Leave It to Claire (26 page)

“Okay, then. You’re not in a good mood.”

“Yeah. Sorry to be rude.”

“It’s all right. I was married. I remember those days.”

Okay, now I’m really embarrassed. So do I let him chalk it up to PMS, or do I tell him it has nothing to do with that?

He smiles again and places his hand over mine. The kindness in his eyes almost breaks me, but Tough Chick emerges, and I steel
my heart against him. I’ve decided to adopt a hands-off policy when it comes to men, which will begin just as soon as Greg’s
lovely warm hand leaves mine. “We all have our days. If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

He pats my hand as a farewell gesture and I watch him stride back to the school. Now that guy is definitely too good to be
true.

I’m lying on the couch, watching my Nick at Nite, when I hear rustling on the stairs. I pretend I don’t hear it and keep my
gaze on the black-and-white Dick Van Dyke rerun. From the corner of my eye, I see a head peep over the banister. Whispers
follow.

I try to ignore it, but my curiosity gets the better of me. “What are you kids doing?”

Jakey’s giggle brings a smile to my lips.

“Come down here.” I sit up as he and Shawn file into the living room, followed by Tommy and Ari. “Now, what are you up to?”

I see Shawn is hiding something behind his back. “Cough it up,” I say, holding out my hand.

With a sheepish grin, he slowly produces our copy of
Purpose-Driven Life.
Okay, this is not what I expected. I feel myself tearing up. I had to practically force these kids to come downstairs for
our nightly reading of this book. Now they’re bringing it to me?

“What’s this all about?”

“Come on, Mom.” Ari sits down at the end of the couch, forcing me to draw my knees up. “No one has the flu for two weeks.
We want to know if you’re really sick.”

“Are you going to die, Mommy?” Jakey’s frown shoots straight into my heart.

They’re worried?
Remorse
is a mild word for what I’m feeling. I am such a slug. “You guys thought something was seriously wrong with me?”

“You don’t go for walks anymore.” Shawn shoves the coffee table out of the way and sits on the floor in front of me.

Tommy sits next to him. “You barely get out of bed. And you don’t try to cook anymore.”

Try to cook? Hey, now. Show a little appreciation.

Ari pulls her knees to her chest. “We want you to feel better. So we’re willing to sit and do the chapter in the book without
complaining. If that’s what you want.”

I roll my eyes. “Your sacrifice truly touches me.”

She blushes. “No, we really want to do it, too.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, we sort of got used to having you around again since you’ve been off work. It’s nice to have a family devotion.”

I grab the book and open it to the bookmark.

Time to snap out of it. Time to face the truth. It’s time.

“It looks beautiful on you, Claire.”

Linda is weepy, typical of a bride-to-be-again. And well within her right. She presses a tissue to her perky little red nose
as she watches me with moisture-sparkling eyes. Clad in a little black dress that comes just to my knees, I’m standing in
front of the three-way, full-length mirror at Tammy’s Bridal. And I have to say… not bad.

For the first time in the history of bridesmaids, the bride has allowed her matron of honor to wear a decent dress. Thankfully,
there is no pink, yellow, or even burgundy in this wedding. The whole color scheme is black and white. I’m digging that.

“You’re so pretty in that little black number. And the great thing is that you can wear it again when you go out for a nice
dinner sometime.” She gives me a look that says, “I just know there’s a guy out there for you, and that dress is going to
reel him in.”

I shrug and concentrate on my hips. Which, although smaller than two months ago, are definitely not a size 4. Sigh. Or a 6.
Barely even a 12, and that’s only if I’m wearing control-top panty hose. I’ll be okay. Unless I fall off the wagon again—then
I’d have to go with a size 14. It’s been a week since I had pepperoni. I’m not doing too badly, but I have to prepare myself
for the possibility of a few holiday pounds. Who in their right mind gets married between Thanksgiving and Christmas? I look
at the little black number hugging my hips. I hope I don’t have to up-size. Control, Claire. Control.

“Looks like this is the one.” Linda’s optimism is a little infectious and I envision myself walking down the aisle carrying
a bouquet of white carnations. Linda is carrying white roses.

“Yes, I think you’re right.”

