Leave It to Claire (24 page)

On a whim I make a decision. I am going to get a plate of those brownies for Greg and Sadie. I’ll just cut the rest of them
a little smaller. I stand to do just that when I notice another set of headlights coming down our quiet street. As a VW passes
I strain to see who’s driving. I watch as the unfamiliar car drives a few more yards and pulls up behind Greg in his driveway.

In the light of Mom’s garage light, I recognize the driver as her long legs pull her from the car.

Ms. Clark. She gives a throaty laugh as Greg walks toward her car. She clutches his arm and they walk together to the house.

Oh, Greg.

What is it about women like that? Men fawn over them, want to take them to bed (not that Greg is likely to do that), but they
don’t want to marry them. Why can’t they take a hint? The women, that is? Don’t they have any pride at all? I mean, loosen
the clothes and lighten the makeup, sweetheart. No wonder little boys are writing obscene poetry.

The porch light goes out down the street and I get a sick feeling in my gut. He can just forget about getting any brownies
from me.

I think about Ms. Clark walking into my mother’s house. Poor Mom, she’d never approve.

A
t ten o’clock on the dot, I hear Patrick’s car pull into the drive. I’m curled up on the couch, a burgundy chenille blanket
thrown loosely across my legs. Since eight, I’ve been sketching my plotline for the new series. I’m getting more and more
excited about this idea, and I’m wondering if my commitment to take off work includes writing up a new proposal. Technically,
new proposals are fun. Entertainment. Only after they sell—and money, editors, and deadlines are involved—do they become work.

Of course once I hear the car pull in, my whole demeanor becomes studied pretense. I am no more concentrating on the new Great
American Novel than I am playing the flute. The deception is necessary. I don’t want Ari to think I am even the slightest
bit interested in her date. Not sure I can pull it off, but I plan to try my best.

I wait. Still not hearing the sound of a door. I bet he’s kissing her. As a matter of fact, I’d bet my three-thousand-dollar
computer with a 19-inch flat-panel screen against his Mustang that he’s kissing her. Not sure how I feel about that. Or maybe
I do know how I feel about it. As a matter of fact, I don’t think it’s a very good idea at all. I better hear a car door soon
or—

Okay, there it is.

In the amount of time it takes to travel a slow pace from the driveway to the door, Ari opens the door. From my spot on the
couch, I can’t quite make out her expression. Is it one of joy, hurt, passion, pain? Come in here so I can see your face!

She walks to the doorway between the living room and foyer. Close enough. I peer, determined to find the slightest flicker
of emotion. Nothing. My daughter has the audacity to remain stony faced. Completely closed off. Unreadable. How fair is that?

“Patrick isn’t coming in?”

She shakes her head. “Curfew.”

“Oh, yeah. Do you want to come in here and sit with me for a while?” I sort of hold my breath as I wait for her answer. I’ve
placed a brownie for each of us (since Greg didn’t need them), on a plate and have homemade hot chocolate simmering on the
stove. We’ve waited for her first date since she started thinking about boys.

Sixteen. That magic age. Driver’s license, first date. It’s a scary year. Full of changes. I want her to know that I’m here
for her. I want to help her transition if only she’ll open her heart to me.

“What do you say?” I ask my daughter, who still seems to be weighing her options. “How about a brownie and some hot chocolate?”

Her eyes alight with hope, and I have a second of joy until she opens her mouth. “You’re not going to the carnival?”

Deflation. Here we go again. Well, what did I expect?

“Yes, I am. I just didn’t think it would hurt anything to let us each have a brownie.”

Her expression drops. Now I feel like a slug. A slug that just got salt poured on it.

I’m melting. I’m melting.

As it turns out, Ari gets her wish. The carnival has been postponed for a month. A freak fall storm blew through last night
and destroyed or damaged too many of the booths. It’s going to take a while to rebuild. Thankfully, several of the town’s
businesses have stepped up with donations of necessary materials.

Ari believes God answered her prayer that I’d just stay away. Did He? Surely He isn’t sympathizing with her. Regardless, her
belief that He did had Ari suddenly reading her private devotion this morning. So that’s good, I suppose.

