Family Interrupted (2 page)

“Ma’am, you were clocked doing eighty in a sixty. That’s twenty miles over the limit.”

I could do the math. “Any chance of turning this into a warning? I’m usually excellent at following the rules.”
Smile.
No answer except for the scratching of his pen. Five minutes later, I was on my way with a ticket nearing two hundred dollars and an invitation to driving school. For the rest of the trip, I crept at posted speeds until, with a sigh of relief, I finally entered my subdivision and turned left around the lake toward Bluebonnet Drive.

As I approached, I saw a small crowd milling on the corner, blocking my street. In the mid-distance was a revolving red glow. My body tensed, every muscle taut with strain at the possibilities. I lowered my window when I saw my friend Anne Conroy waving at me.

“She’s here,” Anne called over her shoulder while rushing toward my vehicle. “Pull over. You need to park right now.”

I didn’t like how she looked. My hands began to tingle, but I followed her directions.

“There’s been an accident, Claire.”

“What? Who?”

Instead of answering, Anne opened my door and pulled me out. “It’s Kayla. She was hit by a car. The EMTs are lifting her into the ambulance right now.”

My worst fear....
I took off like a track star. A path opened as I headed for the gurney. Around me were familiar faces I could barely recognize because I saw only one face. Kayla. My beautiful Kayla, lying on that narrow bed, her complexion snow-white, forehead swollen, head enlarged, and blood oozing from her ears. Her stillness frightened me most.

“I’m here, baby-girl. Mama’s right here.” I leaned over her and kissed her cool cheek. No response.

“Ma’am, we’ve got to get her in the truck.”

One medic spoke to me while the other was arranging stuff—tubes, IVs, and God-knows-what. They hoisted the gurney, and I jumped in beside it while scanning the crowd for Ian. Where was that boy? Then I saw him, right in front of me, sobbing aloud with tears running thick down his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but we were only throwing a football,” he cried, his voice cracking. “That’s all....”

“You should have been doing homework,” I snapped.

He ignored me and pointed at a young woman sitting on the ground, a stranger. “She was driving and...and...”

Glancing at her, I took a mental snapshot, certain I’d recall the details later. I didn’t care about the driver then. Instead, anger, fear, and dread filled me, and I lashed out. “How could you have let this happen? You were in charge.”

“But it wasn’t my fault! I’ve told you a million times I’m not a babysitter. Maybe if you were home more, Kayla would be okay. It wasn’t my...fault.”

Because it’s my fault. My fault for being late.
That was the bottom line. My son and I were at odds again, and remorse filled me. “I’m so sorry, Ian,” I whispered. “It’s all right. You’ll be okay. Kayla will too.”
She had to be
. “Hang out with Anne and Maddy for awhile, and I’ll see you tonight.”

“Gotta close these doors, ma’am,” said the EMT, suiting action to his words.

For a moment, I worried about leaving Ian but later was glad I did. My son didn’t need to witness or hear the conversations that followed.

#

Kayla lingered for five days. Jack and I slept at the hospital, neither of us wanting to leave. We drank strong tea, wrapped ourselves in warm blankets, and had quiet conversations with the staff.

When I mentioned to Jack how kind the nurses were, he shrugged and stepped closer to Kayla’s bed. “It’s part of their job.” His words were abrupt, curt, and cold, a rarity for my husband.

“But only kind hearts become nurses in the first place,” I argued, as if making my point would make everything better. It made nothing better.

Six weeks had passed since Kayla died, but I still remembered the name of every medic on the unit. I still pictured the IV bags with their liquids dripping into Kayla’s arm one drop at a time, the orange chairs Jack and I dozed on, and the plantings between the parking lot and Kayla’s hospital wing. Most of all, I remembered holding Kayla’s hand, stroking her cheek, and talking, talking, talking, praying she’d hear my voice and smile. I remembered that insulated hospital world in detail.

But I couldn’t remember my daughter’s funeral.

Vague recollections of friends and family surrounding us at the service were all that stayed with me. I’d watched their mouths move but heard nothing. I’d seen nothing. Usually, I’d notice particulars—the cut of a blouse, a change of hairstyle, a newly framed picture—but my powers of observation disappeared that day. All gone. Just like Kayla.

