Family Interrupted (16 page)

“Of course,” Ian continued, “he could be full of bull, but I can read a set of blueprints like no other beginner.” A satisfied grunt followed his words, and my stomach began to burn. I needed an antacid but continued chewing my House Special Lo Mein.

“What kind of blueprints?” Claire asked, her voice sounding suspicious. In Claire’s world, blueprints meant houses. Nice to know she was on my side—for once.

“Pipelines, Mom. Pipelines. I need to know the kind of pipe and tools to use when I replace corroded sections.”

“He’s a pipefitter, Claire,” I added, “or more exactly, training to be one. Ain’t that sweet?” I couldn’t contain the trace of bitterness in my voice and actually winced when I heard it.

Ian pushed his plate away. “Thanks for the meal. Sorry you’re disappointed, Dad, but that’s the way it’s got to be.”

Spoken like a man, but I didn’t want to listen. Didn’t want to hear it. I signed for the check, watched the waiter box the leftovers, then signaled Claire.

“Before we all leave,” Claire said to Ian, “we have to tell you about Anne Conway.”

Ian froze. “What happened? More bad news?”

Claire explained about the cancer, and Ian’s hands turned into fists on the table. “Poor Maddy. What a crappy year for her. First, she loses her best friend, and now she’s afraid of losing her mom.” Shaking his head, he mumbled, “I can sure relate. I’ll call her later.”

Pride mixed with pain as I watched him walk away. He found time to do the right thing with everyone except his old man.

CLAIRE

March, Year Two

18 months after accident

Late again. I pushed open Macy’s big plate-glass door, took a sharp left, and headed for the Human Resources office. Ever since the first “intervention,” Mom had urged us to lunch together on a regular basis. Judy backed her up immediately and suggested meeting at her office each month on one of her working Saturdays where we could select from a variety of restaurants. Mom was thrilled at the idea.

“What could be better than sharing a meal and shopping with my daughters?” she’d ask.

How about shopping with a granddaughter?

I found it difficult to thwart my stubborn lifeguards, however, who insisted on keeping me afloat. Maybe I needed them more than I’d wanted to admit.

My sister had always been an entertaining raconteur, and she usually kept Mom and me chuckling with stories about her job, her sons, and their antics. But it was the large department store, with its detailed selections of clothes and accessories, that returned me to periods of before-the-accident normalcy. Shopping offered me a comfort zone. I was used to being surrounded by fabric and styles, to making choices, whether dressing homes or people. Even now, as I walked toward Judy’s office, colorful displays nabbed my attention—the cut of a dress, the ruffle of a blouse, an asymmetrical hemline on a skirt. For a moment, my heart trembled as I pictured Mom, Kayla, and me poring through the racks together—three generations on the hunt.

I plowed forward. Nowadays, Mom and I focused on Judy, whose interest in clothes was limited to business suits or jeans. “Jackets and skirts match,” she said, “and I don’t have to think about it.” I was convinced Judy was dropped on our doorstep. However, she was smart enough not to complain about having personal shoppers.

“Woo-hoo, my second handmaiden has arrived! What more could I want?”

I hugged Mom and smiled at my sister. “That’s easy. You’d prefer us to do the dirty work without you.” I shook my head with mock sympathy. “Not going to happen, baby. Let’s go.”

Thirty minutes later, Judy slumped on the dressing room bench, handed me an unwanted blouse, and begged, “Can’t we have lunch now? I’m
starv
-ing.”

After glancing at the sportswear arrayed on our “taking” hook, I winked at my mom. “Has she been punished enough?”

“Her! What about us?” Mom wiped her brow.

“Point taken.” I grabbed the merchandise along with Judy’s credit card and headed toward the register. And that’s where I spotted the driver. Sarah Levine. She stood behind the counter—wavy, brown hair, brown eyes, slim, in her thirties.

Half the garments slipped from my hands. As I bent down to retrieve them, I kept my eye on her. At least, I thought it was her. If not, then my photographic memory had deserted me. On the surface, the sales associate could have been a replica of the woman sitting on the curb the day of the accident. I’d tried not to think about the driver too much. After all, Kayla’s death had been an
accident.
Everyone said so, including the cops. So she couldn’t be blamed. I stepped forward and put the clothes on the counter.

