Help Wanted (15 page)

His thoughts were interrupted when she turned around and let out a yelp. The boys surrounded her before she could get all grouchy about it, and soon they were all hugging her and telling her about the animated comedy they had just seen.

Paul stayed in the doorway, taking it all in.

When Tomas launched into a perfect impersonation of her performance, she laughed so hard, her eyes started to water.

Wait for it.

A moment later, he heard it. That little snorting noise that would happen when she tried to inhale and laugh at the same time. It sparked a whole new round of giggles.

She's back.

That yearning for how things used to be between them tugged at his insides. He couldn't help but feel as if he was still on the outside looking in, afraid to have his heart trampled on.

When she glanced at him, smiling and wiping the corners of her eyes, the yearning blossomed into an ache.

He wanted to freeze that moment in time. The moment that he knew, eventually, they might be all right.

He made up his mind then and there that he'd do everything in his power to keep her from having to go back to work after her contract job ended. No job was worth losing her again.

For the next few days, he eagerly immersed himself in the paper's quarterly reporting activities, tucking the thought of the paper's fundraiser deep in a far corner of his mind.

"A good wife always forgives her husband when she's wrong." —Milton Berle

On the first Friday after cross-country season was over, just as it had each day since they moved in, the
Gazette
lay rolled in a tight, clear plastic bag on their front porch. Claire snatched it up, pulled out the Lifestyle section, and crammed it into her backpack as she made her way to the train. She left the rest, as usual, for Paul—although, she noticed lately, he never even took the paper out of its bag. Several were piled in a heap near the recycling bin.

And they wonder why print media is dying.

On her train ride home after a long day spent translating technical specifications into user-friendly prose, she settled into her seat and retrieved from her backpack the draft of the latest column she'd submitted to Dianne. Rereading it for the umpteenth time, Claire prayed to the god of second chances that the managing editor continued to like her work enough to offer her full-time employment.

"Dear Snoring in Suburbia, I hope you take comfort in the fact that you are not alone. Insomnia is a common affliction among plate spinners. Sleep is something I have a love/hate relationship with. I would just as soon end a sentence with a preposition as I would designate eight hours of my day to spend completely unconscious and drooling on my pillow. Yet the benefits of sleep are well documented and, I readily concede, so are the effects of sleep deprivation—kryptonite to any high-functioning plate spinner.

"Still, sleep and I have a checkered past.

"I don't remember being especially hard to rouse though. That was my older sister's department. On Christmas mornings, when our parents would declare that we couldn't open a single gift until she joined us, I always rose to the occasion. Armed with a squirt gun, I'd have her awake and happily tearing through presents in no time flat.

"These days, she'd likely enjoy the fact that I seem to be suffering from some cruel form of reverse insomnia. Falling asleep is a breeze. Like you, I just can't stay asleep. It brings out the worst in me and my grammar. While I've tried all sorts of ways to rectify the matter—everything from deep breathing to watching C-Span to reading my AP style manual—nothing works better than making a list.

"The act of transferring the 'to dos' swirling around in my head to paper relieves the burden entirely. The list, however, is never ending. Even at the end of my most productive days, a stray task will wake me up at 3:00 a.m., nagging at me to get up and write it down. Granted, I may not always be able to make out what I scribble down during the course of the night. It's not unusual for my family to find me, first thing in the morning, squinting at the piece of paper, trying to determine if I am supposed to 'buy garbage stickers' or 'bag gorilla slickers.'

"Choosing to not be hampered by this sleep disruption, I consider this tactic the first tier of my three-level, no-fail wake-up system. If, after transferring the item to my list, I happen to fall back to sleep, my alarm clock stands at the ready. In the event of a power outage, there's always the last resort—a child, and I'm not naming names, packing a loaded squirt gun and thinking that waking me up is more important than making it to first grade."

Claire had no sooner finished reading it when her cell phone buzzed. It was Kate.