Trish showed up in her mom’s car and the two girls went to the mall. Their first outing together since Trish yanked off the
shackles tying her to her mom’s schedule. One day she’s completely dependent. The next, voilà, a laminated card with a false
weight (or it will be false by the time she has to have it renewed) and a bad picture makes her free as a bird.

Shawn has finally started his chores (I pray this is a sign of compliance and perhaps a positive result of counseling). Tommy
is still grounded, so he’s hanging out in his room—possibly thinking over the negative consequences of smoking. (Yeah, I can
only dream.) And Jakey is playing Nintendo. It’s hard to break him from this drive to play. He is at loose ends and quite
frankly drives me a little nuts when he isn’t in front of the video game. Still, I’m the mom, right? Am I not supposed to
help him find other things to do? Maybe we should get a horse. Or a dog.

I watch his eyes grow wider and wider as he leans forward, getting his body movements into the game. When his character moves,
Jakes moves the same way. It would be cute, really, if it weren’t so disturbing.

“Hey, Jake, I’m going for a walk. Wanna come with?”

He stays focused. His eyes never leave the screen. “Jake!”

“Huh?” Still no head movement.

“Okay, that’s it.” With purpose, I stomp forward and flip the power button on the game.

The sound that comes from his throat can only be described as the sound of an angry bull about to gore his victim. From the
look of fury in Jakey’s eyes, I have a feeling I would be that victim if he thought he could get by with it. “I didn’t get
to save it, Mom!”

A little bit of guilt tries to entice me to relent. Apologize for messing up his game. But that’s it. His eyes are bloodshot.
Bloodshot!
From playing that stupid game.

“Son, playing that game so much isn’t good for you. You go wrap it all up and put it in the cabinet.”

“Mo-om! I have to finish this level.”

“No. You have to do as you’re told. Now. And come for a walk with me.”

“I don’t want to go for a stupid walk. I want to play my game.”

I’ve never really seen this side of my baby before, and I’m not liking that I’m seeing it now. Methinks perhaps I’ve left
him with his electronic babysitter a bit too much during the formative years—his and my career’s.

Recognizing that his dependence on the games isn’t entirely his fault, I take a deep breath and pray for patience. “Jake,”
I say in a voice any counselor would be proud of (hear that, Dr. Phil?), “you may finish your game tomorrow. Right now, I’d
like for you to wrap it up and put it away like I said.”

He shoots me a look of panic, then turns back to the game. I mean, he turns back and
keeps playing.
As though I haven’t said a word.

“Jake?”

“I know! Just a second. I have to finish this level.”

Okay, now I’m starting to lose the Dr. Phil voice. “Buddy, get your behind up and put away that game.”

He shoves up to his feet and drops the controller. Or a more proper description might be he
throws
the controller on the floor with as much force as his weakling arms can muster.

“Okay, buddy, that just got you grounded for a week from your game.”

His mouth drops open. “A week? What am I supposed to do around the stupid house for a whole week?”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to read a book. And stop saying ‘stupid,’ can the attitude, and do as I say or I’m going to make it
two weeks.”

I sit down on the chair and beckon him to come to me. He does, albeit with clear reluctance. I put my arms around his little
body and look him in the eye. “Jake, there’s nothing wrong with playing Nintendo as long as you don’t overdo it. After your
grounding is up, you can play for one hour a day.”

His eyes cloud with tears. “Mom, don’t do this to me. It’s not fair.”

I can so relate to his feelings. Discipline hurts. Changing habits hurts. Diet, exercise, Pilates. All these things hurt.
But do you know that a kid can get blood clots from sitting pretzel-legged for all those hours a day? I wonder which would
hurt worse? The reminder of this news article strengthens my resolve (which can easily be crushed by a teary pair of baby
blues).

“It’s fair. It’ll be hard at first and you’ll have to learn to do other things, but in the long run, you’ll have a blast.”

He groans and slaps his hand to his forehead in true B-grade-movie-actor fashion. “I’ll die without my Nintendo.”

I smile at the theatrics and draw him closer into a hug. He lays his head on my shoulder and I revel in the smell of his shampoo.
The feel of his warm little body. If I could bottle and sell the joy obtained by holding a child, I’d be richer than the Donald-Apprentice.

“Go put the game away and let’s go for a walk.”

He pulls out of my arms. He sighs a sad little breath. “Okay.”

