“Yes. She knows how I feel.”
I think Julia knowing how Justin feels and him doing something to help her are two totally different things, but maybe now is not the time to push. He looks spent, miserable. “Take care,” I say.
He musters a weak smile. “I will.”
The last thing I see when I look back on my way out is Justin rolling Julia onto her side so she won’t choke in case she vomits.
At home, I tell the kids to take a shower. My cell phone rings, but I don’t recognize the number. I punch the button to answer it. “Hello?”
“Hi, Claire? It’s Daniel Rush.” His voice sounds warm and friendly on the phone.
“Hi. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. I just wanted to let you know the logo design job is yours if you want it.”
“Really? That’s great. I’m sure your recommendation helped.”
“Actually, we didn’t have very many applicants. It wasn’t widely advertised and it’s a pretty small job. But I still put in a good word for you,” he quickly adds.
“I’ll mock up a few designs. It shouldn’t take me long. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
“Keep track of how many hours you spend on it and I’ll make sure you get paid.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“Talk to you soon,” he says.
“Okay. Bye, Daniel.” When I hang up I add his name and number to the contacts in my phone, feeling a bit guilty at how happy it makes me feel.
19
claire
Bridget’s husband, Sam, hits the literal jackpot shortly before the start of the new school year. A spontaneous decision to drop a quarter in a slot machine on his way out of the casino resulted in triple 7s and a seventy-five-thousand-dollar payout. This is the kind of thing that could happen only to Sam.
Bridget appropriates a chunk of the winnings and decides to invest in a new pair of breasts, which is very un-Bridget-like and embarrasses her boys to no end, especially Sebastian—who recently turned fifteen—and his younger-by-eighteen-months-brother, Finn. “They’re the boobs I’ve always wanted,” she jokes, but I wonder if they’re really the boobs Sam’s always wanted.
I cook dinner and bring the lasagna over two days after her surgery. Bridget’s normally spotless Craftsman-style home looks like a level-five biohazard, and I trip on the giant mountain of shoes by the front door, including two pairs of mud-caked cleats. I dodge the soccer balls, baseball bats, and piles of dirty laundry that litter the hallway leading from the front door to the kitchen. The house positively reeks of adolescent boys.
I make my way into the kitchen, calling out to Bridget so she knows it’s me. The counters are covered in empty frozen food containers and someone has left out a gallon of milk, uncapped. I set down the lasagna, throw the cardboard and plastic wrap into the recycle bin in the garage, and cap the milk and put it in the fridge.
“Don’t look at my disgusting kitchen, Claire,” Bridget shouts from the living room. “Those boys are pigs!”
I laugh as I enter the room and approach the couch where Bridget’s been recuperating. She’s propped up by several throw pillows, and I can’t help but stare. The new breasts are unbelievably large, and I finally drag my eyes upward. “How do they feel?” I ask.
“Big,” Bridget says. Straining against the thin fabric of her T-shirt, they look hard and unyielding, but I don’t tell her that.
“Are they still swollen?” I ask.
“I hope so,” she says. Bridget and I are both small boned and average height. Suddenly, my B-cup breasts don’t bother me as much because her now-overflowing D cups seem so out of proportion. I don’t mention this, either.
“As soon as I recover and get this disaster area cleaned up, we’re going to have a party,” Bridget says. “Sam’s feeling very celebratory.”
“I’m sure he is,” I say. “He’s a lucky man. In more ways than one.”
I refill Bridget’s water glass and find her pain pills. She swallows one and leans back against the pillows. A door slams and the sound of many footsteps and lots of excited shouting reaches us. Bridget sighs. “I think they found the lasagna.”
I listen carefully but all I hear is the tearing of foil followed by grunting. “Wow,” I say. “They’re like a pack of wild dogs.”
“You don’t even know,” Bridget says.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I made two pans.”