"What's up?" she asked, slightly annoyed at the distraction.

"I don't know." Her sister laughed. "You called me. What time do I need to have the boys home on Sunday?"

Cripes. She had completely forgotten that Kate was taking her sons to the Chicago Bulls basketball game that night and then keeping them for the rest of the weekend so she could get her kid fix. Which left Claire in the uncomfortable position of being alone in the house with Paul. She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep her steely resolve intact. Not having the boys around as a distraction would truly put her to the test. Still, if Paul hadn't started making the moves to find a job by now, chances were slim to none that he would anytime soon, especially with the holidays right around the corner.

In the blink of an eye, she managed to convince herself that he was no nearer to getting a job than he was back in August, and ergo, no longer in love with her, because if he was, he'd have gotten one by now.

She took a fortifying breath and girded herself for the long weekend ahead of her.

"Um, I don't know," she replied. "Anytime midafternoon would be ok."

"Ok. Perfect."

"Has the game started yet? I can't believe you got courtside seats. Make sure you keep an eye on Jonah, and don't let them eat too much junk."

She heard a deep sigh come through her phone.

"You're no fun. We're going to grab a bite to eat before we head over to the United Center." In a muffled voice, Kate added, "I think I can get some of the players to come by and say 'hi' to the guys. I had Marc bring his ball for autographs, just in case."

"That's so awesome. You're such a cool aunt."

"Yeah, well, being a photographer to the stars helps, even if I do say so myself." Kate laughed. "My mission is to get a shot of Derrick Rose in a layup. Tonight's the night. I can feel it in my bones."

Claire laughed back. "Oh, that would be awesome. Good luck."

"Thanks. I'll catch you later," Kate sang into the phone.

But before she could hang up, Claire blurted, "Oh, hey, I've been meaning to ask—" She hunched over her phone so no one around her would overhear. "I really need the routing number to your savings account."

Her request was met by silence.

"Kate?"

Her sister's voice was laden with hesitation. "Uh…and why's that again?"

Getting up, Claire jostled her way to an empty area by the exit doors and took probably the most inopportune time to finally bring Kate up to speed with her attempt to change careers and the dicey state of her marriage.

Making no effort whatsoever to hide the anger in her voice, Kate asked, "How did I not know you and Paul were on the rocks? When were you planning on telling me—after you did something stupid like divorce him?"

Claire closed her eyes. "Tell me the boys did not just hear you say that."

"Don't worry. They're upstairs fighting over who gets which room."

"Ok, good." Then she huddled in a corner, while another commuter passed through, so she could ask, "And why do you always take his side?"

"Because," Kate replied, "he's the best thing that ever happened to you. If it weren't for him, you'd still be waiting tables someplace, trying to pay off your student loans."

Claire held her phone away from her ear and looked at it. "Really, Kate. Your confidence in me is touching."

Her big sister ignored her and just kept talking. "He's crazy about you, you dope. He's been whipped since the day you guys met." After a pause, she nearly yelled, "And nothing irritates me more than knowing you don't realize how good you have it."

With one hand on her phone and the other over her ear, Claire stared out the window, watching buildings fly by until the words sank in. Before she could reply, the train jolted to a sudden stop. Losing her footing, Claire's head banged hard against the edge of the metal phone box that was mounted to the wall next to her.

Ow…

She blinked. As the train lurched forward again, she braced herself against the handrail while fighting the sudden urge to vomit. Feeling dazed, she touched her fingers to a sticky spot above her ear.

"Kate, I gotta go. Mail me that number, would ya?"

Looking down at the amount of blood on her fingertips, she called Paul and said, "I need you."

*   *   *

Paul relished the quiet of the house as he tapped a series of numbers into a spreadsheet and attached it to an email to the comptroller at Griffin Media. When he hit Send, he could actually feel his self-esteem shoot up a couple of notches.

