Leave It to Claire (22 page)

We open the red-metal door and slip outside. The sidewalk is littered with tossed paper cups, napkins, nacho containers. Most
disturbing are the teenagers smoking along the side of the building, and boys and girls, some of whom look no older than Tommy,
making out like they’re oblivious to their audience. I’m repulsed, really. But also a little jealous. I haven’t had a good
make-out session in a long time.

I cast a sideways glance up at Greg to see if he notices. His eyes are straight ahead. Face like a rock. Unreadable.

“Where are we going?” I manage to ask, trying to look away from his full lips that are just asking to be asked for a kiss.

“Tommy went out the side door, so we’re going that way.”

Oh, duh!

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, but still heavy in the chest.”

We round a corner, and for one brief instant I realize that I do not know my son. There’s a boy standing there in my son’s
body, but that is
not
my son! Tommy hasn’t seen me yet—the impostor, that is. He takes a drag from a lit cigarette and I see red. I mean big, bold
red.

“Thomas Richard Frank, I’m going to beat you within an inch of your life.” The panic is gone now and I’m running on sheer
adrenaline. My son looks around the three other boys he
thought
were blocking his path; horror widens his eyes and I can see he’d like to bolt. But fear has him frozen to the ground. The
smoldering ground where he just dropped his cigarette.

“Mom!”

“Don’t
Mom
me, young man. March it to the van.
Now!
”

“Calm down, Claire.”

No longer feeling the love, I whip around and pin Greg with an icy glare. “Don’t tell me to calm down, choirboy. My son is
smoking
!Cigarettes. Cancer-causing, smoke-expelling—” I give Tommy a pointed look over my shoulder. “—
illegal,
foul-smelling garbage.”

“All right. Yell then, but kids are coming around the corner. I think they’re looking for a fistfight. Are you planning to
give them a good show? Or how about taking this home?”

I can just see the headlines: “Local, sort-of-celebrity, Christian romance author Claire Everett showed some not-so-Christian
behavior by starting a brawl at The Board on Saturday.”

I whip around like I’m Neo and Tommy is Agent Smith from
The Matrix.
“What the heck are you still doing standing there with those bad influences?” Oh, brother. Poor choice of words. I recognize
this to be the case when one of those bad influences turns his scraggly face away and snickers like a seven-year-old.

Incensed and in no mood to be made fun of by tacky boys, I take a couple of steps toward my son and jam my hands on my hips,
only vaguely noticing they don’t sink in as far as they used to. “What are you laughing at? Does your mother know you’re giving
thirteen-year-old boys cigarettes?”

His pierced eyebrows go up in surprise as though he’s just been asked to take a bath. “Tank gave
me
a smoke, lady. Not the other way around.”

I feel a hand grip my arm. “Claire, come on. Let’s go.” Greg’s voice is stern, commanding. I kind of like that. Since I’m
done here anyway.

I hurl the thugs one last ticked-off-mama glare and stomp after my son, who is Toast with a capital
T
.

I
f a teenager doesn’t want to talk, there’s not a thing a parent can do, short of telepathy, to wring out his thoughts. I face
this unfortunate truth right now as my sullen boy sits as far as he can from me, pressed against the passenger-side door.

“Tommy, don’t lean, you’re going to fall out.”

“Good,” he snarls.

“Well, you might not have a problem with it, but I don’t need the cops thinking I pushed you out for mouthing off, so get
away from the door like I said.”

He seems surprised by the force of my God-given right to order my children to do what is best for them. Frankly, I wasn’t
sure I had all this grit in me. Could have been leftover adrenaline from the mild panic attack I experienced at The Board.
Actually, I’m still feeling as though the panic attack isn’t quite over. My face is tingling a bit. And my heart is still
racing.

Still, a great sense of satisfaction shoots through me as I watch him shift closer to center and slouch down in the seat.
Okay, I know he wouldn’t fall out. First of all, I’m pretty sure modern vehicles are reasonably safe. Second, he’s wearing
his seat belt. But I can’t get my mom’s voice out of my head from the days before “Click it or ticket” laws.
“Stop leaning on that door, Claire Everett. What if it flies open while we’re driving down the road? Do you want to fall out?”

Of course, at the moment, I have a much deeper issue to deal with. My son has been smoking. My son! The boy whose dad is a
doctor, for crying out loud. “Am I going to have to get your dad to bring over the lung cancer videos again?”

