Claire Knows Best (26 page)

“Fine.” Brandi finishes taking his order, then turns to Penny and me. “Ladies?”

I’m miserable. Truly. Why can’t I just mind my own business?

The next forty-six minutes pass in a blur. The studied indifference of Brandi and John feeds Penny’s unabashed interest as
she keeps glancing from them to me with a definite smirk. Brandi’s usual grin is nowhere in sight as she makes a minimal effort
to keep us supplied with food and drink.

Sigh. There’s nothing to do but tough it out and acknowledge my attempt at reconciliation is a complete failure.

I do notice, however, that when we get up to leave John drops three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills on the table.

“Nice tip, John,” Penny says and winks. “If you ever come into Shoney’s, be sure and ask for me. I work there Thursday, Friday,
and Saturday nights.”

“I’ll remember that,” John says, giving her a tolerant smile.

We are out at the SUV and about to pull away when Brandi bursts through the door. “Hey! Wait!”

John heaves a sigh and rolls down his window.

“I don’t want your money, John Wells.”

“I want you to have it. You’re my daughter.”

Anger burns in her eyes. “Listen. I didn’t need your money growing up. And I don’t need your money now.” She flings the bills
at him.

Very calmly, John folds the money and reaches out before she can stop him. He tucks the money into her apron pocket. “It’s
a tip for exceptional service.” Without another word he rolls up the window and sits straight as an arrow, his gaze directly
ahead.

Brandi stands motionless, her face reflecting indecision and pain. I help her make her decision to keep the cash that’s probably
more than she makes in a week in tips. Sending her a little wave, I shift into reverse and back away.

Once we get on the road, the silence is palpable. Finally, I can stand it no longer. “Now who’s the liar, John?”

My words, out of nowhere, jolt him from his thoughts. “I beg your pardon?”

“Exceptional service, my eye. We got everything
except
service from your daughter.”

John Wells sits for a second in stunned silence. Then he laughs aloud. Penny joins him and, relieved, so do I.

“Sorry for the bushwhack, John,” I say when I pull up alongside the curb in front of his house.

He takes my hand and presses a kiss to my fingers. “Your heart was in the right place. It’s been a long time since someone
cared about me, Ms. Everett. I can’t help but be touched by your generosity.”

Sudden tears well up in my eyes, blinding me. I blink them back. “Don’t give up. She’ll come around eventually.”

He gives me a sad little smile and there’s that wink again. “From your mouth to God’s ears.”

T
hat night I pull on my pj’s at eight o’clock and slip
The Wizard of Oz
into the DVD player. I crawl into bed. Lonely. The phone rings just as Dorothy steps from black and white into the Technicolor
land of Oz.

“Hi, Mom.”

“How did you… oh, caller ID.”

Not much slips by Mom. She’s finally getting it.

“So, what’s up?” I ask, hitting the pause button on the movie.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she says. “I can tell something is wrong. Want to tell me what it is?”

“Oh, nothing.” I know she won’t buy it. And she knows I know it. Why do we go through the trouble of this little routine?
Will I ever just come right out and admit my life stinks? For some reason I’m compelled to follow through with the comfortable
ritual whereby Mom asks, I deny, she fishes, I give in, she gives bad advice, I get ticked, we hang up. Then act like nothing
happened. No big deal.

Let the games begin . . .

“Something is wrong,” Mom fishes.

Here’s where I give in, knowing I shouldn’t, but needing the unconditional love that only a mom can give. “Greg left for Oklahoma
a few days ago.” Tears burn my eyes. “I just really miss him.”

“Have you had a change of heart about marrying him?” She has that hopeful tone that makes me feel even worse.

“Not really.” I reiterate my position because it seems as though she needs a refresher. “Not pastor’s-wife material, remember?”

“That’s just ridiculous.” Okay, it’s a little sooner than usual, but Mom has just kicked into bad-advice mode. “You give yourself
far too little credit. Besides, I think you’ve misunderstood the role of a minister’s wife. Not all wives are involved in
the day-to-day ministry of the pastor. Some stay home and take care of kids.”