I help him wrap cords and find boxes for the game cartridges and we put them away in the cabinet. He seems to be perking up
by the time we head outside and trot down the front steps.

“Where are you going?” Shawn calls. I look around at the semi-leaf-free yard and smile.

“For a walk. Wanna come with us?” It might do the little chub some good to get out and exercise.

“No. I want to finish the yard.”

Hmm. All this compliance… I’m wondering if I landed on some parallel universe. Or maybe God is doing something in my
family.

I don’t even look at Greg’s house as we pass by. Jerk.

“How come Sadie gets our tree house?” Jakey asks out of the blue.

I wondered when the question might come up. That tree house was one of the main reasons the kids used to love to go to Mom’s.
“Because it went with the house, bud, and Sadie’s daddy bought it from Granny.”

“I wish I could sit in it.”

“I know. Maybe in the spring we’ll get someone to build one for you in our backyard. Would you like that?”

His eyes light up as though I’ve just given him the moon. “Yeah. Can it be just mine?” Poor kid. When you’re the youngest
of four children, rarely is anything just yours.

I toss out a laugh. “’Fraid not. It’ll be for all of you. But guess what?”

“What?” His voice is pouty, but curious.

“Shawn will probably be the only one who wants to get in it besides you, and after another year or so, he won’t be interested
anymore.”

I see the wheels of his mind turning behind his expressive eyes. “Okay. I guess I can put up with him that long.”

I roll my eyes and ruffle his hair. “That’s big of you.”

“Mom! My hair.”

Before I can answer, a rumble of thunder in the distance catches my attention. “We better head back, Jakey. Looks like rain.”
And the sky-to-ground lightning doesn’t look so comforting either.

Raindrops are beginning to fall by the time we pass Greg’s house. I hear the sound of my name. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised
that he’s calling out to me. But I am. I don’t know how he has the audacity to face me.

Now, if I were alone, I’d walk on by, but considering my little boy is with me, and he’s tugging on my sweat jacket, I have
no choice but to stop and paste a fake smile on my lips.

“Hi, Greg.” I can hear tension, but gee whiz, what does he expect?

“Do you two want to come in out of the rain?”

“Oh, thanks, but it’s not far.”

A crack of thunder reverberates across the sky.

A scream tears from Jakey’s throat and he beelines for Greg’s porch. He doesn’t stop running until he lands in Greg’s arms.
Helplessly, I follow my son at a decidedly slower pace and try not to be affected by the sight of my little boy cradled in
this man’s arms.

“Sadie is in the family room painting on her easel,” Greg says to Jakey. “You want to go join her?”

Cocooned in safety, Jake’s courage returns. He nods and we enter my childhood home just as a bolt of lightning slices the
sky, too close for comfort. “I need to call my sons and tell them to stay away from the windows.”

“I’d feel better if you let me call.”

“You don’t want me to use your phone?”

Greg shakes his head. His eyes scan my face with a bewildered frown. “I’m not being stingy, I’d just hate for you to get electrocuted
through the phone line.”

“Oh! I hadn’t thought of that. I’d best run home.”

“I’ll go for you.” Greg heads for the door. Just like that. SuperKnight to the rescue. Not this time, bud. Don’t do me any
favors.

I follow and stop him before he can turn the doorknob. “Really, I appreciate the offer, but I think I should go. I can’t leave
my boys home alone in this. Will you look after Jake until this is over?”

“The strikes are getting closer. I don’t think either of us should leave the house.”

His concern is kinda cute. I’ll give him that. But I can’t cozy up to the boy down the block while my two sons are sitting
ducks. Besides, wasn’t he just cozying up to someone else last night?

“I’m not arguing anymore.” I pull open the door and step onto the porch as another jagged slice of light splits the darkened
sky. He reaches for me, but I evade his grasp and sprint down the stairs and into the driving rain.

I keep running at a pace I’m sure has never been accomplished—not even by an Olympic runner. Never have I been more grateful
for the fact that I’ve been on an exercise program. My heart pounds—from fear that a big fat lightning bolt is about to slice
me in two with a blade of electricity. I’m soaked when I arrive home. My teeth are chattering and the noise is drumming in
my ears. “Boys!” I jog up the stairs and find the boys playing with their board game on Tommy’s bedroom floor. “Oh, good.
You’re okay.”