Leave It to Claire (4 page)

She takes a deep breath and it sounds a little shaky. I frown and perk up. This doesn’t sound good.

“I’ve been talking to Charley.”

Charley’s my brother. He moved to Texas a few years ago, and now he has a thick drawl that everyone knows is made up. Charley’s
younger than me, but his kid count just topped mine. His wife, Marie, recently gave birth to a set of twins to bring his total
number of children to five. Funny how Mom only had two kids, but Charley and I have both popped them out like nobody’s business.

“So how is that ol’ wrangler?” I ask in a really bad Charley-esque drawl.

“Be nice.” But I hear the chuckle in her tone. “Actually, he bought a new house.”

“Another one?”

Did I forget to mention that my brother is also loaded? Not J. R. Ewing loaded, but he owns three new-and-used car lots, and
let’s just say that Texans buy a lot of trucks. Okay, I’m happy for him. He has the oh-so-perfect life. But if I have to hear
about his new house, I’m going to barf.

“This one has a large basement apartment.”

“Wow.” I absently tap my keyboard as the screensaver kicks in.

“The basement apartment is for me.”

“Good. You’ll be more comfortable when you go there to visit.” She’s always lamenting having to sleep on my nephew’s twin-size
bed. “This is their Christmas with you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. But that’s not the reason for the apartment.”

It sinks in that she’s trying to tell me something. “What are you saying?”

“I’m moving to Texas.”

I blink. My feet slide from the desk and plop to the floor as I sit up straight. “What do you mean you’re moving to Texas.
Like for good?”

“Yes.”

“But Mom, what am I supposed to do about the kids when I’m on deadline?” Okay, that sounded so much worse actually coming
out of my mouth.

She doesn’t respond, and I’m fully aware that I’ve hurt her deeply.

I swallow hard and try again. “I’m sorry. You’re just such a part of our lives that I can’t imagine you not being here.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Why are you doing this all of a sudden?”

“It’s not actually all of a sudden. I told you a year ago I was thinking about it. Charley only just got a place big enough.”

Did she? A year ago. I rack my brain. I’m coming up with nothing.

“So, when are we talking? Spring? It’ll probably take that long or longer to sell the house.”

“Oh, honey. I’m not waiting until the house sells. I’m itching to get my hands on those twins. I’ve already listed the house
with a realtor, and you’ll be here to oversee things. The movers are coming in three weeks, and I’ve already bought my plane
ticket.”

I feel so betrayed. All of this going on in her life and I had no idea. All these plans. “Well, I guess you’ve pretty much
made up your mind then.”

“Yes, and you’ll be fine. You’re stronger than you think.”

“Sure I am, Mom.” Already, I feel the walls closing in, the pressure in my chest. How am I going to get along without her?
My mom has been my rock since Rick hit the road.

Who will help with the kids? Make supper when I am buried to my eyeballs in deadlines? Who will write little notes on pink,
heart-shaped sticky tabs and press them to my computer reminding me that Jesus loves me and so does she? I feel tears pushing
against the backs of my eyes.

“Claire,” she says in a tone I haven’t heard her use on me since I was twelve. It’s soothing. But doesn’t last for long. “It’s
Charley’s turn to have his mom close by. And it’s my turn to be with Charley’s kids. I’ll always treasure the years I was
here for you, but it’s time for you to face some things, my girl.”

“Like what? A rubber room?” I can’t do it on my own. I don’t want to be a stinker. But Charley doesn’t need her. I decide
to tell her that. “Charley doesn’t need you like I do, Mom. He has Marie.”

“Maybe this isn’t about what Charley or you need. Maybe it’s about what I need at this stage in my life.”

Oh, hadn’t thought of that.

“I love you, Claire, but you are so self-absorbed that you can’t see anyone’s needs but your own.” My mother is pulling out
all the stops now that she’s about to wrangle some steers deep in the heart of Texas! “For the past five years I’ve watched
you become a hermit, comforting yourself with food and completely losing touch with your children.”

Now I’m really miffed. Why did I ever want her to stay? “Okay, Mom.” I speak through clenched teeth, trying to remain polite
and respectful. “Thank you for your advice. I will call you tomorrow.”

“Don’t hang up. I’m not finished.”

Oh, goodie.

