Mother (15 page)

Next to God, Thy Parents

A week had passed; it was Monday again. Jason had left for work without waking her and, when Claire got up, the sun was high in the sky - it was after nine. It was the first morning she didn’t feel a trace of dizziness. Aside from being very tired, she felt great.

Dressed in jeans and her favorite old T-shirt that said,
I stayed in the Dungeon Room at The Candle Bay Hotel
, she paused, standing before the wooden jewelry box on her dresser. She smoothed a hand over its polished surface, then opened it. The tinkling music began as the little ballerina, in arabesque position, began to whirl. “Tim said I could tell you anything I wanted,” Claire whispered to the tiny dancer. It had been years since she’d confided in her, but she was surprised how naturally it came back. She didn’t feel silly at all. “I think things are looking up,” she said. “I think Jason and I are going to be very happy again soon.” She saw herself reflected in the small mirror behind the ballerina, smiled, and closed the lid.

 
Padding into the kitchen in search of caffeine and sustenance, she smelled coffee and silently blessed Jason as she poured a cup. She took it to the kitchen table, opened her Mac, and perused the morning headlines, then Googled rentals in the vicinity. There were quite a few vacation homes that were pricey by the week, but might be reasonable by the month. Most of the year-round homes in town were on the expensive side, but not out of the question. Not if they saved.

We
will
get out of here, and soon,
she promised as she checked her email.
A new client!
Actually an old client from her days at IMRU Designs, was asking if she might have time to design a new website for his bookkeeping chain. “Might have time?” she asked the air. “Might? I think I can squeeze you in!”
 

Finishing her coffee, she rose and grabbed the pill organizer from the drawer. She took it to the sink, drew a glass of water then opened a compartment and tilted her head back, letting the vitamins fall into her mouth.
 

Her phone rang. It was Dr. Lightfoot, back in Berkeley.

“Mrs. Holbrook,” came her ob-gyn’s deep, friendly voice. “How are you doing?”

“Pretty good.”

He laughed. “Care to be a little more specific?”

Claire sighed. “All right, you win. I’m still having minor dizzy spells and a little queasiness. Nothing I can’t handle. Oh, and I’m
very
tired. All the time. I mean, totally fatigued. It’s ridiculous.”

He chuckled. “Perfectly normal. But have you had any more fainting episodes?”

Claire’s cheeks burned. She’d been humiliated when she’d told the doctor that one moment she was making the bed and the next, she was sprawled on the rug. She almost said no, but knew Lightfoot would see through her. “Yes,” she admitted. “Once more, but it was a soft landing. I just stood up too fast.”
 

“It’s probably just the hypotension, then. But I don’t want you to take chances.” He cleared his throat. “Keep snacks around at all times. Healthy snacks. The dizziness and morning sickness should start diminishing as you enter the second trimester. Less than a month to go. I want you to tell your new doctor about the fainting. And the exhaustion.”

“My new doctor? You’ve found someone for me?”

“Yes, an excellent obstetrician in Snapdragon. Her name is Lara Putnam, and she’s a Stanford grad, over six years of experience in obstetrics.”

“That’s wonderful.” Claire liked the idea of a female doctor.

“I took the liberty of contacting her. I hope that’s all right.”

“More than all right. Thank you!”

“You can call her office and make an appointment. I told her your pregnancy is higher risk than average and we don’t want to take any chances. She’ll see you right away.” He gave her the number.

“I’ll call now.”

“It was great having you, Claire, and I hope your move proves to be a good one. I think you’ll like Lara Putnam, but if not, call me and we’ll find someone else.”
 

Hanging up, she punched in Putnam’s number and made an appointment for Thursday. After the call, she inspected herself in the bathroom mirror. Turning to the side, she saw no evidence of a bump, but her abdomen felt tighter, firmer. She smiled. Her petite breasts had grown fuller; she’d be shopping for a new bra soon.

She’d never wanted children - she’d just never been interested - but now that she was pregnant, she was excited. She patted her belly. “I’ll be a good mother to you. I won’t try to control everything you do or think. I won’t remove your door, either.” She wondered if the baby was a boy or a girl. She’d find out soon and they could start thinking about names.
And shopping for baby stuff.

