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C
HAPTER
31

“T
he ghosts of better days are hard to banish,” came Al Roker’s response to the bleak Monday morning
Today Show
segment about a Louisiana shrimp-boat captain’s woes.

No kidding.
Claire switched off the television and tried to focus instead on the future. Her anticipation over seeing Nicky later that afternoon was nearly trumping her unease over the “family reunion” that would come with his arrival. How would she stay positive in the face of what was clearly going to be a confusing welcome home for Nicholas? His social worker at Rancho had done some more “home life integration” prep work with them after the tray-hurling episode, and Nick had responded surprisingly well, if abstractedly, to these sessions about the new living arrangements. But that was there, and Denver was miles and days away from the comfort of the therapist’s office, and she couldn’t predict how Michael would handle her presence at the house now. A little buttressing of the whole plan, she felt, wouldn’t hurt.

Outside, the early gasps of a sudden cold front had left a light dusting of snow on the streets, and just a smear of yellow peeked from behind the clouds as Claire drove to the Tattered Cover. She ordered an Earl Grey with steamed milk from the bookstore’s café, and browsed her way around the main floor of what was once a grand old theater, until she found the Relationships section. She had never seen herself as the gal in the self-help aisle, but there she was, looking for answers to the surprising circumstances she’d thrust herself into, searching for some strange magic in a book.

Passing the shelves on tantric sex, Mars & Venus, and finding husbands, Claire slowed at the section on divorce and parenting. The titles there—
Joint Custody with a Jerk, Co-Parenting Through a Difficult Divorce
—seemed so harsh and final. All she really needed was advice on reiterating the concept of a separation to a teenager who happened to have special needs, some words and phrases that would tell her exactly how not to shatter his world any further. She ran her fingers along the spines of several books, but none of them seemed right. She sat down on the floor, leaning against the step-families stack, still scanning for something that resonated and didn’t shout
This Is Not Your Beautiful Life
quite so loudly. Taking a sip of her tea, Claire found herself staring at the red-lettered title directly in front of her:
Your Denial Called and Said It’s Worn Out and in No Shape to Carry On.
She slid the book from the shelf and began to read.

And there, in authoritative Arial font, Claire found her resonance.

 

Your marriage is in trouble for any number of reasons (infidelity, lack of connection/intimacy/fulfillment, financial challenges)—this much you know. But are you optimistic things might still work out despite the fact that your spouse:

Has become distant and/or hostile?

Refuses to go to marriage counseling?

Is making other living arrangements?

Has mentioned divorce/contacted a lawyer?

Is taking money from your bank accounts?

And having experienced 3 or more of the above, are you still under the impression that:

Your separation (impending or current) is only temporary?

Your spouse really isn’t serious about divorce?

If you don’t hire a lawyer, you’ll have a better shot at rescuing your relationship?

Your marriage can be saved?

The signs are unmistakable, but you are unable to face the fact that your marriage is over. To this we say,
Get off the hamster wheel of denial now!

 

“Jesus,” Claire whispered to the picture of an exhausted hamster, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. But all she could do was read on, thinking that if the authors had asked, “Is Your Mother’s Name Cora?” instead of the money-siphoning question, she’d have had a full-bingo blackout over the last several months. “Denial is a powerful compulsion,” the chapter continued. She crossed her legs Indian-style, and settled in for a deeper examination of the material. And in the examples of women who thought it indulgent to fret over some niggling ennui in their marriages, or who were afraid to face hard relationship truths because the idea of divorcing and starting over was even harder, Claire saw herself. The more window dressing she had put up, the more paralyzed she had become. She pictured herself running on an endless, though attractively appointed treadmill, eyes closed, feet blistered. And it occurred to her that she was the one, and not her husband, who’d had her head in the sand for far too long. Hunched over the book, she felt like a feeble parenthesis to Michael’s exclamation point about the state of their marriage.