“You can either sink into deeper bitterness against all the struggles you’ve had, or you can take the bull by the horns and
do something to make yourself happy.”

I can’t believe she just said “take the bull by the horns.” What? Has she been taking a course on quippy Texas lingo?

“Is that all?” I ask, tight-lipped.

“No. The main reason you’re so miserable is that you have lost touch with God and fellow believers. We’re not meant to be
Lone Ranger Christians. We need each other.”

I give a hefty sigh, zeroing in on the part where she said I comfort myself with food. Now my mom’s calling me fat? I need
to get off the phone pronto. Seriously. So I do the best thing I can think of. I agree with her about something. “I know you’re
right about church. I plan on going this Sunday.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll ride with you. That church bus is too rowdy with all those kids.”

“Fine. I better go now and finish this scene, Mom. Blaine’s going to kiss Esmeralda.”

“Don’t tell me. I want to be surprised when I read it!”

I laugh. Mom laughs. But I’m not laughing on the inside. And I have a feeling she isn’t either.

T
he week after Mom drops her little bomb on my already explosive life, I’m sitting in Dr. Grace’s exam room, staring at the
balding surgeon like an idiot, and trying to wrap my mind around his wretched news.

Judging from the V furrowed in his brow, I assume my expression gives the appearance of a woman who’s not quite rolling on
all four wheels. And to be honest, I think I must be hearing things. Because this can
not
be happening.

“What do you mean six weeks?” I ask.

He shrugs. I hate it when doctors, lawyers, or IRS auditors shrug like that—nonchalantly, like they’re just glad it’s me and
not them. “I mean just what I said. It’s possible that you can heal in four weeks, but not likely, considering your particular
career and considering you need surgery on both arms.”

Considering my career. That’s exactly what I’m doing. Why else would I be here sitting on a cold, hard exam table? (Although
I
am
grateful there are no stirrups.) Six weeks is a ridiculous amount of time.

I’m keeping this rant to myself because he doesn’t seem the type to put up with a whiny, overweight prima donna. But sheesh,
even hysterectomies don’t take that long for recovery. This is just a little carpal tunnel syndrome. I know a lady who had
carpal tunnel surgery and was typing e-mails in a week. I give him this information and he doesn’t seem impressed. So I press
on. “Can’t you just do a laser thing and get me back to work in a few days?”

The surgeon looks at me over the rim of his half-glasses and scowls. I scowl back because I don’t think the question is unreasonable,
given modern medicine. I mean, mankind can put artificial hearts into the chests of fifty-year-old men and transplant everything
from kidneys to hair (and Dr. Grace might want to look into that one), but this little wrist surgery is going to lay me up
six weeks or more? Like I said… ridiculous.

“Isn’t there any other alternative?”

My file is laid open in his hands, and he makes a little note. Even in my best mental scenario, I can’t imagine that it’s
anything flattering. Looking up at me, his expression softens, and I can tell he’s finally connected with my dilemma. “I’m
good, but I’m not God. Some things just take time. And healing from the kind of carpal tunnel surgery I recommend for you
is one of those things. You’ll have to be patient. Now, you wouldn’t expect to write a whole book in a couple of weeks would
you?”

“Tell that to my editor,” I grumble.

A sigh pushes from his lungs, and I know I’m getting on his last nerve. All I have to say is that it’s a good thing he’s not
a pediatrician because he has no patience whatsoever. A horrible bedside manner. But I’m not going to antagonize the man who
will soon be holding a sharp blade to my wrist.

Dr. Grace gives me a stern glance and the V returns to his brow. “Wait much longer to get the procedure done and we might
have to do something more drastic. And, trust me, the recovery would be much longer in that case.”

I grumble to the door and say I’ll get back with him when I have a free six weeks on my hands, which, according to my online
calendar, is… never. I twist the knob and frown. Is it my imagination or is my hand tingling more than usual? The surgery’s
got to happen before I start my next project or I won’t be able to finish it at all, let alone by deadline.

On the way down in the elevator I’m relieved that I’m alone in the mobile cube. Too many people in an enclosed space give
me the willies. As if in reaction, my gut tightens as the doors swish open to reveal the busy first floor of the medical building.
Unease creeps through me and waves of heat wash my entire body. I’m thinking I might be having a hot flash. Like maybe menopause
is going to strike early. That’s about my luck lately.