“Great. Now that’s settled. Are you up for a latte at Churchill’s?”

“What time is it?”

Linda glances at the clock over my head. “Just after one o’clock.”

My pulse picks up at the thought of my one-thirty appointment. “Wish I had time.”

I slip into the dressing room and lean against the wall. Today is the day I have to pick up where I left off last time we
tried to have a counseling session with Darcy and Rick and me. It’s been two weeks. Funny how in all that time I haven’t had
one panic attack. But now just the mere realization that I’m twenty-five minutes from being forced to listen to Rick con the
doc into believing it’s all my fault he cheated, and my hands are going numb.

Why is it that I can’t let this go? I know it’s a problem. I’ve prayed and cried and have forgiven until I’m blue in the face
and still, it’s not taking. I just want to be over it. You know? I want to stop feeling the pain.

I say good-bye to Linda and leave the bridal shop behind. Ten minutes later, I’m on time and doing deep breathing exercises
in the minivan before I subject myself to this blame game.

Wariness fills Rick’s eyes when I walk through the door and greet them with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “Hi.”

Darcy comes to me, determination in her eyes, that familiar look that pretty much bodes for no argument. “Everything is going
to be all right. You’ll get through this. We,” she says, with earnest appeal, “will get through this. Together.” Her smile
is trembly, and I know this is hard for her, too.

I give her hand a little squeeze and the door opens.

“Everyone ready?”

I gulp in some air. Am I ready for this? Probably not. Is anyone ever really ready to face a painful past? But I know it must
be done. So I forge ahead. I’m determined to be graceful, polite, and by taking the high road show this doctor just how much
to blame Rick really is.

Dr. Goldberg bids us to sit. We do—Rick and Darcy in the burgundy love seat, me in the overstuffed chair across from them,
separated by a large, square coffee table. I wonder how long it would take me to leap across that table and grab Rick around
the throat. Because one word out of line . . .

“Thank you all for coming. I believe the final step in fully helping your son is going to come from your commitment to work
things out between you.”

“Well, that’s why we’re here.” I give him the fake smile I’ve perfected from my years of doing book signings.

“You two were married for how many years?”

“Ten.” Rick pipes up, practically before I can process the question. He must have been anticipating what the doctor would
ask.

“Wrong. Eleven.”

“No. Ten.”

I scowl and give the doctor my see-what-we’re-dealing-with-here look. “Our daughter is sixteen, we’ve been divorced five years.
I got pregnant on our honeymoon.” I peer at Rick. “Ringing any bells?”

Rick’s face colors. “Oh, yeah. Eleven.”

Clearing his throat, Dr. Goldberg makes a note. “So, eleven years is a long time. What caused the marriage to end?”

I snort. I have already decided I will not be the one to answer this question. Apparently Rick has come to the same decision,
because we’re just sitting there, while time ticks away.

“Oh, come on, you two. How are things ever going to get better if you won’t even tell the doctor?” Darcy sighs. “Rick was
not a Christian back then. And he sort of… cheated.”

“Sort of cheated?” Okay, how do you sort of cheat? I pose the question.

“Lay off her, Claire. She’s just trying to get the ball rolling here.”

“Well, then you answer. How do you sort of cheat? Is that what you told her you did?”

“For crying out loud. I don’t need this.” Rick shoves up from the couch and heads for the door.

Typical.

“Rick, you knew this wasn’t going to be easy.” Darcy’s small voice speaks so much into the small room. “For any of us. Including
Claire.”

His shoulders rise and fall. He turns and comes back to the couch.

“Thank you for returning, Mr. Frank. Let’s talk about why you had the affair.”

“Affairs. He just—”

“He asked me. Not you.” Rick shifts forward and I clam up. So much for taking the high road. “Sorry.”

“I don’t really have a good excuse,” Rick says. “Claire and I were just not right for each other. We married too young.”

The memories flood back. Years of dating through college and med school. I knew Rick dated other girls. We had an agreement
(his suggestion, of course) that we could if we wanted as long as we told the other one. He went out often. I never dated
anyone besides Rick. Come to think if it, I never have.