The clerk looked at me, her eyes widening. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

All right? I’d never be all right.

“Do you need a glass of water?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” I breathed deeply, quickly absorbing the creased brow and worried expression of a woman doing her job. Thousands of women had brown, wavy hair and brown eyes. I had to be mistaken. Maybe I was starting to hallucinate. Maybe I did need to see a shrink after all. “Here you go,” I said, handing her Judy’s card.

She smiled and got to work. I watched her, knowing I’d never say anything about this to my sister. Goodness, if a woman named Sarah Levine worked for Macy’s, Judy would have known. And if a woman who was a doppelganger for the driver who hit Kayla worked for Macy’s, Judy would have known that too. And she would have told me. For crying out loud, as director of Human Resources, Judy knew everyone in the store.

I heard my family closing in behind me and stepped aside. Judy approached. “Hi, Sarah,” she said. “Sportswear today, huh? How’s it going?”

Sarah? My sister had called the clerk Sarah. Colors blended into a hazy rainbow behind my eyelids. Garments and shoppers floated around me, and only by sheer force of will did I make it back to Judy’s office where she wanted to leave her purchases before going to lunch. The thought of eating made my stomach heave.

I swallowed hard, kicked the door closed, and stepped toward my sister. Nothing could stop my verbal assault.

“That’s her, isn’t it? Sarah Levine? The one behind the counter. And you never mentioned it? How could you? She’s been working here all this time...with you?” My voice hit a high note that only a violin could replicate.

“No!” Judy turned toward our mother. “Never a dull moment, is there?”

“Then let’s get to the bottom of this.” Barbara Anderson was attempting her mother role, but her voice quivered, and she grabbed my hand.

“Mom...i-it’s her. I know it.” I fell into a chair. “I just need a minute, and I’m going back out there.”

“Oh, no you’re not,” said Judy, squatting next to me. “Because you’re wrong.” She stood again. “Come look and see. I’m going to show you something that will shut you up but can also cost me my job.”

I held up my hand. “Then don’t do it.”

My sister stood quietly, so unlike her normal self that the stillness stretched into every corner of the room. “That’s my choice.” She sat down at her computer, punched some keys, and an alphabetical roster of employees appeared on the screen.

“Look through the L’s,” Judy said. “There are no Levine’s here at all.”

I browsed slowly and nodded but couldn’t believe it. “What about that sales associate out there?”

“I’ve got three Sarah’s in the store,” Judy said as she scrolled the list. “A popular name, and she’s simply one of them. Hmm. Let’s see. Sarah Cohen’s in sportswear today. Great attendance; in fact, her first anniversary with the company is coming up. Looks like she’s a floater.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s not assigned to any one department, but floats among all of them. Most associates prefer a permanent home where they get to know the regular customers and merchandise. They also befriend their co-workers. But some employees like changing around and feel comfortable anywhere.”

That characteristic bespoke of a confident person. Constant change. Comfortable anywhere. Probably not someone who’d run down a child with a car.

“Ooh. I hadn’t noticed this before,” said Judy softly.

“What?”

“Sarah Cohen floats to every department except Children’s. She’s made a specific request not to be assigned there.”

Judy’s gaze met mine. I knew we were on the same wavelength now and said, “Strange that a personable woman doesn’t want to be around kids. Can you still state with certainty that this woman is not Sarah Levine?”

“I can only say she’s not using that name here, and I have no proof she’s anyone other than Sarah Cohen.” Judy took my hand and squeezed it. “You may have your suspicions, but please don’t go out there and make a scene. You could be wrong. I could lose my job. And what good will it do? I know you don’t agree, Clarabelle, and I can’t say I blame you, but Sarah is really not a murderer.”

My head swam. I struggled to breathe. “Technical details. I-I just want her to know...to know what she’s done. To feel what I feel just for one lousy minute...”

“Will it help you move on?” asked Mom. “Will it ease your grief?”

“Let’s find out!” I stepped toward the door.

“But you’re not sure it will, are you?” Another challenge from Mom.

I froze. Our individual breaths reverberated in the silent room. My mother was right. The answer should have been an easy yes. Enacting one of my revenge daydreams should have been sweet. Satisfying. But I was living in the real world now and couldn’t count on that outcome. A zero end game. The thought frightened me.

