Thursdays At Eight (10 page)

“What about the kids?” Liz asked. “How did they react?”

“We haven't told them yet.” Julia dreaded the thought. Her children were typical teenagers—meaning self-involved—and their entire world focused on their own needs. Peter had a blind spot when it came to his children; he sincerely believed they'd be just as delighted as he was. Julia doubted it.

“You have to adjust to it yourself first,” Liz said and patted her hand.

“What about The Wool Station? Are you going to close it while you're on maternity leave?”

“I don't know,” she said helplessly. So many questions remained unanswered. Peter was full of vague reassurances; he kept insisting they'd make it work.

Everyone was quiet for a while, as though they required a moment to absorb the news.

“If you need anything, you holler,” Karen said. “I don't know much about babies, but I'll do what I can.”

“I will, too,” Clare assured her. “You have my complete support.”

“And mine,” Liz promised.

“Thank you,” Julia whispered, grateful for these three dear friends. She had the feeling she was going to be calling upon them often in the months to come.

CLARE CRAIG

February 4th

I
can't believe what happened yesterday. I saw Michael for the first time—outside a courtroom—since the divorce became final. Not by choice, mind you. Alex was in a soccer tournament in Fresno this weekend, and I assumed Michael wouldn't be there. My mistake. Michael's worked weekends for years and Fresno's a long drive. Needless to say, I took it for granted that he wouldn't show up.

Seeing my ex-husband was a shock. He's thinner now than when we were together, and what he wore—khakis and a Gap sweatshirt—reflected the change he's made in his life. If he's going to live with a twenty-year-old, I guess it's not surprising that he'd dress like one. As though he could fool anyone. It's pathetic.

What astonished me most was the pain I felt when I saw him. And not only pain but anger and resentment. I thought I was past this! It's disheartening to realize how far I have yet to go.

To be fair, I have to admit Michael didn't mingle with the other parents. He stood at the far end of the field, away from everyone else. In fact, he was there a good hour before I noticed him, which happened when Alex ran off the field to talk to him. Then, and only then, did I see that the stranger near the goalpost was Michael. From that point onward, the entire tournament was ruined for me.

Alex knew how upset I was and did his best to explain once we were alone. He told me he was surprised to see Michael at the Fresno game, too. I could tell he was pleased and didn't want to squelch his joy, but I was furious with Michael. He should have had the decency to let me know.

I've been depressed ever since last night. Alex isn't here right now; he's been gone a lot lately, busy with his job, soccer, school and friends. It wouldn't be appropriate to discuss my feelings with him, anyway. Usually when something like this comes up, I go to Liz. I suppose it's because she's older and she's been through the grief of losing her husband, but she always has a sensible perspective on things. I've been going to her a lot lately, relying on her too much, and I feel it's time I dealt with these problems on my own.

I spent last night wallowing in self-pity. I was exhausted after the long drive home, but I sat in the living room until the wee hours of the morning, thinking about all the times Michael and I attended the boys' games together. He missed some of the Saturday morning games, but for the most part we were there as a couple. I found myself crying again—all this heartache—and then I simply decided I couldn't let one man destroy me like this.

Easier said than done.

Sometimes I wonder if this pain will ever end. Michael's lost at least thirty pounds. So he's looking lean and craggy (very
much his age, in my opinion). But he dresses in a style better suited to one of his sons. Miranda's obviously responsible for that. She's probably worn him to a frazzle with all her sexual demands. Good, maybe he'll die young and miserable. I've done my part to make sure he dies broke.

 

“Mom.” Alex's raised voice rang over the telephone line. “I need a favor.”

“What's up?” Clare had been busy working off her unhappiness over the soccer fiasco by scrubbing the shower stall in the master bedroom. She was determined to regain control of her emotions, and since it was Monday, didn't have the distraction of work. Her hours at Murphy Motors were Tuesdays and Thursdays.

“I need to write a makeup test this afternoon.”

“English or algebra?

“Algebra.”

Because of the soccer tournament, Alex had missed two important tests. Algebra was her son's poorest subject, and he resembled his father there, far more than he did her.

“What about the English midterm?”

“Mrs. Ford was cool about that. She said I could write it any time this week.”

“Not so with Mr. Lawrence?”