Friends said that Jack and I had been amazing. What nonsense! We were numb. Paralyzed by the unthinkable. They described Jack catching me as I fainted at the cemetery. I didn’t remember falling, but they said I’d collapsed the moment our daughter’s casket was lowered into the ground. I believed them. I’d become a zombie, one of the walking dead.

At home, meals arrived, coffee brewed, and the refrigerator and house remained equally full. Our loved ones surrounded us, stayed with us, supported us. My parents. Jack’s parents. Their lips trembled and pain etched their faces.

But no one managed to answer the one question that mattered: how could a vibrant twelve-year-old kick a soccer ball one day and lie in a coma the next? The question haunted me still. I knew there were reasons. Cause-and-effect type reasons. But I hadn’t been able to accept them. How would I ever cope with this nightmare? The memories...the memories...

When Kayla was five years old, she’d said, “Mama, if you turn the number eight on its side, you know what you get?”

“What?”

“Infinity!”

A grown-up word. She’d giggled, eyes beaming, so proud of herself for surprising me. I hadn’t known how she’d come up with the word, but I’d been pretty sure her brother had some influence there.
Infinity
. An appropriate description for the days that now came and went, unremarkable one from the other, simply periods of light and dark I sometimes noticed through the windows of my diminished home.

So, six weeks later, I was still a mess. Jack too. Not sure about Ian. He’d been hanging out with his friends almost twenty-four/seven. Maybe if I started cooking—really cooking—again every day, he’d find his way home for dinner. He loved meatballs and spaghetti. Heck, he used to love anything I’d put on the table. A growing boy needed nourishment, and we all used to laugh about our skinny boy devouring more than his dad. He’d filled out some this year.

Jack finally returned to work yesterday because he’d been afraid to leave me alone sooner. He’d taken calls at the house after the first two weeks and depended on his staff to keep Barnes Construction going. He had great employees, but we all knew that my Cracker Jack was the engine driving the company. It was his baby, his creation, and certainly his success. I sensed he was anxious to get back to work full-time while I, on the other hand, had no heart for anything, not even painting.

Thirty minutes after Jack left, the doorbell rang. I sure didn’t want any company, so I peeped through the sidelight curtain, ready to ignore any social caller. But I couldn’t ignore a FedEx delivery. Occasionally, items for Barnes Construction were shipped to the house. This item was a pretty large box, which the driver pushed over the threshold for me.

Return address: University of Houston, Art Department. I hadn’t stepped onto the campus since that horrible day. I hadn’t contacted the department or the registrar to officially drop out of school. Maybe they wanted clarification. I opened the outside envelope and extracted a note:

Whenever you are ready, Clara, come back. I am keeping your last painting here. You have much art still to make, and I am saving your place. CC.

The man would have a long wait. None of it mattered anymore. Only Kayla mattered. I didn’t open the box, didn’t look at any of my portfolio items. Instead, I dragged the carton into the guest room and closed the door. I brushed my hands together and walked to the kitchen. My college adventure was over. Maybe someday, I’d have the courage to retrieve
Girl with Secrets
.

I spent the rest of the morning alone, looking through photo albums, torturing myself. Jack called me every hour.

“How’re you doing?” he asked.

How did he think I was doing? “Fine.”

But of course, I’d never be fine again.

After four phone calls, I threatened to ignore his number on the Caller ID. We finally compromised. He’d stop phoning if I promised to take a walk. He said I hadn’t gone out of the house since the funeral. Somehow, I also promised to track Ian down, cook a real dinner, and then make love to Jack that night. I promised a lot of things because when you lived in a time warp, nothing mattered. Not even promises made.

As it turned out, however, I did take a walk in the afternoon. Maybe the milder temperatures and gentler sun lured me, or maybe it was the general quiet with everyone else at work or school. I thought a solitary walk would be a perfect first venture outside. Unfortunately, one of my neighbors spotted me, a neighbor I didn’t know well, and I wanted to retreat but couldn’t.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Barnes...Claire,” she said, full of sympathy.

I just nodded. A tiny nod. I pressed my lips together and began to stride past her.

“Sometimes,” she continued, “it’s hard to accept God’s will.”

