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C
HAPTER
45

T
he following week evolved into a flurry of lawyer and realtor meetings, offers and counteroffers between all involved parties. Michael and Paul attempted a re-trade with Claire for less money, while Jack encouraged them not to play cheap in the face of what could be. His client was, after all, sparing Michael weeks with the forensic accountants, and far worse. Their lawyers relented after expensive hours of posturing and Jack’s added, nonnegotiable provision that Michael would also be responsible for all legal fees. The initial wire transfer for the house arrived shortly thereafter. The remaining funds would follow over the next two weeks, during which time all other formal joint custody, property, and financial matters would be formalized. Michael’s team of lawyers notified them that the 3.2 million for the pension had been placed in an escrow account, and that they were in meetings with Mac Kessler. On the real estate front, the house in North Country Club had attracted another bidder, forcing Claire into an unanticipated full-price offer—but thus sealing that deal.

And then there was Nicholas.

“I want to drive,” he’d demanded in the school parking lot the Monday after his unintended earful. His expression was urgent and he knocked on Claire’s car window until she got out and moved to the passenger seat. He had not responded to her calls and texts over the weekend. And not wishing to add tension to trauma, Claire had given her son his space.

But she studied him then as he threw the car into reverse, desperate to understand how this news had affected him. The exhaustion and stress she saw in his face recalled the early Rancho days—telegraphing his renewed angst, and confirming her worst fears.

“Dad’s kind of a mess, and I don’t really want . . . to go to the house now,” he said as he pulled out of the lot. His nervousness was undisguised.

“We’re not actually going back to the house now, honey,” she said, placing her hand on his bicep, and wishing somehow to erase the memory of what he had heard pass between his parents. “I’m sorry you had to hear what you did. That was never my intention, and—”

“Um, where
are
we going?” he interrupted. “I’m holding . . . traffic.”

She saw the cars bunch up behind them and reminded herself that he needed to concentrate on the task at hand. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Take a left at the light and I’ll show you where to go.”

Their silent drive to the cottage took just under ten minutes from school, which made what had seemed like a harried leap into new home ownership feel slightly less so. When they pulled up in front of the charming yellow house with the “Under Contract” sign on the lawn, Nicholas turned to her, perplexed. Jean, the realtor, was waiting for them on the covered front porch.

“So, you’ve obviously gathered that . . . that we’re moving ahead with the divorce,” Claire began, winging the whole speech since everything she had rehearsed had vaporized under the pressure of the moment. “No matter how badly Dad and I may have screwed things up, we’re doing what we think is best for all of us now. Our lives will be different than what we might have imagined, but . . . I guess that’s part of the journey,” she said, praying with all her might they could both find some goodness in that. “And I promise you that along the way, no one will have your best interests at heart more than I will.”

Nicholas studied his Nikes. There were a thousand thoughts and words simmering behind his pursed lips and strained façade, but Claire could see that they still weren’t ready to be spoken. She squeezed his palm reassuringly, hoping that one day those words would come. He was a teenager, plagued by uncertainty and cloaked in cool—the total adolescent dichotomy. And she would wait. “Yeah,” he finally whispered, squeezing back.

Claire pointed out the window with her free hand. “So
that,
” she said, exhaling at least a month’s worth of anxiety, “is going to be our new house.”

A light rain had begun to trickle down over the well-tended block, and mist rose into the afternoon air. Even in winter, the front yards along the street were neat and pruned. Nick’s body uncoiled and he rolled down the window, filling the car with the scent of damp concrete.

She had his attention. “I know this is sudden, Nick. But we need our own home, a place where you have your own bedroom, just like you do at our—at Dad’s.”

He cocked his head left and right out the window, seemingly taking in the picture from different perspectives. “Are we going in?” he asked after a moment.

Jean showed them into the house and gave Claire a stack of documents to sign. The closing was set for three weeks, she mentioned, before leaving them to explore. Claire led Nicholas through the family room to the kitchen and breakfast nook. The aroma of cinnamon combined with the pine floors to give the home a cozy feel. Nicholas looked out the picture window to the backyard. There was an arbor, and a cobblestone terrace surrounding a shaded garden.

“This looks . . . like you,” he said.

Claire was grateful that he didn’t seem angry she’d made such a major decision without him. But, still, she couldn’t discern any interest on his part. “And how ’bout you, buddy? What do you think?”

