Leave It to Claire (16 page)

“Yes, Ms. Everett,” the long-suffering, barely out of high school receptionist says with a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Click. Now I’m on hold.

I listen to eighties tunes for five minutes until Rick’s voice finally interrupts Phil Collins singing “A Groovy Kind of Love.”

“Claire? What’s going on? I have a loaded schedule this afternoon.”

“We need to talk about Shawn again. He wrote another poem.”

A groan escapes his throat and makes its way through the line.

“What now?”

I give him the
Reader’s Digest
version. “I think we need to get him into counseling, Rick.”

Another groan. “Do you realize that means family counseling? We’ll all have to go.”

Ew.

Still, if it will address these issues he’s obviously facing.

“Okay, look. I don’t like that thought either, but he’s obviously dealing with some things. Now is the time to get him help,
before he ends up in jail.”

“Jail?” Rick gives an exasperated huff. “Isn’t that overreacting a little?”

“I’m sure every parent of a kid in jail wishes they’d gotten their child help when he first started showing signs of trouble.”

Hesitation from him. “Okay, that might be a valid point. Do you want to look for a counselor, or should I?”

“Well, you’re the one with all the doctor friends. Just make sure you get someone who is certified in family counseling, specializes
in dealing with children, and I definitely want a Christian.”

“In other words, you want me to look for someone, but make sure he meets your standards?” His sarcasm isn’t lost on me. But
I don’t have the energy to go there.

“Yes. Get a referral from one of your friends if you want, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to actually take him
to a friend. Shawn won’t feel as though he can open up freely.”

“All right. Look, Claire. I’ll see what I can do. But I have to get back to work now. My patients are getting… impatient.”

He sniggers, I groan. The guy never has been any good at discerning the dorky jokes from the good ones.

We hang up. Exhaustion overwhelms me and my arm hurts like crazy. My heart aches even more. My Shawny in need of counseling.
This is
not
the way I envisioned my time off. By now, we should be bonding as a family. We should be the Cleavers, darn it. Not the Conners
from
Roseanne
. I head to the medicine cabinet and reach for the ibuprofen. After swallowing three, I grab a trash bag and drag myself back
to the living room.

One-handed, I labor to clean up the glass. When pain jabs my fingers, I pull back quickly, tears filling my eyes. Not from
the sting of a pricked finger, not from the sight of my own blood trickling out. From frustration, fear, a little—okay, a
lot—of anger. I just wanted to do things right. And I’m failing miserably.

My Shawny. The one child I thought I could count on not to give me any trouble. We are a dysfunctional family. And I’m smart
enough to know that dysfunctional families are not grown overnight. My family is falling apart, and I’m solely to blame. Well,
and Rick.

The doctor, who looks suspiciously like an older version of Greg, stares at me over a pair of half-glasses. “I’m ready to
diagnose your son.”

He gives no indication as to whether or not this is good news or bad news, so I sit still, my hands clasped demurely in my
lap. For some reason, I am wearing a miniskirt and orange panty hose. I don’t know why I’m wearing those things. Weirder still,
Mom is sitting on top of the doctor’s desk, playing with the pencils in his pencil holder. She’s swinging her legs and her
four-inch heels thump against the desk with each swing. I want to ask her to please come down from the desk, but the doctor
is about to speak.

“Mrs. Frank.”

“Ms. Everett,” Darcy and I say at the same time. Darcy? When did she get here? I look at her and she sticks out her tongue
at me.

My jaw drops, but she just grins and looks away as though I’m not important enough to even bother with.

She’s sitting in Rick’s lap, in a tight-fitting shirt that needs to be buttoned up at least three more buttons, but she’s
suddenly looking very Anna Nicole Smithish in the button area, and I realize there’s no way such a feat is possible.

Hmmm. Something’s wrong here.

“So anyway,” Doctor Greg is saying, “As I was saying, I have discovered your son’s entire problem, and it can be solved today
with a simple action.”

Relief shoots through me like lightning down a TV antenna. “We’ll do anything, Doctor. Just tell us, what can we do for our
son?” Speaking of TV, why do I sound like a really bad actress on
Days of Our Lives
?

He ignores me and stares at Rick, who has his nose buried in Darcy’s very blonde, very big hair.