• • •
Bridget’s true to her word, and two weeks later she and Sam invite everyone over. “You don’t need to bring a thing,” she says, when she calls me on the phone. “It’s on us.”
Bridget has the meal catered by one of her and Sam’s favorite barbecue restaurants. Smoky, falling-off-the-bone ribs, rotisserie chicken, baked beans, coleslaw, macaroni and cheese, and garlic bread are laid out buffet-style on the island in the kitchen. There’s a large tub of beer on the patio and a full bar set up downstairs in the finished walk-out basement.
When the sun goes down, Bridget and Sam send their boys inside to watch a movie and Justin and Julia take their girls home to remain under the watchful eye of a babysitter. “Should we let the kids hang out inside for a while?” I ask Chris. It’s past their bedtime, but summer vacation is coming to an end and they’ll be back on their school schedule soon enough. Josh idolizes Bridget and Sam’s older boys, and always jumps at the chance to check out their video games. Elisa and Skip are letting Travis stay. Jordan hates to be left out, and if Josh and Travis get to watch the movie, she’ll want to as well.
“I’ll take them home,” Chris says. “Jordan looks tired.”
She does look tired and it’s probably for the best that they go to bed on time. It’s just that it’s been so long since Chris and I socialized with only the adults. “I’ll come with you,” I say. “We can get the kids settled and watch a movie or something.”
“No, stay,” he says. “I’m really behind. I have to get some work done.”
I can almost handle that Chris is gone all the time. It’s his job and I understand that. But what I struggle with is that even when he’s home, his time is not his own. The kids take whatever he can give them—as they should—and then there’s me, hoping to lay claim to whatever’s left. But there is never anything left, and there’s no point in protesting. “Okay, then,” I say, turning and walking away.
“Claire,” he says, catching up to me and reaching out to grab my arm. “Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.” I’m lonely, which is a lot harder to see than anger.
“It’ll slow down soon. Things will get better.”
“I really don’t see how they can,” I say.
“I just need a little more time,” he says. “Please.”
I nod, feeling as if I’m out of options. “Sure.”
He calls out to the kids, tells them it’s time to go. I kiss Josh and Jordan good night and promise to make pancakes for breakfast the next morning. They leave and one by one, the lights come on in my house. I duck into the bathroom in Bridget and Sam’s basement and change into my swimsuit. I can be without my pump for a little while, so I disconnect it and leave it with my clothes.
Justin and Julia are back from taking their daughters home, so I join them, and Skip and Sam, in the hot tub, easing myself into the steaming water. Sam is puffing on one of the expensive cigars he’s so partial toward. In such close quarters, it’s hard to escape the smoke and I muffle a cough with the back of my hand.
We cheer when Bridget settles in next to Sam, her breasts filling out the top of her new swimsuit spectacularly. Justin lounges next to me, his leg pressed against the length of mine. His arm is behind me, resting on the back of the hot tub yet close enough to my shoulders that his fingers brush my skin often. He’s drinking bourbon, which never ends well for anyone, but Julia isn’t drinking anything at all, and hasn’t all
night. I can’t imagine the argument that transpired after she finally emerged from her poolside alcoholic slumber. It must have been epic because I don’t remember the last time I saw her without a drink in her hand. She’s been awfully quiet tonight.
Justin is trying to convince Bridget to show off her new breasts and she’s had enough to drink that she just might do it.
Skip joins in good-naturedly. “Maybe all the women should take their tops off,” he says.
“Be quiet, Skip,” Elisa says, but she’s laughing. She decided not to get in the hot tub and she’s drinking her Coke straight. I cross my fingers that she catches some of Sam’s good luck.
Sam doesn’t seem to have a problem with his wife displaying her new assets. On the contrary, he’s fiddling with the tie on her swimsuit top. “Flaunt ’em if you’ve got ’em, honey,” he shouts. Bridget swats his hand away. Not drunk enough, after all.