She thought of Mr. Anton, her favorite childhood toy. She wanted her own child to have the teddy bear. For the first time in her life, Claire was glad her mother never threw anything out.
But I wonder if she has any idea where he’s stashed.
She had a feeling she would. Despite the utter chaos Priscilla Martin lived in, there seemed to be some kind of order to things, if only in her own head. Claire made a mental note to ask about the bear.
 

Her stomach growled and she headed for the kitchen, smiling. Jason’s job was going well, she’d acquired a new client -
that makes four!
- and she was growing more and more excited about becoming a mother.
Things really are turning around for us.

Her smile collapsed when she opened the cupboard. On the shelves were canned items she knew they hadn’t purchased.
It’s the expired vegetables and soups we threw out!
She took one from the shelf and checked: Expiration date September, 2004. Yes, these were the same ones.
Mother’s been in the apartment.
Angry heat flared.
She went through the garbage and brought the cans back!
The open bag of weevil-infested flour was back on the shelf, too. Claire looked around, wondering what else her mother had rummaged through.
It
is
her house,
said a voice in the back of Claire’s mind, but she shoved it aside.
No! This is an invasion of our privacy. It’s just like the old days.
She snagged two cans off the shelf, slammed the cupboard shut, and left the apartment, stalking toward the house.
 

“Phyllis, I want all the yard sale signs to match.” Prissy Martin spoke in harsh nasal tones. “You need to use the same colors as the rest of us.”

“Aida’s doesn’t match.” Phyllis’ plastic hoop earrings jittered like convulsing bluebirds as she stabbed a finger at Aida’s sign.

“Of course it does. ‘Yard’ is in red, and ‘Sale’ is in blue. Those are the colors we decided on, Phyllis - red, white, and blue. You can use them in any order you choose, but you cannot use brown! It’s vulgar! We want to
attract
people, not repel them.”

Aida nodded agreement. “Brown is the color of poop.”

Clucking her tongue, Prissy shot Aida a disgusted look.

Babs Vandercooth kept her mouth shut. She didn’t care one way or another what color the signs were. It was simply easier to humor Prissy - or remain silent - than to argue.

“Fine,” said Phyllis, clearly not fine at all.

Babs heard the back door open and slam shut, hard.
 

“Mother!” Claire’s voice sliced through the air like a serrated blade.
 

Aida and Phyllis exchanged wide-eyed glances.

Prissy’s false, twinkling smile faltered as she rose from her chair. “Excuse me, ladies.” But she wasn’t quick enough. Claire barged in, thrusting canned goods in Prissy’s face. “What are these, Mother?” Her voice trembled with controlled rage.

Babs smiled to herself, glad to see Claire wasn’t allowing Prissy to walk on her.

“Why, they’re beets and corn, dear,” said Prissy.
 

“No,” said Claire. “What I mean is, what are they doing in the apartment? We threw them out.” She turned the can over and pointed. “Do you see this? These expired more than a decade ago. We will
not
eat-”

“Keep your voice down, dear,” said Prissy. “Let’s go into the kitchen, shall we? As you can see, I have company.”

Claire didn’t acknowledge the women sitting around the table as she let Prissy herd her from the room.

“You went through our garbage
…
” Claire’s voice was clipped off as the door closed.

“Well,” Phyllis gloated. “Apparently there’s trouble in paradise.”

Aida nodded. “Prissy says her children were always ungrateful.”

Babs didn’t say a word. She knew better. Neither Phyllis nor Aida were to be trusted with the truth. Prissy Martin’s aversion to throwing things out was pathological. She cracked a smile, wondering what - if anything - Prissy would part with at this year’s yard sale.
 

Phyllis, her spine ramrod straight, took a dainty sip of tea, her bangle bracelets chattering, as Aida helped herself to what must have been her fifth pumpkin cookie.
 

Babs smelled the
Opium
before Prissy re-entered the room. “Sorry about that, ladies.” She took her seat, giving them a helpless look and shaking her head sadly. “Kids these days. They just don’t understand how quickly things can change. Just like
that
,” Prissy snapped her fingers, “the economy could collapse and we could
all
be back to plowing our own gardens for survival!”

Aida and Phyllis made sympathetic noises. Babs smiled gently at the nonsense and hoped she and Claire would be able to get together soon.