“I know,” I say a little testily, because quite frankly, I’m tired of discussing it. Why am I the only person who realizes
what a horrible pastor’s wife I would make? And “stay home and take care of the kids”? What does she think I’ve been doing
for the past sixteen years?

“Well, if you’re going to be cranky, I’ll get to the point.”

Please do,
I think, but would never have the guts to say out loud. Besides, I thought the point was that she couldn’t stop thinking
about me and my inner pain. I guess I don’t have the guts to go with that one, either.

“I’ve decided to move back home.”

I’m in the middle of an inhale when she says this, and for the life of me, I can’t seem to blow out the breath. It just stays
in my lungs until I feel like my entire core is on fire.

“Claire, are you still there?”

The breath leaves me in a puff. “Can you say that again, Mom?”

“I said I’m moving back.”

I kick my legs over and over under the sheets, squeeze my eyes shut, try
hard
not to scream.

Mom’s not buying it, though. “Good grief, Claire. What’s all that noise?”

Immediately, my tantrum ceases. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you want me to move back?” Her tone moves me to guilt.

“I just never thought you would. You love being with Charley and Marie and the kids. And, Mom, what about the new twins? Can
you really leave those babies?”

My mind is racing. I mean, I hated that she moved last fall. Hated it with a passion. I needed her help with the kids while
I was recovering from carpal tunnel surgery. Turns out, I got along okay and learned to stand on my own. Does that mean this
news of her return also foretells my regression into the same needy soul I was before?

“I love those babies, that’s true. But I’m just too old to keep up with them. Marie’s going to have to find a different babysitter
or stay home with the kids.”

“But where are you going to live, Mom? You sold your house, remember?”

“Until I find a place, I’ll naturally have to live with you.”

Oh, dear Lord. Say it isn’t so.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother. She’s very cool. Well, cool might be a stretch. When I was thirteen years old, my friend
Kimberly Jones loaned me a Petra record. (Remember records? My kids call them “really big CDs.”) Mom took a listen and banned
the Christian rockers with a vehemence I’d seen only once before in my short life—the time Charley begged to be allowed to
watch
The Return of the Jedi
.

Mother’s refusal on that was a result of our church’s wishy-washy stand on the movie. Dark side/light side. All very confusing.
Church opinion was split down the middle and Mom’s close-knit clique was on the “
Star Wars
is of the devil” side, so Charley got the short end of the stick.

The little wimp cried about it for two days because all of his little grammar-school friends were going to see it. Finally
I got so sick of his whining, I snuck him out of the house one night and walked him down to the movie theater, paid for tickets,
sprang for popcorn out of my hard-earned babysitting money, and told him I’d beat the heck out of him if he ever told on us.

Sensitive boy that he was, he had guilt nightmares for a week until he finally tiptoed into my parents’ room at midnight one
night and confessed (fully aware that Mom and the angels would protect him from my wrath).

Charley’s repentance absolved him of his sin, and that night he slept like a baby, while I lay in bed imagining scenarios
whereby my little brother might go missing and never be seen again. The next morning I was sentenced to two weeks’ grounding
from watching
Hart to Hart
.

I’ve never gone out on a limb for Charley since. And I didn’t get to beat the heck out of him either, because Mom, foreseeing
the possibility, warned me off under threat of missing not only two episodes but the entire season of the TV show. After weighing
the joy of pummeling my brother against the torture of months and months without Stephanie Powers and Robert Wagner, I had
to go with what would make me the happiest. It was a close call, but I chose the millionaire amateur sleuths over the instant
and short-lived gratification of inflicting pain where it was deserved.

Anyway, back to the paradox that is my mother. Christian rock was a definite no-no in our house, while twice a week she scrubbed
the kitchen floor in time to Barbara Mandrell’s “You Can Eat Crackers in My Bed Anytime.” Needless to say, I have consistency
issues that plague me to this day.

“So—uh, when are you coming, Mom?”

“Well, I won’t if you don’t want me to.” Oh, groan. Manipulation that leads to guilt and the inevitable apology—mine, of course.

I cover the receiver with my hand and heave a great big sigh. Take my hand off the receiver. “You know I want you to.” Forgive
me, Lord. “You’d have to share the master bedroom with Ari, though.”