He looked around some more, running his hand along the cabinets, doors, and walls as he made his way to the center hall. His gait seemed shakier than usual, but it also could have been his billowy sweatpants lending the illusion of fragility. “It’s . . . cool. No upstairs?”

“No, but there’s a basement, and a great alcove attached to your room that we can make into a studio if you want.”

He followed her to the bedroom and gave the space a serious inspection—the closet, the bathroom, the photos and dolls on the bookshelves, the alcove that was presently serving as a playroom, the view from the window, which he opened—nothing escaped his scrutiny. After a good five minutes of pacing and eyebrow furrowing, his posture seemed to droop under the weight of some silent dissatisfaction.

“Nicky?” she asked nervously.

No response.

“I needed to jump on this before someone else snapped it up. Maybe we could have Chazz come out for a long weekend and—”

“No!” he shouted, tripping on the pastel flower-bouquet rug in the center of the room. His eyes looked as if they would suddenly spill buckets.

She took a step toward him, but he backed away. “What’s going on, honey? I know this is unfamiliar, and a little unexpected. I just thought that Chazz might help—”

“I told Dad. I’m done with . . . Andover. I . . . have new friends here,” he shouted even louder. “I hate this.” He tried kicking the rug back into place, but it just twisted under his foot, causing him to crumble into a heap on a bed of woven tulips.

Claire knelt down next to him. “I’m sorry, Nicky. Is it the house you hate? Or something . . . else?”

He remained quiet for some time. A cold wind blew in from the window, and he pulled his hoodie over his head. “I can’t count on . . . my brain,” he whispered from inside the fleece.

Gingerly she took this opening and walked with him through the many fears he’d been harboring, which the prospect of moving had clearly stirred up. There was the lingering fear of never measuring up to his past and to the memories of those who knew him then. There was his embarrassment over the bumpiness of his speech, the lost words and all the other things he could not remember. Being the new kid with no baseline or history made it easier to blend in, but blending in, while comforting, was not something he was used to either. And then there were all the coping skills he needed to develop for this latest shift in his routine. The challenges were epic and paralyzing.

“I was good at so much,” he said, staring up at the framed beach landscape on the wall.

She nodded, following his gaze.

“I’m not . . . good at anything anymore.”

Her heart splintered for the umpteenth time. “Oh, honey. You are. It’s just difficult to lose abilities and to remember how much better we used to be at certain things. Adults deal with this all the time. And I get that it’s harder for someone your age,” she said, while reproaching herself for throwing him into the spin cycle without so much as a warning. “But the abilities you’ve cultivated are beyond impressive, and your dad and I are so proud of you.”

Nicholas peered out from the side of the hood deliberately, like a tortoise. “What if Dad goes . . . to jail . . . for what he did?”

The comment caught Claire unprepared and she turned his chin toward her, studying him, stalling for time. His color was off and his face was taut. Anxiety about the future
and
the past—no wonder he seemed so contorted. A snapshot of Stretch Armstrong, the action doll from her childhood, flashed to mind, and she wished Nicholas could somehow see himself in the way she did: as a boy who was stretching the limits of what was possible, and not merely as being deformed and broken. She wrapped her arm around him, still searching for an answer that would lessen his strain. “Dad and your grandfather have excellent lawyers,” she tried. “If he does things right, I imagine he’ll have to pay some fines. And hopefully that will be it.” She braced for him to ask about Taylor again, but that subject did not appear to be plaguing him.

His breathing slowed. “Okay,” he said, fluffing his hair and pushing up from the floor.

She wondered how he felt about all that he had overheard in the study, but for the present, all that really mattered was that he felt safe.

“When do I have to move?”

“It should be about three weeks, honey, but we’re doing this together. And I promise to make it as easy as possible,” she said, intending to enlist Andi and Ray throughout the transition.

Nick resumed his inspection of the room.

“You can count on me, Nicky,” she said, hoping to convince him at least of that, and convince herself that she’d be able to help him salvage his confidence. Claire glanced at the collection of snow globes and Madame Alexander dolls on the shelves, and pictured a polite and optimistic girl packing up her things for her next great adventure.

“Pink?” Nicholas said, sharply turning from the alcove and fixing a scowl on her. “You expect me to live in a . . . pink bedroom ?”

