Leave It to Claire (7 page)

“Well, I can’t very well take it with me.”

“Charley might want it.”

Mom laughs and I see her point. “Your brother doesn’t know one end of a hook from the other. Do you suppose Rick might want
it?”

“Rick’s not my husband anymore, Mother. Remember?” I know I sound huffy. But when will she get it through her head that she
doesn’t need to be nice to him anymore, and as a matter of fact, I wish she’d be mean?

“Of course I remember. But your father always thought so highly of him. Well, until… you know.”

“Until he started having a lot more sex than I was?”

“Well, there’s no reason to be vulgar. You could have simply said he was stepping out on you with other women, which I know
very well that he was.” Even in the dim light of the attic I can see her face is glowing red.

“I’m sorry, Mom. Do whatever you want with the fishing gear.”

“Would you like to keep the hat?” She nods to my head.

“Yeah, I would. Thanks.”

After hours of digging through the attic, deciding what to throw away, what she wants to keep, I plod home covered in dust
with cobwebs adorning my hair. I trudge through the door and beeline it for the couch, where I flop. I stretch out fully,
thinking about all the boxes lined up on the curb, waiting for the garbageman on Monday morning.

And just for the record, I’m a little heartsick at all the things Mom
doesn’t
want to hang on to—I mean, what was the point of saving baby teeth in the first place if all she’s going to do is throw them
away when I’m almost forty? Did she think I might want to make a necklace of them someday?

Is that what’s going to happen to me? My mind flashes to my own attic, where boxes of my children’s baby stuff clutter the
floor. What am I going to do with the silky blond strands of hair taped to each baby book under the heading “First Haircut”?
Will they want the memories I’ve collected when they grow up, or will the day come when Ari is helping me clean out the attic
so I can go live with Tank and his wife, Machine Gun? My lips twitch as humor returns, lifting my spirits a little.

First of all, the thought of Ari getting her manicured hands dirty is truly laughable, and Tommy would rather slide headfirst
into a vat of boiling oil than have me come live with him. The kid is counting the days until his eighteenth birthday as it
is.

Still, the question begs to be answered. What good does it do to build a lifetime of memories if they’re only going to be
tossed away like yesterday’s garbage?

The melancholy is weaving through me, first into my brain, then downward into my heart, then, as I try to ease the pain with
three scoops of rocky road ice cream, into my stomach. It doesn’t work. I can’t help but be swept away on a tide of childhood
memories. They’re so sweet. Those memories. I feel like Ralphie from
A Christmas Story
and I consider, for a moment, writing my life story. Okay, so maybe the time I had chickenpox and Dad, Mom, and Charley put
on the entire
Nutcracker
ballet to ease the pain of missing out on my school’s field trip wouldn’t mean anything to the rest of the world, but to
me, those memories are priceless.

With a sigh, I toss the bowl into the sink and head upstairs to shower off the dust. As the steaming water flows over me,
I’m struck with the idea that all I truly have left of my childhood are the sweet memories my parents created for me. My mind
goes to my own children. What have I built for them to remind them of me when they grow up? Days and nights at the computer,
fast-food meals in the living room while I sit with my laptop, weekend plans gone awry because of an unexpected line edit
that has to be attended to in three days. It seems as though the only fun my kids have is when they’re with Rick.

This thought weakens my knees. There’s no denying that Rick was a sorry excuse for a husband. But guess what? He’s the better
parent. I think I’m going to be sick. I slide
The Mirror Has Two Faces
into the VCR and crawl into bed with the remote. How did Rick become the fun one? He’s the one building camping memories
with our kids. Of course, for all I know, that could be his way of compensating for breaking their hearts by leaving me when
they were little. Furthermore, it’s easy to be the fun one when you only have the kids two and a half days a week.

I listen to the music signaling the opening credits, but my brain is focused on that list I made out earlier in the week.
Number three on the list: Reconnect with my children. Excitement begins to build as I realize what this new “me” is going
to mean to my precious offspring. I imagine their joy, their utter relief that I’ve finally seen the light. No more will I
be the evasive mother of the past. Oh, no. All of that is behind me. I’m turning over a new leaf. From this moment forward,
my number one mission in life is to begin building memories for my children to cherish when they’re all grown up.