Prissy went on. “And considering the horse’s ass we have in the White House now, I think that day may come sooner rather than later!” She paused. “I hope some day those kids will come to appreciate what I’ve done for them.”  

Phyllis and Aida nodded and continued coloring their signs as Pris stroked her hair necklace, a habit that betrayed anxiety.
 

Babs Vandercooth shuddered, then returned to her own sign. Claire and her husband had hit very hard times, indeed, to live under Prissy’s totalitarian rule. She knew all too well what a toll that could take.
 

Jason Holbrook pulled into the driveway after work, a smile on his face, and a single red rose wrapped in white tissue lying on the passenger seat. While he would always miss flying, he took a good deal of satisfaction in teaching - more than he’d ever expected. In addition, the promise of a small raise on his first month’s anniversary - with more to follow - and the fact that he honestly liked his boss, Paul Schuyler, made him feel pretty good about things.
 

Paul wasn’t rated for the big jets, but often piloted private 24-seaters between Snapdragon and Reno or Las Vegas for wedding parties and other private events. He also owned a Stearman-PT17, a bright yellow biplane that he poured his heart and soul into. He flew it in the biannual Snapdragon Air Show, doing flips and turns and other aerobatics. As much as Jason loved flying, he couldn’t imagine wanting to do loop-de-loops in the sky. But he admired Paul’s enthusiasm.

He glanced at the main house, happy to see no sign of Prissy, then got out, grabbed the rose and a big brown sack from Wokamundo - Asian food Paul guaranteed to be delicious, despite the name. Claire was a fiend for Chinese food, and he’d chosen their favorites: kung pao chicken, chow mein, cream cheese wontons, and spicy broccoli beef. The bag smelled like heaven as he trotted up the stairs to the apartment.

The door was locked. “Lucy, I’m home!” he called, in his best Ricky Ricardo, which wasn’t good at all. A moment passed then he heard the lock being turned and Claire opened the door. She was dressed in black sweats and looked tired and annoyed.
 

“Why’s it locked?”

She ignored his question and stepped back to let him pass. “One remark about how I look and you’re sleeping in the doghouse.”

Deciding against teasing her about gestational mood swings, he set the bag on the dining table. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her full lips and large green eyes looked even younger and prettier without makeup. Her skin looked fantastic - he wondered if this was the “glow” that pregnant women were supposed to have. Whatever it was, it suited her. “You look fine - and like you’ve had a very long day. Here.” He presented the rose with a little bow.

Her smile turned her back into the girl he’d married. “You always know just what I need.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him quick. “I love you. How’s Paul? It blows my mind that he’s your boss now.”
 

She had told him she remembered Paul as a kind, funny guy who always had his nose in a textbook. Claire’d had a little crush on him when she was about eight. “He’s a great guy, and he remembers you - he says they used to call you ‘Tag-Along’ because your brother had you with him half the time.”

Claire laughed. “I hope I get to see him soon.”

“He wants to get together, too.” Jason started gathering dishes while Claire put the rose in a glass of water and set it on the center of the table. “So, how was your day?”

Her tight, one-syllable laugh said it hadn’t been a good one. “Well.” She crossed her arms. “It seems Mother didn’t agree with our decision to throw out the expired vegetables.”

“What do you mean?” He pulled her chair out, then sat next to her.

From the sack, Claire lifted out white boxes with red Chinese writing on them. She opened and inspected them, sliding one toward Jason. “Apparently,” she said, digging into white rice with her chopsticks, “she found the cans we tossed.”

Jason, who could never manage chopsticks, used a fork on his broccoli beef. “What did she say about it?”

“She didn’t say anything, Jason. Instead, she took it upon herself to retrieve them from the garbage and bring them back. I found them in the cupboard this morning.” She nodded toward the door. “She’s been letting herself in. That’s why I locked it.”

Jason paused, his fork hovering between his plate and his face. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. “It won’t stop her though - she has keys. We need to get a chain-lock. At least.”

Jason was disturbed by Prissy’s invasion; he really hadn’t expected that. At the same time, he realized this was her house, and they couldn’t exactly tell her she couldn’t come in. But he agreed with his wife on this one. “Yes. I’ll pick one up at the hardware store tomorrow.” He paused. “You know this means she found the clown portraits, too.”