It was like aspirin kicking in after a long battle with midnight. The scowl, now tipping up at the sides, was bogus and ironic. She stood up, smiling. “I share your concern,” she said, taking a Benjamin Moore color deck from her purse and handing it to him. “Pick one, kiddo. We can paint the room any shade you like.” She wanted the idea of a fresh palette to become much more than just a metaphor.

Nicholas fanned it out and considered the spectrum of choices, laughing softly as he did. It was the first time she had heard him laugh in over six months.

 

As they drove off, Claire looked over her shoulder, and framed within the soggy halo of the rear wipers, their new cottage—the last stop, Claire hoped, in their year of living precariously—receded into a light fog.

C
HAPTER
46

C
laire phoned Cora from the SFO baggage carousel. “I’m just heading to get the rental car, so I can be in the City in about half an hour. Do you want to meet for lunch at the Fairmont?”

“I’m so excited you’re here, dear, but I completely forgot about my meeting with Martha Van Deegan about the debutante committee. This quitting smoking has left me positively batty. I need to be in Pacific Heights at noon.” Her voice rang with excitement. “Isn’t that just fabulous?”

Claire hoisted her garment bag onto the cart with one hand. “Just fabulous, Mother.”
Just so fabulously Cora.
“So, what time would you like to meet? I have a cocktail party at seven thirty.”

“How about tea instead? Say two thirty?”

“Fine,” she said, thinking the trip was shaping up to be much more relaxing than she’d originally imagined. “Call my cell when you’re leaving Mrs. Van Deegan’s delightful manse, just to make sure we’re still on schedule.”

“Okay, sweetie. Toodleloo,” Cora chirped, not even asking whose cocktail party was on the docket.

Claire remembered Mrs. Van Deegen from her own deb days, and she’d likely be seeing her that evening at Letty Rusalka’s, along with enough of San Francisco’s social doyennes and their art patron husbands to knock Cora completely out of her tree with excitement—all thanks to Zibby Harrold’s graciously procured invitation. Zibby had the apartment below Letty’s, and wouldn’t hear of Claire not staying at her place and attending the party in her stead, since she had commitments in New York. Claire had met Victor and Letty Rusalka at various auctions and receptions over the years, and had always admired Victor’s impeccable eye for new artists, and Letty’s outspoken support of the arts, and she had been saddened to learn of Victor’s death the previous winter. Theirs had been a devoted and enviable marriage of over fifty years—the kind that Claire had long ago hoped she and Michael might grow into. So the chance to reconnect with the venerable Mrs. Rusalka amid her extremely notable private collection, coupled with the opportunity to spend one glorious night in Zibby’s marble and taffeta pied-à-terre before heading down to her girlhood room in Burlingame, was too good to pass up. The fact that Richard was driving in to be her escort was an added bonus.

Claire strolled out to the curb feeling unbound. The weather was overcast, but mild and warm. She tied her sweater around her shoulders and boarded the rental-car bus. Fifteen minutes later, she was in a Ford Taurus driving north on the 101, putting some much-needed physical and emotional distance between herself and Michael and the lawyers, and the draining march toward divorce. Clouds veiled the colorful row houses of Daly City, but as Claire rounded the curve that opened San Francisco to her view—a sight that never failed to take her breath away—the sun broke through, draping the glass and steel skyline in diamonds. She cruised toward the city, and away from the disarray of the previous weeks.

Off the highway, the streets rolled past her, hilly and angular and gray, and in no time, wet. A profusion of striped and floral umbrellas blossomed up outside the boutiques and cafés. At a stop sign, a man dashed in front of Claire’s car, holding a newspaper over his head with one hand and a steaming coffee cup in the other. He licked his wrist and made for cover under the awning of a gallery. As Claire drove past, she saw him fold the paper into neat fourths and begin to read as he sipped. The familiarity of the act struck her—transported her, really, to a hundred Sunday mornings in Burlingame. And instead of making the turn toward the Fairmont, she found herself heading downtown to the financial district. After a brief scuffle with traffic, she pulled over and looked up to see a grand pyramid flooded with light. Slowly the letters of the familiar insignia emerged from the receding mist. The building seemed even larger to Claire than she remembered from her childhood—her father’s place of business, the Transamerica Building—towering above her and glistening through the rain. She killed the engine and leaned her seat back.