Sam looks over at me. “You should tell that husband of yours that all work and no play will make Chris a dull boy,” he says, then laughs like it’s the funniest thing ever. Have I mentioned that sometimes Sam acts like a complete jackass?
Bridget glares at him and gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry,” she mouths.
“It’s okay,” I mouth back. I look at Sam. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, smiling even though it’s the last thing I need someone to point out. Suddenly, I don’t want to be here. If I’m going to be lonely anyway I’d rather it be in my own home, in my own bed, instead of in this hot tub. I climb out and wrap a towel around my waist. I open the sliding glass doors to the walk-out basement and cross the room to where Bridget has set up the bar, then set my half-empty glass of Diet Coke on the counter.
The door opens and Justin comes up behind me and puts his arms on either side, pressing against my back and bracing himself on the countertop. He reaches one hand up and cups my right breast. “I like your tits better, Claire. They fit perfectly in the palm of my hand,” he whispers, his thumb rubbing my nipple through my bikini top. It hardens immediately and he groans and nuzzles my neck.
Quickly, I move his hand and duck out of his reach. “It’s never going to happen, Justin.”
He laughs. “I’ll wear you down eventually.”
“No, you won’t,” I say. I have no interest in him and he knows it; it’s just the bourbon talking. He’s only halfheartedly fishing, checking to see if I’ll bite. I turn around to face him, rolling my eyes to show him that I know he’s kidding.
He laughs and heads toward the door, passing Elisa on his way out. She walks into the basement, giving Justin a curious look. “What was that all about?” she asks.
“Bourbon,” I say.
“I’m sorry about Sam,” she says. “That man has no filter.”
“It’s not just him,” I say. “I guess I’m not feeling very social tonight after all.” She hugs me good-bye and I slip away after thanking Bridget and Sam for their hospitality.
Entering the dark house through the garage, I notice the light showing through the crack at the bottom of the office door when I walk by. My husband is in there; I can hear his fingers tapping on the computer keys. I think about asking him how much longer he’ll be working, but then I just keep on walking. I check on the kids and after I take a quick shower, I scoop a sleeping Tucker off the floor by the foot of the bed and slide between my sheets. I stroke his soft fur, happy that I have something warm-blooded to cuddle with, and he settles into the space behind my knees when I turn onto my side and close my eyes.
20
chris
I hear Claire come in. I know she wanted me to stay at Bridget and Sam’s, or to come home with me. I should have explained that they fired someone on Friday and now I’ve got to spend the weekend doing his work, and mine. I should have told her that I’ll be traveling five nights a week now, instead of four.
I don’t know why I’m not telling her these things.
Maybe because I keep thinking that I’ll get caught up and then I can spend time with her without all this other shit getting in the way. But just when I think I’m close to getting caught up I get more work piled on top of me and then I fall behind again. It’s a vicious cycle.
When I finally stop working around 3:00 A.M., I go upstairs and get ready for bed. Since the Fourth of July I’ve tried really hard not to fall asleep on the couch, because I know that sleeping with Claire makes her happy. Even if sleeping is all that I’m capable of.
She’s lying on her side, with Tucker snoozing in the space behind her knees. The moonlight coming in through the window casts a slight glow on her face. I brush her hair back and my fingers trail along her cheekbone. She doesn’t stir, not even when I pull the covers back and slide in next to her.
21
claire
Jordan’s tennis shoes are too tight and since both kids need new shoes anyway, we drive to the mall and make a day of it, window-shopping at a toy store and stopping for lunch. As we’re walking through the mall I spot Bridget standing near the cash register at Scheel’s. I catch her eye and wave. “Come on, kids. Let’s go say hi.”
Bridget is frowning at the cashier as we approach. She takes a credit card out of her wallet, hands it over, and says, “Try this one.”
The bored-looking teenager operating the cash register swipes it and hands it back. “It went through,” he says.
“Hey, Bridge,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Oh, hi.” She looks distracted. “Sorry. There was something wrong with my credit card.” Her brow furrows as she slips both credit cards back into her wallet. “That’s never happened before.”