Sudden laughter erupted in the stacks, and Claire straightened up to see two teenagers—a boy and a girl—sharing an overstuffed chair with a pile of books between them. The boy was writing on the girl’s bare calf in blue pen, tattooing her, Claire imagined, with his adolescent messages of love. The girl giggled louder, then whispered something into his ear, and Claire’s thoughts turned to Nicholas and to how lovely it would be for him to be like them one day again, so joyful and carefree.

“Have a ball, guys,” she said to the teenagers as she made her way to the cash register. They looked up at her with quizzical moon faces. Claire pressed the book to her chest. It wasn’t exactly the magic she’d set out for, or even wanted. But sometimes, she reminded herself, you find that you get what you need.

 

It was 4:00 when Claire pulled up to the house, just in time to see Michael helping Nicholas out of the front seat of the Range Rover. She watched as the fading sunlight got tangled in his hair. It looked luminous and healthy, not the dull shade she’d remembered from the hospital. He appeared taller too, less impaired. She studied him, noticing that it was his posture that was making the difference. Nick had swayed slightly as he’d gotten his footing in the gravel, but then stood erect and took in his surroundings. Gratitude filled Claire’s heart, and reflexively, she put on some lipstick and girded herself for her no-net leap into this strange new world.

Nick turned toward Claire’s car and waved. She cut the engine and dashed out to him. “Welcome home, Nicky,” she said, wrapping him tightly in her arms.

“Mom!” Nicholas hugged her back and held her extra long, just as she had imagined he would during their hospital days. His body felt soft under his Andover sweatshirt, his muscles only hinting at their pre-accident definition. But he was no longer the frail-looking kid he’d been for so many months. “We’re back,” he repeated several times as she clung to the perfection of the moment.

Michael said hello through her embrace with Nicky, and they locked eyes, yielding to the sudden crush of answered prayers, or even joy. And in that moment, Claire made an unspoken pledge that she would do her best not to let Nicholas feel as if were being hot-potatoed between two angry parents. And in the surprising softness of Michael’s expression, it seemed to Claire that they were on the same page. Maybe they
could
get through this without too much carnage, she thought, as Nicholas released her.

“Yeah, welcome home, sport,” Michael echoed.

“How long am I gone?” Nicholas asked, looking to Claire.

The social worker and speech therapist had prepared them for the likelihood that Nick would exhibit some increased aphasia and confusion upon his return home, but they’d given them tools to work through this tricky phase. Though Claire had failed to review
that
particular information at the bookstore as she’d planned, she did recall the basics of focusing on short-term goals, repetition, and above all, patience.

“You’ve been gone almost six months, honey.”

“But now you’re home to finish getting better,” Michael added.

“I am better.”

“Yes, sport, but there are still a lot of things—”

She signaled to Michael to head inside before things escalated, wondering if he would ever learn to modulate, or if she would forever be cuing him. The thought frustrated her, but he was being kinder than she’d expected, so she let it go. Michael retrieved Nick’s bag from the car, and together they walked into the house.

“
See
how much better I’m doing?” Nick said with elation, moving doggedly between them. They held his hands and encouraged his progress up the steps and through the mudroom. The sheer delight of the moment overshadowed Claire’s dread about returning home to the tattered remains of their old life. But it wasn’t until they stepped into the kitchen and she saw Berna watering
her
English lavender plant on the center island—which had been completely rearranged—that Claire found herself crashing headlong into a personalized version of
The Far Side
.

“Oh,” she said, in the perturbed manner that often accompanies the discovery of cracker crumbs in bed.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Montgomery. It’s nice to see you again.” Berna put down the watering can and approached them. “Hello, Nicholas,” she said, reaching out a fleshy hand to him. “My name is Berna, and I’ll be here during the week doing the housekeeping.”

Nicholas stared at her, rocking from left foot to right.

Claire’s protective instincts fired, and she shot Michael an irritated glance. How could he not have considered how this change might affect Nicholas, especially at such an important juncture? Maria should have been there with her bountiful embrace and Nick’s favorite carrot cake.