And yes, part of that reasoning is because I don’t want them to look back on Rick with more fondness than me. I’m man enough
to admit it. But mostly, I want them to one day look through old memorabilia and cherish the moments those things represent.

I close my eyes and listen to my movie playing in the background. I’ve watched the beginning at least a hundred times and
I’ve yet to see how it ends. I fall asleep every night at various points. I know I could just start from where I left off
the night before and that eventually I’d finish, but I can’t do it. I have to watch it all the way through in one sitting
or it’s ruined for me. I can’t help it. That’s just the way I’m wired.

So, here it is, less than thirty minutes into the movie, and I feel myself drifting into the shadows of unconsciousness. Then
an idea springs to mind, and I’m bolt upright before I fully open my eyes.

Family night! One night a week, we’ll have a special dinner, watch a movie, maybe have a nice discussion about the movie if
it’s one with a particularly good message, like
The Lord of the Rings.
Play a game. Maybe some nights we’ll go minigolfing or to Incredible Pizza and play in the arcade.

My excitement builds as the ideas zoom in and out of my brain. I’ve got enough activities to see us through to Jakey’s high
school graduation by the time the music from my TV crescendos and words come up at the end of the movie. I stare blankly as
Barbra Streisand and Jeff Bridges dance in the street, laughing, hugging, kissing, and I have to wonder, what just happened?
I finally made it to the end of the movie wide awake, and I have no idea how it ended.

I
t’s Sunday afternoon. The kids and Rick got home just in time to clean up and make the 10:45 service at church. They should
have been home at 7:00 a.m., but a thunderstorm blew through, forcing a slow drive. So now the kids and I sit in Pizza Hut
in the round booth, waving at half the church as they breeze by headed to their own tables.

Tommy is playing around with the Parmesan cheese shaker. Note to self: check the lid before I use any.

“So, that’s my idea,” I say, knowing full well that the smile on my face is way too bright for the response I’m getting from
the kids. I almost hate to ask the next question, but my penchant for emotional abuse spurs me to ask. “What do you think?”

Ari shrugs. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with my social life, I guess we can give it a shot.”

Not exactly the enthusiastic response I’d hoped for, but better than it could have been.

“I’m not watching any stupid cartoons,” Tommy squeaks, a telltale sign he isn’t going to be a child much longer. I inwardly
cringe and wonder which one of the kids is going to pounce on that adolescent evidence that his voice is changing.

I don’t have to wait long to find out. Shawn laughs. “I’m not watching any stupid cartoons,” he mimics with fake squeaks.

Tommy slugs him in the arm before I can head it off. “You better shut up.”

“Mom!” Shawn’s big, blue eyes fill with tears.

“Mo-om.” Now it’s Tommy’s turn to mimic.

“Tommy! Don’t make me ground you.”

People are looking at us. I feel like an utter failure as a mother.

“He started it.”

“I did not.”

“What, are you crying now, you big baby?”

“Tommy! I mean it. Don’t say another word. You’re just getting yourself into deeper trouble.”

Tommy flops back and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes say what his mouth doesn’t dare.

My eyes scan the booth, taking in each of my less-than-enthusiastic children. Time for an executive decision. “All right.
Here’s the deal. Monday nights will be family night. Tell your friends not to call or drop by. Homework will be done as soon
as you get home so that it doesn’t interfere.”

“Mother!” Ari moans. “Monday nights, Trish and I watch
7th Heaven
together.”

By “together” she means she and Trish sit on their respective couches while on the phone together and drool over the little
blond-headed boy. I give her a pointed look that says in no uncertain terms, “I’m the boss.” “Do you want to make it Friday
night?”

“No.” She scowls and flops back. Now my two oldest offspring are wearing identical expressions and have the same body language.
For once they are unified in purpose. Like-minded. Both look like they’d give a kidney for the pleasure of punching my lights
out.

My heart sinks. If we can’t get through one meal together without a major fight, how will we ever create our cherished memories?

The next day I’m standing in front of the mirror again. This time carefully, methodically applying makeup like I’m da Vinci
and my face is the canvas.