I jerked to a full stop. My heart pounded, my vision blurred. God’s will? God’s will? I screamed silently. What had my innocent child done to deserve this fate? I whirled and stared at the woman for what seemed hours. Her self-righteousness oozed like the slow-running sap of a sugar maple tree. My palm itched. My fingers curled. Her cheek would make a good target.
Don’t do it, Claire! Don’t do it....
But I was in my time warp, watching myself from afar as I lifted my arm and smacked her across the face.

“That was God’s will too,” I said and walked off, confirming I was a long way from acceptance. If there was such a thing.

#

When Jack arrived from work, a home-cooked meal waited for him. Ian sat at the table too, thanks to my meatball bribe. The men ate with gusto. I managed one bite to ten of theirs and hoped Jack wouldn’t notice. When their first hunger pangs had been satisfied, I announced, “I might go to jail.”

Ian’s mouth made a perfect O.

“You might what?” asked Jack. But when he heard the story of my walk, his blue eyes glowed, and his grin stretched across his face. Then he swung me around, laughed, and cried. “I couldn’t survive without
both
my girls, and you’re coming to life again. I love you so much, Claire. We’ll get through this. Somehow, we’ll get through.” Then he looked at me with his I-have-a-great-idea expression.

“It’s been more than a month, Claire. How about coming back to work? The company needs you. More importantly,
I
need you. You know how the economy sucks, and I might have overreached, but we’ve contracted to build in the Eagle Ranch subdivision. We’ve got four brand-new models for you to work your magic on.”

I felt myself shrivel. Jack depended on me to dress up our models to their best advantage. I supposed I could manage the decorating part, but interacting with all the people involved in the business? Making intelligent conversation with Realtors, decorators, home buyers, vendors, and municipal departments was beyond me. I couldn’t focus for more than ten seconds on anything but the family photo albums I’d browsed through that day. I couldn’t fathom how Jack managed to handle his responsibilities.

“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not ready.” When I saw his disappointment, I added, “But I am ready to keep my promise about this.” I snaked my arms around his neck, tugged him toward me, and tilted my head back. His eyes brightened again, and our kiss sizzled at first contact.

“Yuck. I am so outta here.” Ian grabbed his backpack and left the room, calling, “I’ll be at Danny’s.”

“The kid has great instincts,” mumbled Jack, his lips on mine again.

I wanted this raw encounter with Jack. I’d been thinking about it on and off all day, knowing I needed it more now than when I was twenty-one. I didn’t know why. Didn’t care about the reason. Not then, anyway. I just wanted the numbness to go away, if only for a few minutes.

Interlocked, we headed toward our bedroom, automatically kicking the door shut before pulling at our clothes. I was desperate to be skin-to-skin, touching, rubbing, stroking. Feeling! Feeling Jack’s muscles move under my fingers. Borrowing his warmth, his strength. He knew my hot spots...just where, just how.... I knew his, too...just where, just how....

We twined closely around each other on the bed, our limbs weaving like yarn on a loom enveloping each other, so in synch, so frantic that soon there was no rhythm at all. And then, and then...oh, God...approaching that point of no return...vibrating through shimmering reds, scarlet and crimson, heading toward the neons, gold and hot orange...until the sun shattered, and we shattered. Together.

Our first communion since Kayla died.

I burst into tears.

Jack was still trying to catch his breath, but he reached out and coaxed me against him, across his chest. A very familiar position. “Aww, Claire. Don’t cry. You’re all right. You’re all right.”

No, I wasn’t. “I shouldn’t feel this good. Kayla—” But I hadn’t thought about my daughter for the past ten minutes. Had it taken the most basic of human instincts to break through my grief? As though in punishment, a new wave of grief surged through me.
I’m sorry, sweetheart.

“We can’t bring her back,” Jack whispered. “But it seems that you and I are still alive.” He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “In fact, we’re very much alive. That was good, Claire. And healthy for us. So keep it on your to-do list, will ya?”

I couldn’t blame him for wanting to reclaim as much normalcy as possible in our abnormal world, and intimacy had always been a healthy part of our marriage. However, my tears kept dribbling onto Jack’s chest.

“If you keep on crying, my love, then I will too. And we’ll both go back to being zombies like in the beginning.”