I pause. Smile. That’ll keep my kid from sneaking out at night. Mom’s got better radar than Big Brother. I’m warming up to
the idea when she deflates my balloon. “Don’t be silly. We’ll put a bed in the basement and I will sleep down there. I refuse
to uproot those children again.”

Uproot? Is she referring to the massive oak tree that uprooted and slammed into my house? My defenses are rising and I want
to ask her if she is blaming me for a tornado, but I think sometimes it’s better to let things go. So that’s what I do, because
she’ll just backtrack, do the don’t-go-twisting-my-words routine—and quite frankly, I don’t think it will do any good anyway.
So, like I said, I let it go and point the conversation toward her imminent homecoming—and my imminent return to my childhood.

“When’s it going to be, Mom? I’ll need to get the basement ready.”

“Next Friday. My plane lands at 3:30 in the morning.”

“Mom! In the morning?”

“It was the cheapest flight I could get.”

“You know I would have made up the difference if I’d known about it ahead of time.” Good grief. Like I don’t lose enough sleep
these days. Between missing Greg and watching Ari like a hawk, I haven’t slept more than four hours a night in ages.

“You have to save your money now that you’re homeless and that dirty rotten scoundrel stole your money.”

I have tried to explain more than once to my mother that the insurance check has already cleared. I’m just waiting for Van’s
bill and it’s all taken care of. But for some reason, she keeps thinking the thirty grand it’s going to cost to fix my house
is coming out of my pocket. I’ve exhausted myself trying to convince her. “Fine, Mom. Three-thirty it is.”

“Thank you, hon. Now, have you heard from Greg?”

Oh, ow. Twist the knife, Mom. Why don’t you just drive it in deep and give it a good swift crank?

“No, I haven’t. But I saw his mother and Sadie at church today.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Did Helen mention whether or not she’s heard from him?”

Should I tell her what happened?

Sure, why not.

“She didn’t really have a chance. Sadie stuck out her tongue at me and accused me of making her daddy cry and then leave her.”
The images replay in my head and I’m living it again.

“The poor little girl. I did question the wisdom of his leaving her.”

The other line beeps. I’m saved! “Hey, Mom, I need to let you go. I have another call.”

“Oh, I hate that call waiting. They never should have invented it.”

“I know, Mom. It’s rude. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Fine. Good-bye, then.”

I click the other line and say hello.

“Hi, Claire. It’s me.”

My heart nearly stops and then soars at the sound of Greg’s voice.

“Hi. How’s Tulsa?”

“Lonely.”

Well, what’d ya expect, bud? Okay, that’s what I want to say. But why kick a man when he’s already down, you know? “I’m sorry.
Maybe it’ll get easier.”

“I hope so. I pray so. Classes are good.”

“I’m glad.” Oh, man. John’s right. I am a liar. I wanted classes to be bad. Horrible. Filled with heresy and half-truths.
I hoped the instructors would be crosses between Jim Jones and Reverend Moon. I wanted the bathrooms to all be caked with
filth. I wanted traffic to annoy him and the Oklahoma wind to sweep down the plains to frustrate him. In short, I wanted him
to realize that God couldn’t possibly be the One who sent him away, because… it’s not what I want. I want him to forget
the whole idea of being a pastor and just come back to me so things can get back to normal.

“Listen, Claire. The main reason I called is to apologize for Sadie.”

Something inside of me just dies when he says that. Couldn’t it have been because he misses me? Or perhaps because he sees
my face everywhere he goes? I have this really bad feeling Greg’s already moving on. I want to throw the phone against the
wall and watch it and Greg shatter. Instead I paste a smile on my face. And yes, I know he can’t see me; it’s to psych myself
up.

“No need to apologize. Maybe she’ll feel better if she knows I was this close to sticking my tongue back out at her. But your
mom looked up at just the right time.”

He laughs. The rich, comforting sound sweeps over me like a warm summer rain. I lean back against my pillows and close my
eyes. I’m savoring the sound of his voice, and relishing the fact that I can still make him laugh. “What can I say? I’m pretty
much still a six-year-old at heart.”

“I didn’t even know she stuck out her tongue.”

“Oh. Guess I just told on us both, then.”

He chuckles. “Actually, Mom told me what she said about you being the reason I left.”