“No. In fact, he said if I didn't take the test this afternoon, he'll give me a zero. And if I get a zero, you can kiss my chances of getting into Berkeley goodbye.”

“Did you study?”

“Of course I did. I'll ace it if—”

“If what?”

“Mom,” he said, then hesitated. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was any other way.”

“What?” Clare demanded, growing impatient. Intuition told her she wasn't going to like this. Alex was generally straightforward when he wanted something; there had to be a reason he was being so indirect.

“I told Dad I'd pick him up at the hospital, and now I can't.”

Clare's anger was immediate. “You're asking
me
to chauffeur your father around?”

“Yes.” Alex's voice sounded small. “I know you and Dad are divorced, but that doesn't mean you can't be civilized.”

Clare gritted her teeth and waited for the anger to pass. “I'm civilized, Alex. Are you suggesting I'm not?”

“No, Mom, please…I don't want to get into this with you. I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't important.”

“What about his…friend?” Clare asked. Surely Miranda could pick him up.

“She can't just take off from work, you know.”

Clare hadn't realized nail technicians were on such tight schedules.

“Can't he get a taxi?” If there was a way out of this, Clare planned to find it.

“Yeah, I guess, only I told him I'd be there and you always said it's important for us to keep our commitments.”

Hmm. Moral righteousness. He was bringing out the heavy artillery.

Something wasn't logical here. A thought occurred to her that hadn't earlier. “Why can't he drive himself?”

“Mom, I'm between classes and I don't have time to discuss this, but apparently Dad's having some tests done at the hospital. He's not supposed to drive.”

“Oh.” She paused. “What kind of tests?”

“I'm not…sure.” It was his turn to pause. “Will you do it or not?” he asked more sharply.

She desperately wanted to tell Alex that Michael could find his own damn way home. But deep down, Clare knew that if she refused, Alex would skip the exam and take the zero in order to fulfill his obligation to his father.

“Will you?” he repeated.

“All right,” she muttered with ill grace, angry for allowing herself to be maneuvered into something she didn't want to do.

Alex quickly gave her the necessary information, then said, “Thanks, Mom. I knew I could count on you.”

The line was disconnected before she had a chance to respond.

Dreadful though the situation was, it did give her an opportunity to speak to Michael about the next soccer tournament, scheduled for March. Look on the bright side, Clare! They'd agreed to alternate attending the games. This afternoon would be a perfect chance to sort out the details and make sure there wasn't a repeat of last weekend.

Clare suspected that Alex was secretly hoping his parents would reunite. What a joke. As far as she was concerned, Michael had proven himself completely untrustworthy. But according to the books she'd read and what she'd heard in her support group, this was a common fantasy for children of divorce—regardless of age.

It worried her a little that Alex felt this responsibility toward his father. He was only a kid; he shouldn't have to ferry Michael around or be involved with his problems. Yet Alex had accepted the burden as if it were his own.

As the time approached to leave for the hospital, Clare dressed in her best business suit. Staring at her reflection in the bedroom mirror, she stripped it off. Too formal, she decided. She was striving for a look of casual elegance.

No. That might give him the impression that she was living a life of leisure. Whatever she chose to wear had to convey how
terribly happy she was, how terribly busy. Her goal was to make Michael believe she was extremely inconvenienced by having her day interrupted. At the same time, her graciousness and generosity in coming for him would clearly state that she was the bigger person, capable of putting bygones aside.

Best of all, Michael had no idea she was picking him up. According to Alex, it was impossible to get a message to him, letting him know the arrangements had changed. That being the case, Michael would be caught off guard when she arrived. Good—he could suffer the same shock Clare had last Saturday. Not only that,
she
was prepared, and her carefully contrived demeanor would remind him of what he'd thrown away. A mature, classy, compassionate and capable woman.

Yes. She had it all figured out.

Life's unpleasant surprises did come with compensations.

After emptying almost her entire closet, Clare finally chose a canary-yellow pantsuit. It suggested cheeriness and optimism; even better, Michael had always liked it on her. Whenever she wore it, he'd sing “You Are My Sunshine,” and he'd— Enough of that! She planned to swing into the hospital like a…like a ray of sunshine. Cordial but not overly so. Michael would be in her debt, and she preferred that to owing
him
anything.