“No,” he snarls.

“Watch the tone!” Man, I am really on a roll.

He shrugs, and I admire his restraint. A week ago he would have said, “Whatever.” Of course, that grounding is going to look
like a ditch of punishment next to the Grand Canyon I’m about to inflict on his life. He’s going to be lucky to see the light
of day for the next six months.

But since this is a health-related issue, I have decided to contact Rick and ask his opinion about what we should do to this
one. Our efforts didn’t work so well with Poem Boy. But we’re going to be extra tough with this one.

I turn the van toward Rick and Darcy’s house.

“Where are we going?” Tommy asks.

“Your dad’s.”

“I want to go home.”

Yeah, I bet you do. Rick’s going to go ballistic when he hears about Tommy lighting up.

“Too bad. You belong to Dad on the weekends.”

“Don’t you think I’m old enough to decide if I want that whole visitation thing?”

“Not really.”

His throat emits a growl.

“Take the lip ring out, by the way. I don’t know why you thought you could get that pierced after I said no.”

“It’s not even real.”

“What isn’t real?”

He slips off the lip ring. Other than a red spot where it was pinching his lip, there is nothing permanent. No holes.

I laugh in spite of myself. “They have clip-ons?” I picture my aunts with their clip-on button earrings from the sixties.

“It’s not funny, Mom. I have to wear it or everyone will think I’m a baby. ‘My mommy won’t let me get my lip pierced.’”

“That’s right. Because it’s
stupid.
”

“No more stupid than those legwarmers you used to wear when you were my age. It’s just a style.”

“Okay, I understand what you’re saying about the difference in generational ideas of what is or isn’t a dumb style. But let’s
get something straight. Legwarmers didn’t leave holes in my legs. And my parents didn’t object to my wearing them. Believe
me, there were things in the eighties my parents would have freaked out about just as much as I freaked out when I thought
you really had a lip ring.”

“Like what?”

“Mohawks, purple hair. The punked-out look. Madonna CDs.”

“Madonna writes kid’s books.”

Yes, things have certainly changed in twenty years. I feel so old.

We pull into Rick’s long driveway. I stare at the home he’s given Darcy. A beautiful white colonial with pillars and everything.
Like he’s a plantation owner and she’s the belle of the ball. I put up with him for eleven years, so how come she gets the
good house while I’m still living in the one we bought five years into our marriage? Jealousy is an ugly thing.

I slam the gearshift into park and kill the motor. Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re coming in with me?”

“Yep.” His surprise is understandable. I have never stepped foot inside Tara, but this is one time when the situation warrants
the humbling of my principles.

On the porch, I ring the bell and Tommy looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I live here, too, Mom. I don’t have to ring the
bell.”

My head is beginning to feel fuzzy. My heart is picking up and I feel heat crawling up my spine and around to my neck and
face. Sweat is already beginning to bead on my forehead. Should have known I couldn’t get off that easily. “Well, I don’t
live here so I do.”

He shrugs, opens the door, walks inside, and closes it in my face.

Indignation shoots through my veins like a shot of red-hot chili peppers. That kid isn’t exactly in the position to be a smarty.
And I plan to tell him so just as soon as someone comes to the door. I ring the bell again.

A flustered Darcy appears seconds later. “Claire, I’m so sorry. Come in, please. Tommy should have let you in.”

Tommy’s standing beyond her. “Hey, you can bring a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink,” he says, shrugging and turning
like he’s heading up the steps.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Rick’s voice is stern, and I recognize the underlying anger. Has he somehow heard about
the cigarettes? His next words leave me speechless. “You get your behind over here and apologize to your mother.”

“What for?”

“First you leave her standing on the doorstep, second you use extremely disrespectful wording to justify your behavior. I
want to hear some apologizing beginning right now.”

Boy-o-boy. Where’d this guy come from?

I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth—which, by the way, is beginning to go numb. “Look, deal with this later,
Rick. I need to talk to you about something more important. Toms,” I say, turning my attention to where my oh-so-in-trouble
kid is standing on the third step. “Go on upstairs so I can talk to your dad about what happened today.”