If it weren't for that bittersweet pang in his gut, he'd be mighty happy right now. As it was, he couldn't shake the gnawing feeling he had to figure out a way to make things right with Claire, and fast. If not for the sake of their marriage, then at least for their sons.

Paycheck or no paycheck.

One thing was certain—he was not looking forward to being alone in the house with her all weekend. Figuring she'd probably ignore him by hiding behind her laptop or sticking her nose in a book, he made his way downstairs to crack open a celebratory bottle of a local microbrewery's finest ale.

His cell phone rang as he yanked open the refrigerator door.

Speak of the devil.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Claire kept saying as they sped through rush-hour traffic on their way to the emergency room at Chicago General.

Unlike childbirth, Paul learned all there was to know about concussions in his Boy Scout leader training. Above all, he knew he had to keep her talking.

"How ya feeling?"

Holding a big wad of almost-saturated gauze the conductor had given her to the side of her head, she stared out the passenger side window and replied, "Like a dope."

Unable to spin a conversation out of that, he asked, "How was work today?"

"Fine."

Checking the rearview mirror before passing a car in the left-hand lane that was not even doing the speed limit, he struggled to think of questions that didn't require one-word answers.

"Uh, what kind of stuff are you working on at John's company?"

He waited for her to reply while dodging around a car that was stalled, clogging one of the main thoroughfares leading to the hospital.

Stuck in traffic, he looked over and saw that she was resting her head back against her seat. Her eyes were closed, and her hand had fallen into her lap.

"Hey, hey, hey, wake up, Imp. Talk to me."

He reached over to squeeze her chin and smooth some baby-fine hair off her face, careful not to put his hand anywhere near the gash over her ear. Relieved to see her take a deep breath and sit back up, he redirected his gaze to the road before him and said, "Stay with me, sweetheart. We're almost there."

Sweetheart? Where the hell did that come from?

When she turned to look directly at him and asked if he remembered to get diapers as she'd asked, he cut into the next side street and zigzagged his way through a shortcut that led to the back entrance of the hospital.

He pulled up to the emergency room with the precision of an Indy racecar driver roaring into his pit, and hopped out.

Offering his hand to help her down, he was surprised and somewhat amused when she pulled him toward her, brushed a kiss against his cheek, and murmured, "My hero."

He knew people were apt to say and do some uncharacteristic things after sustaining a blow to the head, but still—his heart swelled, just a little.

Three hours, seven stitches, one MRI, and a painkiller the size of a Tootsie Roll later, they were on their way home. With Claire resting her bandaged head against his shoulder and clutching his arm as he wove through the dark streets, he made a mental note to send the train engineer a thank you for slamming on the brakes when he did.

"Be sure to keep her awake for the next several hours, just to be on the safe side," the doctor had instructed.

Paul thought of the overstuffed couch in the family room and decided they'd camp there for the night. They could watch movies, the news—hell, he could even teach her how to play a video game if she was up for it.

He also thought of the way she looked up at him from the stretcher and told him she was glad that he was there. Not exactly an "I love you" or "Please forgive me for ever making you feel as if I was disappointed in you," but he'd take it all the same.

That she only let go of his hand when they took her in for the brain scan, which, thank God, came back clear, made one side of his mouth twitch into a smile, and a warm wave washed over his chest.

After slipping the SUV into the garage, he eased Claire back against her seat. She was awake but had grown quiet—either from the painkiller, the hour, or the concussion. Whatever the reason, he didn't mind. He was too busy enjoying this glimpse of the old Claire, the one who made him feel as if he was her sun and moon—even if it was induced by blunt-force trauma.

As he walked around to the passenger side, he glanced up at the stars dotting the sky and breathed in the homey scent of neighborhood fireplaces warming the cool early November evening.

A little surprised she hadn't gotten out yet, he flicked the handle up. When she turned toward him and nearly tumbled out, Paul pulled her against him.

"Easy," he whispered in her ear.