The hospital. Apparently Michael's current lifestyle had taken its toll on his health. Poor boy, he just couldn't keep pace with a youngster. She'd be sure to reveal exactly the right amount of sympathy, with just a hint of contempt.

On the drive to Willow Grove Memorial, she repeatedly played through the scenario in her mind, imagining Michael's reactions and rehearsing her own.

Michael was supposed to be waiting for her in the hospital foyer. All that was required of her, according to Alex, was to drive up to the front doors.

She tried that, but when Michael didn't show up, she circled the block a couple of times. When he still didn't appear, she parked the car in the first available slot, and strode purposefully toward the hospital entrance.

Her mood darkened.

Searching for Michael was
not
part of the deal. It ruined the way she'd envisioned their meeting, completely spoiling the little script she'd created. If he wasn't inside where she'd been told he'd be, Michael could damn well find his own ride home.

No sooner had she walked into the marble-floored foyer than she heard someone call her name.

“Clare,” Liz said, hurrying toward her. “What are you doing here?”

This was embarrassing. Being seen by her friend wasn't part of the deal, either. “Ah…” A lie would be convenient, but unaccustomed to prevarication, she couldn't think of one fast enough.

“Everything's all right, isn't it?” Liz pressed.

“Oh, sure…” She sighed. “I'm here to pick up Michael.”

Liz's eyes widened, but she said nothing.

Reluctantly Clare explained Alex's predicament and hers, ending with Michael's non-appearance at the appointed place. “I guess I'll wait a few more minutes,” she said.

Liz's expression was sympathetic. “Are you sure you're up to this?”

Clare's answer was a shrug. “I'm about to find out, aren't I?”

“Yes, you are.” She glanced past Clare's shoulder. “Is that him over there?”

It was, and he looked dreadful. Pale and gaunt. Seeing him close-up, she realized he'd lost more weight than she'd noticed on Saturday; he was downright thin.

He stopped abruptly when he saw her.

“Where's Alex?” he asked, gazing around.

“Taking an algebra midterm,” she replied stiffly, staggered by the differences she saw in him. She nodded toward Liz. “This is my friend Liz Kenyon, the hospital administrator.”

Michael inclined his head, acknowledging the introduction with a brief smile. “Do you mind if we leave now?”

“I'll see you Thursday,” Clare said, turning toward the doors.

“Okay.” As Clare began to walk away, Liz squeezed her hand.

Outside the hospital, Michael paused. “Where's the car?”

“In the east parking lot.” She pointed.

He nodded and started walking in that direction.

Clare followed more slowly behind him. She should have pursued her question about the tests. Alex probably knew
something
and she should've insisted he tell her. In her eagerness to wear the perfect outfit, to show him how completely she'd recovered from their divorce, she hadn't given it much thought. Whatever the tests were for, they must've been hellish.

Neither spoke as they walked toward the parking lot. By the time they reached the car, Michael's breathing was labored. She pretended not to notice.

Once inside the vehicle, Michael closed his eyes and leaned against the headrest. He'd broken into a sweat. She struggled not to react with pity or fear. Struggled not to react as a wife would.

Clare started the engine and backed out of the space.

“I appreciate this, Clare,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“I won't pretend it was convenient,” she said, keeping her voice cool, refusing to allow herself to feel anything, and hating it that she did. “I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Alex.”

“I know.”

She waited until they'd merged with the flow of traffic before she broached the subject of their son and the remaining soccer matches.

“I thought we'd agreed to split up Alex's games,” she said
in as reasonable a tone as she could manage. “If you wanted to attend the tournament, you should've let me know.”

Michael didn't answer, and when she turned to look at him, he was staring out the side window.

So he intended to give her the silent treatment. Okay, fine. But she wasn't conceding defeat. She—

“I'm sorry.”

Again she had to strain to hear him. In an odd way, she was almost disappointed by his apology. It sabotaged her anger.

“Sorry?” The least he could do was explain himself.

“Stop the car.” His voice was harsh. Urgent. He pointed to a side street and added. “Hurry…please.”

“Stop the car?” she repeated. Even as she said the words, she switched to the outside lane and pulled off the main street, onto the road he'd indicated. The second she eased to a stop at the curb, the passenger door flew open. Michael half fell out of the car, bent over and vomited on the sidewalk.