“I won’t make a scene out there, but I’m leaving now. I couldn’t eat anyway.” I slipped through the doorway before they could respond, unwilling to verbalize the maelstrom of emotions and the confusion running through me. Could I do anything to ease the grief? The guilt? Oh, God, the guilt had me doubling over sometimes, piercing me as sharply as glass shards cutting flesh. How many miles around the lake would it take to expunge it? How many homes would provide enough decorating challenges? How much art would it take to bring Kayla back to us? Well, as close as I could get her. As for my hospital work? The kids responded to me, and I felt useful there. Maybe I’d put in more hours. Maybe volunteering would fix everything. I had no answers, but I had to keep trying.

I got into my car and headed toward Barnes Construction and Jack.

#

My husband could have been anywhere in the building, but I found him talking to a cross-section of employees, waving his arms, excitement in his voice. He was in the middle of a brainstorm. I stood on the threshold, watching and listening.

“Active seniors,” he said. “A new type of subdivision for retiring baby boomers. Let’s get ahead of the curve. I’m thinking one-story, wide doorways and halls, walk-in showers, levers instead of doorknobs. Why should retirees think of going to Florida or the Texas Hill Country when we can offer the same amenities right here—a large clubhouse, pools, and most importantly, a lifestyle. A full-time activities director. An exercise club. Crafts. Tennis. Softball. Card games, billiards, shows. On-site dining—a bistro.”

Jack was at it again, words rolling from his tongue but barely keeping up with the ideas in his head. He was fully engaged. His timing was right, the ideas fit. And he was looking toward the future with eagerness and imagination, leaving Kayla behind. I figured a clear conscience helped.

Jack usually managed to pull out a win no matter the circumstances. He certainly didn’t need my intrusion into his grand schemes and employee meeting. I turned away.

“Claire!”

I felt ten pairs of curious eyes on me.

“Hey y’all.” I finger-waved. “Sorry to interrupt. I’ll see you later, Jack.”

“No, wait. Did you hear any of this? Whadduyathink?”

An echo of the old days. Brainstorming new ideas, next steps, building a business. The question was a no brainer. “Find the land. Get the permits. Houston can use a day camp for adults.”

“A day camp?” His eyes lit, their corners crinkling. “Bingo!” And suddenly, I was in his arms, being twirled and danced around in front of everyone.

“A new assignment for you, Claire-de-Lune. Go research some practical conveniences for active seniors. Think day camp. Not God’s waiting room.”

I looked at the group of happy employees, everyone joining the conversation, rejuvenated by one idea. A good idea
.
The business was Jack’s salvation. He knew how to survive anything.

“I just came from Macy’s,” I said. “We need to talk.”

“Bought a mink coat or something?”

“Or something. A big something.”

Jack turned to his assembled group. “Think about this new project, but keep it to yourself. We want to be first. Bring me your ideas. You know my door is always open.” He scanned the room, making eye contact with each employee. “Any questions?”

Five minutes later, Jack and I were alone. I shut the door, took a breath, and blurted, “I saw the driver in Macy’s. I’m sure it’s Sarah Levine regardless of her alias. I know it’s her.”

He jumped back as though I’d burned him, swear words softly rolling from his tongue.

“And what if it is?” he finally asked, his moderate tone a burr under my skin. “She’s got to earn a living somehow.”

“Does she? Why? Why should she go on smiling at customers like nothing’s changed? Like she didn’t kill our daughter!”

His face scrunched up until his eyes almost disappeared. I saw his Adam’s apple bob a few times as I waited.

“The woman’s not my favorite person, but she’s not a murderer either.” His chest heaved as his words came and, for some reason, the movement satisfied me. My husband wasn’t as sanguine as he pretended. He was hurting, still hurting, just like I was.

“It wasn’t premeditated,” Jack continued. “And if it makes you feel any better, Levine’s suffering too. She gave up her teaching career, which she loved. Doesn’t trust herself with children anymore. So I’m guessing she took a job that was meaningless to her, where she could go through the motions and only pretend to care.” His breathing morphed into a wheeze as he spoke. “Kayla ran into the street, Claire, her eyes on the football instead of traffic. And life has to go on.”