“I felt guilty because I took her virginity,” Rick is saying. “I guess I knew we shouldn’t get married. But Claire was the
‘girl back home.’ The one I’d dated through high school and on breaks. When I came home to do my residency it just seemed
natural that I would marry her. And I did. Despite my doubts.”

Worm! Toad-sucker! Jerk!

I rise on shaky legs. Visions of the years I sacrificed trying to please him slam me like a line drive to the head. My mind
is spinning. “You selfish pig! I wasted my youth on a man who didn’t love me? Because I was the ‘girl back home’? What right
did you have to deny me the chance at love?” I’m so filled with outrage I can’t think straight. How dare he? How dare he have
the audacity to sit here and make me feel so undesirable, so unlovable?

“I know.” And that’s all he says in his defense. “Claire, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I did love you. The first couple of years
of our marriage were good. Remember? When Arianna was a baby? I couldn’t wait to come home to be with the two of you.”

“But you were never there.”

“I was on call most of the time. You know what those years were like. First my internship, then residency. I had no choice.
At first you were my haven. But when you got pregnant with Tommy you became so demanding that I didn’t know how to please
you. You pushed and pushed. For more than I could give.”

“So it’s all my fault. Is that what you’re saying?” I hear the tremor in my voice and I’m ashamed. I will not cry. Where’s
Tough Chick when I need her?

“Claire. This isn’t about assigning blame.” The doctor’s annoyingly objective voice breaks through the emotional scene. “We
have to get through the anger to healing. Being willing to consider two sides of the issue is essential to getting rid of
the hostility that is most certainly affecting your children.”

I nod but really don’t trust myself to speak. Because do they really expect me to accept responsibility for the breakup of
our marriage?

“Claire. It wasn’t your fault that I broke our vows.”

Okay, then. That’s more like it.

“Until I started going to church and gave my life to Jesus, I blamed it on you. But there was no excuse for what I did. I
tore our marriage apart.” Tears fill his eyes. “I’ve never asked for this before. And maybe I don’t deserve it now…”

Oh, God, please. Please… Don’t . . .

“No. I won’t ask for forgiveness.”

My stomach roils within me. I wanted him to ask. Why didn’t he ask?

“Forgiveness is something you have to give of your own free will. I know that now. I’ve been waiting all this time for you
to admit to your part in our breakup. But I forgive you. For all the pushing, the fighting, the bitterness during and since
the marriage.”

Rick’s blue eyes are glistening with unshed tears. A week ago, in the same situation, I would have sworn he put them on for
effect. And even now I’m not 100 percent convinced that he’s not. Still, he says he’s forgiving me? What am I supposed to
do, fall into his arms and kiss away his tears while thanking him from the bottom of my heart? Pul-lease.

What happens next was probably inevitable. I mean, Rick’s going all sensitive on me, so of course he was bound to do it.

“Claire. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I broke my word to you over and over.”

And over and over and over.

“All I want to say is that I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I caused you pain. I’m sorry I caused our family to fall apart.” Tears
slip down his cheeks. And suddenly he’s sobbing into his hands. “I’m sorry.”

The moment I’ve waited for since the fourth year of our marriage when I knew for sure he’d slept with another woman. I’ve
wanted to see him cry. Apologize. Grovel, if you will. Now I sit here watching him, a broken man, and I’m numb. I’ve always
thought that if he’d just admit he was wrong, if he’d just tell me he was sorry, that all the bitterness would be gone. I
was wrong. If anything, now I hate him more than ever.

Nausea churns my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I have to leave.”

No one speaks, and no one tries to stop me. I hold back the sobs until I’m halfway down the street, then they come in waves.
Droves.

How can I hold a grudge against him now that he’s broken down in front of me? What kind of a person does that? What kind of
a person am I?

God help me, I can’t forgive him. I want to. But I can’t.

T
he thing about crying is that, when the reason is this close to home, something you’ve held in your heart for a really long
time, it’s hard to stop the tears from flowing. I’ve been crying for the better part of two days.

Thankfully, the tears have dried up, for the moment. I’m rushing around trying to get everything ready so that we can be at
the school grounds on time when Ari—sweet, self-serving thing that she is—makes a kindly gesture. “Mom, really. If you aren’t
up to going, I’m sure they can find someone to fill in for you.”