I feel pretty good. Retaining a little water from the pizza yesterday, so my face is puffier than I’d like, but maybe Greg
won’t notice. And anyway, a puffy face with makeup is still better than a skinny face with none.

Today is our parent/teacher conference. Shawn’s been acting a little nervous, but I’m attributing it to the natural effect
of any kid realizing his mom is going to talk to his teacher. I certainly can’t imagine my perfect child having anything to
worry about. I’ve reassured him at least a hundred times.

I blot my lipstick—plum-colored, from Mary Kay. I bought it six years ago and it’s hardly been used at all. Who needs makeup
when they work inside all day? I move from the lighted bathroom mirror to the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of
the door. I twist a little so I can view my behind. It is larger than life. It mocks me with its enormity. Shoot. Why did
I have to look? What did you expect, I chide myself. A model’s derriere? Now I won’t be able to concentrate on making a good
impression on Greg at all. I shrug at myself. At least I’ll be sitting.

I step into my bedroom, snatch a light jacket from the bed, and shrug into it as I walk toward the door. With one last glance
at myself in the dresser mirror I give a sigh and wish I were fifty pounds lighter. Or at least thirty. Even ten would be
an improvement. But that’s not going to happen in the next—I glance at my watch—forty minutes.

So maybe I won’t get any thinner before the meeting, but I don’t look that bad. The tailored suit I bought to wear to the
Christian Booksellers Association’s mega convention this summer is definitely slimming on me. And unless I miss my guess,
a little looser than it was two and a half months ago.

The kids are hanging out in the living room with the TV blasting when I walk through.

Ari takes one look at me and rolls her eyes. “Good Lord.”

I stare at my daughter in dumbfounded, jaw-dropping shock. Okay, first of all, I can’t believe she has the guts to take the
Lord’s name in vain just like that, in front of me. That’s one of the commandments, and we take the commandments very seriously
in this house. Second of all, I have to wonder if I really look so bad that she even has the guts to say it in the first place.

I take a mental inventory. My foundation matches my complexion. No dark jawline. I have on a little blue eye shadow—a color
I wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot pole while growing up in the eighties, but times are different now. Blue is back “in,”
like bell bottoms—which I also wouldn’t have worn when I was a teenager.

Besides, Ari’s not looking at my eyes. Her gaze is fixed on my feet. I look down to see what she thinks is so terrible. Oh,
for crying out loud! I’m wearing my leopard-spotted slippers.

“All you had to do was say so,” I mutter and head back to the steps. “And don’t ever let me hear you take the Lord’s name
in vain again.” I toss her an I-mean-it-young-lady look.

“Take the Lord’s name in vain?” Her eyes are wide with innocence. So wide that I know I’m about to be lied to, and I will
have no way to prove the truth. She sniffs. “I was praying for you.”

Sure she was.

I breeze into the elementary school building five minutes late for my appointment with Greg. All the way to school, I’ve imagined
him, leaning against his desk, hands stuffed dejectedly in his pockets. He’s watching the clock as the minutes tick away.
Poor man. He’s afraid I’m not coming. Oh, Greg, I inwardly cry, I’ll be there, my love. Wait for me. I’ll be there. I’m Deborah
Kerr, he’s Cary Grant, and ours is
An Affair to Remember.
(
Affair
in the puritanical 1950s definition of the word, of course.)

My heart is racing—a result of more than physical effort—as I fly down the hallway, past the kindergarten, first-, second-,
third-, and fourth-grade doors. I recognize Greg’s name on a whiteboard outside his classroom. I take a sec-ond to gulp in
some oxygen. Then, pasting a smile on my plum-colored lips, I reach for the door. It is much lighter than I thought it would
be, so by pushing on it, I’ve actually flung it open. I stumble inside. Greg and a gorgeous woman, who were leaning close
over a folder only a split second before, are now practically whiplashed as they jerk around to look at the crazy lady standing,
out of breath, in the doorway.

I feel utterly stupid, and a thought winds through my brain: at least I’m wearing regular shoes, and not those leopard-spotted
slippers. A ridiculous thought that has no bearing on anything whatsoever. It’s just there. I walk to the middle of the room
and stop. Because no one (and by no one I, of course, mean Greg—my Greg) has so much as said hello.