“Sometimes they won’t go through if you’re spending more than usual. It’s a preventive measure. It’s supposed to protect you from fraud.”
“Well, I’ve spent a lot today,” she says. “Back-to-school shopping.”
“Us, too,” I say. “Just shoes, though.” I liked T.J.Maxx so much that I plan on buying the kids’ clothes there again this year.
Bridget gathers up three enormous bags of clothes. “I’ll see you later. Have fun shopping.” She doesn’t have a free hand, but she gives Josh and Jordan a quick smile. “Bye, kids.”
We spend forty-five minutes at the shoe store, Josh acting bored and grumbling about how long it’s taking his sister to choose between two pairs of shoes. “Better get used to it, buddy. Girls like to change their minds,” I tease, but he’s in no mood for such nonsense. He perks up when Jordan finally makes a selection. The shoes are sparkly and pink, and the soles light up when she jumps, which delights her. The sales clerk boxes up the tennis shoes Josh spent all of two minutes deciding on, but Jordan wants to wear her new shoes home. The saleslady puts her old shoes in the shoe box instead and hands the kids balloons, a red one for Jordan and blue for Josh. Jordan beams, as if her day couldn’t get any better. As we’re leaving the mall she lets go of her balloon and wails as it soars upward, and though I jump and grab for the string it’s already way too high for me to reach. Her tears flow and I bend down to wipe them. “I’m sorry, honey. You have to hold tight to the things you love.” I stand up and look toward the sky, but the balloon is a red speck I can barely make out.
And at that moment I can’t help but wonder if Chris realizes just how untethered I’ve become.
When we get home I call Elisa. She and Skip are moving forward with becoming foster parents and they have their first home visit with a social worker today.
“I’m so nervous,” Elisa says when I ask her how she’s doing. “I’ve cleaned this house from top to bottom and I’ve threatened Travis with his life if he blurts out ‘God damn it’ like he did the other day when he dropped a hammer on his toe. I just keep worrying that one of us will say or do the wrong thing.”
I laugh. “Travis said that?”
“It’s not funny. I’m afraid he’ll do it again. Or that Skip will, because that’s obviousl
y who Travis picked it up from.”
“It’s kind of funny,” I say.
“Yeah,” she agrees. “It is. I had to turn my back so he wouldn’t see me laugh.”
“Everything will be fine.” If there were ever two people who were qualified to be foster parents, it’s Skip and Elisa.
“What about you?” she asks. “Do you have big plans for the rest of the day?”
“I got the design job for the police department. If I can find something to occupy the kids, I’m going to get started on some mockups. I have a few ideas swirling around in my head and I don’t want to lose them. Call me after the visit, okay? I want to hear how it goes.”
“I will. Wish us luck.”
“You don’t need luck,” I say. “You’ll do great.”
After we hang up and I convince the kids to play in the backyard, I turn on my laptop. I set Daniel’s business card next to it so I can refer to the existing logo. He mentioned something about giving it an updated look. I open Adobe Illustrator and come up with a few mockups, which I promptly reject because they don’t match the vision I have in my head. I don’t force it and eventually I get into a groove and lose myself in my work as the ideas flow faster. When the kids come in an hour later, tired, hot, and thirsty, I have several designs that I’m happy with.
Satisfied, I turn off the computer, feeling a twinge of excitement when I think about e-mailing Daniel.
22
claire
Last February, when Chris had been out of work for ten months, my worry turned to fear. I lost weight I couldn’t afford to lose, and I slept horribly. Chris seemed to never eat or sleep at all. His clothes hung on him and the circles under his eyes turned a frightening shade of purple. Over the course of one week he spoke exactly eleven words to me; I counted. The effort required to shield the kids from the situation emotionally exhausted me, and I ran interference constantly because Chris simply didn’t have the mental bandwidth necessary to deal with them.