“I was charmed by a silly illusion, Dad,” she whispered, still missing him with all her heart and wishing for just a slice of clarity and confidence he’d always been able to help her find. “Bamboozled and blinded. And now I’m picking up the pieces on forever.” She had been dreaming of him lately when she did sleep, and she closed her eyes, recalling her weekend visits to the office with him, their lunchtime walks through the emptied streets, hot dogs in hand and the seemingly insurmountable issues of the moment up for examination and, almost always, resolution. She wanted the beautiful forever he had always promised to start now.

 

Claire studied the bronze reliefs on the massive main doors of Grace Cathedral, recognizing them as replicas of Ghiberti’s
Gates of Paradise
from the Duomo in Florence. Her right hand went to her chest, and she stepped back to take in the beauty before her. The rain had ceased, and the Gothic arches of the cathedral had carried her in the direction of the church from the Fairmont valet. She had another hour before meeting Cora.

Venturing inside, she needed a moment to adjust to the mystical dimness. Ahead and above her rose the high arched ceiling, dark and ornate in its detail, and contrasted by the dazzling beauty of numerous stained glass windows. On the floor she saw a sprawling maze etched into the stone just before the nave. A sign announced the “Interfaith Labyrinth,” and she then understood why she had been drawn to this place of spiritual growth and healing. Several people were making their journey to the path’s center, and she watched these “pilgrims” for a moment, so deep in their meditations. She felt her body tremble and she looked up, wondering if Someone was doubting her ability to find such visible peace. There was another labyrinth, she read, just outside and adjacent to the church plaza. Something about that option felt right.

Claire walked through the door beyond the sign, and into a courtyard overlooking Nob Hill. She took in the Zen-like arrangement of trees and plants there, and glimpsed a speck of dew reflecting off a spider web. It shone like spun iridescence, and she marveled at this bridging of two azalea branches with nature’s glue. A hummingbird fluttered above the low branch of a flowering plum tree to her right. Such an extraordinary painting, she thought. Only it was real. At the center of the courtyard was the labyrinth—eleven winding circuits paved in white and gray terrazzo. Alone in the space, Claire faced its starting point and considered the symbolic journey before her, to one’s spiritual center, as the sign had explained.
Who couldn’t use a little centering,
she thought.

She began the serpentine path with tentative footsteps, her feet never falling outside the marble lines that delineated the sharp curves and switchbacks. As she ventured toward the elusive center, she had to pay close attention to her balance while navigating the turns so she wouldn’t step outside the path. What would happen, she wondered, if she just cruised through the labyrinth, letting her feet fall where they may, and disregarding the rules and boundaries she believed to exist there? What if she skipped or danced her way to the center, singing as she did? She made the next hairpin turn without regard to the path lines her feet were crossing, but just that small adjustment was noticeable and unnerving. She had to force herself to move more freely and not walk as though she were walking down the aisle at her wedding, one foot forward and then the other catching up to pause at its side for a beat, then moving on. And this absurd contest to be less constrained prompted a sudden rush of tears from a very deep place. There was nothing at stake here, she had to remind herself, no need to be impeccable. Reflexively, Claire looked around to be sure there was still no one there to see her. But it was just her, the birds, the occasional car horn and trolley bell, and what seemed like fifty more turns to reach that mystical center. She let the tears flow until she regained her composure, and with each successive step she began to release the distractions of protocol and uncertainty, her body finding the pace it wanted, her mind quieting. The noises of the city around her fell away. Soon she had the sensation of floating in a tank, hearing the power of her heartbeat and her breath, as questions lined themselves up for inspection.