“Dad told you about me,” Nick said to Berna, interrupting Claire’s silent tirade. “Dad told
me
about
you,
” he corrected after a brief stutter. He ran his hand across his chin, where a light shadow of stubble had grown. “He said you moved my room downstairs, but I want . . . to be in my old room, with my things. I can . . . handle the stairs.” Nick looked from Berna to Michael to Claire with pleading eyes.

Claire’s irritation intensified to fury. The image of Nick convulsing on the floor of the downstairs guest bedroom looped through her head, and she was astonished that Michael could be so thoughtless as to move him there—her own guilt and responsibility and lack of any seeming authority in the house be damned. “Nicky,” she said, trying to keep her voice flat, “your dad and I need to discuss some things before—”

“Yes,” Berna said, taking a large container out of the refrigerator. “Why don’t you sit down here, Nicholas, and have some carrot cake. I made it this morning. Your father says it’s your favorite.”

Within seconds Nick and Berna were in pleasant getting-to-know-you conversation mode over the cake, and Claire was marshaling Michael into the foyer, looking over her shoulder at the maddening scene playing out in her own kitchen.

“We can’t have him living in that room, Michael,” she whisper-shouted, unable to contain the tornado of emotion inside her. “What kind of awful flashbacks could that bring up for him? No matter how much you blame me for everything that happened in there, you’ve got to just . . . ugh, I don’t know.” She dug her fists into her temples. “Think things out responsibly. There’s a science to this, every little thing needs to be carefully orchestrated.”

“Are you finished?” he asked, gently taking her wrist and guiding her down the hall. “Of course I wouldn’t put him in there. We’ve set up the space behind the study for him. Amy recommended not tackling the stairs for another month or so. So I had a medical bed brought in, and Berna brought down all the important things from his bedroom.” He looked at her calmly and opened the door to the room. “Okay?”

Inside were Nick’s denim linens on the new bed, his framed Joe Sakic jersey hanging on the wall above it, his CD collection and art supplies, even his computer and photos on the desk. There was the picture of her with Nicky from Parents’ Day on the night table, next to a vase of freshly cut flowers.

“Oh,” she said again, this time annoyed at herself and feeling small for jumping to conclusions, which seemed to be the only exercise she’d been getting recently. She sat down on the bed and buried her face in her palms, trying to reconcile this weird place where happy photos and displaced mothers would coexist. She felt the weight of Michael’s stare and reminded herself of her earlier pledge to remain calm. She would bide her time and try to get a better read on him before rushing into any demands about the future.

“I just don’t know how to do this,” she said, looking up.

“We’ll all get through it. Nicky’s been great these last few days, really tough and determined. He’s been checking his own blood sugar without reminders. And he seems to be dealing well with the new arrangement.” Michael pulled up a chair and sat down opposite the bed.

He smiled, but his eyes, which Claire had once found to be spirited, had no light in them. Even the blue of his shirt failed to bring out their life. And the circles beneath them were more pronounced than they had been in LA. Clearly he wasn’t sleeping well—the old insomnia gremlin back for a visit, she thought—which gave her a modicum of satisfaction. “Well, you can pretend that’s true all you like. But how could Nick really be okay with all of this?”

“I think he somehow knows he has to be.”

She felt her stomach twist. “God. That’s another couple years on the therapy couch.”

Michael raised his eyebrows at her, conveying better than words the “Whose fault is that?” sentiment that would have been too much, even for him. She was grateful at least for his silence.

“So, how do you see this working?” Claire asked, regaining her focus. “This new
arrangement
?” A little roadmap into his psyche would be helpful as she lined up her ducks. “You know, this is still
my
house too.
Our
house.” Even though moving back in now seemed as untenable as living away from them. The house felt foreign to her, angry and bleak, and not at all like the place she had so desperately missed. The pain in her stomach turned to a kind of nausea, as if she had eaten something bad.