Confusion sifts through my mind as I step out of the elevator, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing and yet
somehow knowing where I am. It’s very surreal. I’m certifiable, that’s all there is to it. I stop walking, frozen.

I think how this whole picture is an analogy for my life. Standing still in the middle of the floor while people whiz by me,
not noticing that I’m here. I am invisible. My heart starts pounding and sweat is beading on my brow. Panic is rising. I have
to get out of here before I blow a gasket and end up drooling applesauce down my chin in some psych ward.

I’m gasping for breath and my head is woozy. My eyes squeeze shut, and I’m still unable to budge from the middle of the first-floor
hallway where dozens of people are maneuvering around me—like this is the Indy 500 and I’m the car that just blew a tire.
I gather breath and reopen my eyes, determined to put one foot in front of the other and walk to the end of the hall where
I see sunlight beaming in through the double doors. The proverbial (and literal) light at the end of the tunnel.

Oh, God. I think I’m having a heart attack. Please, please get me home. I promise I’ll take better care of myself. Cut back
on pizza, exercise, stuff like that.

My breathing is coming in short bursts and I have no confidence in my feeble attempt at prayer/negotiating with the One who
holds my life in His hands.

Seriously, I’m not going to make it, God. I need help.

“Claire? You okay?”

Oh my, there must have been power in that prayer, after all. I’ve never had one answered so quickly.

I look up at the sound of the masculine voice. Familiar, dark, Andy Garcia eyes are looking down at me beneath a brow furrowed
in concern.

Hello, Gorgeous, I think in my best Streisand voice.

Someone blows past me on the other side, and I feel my body start to tremble.

“You okay?” he asks again.

Somehow I know this man (and being a Christian, I am fully aware that there’s no chance it was in a former life), but my mind
is numb and coherency is a thing of the past. I can’t place him. “Get me out of here!” I gasp.

Warmth floods the small of my back as he wordlessly presses his palm there and guides me to the end of the hall. I keep my
eyes focused. Finally we are outside the building. Relief washes over me. I try to breathe deeply, except that two men in
white doctor coats are lighting up and the smoke makes me cough.

Coming down the walkway, an elderly woman steps haltingly next to an equally elderly man who is maneuvering an electric wheelchair
in our direction. Andy Garcia Eyes opens the door for them. With a pointed glance at her husband’s oxygen tank, the woman
scowls at the smoking docs, who both look away lickety-split.

The cowards. I have to shake my head at the paradox. The dangers of smoking should definitely be addressed in medical school.
But I let it go as my hero grips my elbow and leads me away from the secondhand smoke.

Clarity is beginning to replace my earlier confusion and my heart rate is returning to normal, despite the downright chivalry
(not to mention close proximity) of this six-foot two-inch gentleman with movie-star good looks.

He stops at the crosswalk and pushes the button to halt traffic so we can cross. I know the silence needs to be broken, so
I say the first gracious thing that pops into my head. “Thanks for the rescue.” I intentionally refrain from sentence structure
that would require me to address him by name or title. He seems to know me well and this puts me at a distinct disadvantage.

“Panic attacks, huh?”

“What?”

“You were having a panic attack, right?”

“No. Well, I don’t think so.” I think I just freaked out for a few minutes. And from where I’m standing, I’m sorta glad I
did. It’s not every day a girl gets herself rescued by a really cute guy.

A confused crinkle appears above his nose. “Then maybe you were having a seizure or something. Should I take you in to see
a doctor?”

“I was
not
having a seizure!” At least I don’t think I was. Now I’m worrying. “What makes you think it was a panic attack?”

“Tell me how you felt when you were standing there.” Traffic stops and we walk across to the parking lot.

“I don’t know. Dizzy, my chest was tight. I just felt…” Hmm . . .

“Panic?”

“I guess so. I’ve never experienced anything like it. I couldn’t breathe.”

“Too much stress. My mom gets panic attacks. Especially when it’s her turn to play piano for me on Wednesday nights.” He gives
me a pointed look and his eyes crinkle in an amusement I don’t really get. He leans in for emphasis. “I lead worship on Wednesday
nights at your church.”