from the hall, and I was glad to see him. I’d sensed something wasn’t right between us but kept hoping my imagination was working overtime. Maybe we’d have a quiet conversation now and iron it out.