As Claire proceeded, she imagined her life in the context of a path.
Maybe we inadvertently cast ourselves to sea in search of . . . different horizons? Necessary vicissitudes?
The scent of orange blossom filled her head, along with the rapid fire fanning of hummingbird wings. It was as if the volume of her senses had suddenly been turned to high, and things were coming into a brighter focus.
But what about Nicky’s journey, where would he find himself?
She continued winding forward, the turns reminding her of the inevitable changes in life, the unpredictability.
Maybe a little ambiguity and imperfection isn’t so awful. Maybe there’s growth to be found in that.
With each one hundred eighty degree change in direction, it was almost as if she could feel her awareness shifting between her right brain and left brain, her movement becoming effortless, her mind more balanced and attentive to her intuition.
Get comfortable with the asymmetry,
she found herself chanting.
Find the beauty in the scars and the uncertainty and the possibilities. Don’t be paralyzed.
There was a sacred sort of wisdom bubbling up, something that seemed to know what she needed. When Claire looked down after some indeterminate time frame, she was in the center of the labyrinth. A peaceful energy coursed through her. She opened her mouth and took a hungry sip of air, feeling as if she’d just broken the surface of a cool, deep lake. Pausing for several moments in that serenity-filled space, she drank in the healing forces at work, releasing angst and guilt, and receiving the permission she needed for things to be just as they were.

She walked out of the labyrinth in the same direction she entered it. Looking skyward, she smiled before sitting down on a shaded stone bench to meditate.
You are on a path, exactly where you are meant to be. You are okay.
Surrendering to possibility, her soul felt stretched, her body revitalized. After a few moments Claire was tipped from her reverie by the vibration of her cell phone. “Hello, Mother,” she murmured into the phone. “I’m at Grace Cathedral, meet me inside the entrance.”

 

Twenty minutes later, and seemingly forty pounds lighter, Claire reentered the cathedral to find her mother. And there, at the back of the nave, stood Cora, hatted, with her coordinating navy bag and pumps, and dark round sunglasses clutched in her hand—her best imitation of Jackie O. If Jackie had had a perm and recently quit chain-smoking Kool Lites. Claire kissed her mother warmly and guided her toward the cathedral doors. “Shall we take a little walk?”

“That sounds lovely.”

They emerged, blinking, into the sunlight, and Claire took her mother’s hand. “I’ve just found my way through an extraordinary labyrinth.” She looked out across the city, and the sky was a blue she hadn’t seen before.

“Are you all right, dear?” Cora said, sizing her up and reaching into her pocketbook. “Here, take my hanky.”

Claire took the handkerchief and just held it, feeling an overwhelming need to talk. “Mother, I don’t know how to convey what I’ve been going through since the accident. It’s been ungodly painful but, I think, somehow . . . necessary.”

Cora looked at her skeptically as they walked down the great church steps and onto California Street.

“I was in hell. Lived there for quite some time, actually,” she continued. “But it’s helped me to see things more clearly. It only took me forty-three years, the near death of my child, and the breakup of my marriage to wake up.”

“This is so dismal, dear. How can you seem so . . .” Cora focused her tractor beam on Claire. “So fine with it?”

“Because I can finally breathe. Because I’m not underwater anymore.” She held her shoulders back and spoke with a renewed dignity. “And because I’m going to stop waiting for life to come to me.”

All around them, view-seeking tourists pointed their cameras toward the bay or the three gilded Grande Dame hotels at the top of the hill. But for Claire and Cora, the scenery melted into the distance. “Claire, I’m so sorry. I only ever wanted the best of everything for you, and I was so grateful that Michael seemed to be able to give those things to you when your father and I couldn’t.”

“You and Daddy did give me the best. We all make our own choices and decisions, Mother. My life was laid out in front of me like this beautiful magic carpet, and I just hopped on without checking underneath for dust and pretenses and all the other things we hide under our rugs. You know? And I just kept shoving more stuff under it. I couldn’t reconcile the flaws—” She looked back at the cathedral. “With my reality.”

Cora made a sad, tight
o
with her lips, holding back some soothing response, Claire was certain, while attacking a piece of Nicorette through its foil blister pack. She put the gum in her mouth with a satisfying-sounding crunch and breathed a sigh of relief. “What are you saying, dear?”

“I was always chasing the perfect. Or,” she said, searching for the right words, “at least trying to capture all these perfect moments like a photograph. When things were ugly, I shoved the ugly away. Which doesn’t encourage much growth or depth, does it? And I’m afraid we pushed Nicky into this unreasonable striving for perfection, too.” Their pace slowed as they climbed the hilly street and digested Claire’s theory. “And look where that led us.”

“Claire, you may be right about your own experience, but in my humble opinion, that pushing business with Nicky was Michael’s crap, not yours. Just another item on that bastard’s list of . . . crap.” She had been like a preschooler for the past weeks, playing with a dirty word and relishing the danger of it.