He gives me a scowl. The kid is totally ungrateful that I’ve diverted his dad’s attention. I mean, sure, he’s in big trouble,
and I’m going to have to decide on a punishment for smoking
and
disrespect, if not out-and-out rebellion, but not now. I’m feeling so weird.

He turns and stomps up the steps.

“I can’t believe you just undermined me in my own home.” Rick’s face is red with anger. “And I was defending you!”

Something about the way he said “my own home” and “defending you” translates to “Even though you weren’t a decent enough wife
to keep my attention and thus deserve a gorgeous home like this one, I am still showing off to my beautiful, sexy current
wife by showing her how I will always take up for her when we have children of our own.”

I see red again.

Red like Rick is holding a scarf and I’m a snorting bull about to charge.

Except, Rick isn’t quite finished. He has to drop the last bomb. “It’s no wonder none of the kids respect you; you don’t demand
it of them.”

“Rick, that wasn’t very nice.” Darcy, ever the peacemaker, steps next to Rick and slides her hand into his. He relaxes instantly.
I swear Darcy is a snake charmer. But something about the entire situation raises my ire. I don’t want him to take up for
me; I don’t want her to take up for me. I don’t want to be here! Oh, Lord, please… My chest is growing heavy, my breath
is coming in short bursts.

Greg… I need Greg.

“Claire?” I vaguely recognize Darcy’s voice as in a distance. “Rick, come help me. Something’s wrong.”

Rick sprints into action, like he’s vying for Doctor of the Year. He grabs my hand and presses his two fingers to my wrist.
Which hurts, for what it’s worth. “Does your chest hurt?”

Gasping for air, all I can do is nod.

“Darcy, go call 911! I think she might be having a heart attack.”

Idiot! Some doctor he is.

I grab Darcy’s arm and gather enough breath to force a word. “Don’t.”

“Claire. Don’t be stubborn. Something’s wrong. We need to get you medical attention immediately.” Rick’s irritation feeds
mine.

I give him the full force of my glare. Any fool could see I’m having a panic attack. Nerves. Greg recognized it for what it
was immediately. Twice. And he’s not even a doctor. “Panic attack,” I say with difficulty around the tightness in my throat.
A surreal wave is overtaking me. I know where I am and yet time means nothing.

“Help her into the living room, Rick.” I hear the concern in Darcy’s soft voice. “I’ll get her a washcloth for her head.”

Rick’s arm, slung around my shoulders, isn’t helping my tension one little iota. But once I’m stretched out on Darcy’s plush,
white, pillowy sofa, I start to relax. At least I know that the spinning in my head isn’t going to land me on the ground.
Next thing I know, Darcy is standing over me, administering a cool cloth to my head. I sigh and close my eyes.

“Everything will be okay, Claire,” she soothes as though I’m a child, and I feel comforted. “Just lie there and it’ll pass.”

“I still think we should call an ambulance. Her heart rate is high.”

“Claire knows if she is having a panic attack or not, sweetheart. And she asked us not to call. Let’s see how she does and
if she continues to have symptoms, we’ll call. Okay?”

In a full-blown panic attack—at least from my limited experience—life sort of happens around you. That’s how I feel. If I
tried really hard, I could get up and participate in the conversation, but everything is so surreal, I just don’t want to.
All I want to do for the moment is keep my eyes closed, the cloth on my head, and possibly go to sleep now that my heart is
beginning to slow to a more rhythmic beat. I am only vaguely aware that under normal circumstances I’d never consider resting
on Rick and Darcy’s couch. But now it just… doesn’t… seem . . .

My head is pounding. I open my eyes slowly, resisting the light that I’m almost positive is going to slice through my sockets
and cause even more excruciating pain. Instead, darkness greets me. For a second, a chill runs down my spine. Have I gone
blind? Then my eyes begin to adjust and I recognize Darcy’s living room. I relax for a second until reality strikes me. Did
I really sleep on their couch all day? The house is quiet. It’s got to be past ten.

This is crazy. I stand on legs that are a little shaky—my hangover from the panic attack. I look around and find my purse.
My feet slide a little on the waxed tile and I realize I’m not wearing shoes. No doubt Darcy’s doing. I glance around, hoping
to spot them without being forced to switch on the light. A thought comes to me as I get on my hands and knees and feel around
along the bottom of the sofa. Surely, she wouldn’t have hidden my shoes just to keep me here. Would she?