With an exasperated huff I reach out and slug him. “Pay attention.”

Tossing me a glare, he settles his hand on Darcy’s hip and looks up at the doctor. “Yeah?” he says, like he might have when
we were nineteen.

What
is going on?

“I’m afraid the boy’s entire problem is his mother.”

I gasp.

“I knew it!” Darcy hops to her feet—which are bare, by the way—and gets in my face. “It’s all your fault,” she sings in a
taunting melody, and suddenly I realize her belly is bulging with pregnancy. “All your fault.”

Ooh, if she wasn’t barefoot and pregnant, I’d . . .

Rick looks seriously at the doctor. “I’ve known for some time Claire is a terrible influence on the boy. But what can a father
do? The courts have spoken.”

Doctor Greg steeples his fingers across his desk. “Give me a moment to think about your solution.” He sighs in ecstasy as
Mom rubs his
temples.

Mom! For crying out loud.

“Doctor?” Rick prods. “What should I do? My son means everything to me.”

“Sure he does, you snake,” I explode. “That’s why you walked out on him to be with Bimbette, here.”

“Do you see what we have to put up with? Day and night. It’s always the same.” Darcy makes mouth motions with her thumb and
fingers. “Yak-yak-yakity-yak.”

The doctor nods in sympathy. “I see no other alternative.”

“What?” I say, feeling suspiciously like I’m not going to like the forthcoming solution.

“You’ll have to kill her.”

Mom looks up and finally speaks. “Yes, I suppose that’s for the best. I mean, look, I had to travel all the way across the
country to get away from her.”

Across the country. Right. All two states.

Shawn comes forward. I hold out my arms to him, tears flowing down my cheeks at the betrayal in this room. “Come here, baby,”
I say. “I’m finding you a different doctor.”

“Want to hear my new poem, Mom?”

“Okay.” I’m dubious. A little fearful even and not entirely convinced this doctor was a good choice.

Violets are blue

Roses are red

I’ll be all better

Once Mommy is dead.

Kill her

Kill her

Kill her

I feel a scream tighten my throat, but no sound comes out.

“M-om, are you dead?”

“What?”

Ari’s standing over me. “Are you okay?”

Thank God. I’m not dead.

“You scared me half to death,” she says, anger edging her voice. “What are you doing down there?”

The fuzz is clearing from my brain and I take stock of my surroundings. “I was cleaning up the glass from the picture.”

I remember more. Overwhelmed, I’d known I needed to pray, so I got on my knees in front of the recliner. “I guess I fell asleep.”

That dream must have been punishment for not hanging in there for the entire prayer. I never planned on falling asleep. I
was only going to pray until time to pick the kids up from . . .

The kids! I forgot to pick them up. Wait a minute. “Hey, how’d you get home?”

“Mr. Lewis saw us waiting,” Ari said. “Thanks a lot, by the way.”

“Greg brought you?”

“I hope you don’t mind.”

Dread slides through me at the sound of his masculine voice. I turn ever so slightly and look up from my lowly position.

“I appreciate it.”

He reaches down. “Let me help you up from there.”

How about taking me away from all this, Sir Greg? But then, he wants me dead!

Leery, I take his hand.

Did he just grunt when he lifted me up? Ugh. Why didn’t I just use the ottoman for support and get up without his help?

“Thanks.” I can’t quite meet his gaze. “And thanks for driving the kids.”

“No problem. I was headed this way, anyway.”

Oh? Was he coming to see me? Hope shoots through me like a quiver full of Cupid’s arrows.

The phone rings and Ari dashes past me to the kitchen. “It’s for me,” she hollers, even though I’m standing right there. “I’ll
get it in the kitchen.”

I toss Greg an apologetic look for my daughter’s rudeness. “You were saying you had to come this way anyway?” To ask me out?

“I’m meeting the realtor at your mom’s house.” Bummer.

Or not. Greg just down the block. That could work.

“Do you want something to drink? I haven’t seen her go by yet.”

Oh, groan. Stupid thing to say. So obvious.

He gives me that lopsided grin.

I feel a blush steal across my cheeks.

Thankfully, Jake saves me. He trots into the room, pushes a beanbag chair from the corner to right in front of the entertainment
center, grabs the game controller, and switches on the TV. Then he flops down on his stomach across the beanbag chair. He’s
ready to go.

“Hey, wait a sec, sport.”

“What?” He doesn’t bother to look away from the little video figures winding their way through a dark forest.

“Did you do your homework?”

“No.”

“Do you have any?”

“Yes.” Still he doesn’t look up.

“Turn off the TV and go do it, then.”

“Can I wait until I die?”

I roll my eyes and look up at Greg, whose face is masked in amusement. “I bet no one from our mothers’ generation ever had
to hear those words.”

“Maybe the Dark Ages,” he comes back.

I laugh. Then straighten up at the thought of some poor child with the plague. I scowl. “Not funny.”

He chuckles that wonderful, deep chuckle.

Still reveling in the joy of shared amusement with a guy I have a crush on, I have a little trouble working up a stern voice.
“Jake, turn it off. You can die later.”

Tommy barrels through the door as Jakey throws the controller and pushes himself up.

“Watch your attitude, young man,” I call after my stomping-off son.

“I didn’t do anything,” Tommy says in a tone that makes me wonder what he’s been up to.

“I was talking to Jakey.”

“Oh. Why is there a car parked in Granny’s driveway? Is she moving back?”

Not if I can help it. I’ve suddenly lost that overwhelming sense of loneliness. This new development with Greg has me believing
in destiny all over again. And we don’t want Mom to miss hers.

“That’s my cue.” Greg sends me a wink.

I walk him to the door. “Sorry things are so chaotic around here.”

“Kids and chaos go together.”

That reminds me. “Hey, how come I’ve never seen your daughter?” In need of an answer to this sudden probing thought, I walk
him to the porch.

He leans toward me and gives me a wry grin. “I have her locked away in a tower until some young man worthy of her comes along.”

The guy is just too cute. But seriously. I go to church with him. Have never seen her. He teaches at my kids’ school. Never
seen her.

A knowing look flickers in his eyes. He gives a short laugh. “Don’t worry. I do have a daughter, and no she isn’t locked in
a tower somewhere. We’re living with my mom while I look for a house.”

Disappointment kicks me in the gut. He lives with his mother? Figures.

I
step inside, trying not to think about the mama’s boy who left his truck in my driveway and walked down the block. Does this
mean he plans to stop in and say good-bye before he goes home? Oops. I guess I
am
thinking about him.

Pondering this last, I’m taken by surprise at the sight that greets me when I enter the living room. I stop mid-stride. “What
are you doing, Toms?”

Tommy turns around from his place by the wall. “The picture fell. I was putting it back up.” He gives me a “Duh, what does
it look like I’m doing?” look and finishes straightening the glassless print. “What happened to it anyway?”

“An accident.”

“Looks like someone threw a ball or something.”

If anyone should be able to read the signs of destruction, it’s him. Since he learned to walk I’ve had to clean up more broken
windows, knickknacks, and picture frames than breakage from all of the other kids combined.

“Anyway, thanks for putting the picture back up for me.”

He’s been acting so much better since Jakey barfed on him.

A shrug lifts his shoulders, and I notice that he’s beginning to fill out. His muscles becoming more defined. I should have
seen this coming, but still it takes me by surprise. Plus it makes me a little sad to think of him growing up. I don’t feel
like I’ve had enough time with him. As though his childhood just slipped by me.

“What?” he squeaks, then colors.

I snap out of my reverie before I grab him and kiss his whole face. “What, what?” I ask. The picture of innocence.

“Why are you staring at me?” His face is clouded in suspicion.

I stick out my tongue. “Who’s staring?”

“Whatever, dude.” He shakes his head and walks toward the kitchen.

“Don’t call me dude,” I call after him.

“Whatever.”

This is going well. I follow him into the kitchen. I mean, I have nothing better to do, right? And the goal is to bond with
my kids. Can’t really do that if the kids aren’t around.

Ugh.
I wish I’d just stayed in the living room and minded my own business. Tommy has the fridge open and is drinking from the milk
carton. “Ew, Tommy. Get a glass.”

He pops the lid back on the container and sets it on the shelf. Wiping away the milk mustache with the back of his hand, he
kicks the fridge closed. “Don’t need one.”