To Have and to Hold (5 page)

Except that for Clara, having Trina around was the very
definition
of normal. He’d seen a demonstration of that last night when he’d tucked her into bed.

“Why are you making them leave?”

When Clara had been little, coming home had followed two different patterns. Sometimes the returning parent was the conquering hero, and the parent who’d stayed behind and done all the dirty work got thrown over for the missing parent as soon as he or she walked through the door.

And then there was this pattern, which he thought of as the cat-pooping-in-your-suitcase phenomenon. He’d had a childhood pet that had punished them on returns from family vacations by performing exactly that action.

Clara was mad. Poop-in-his-suitcase mad. And honestly, he couldn’t blame her. It was bad enough that he came and went without—in a child’s world—logic. But this time, he’d fucked things up worse, by coming home and blowing up a world she’d come to count on.

“Everything was fine before you left! We were all friends. Weren’t we?”

“I’m not making them leave,” he said, as gently as he could. He almost said, “They’re leaving because they want to leave.” But that wouldn’t be fair—not to Trina, whose hand was being forced, nor to Clara, who might shift her anger, unjustly, to Trina.

And then this morning, he’d poured shredded wheat for Clara, and she’d said, in that same tight tone, “I hate shredded wheat,” and he’d felt something squeeze, hard, in his chest. He didn’t know what she liked and disliked, how her needs had changed. What pet names and gestures of affection she’d decided she was too old for.

But there was a difference between not knowing and not even knowing what you didn’t know. And somewhere in that gap was—terror.

Trina had come into the kitchen, wearing a butt-hugging pair of gray sweatpants and a Seattle Grizzlies T-shirt. She’d somehow instantly read the situation, and before he’d even been able to react, she’d produced a plastic container of granola and poured some in Clara’s bowl, adding rice milk—which was another new thing. Then she set about putting away the dishes in the dishwasher, as if—

As if she lived there.
Jesus
.

And yet, he’d been more relieved than freaked out. So relieved he’d flashed her a smile of gratitude, and she’d given him a small, shy one back.

Having her around was weird, yeah, but it was the way Clara had lived for the last year, and kicking Trina and Phoebe out might be really hard on his daughter. Plus, he’d missed a substantial chunk of Clara’s life. Trina knew all kinds of things about his daughter that he didn’t—not just what she ate for breakfast, but what she’d want to pack in her lunch when school started. What activities she attended. Whether she had new friends. If she had started to get crushes on boys…

Last night, after he’d confessed that he didn’t remember their time together, Trina had told him she was going to try to be out of the house by dinnertime tonight. At the time, that had seemed like a blessing. But now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he could ask her to stick around for a few more days. To get Clara settled, help him come up to speed. Ease the transition.

Yes. He’d ask her for a few more days. Just until he and Clara could build the
new
normal.

After Hunter left for the base, Trina dug into the problem of where she and Phoebe would go next.

By late morning, she was starting to panic. Bonnie’s sister and her five kids were coming to live with Bonnie for an indefinite period of time because her sister’s deadbeat husband had allowed their house to go into foreclosure. There was no room in Bonnie’s little house for Trina and Phoebe now, even if Phoebe hadn’t been spot-on about the choking smell of cigarettes and wet dog. Trina’s parents were dead, gone one after the other, right after Phoebe’s eighth birthday, and Trina’s siblings lived on the East Coast, so begging family for temporary lodging wasn’t an option.

Trina had somehow lost the phone number for Petra, the woman subletting her and Phoebe’s apartment, so she’d emailed the friend who’d put them in touch in the first place. She’d given a sketch of the situation, without getting into the romantic thread: Deployment ended sooner than expected, house-sitting opportunity brought to a sudden close, in need of a place to live again.

I can’t tell you what to do,
her friend wrote back,
but before you call Petra, you should know that her son has leukemia. I think he’s doing well, I think he’s going into remission, but she’s been dead on her feet for months now. I know you, and I know what a soft heart you are, and that by telling you this I might be forcing your hand, but I also know you’d kill me later if I didn’t tell you.

Trina didn’t call Petra. Her friend had been absolutely right about all of it. Trina was glad to know the situation, and there was no way she was going to retake her apartment, given the other woman’s suffering. She and Phoebe would figure something else out.

Swallowing her fear, she began searching sublet listings online. Most of the apartments were small. Ugly. In a bad part of town. Or way out of their price range.

She picked up the phone to call about one that seemed promising. Gone. The apologetic landlord said he’d heard nothing stayed available more than twenty-four hours right now. That if the date on the listing wasn’t today, there wasn’t much hope.

The possibilities were few and far between. It had taken months for her and Phoebe to find the apartment they’d been living in—part of why she’d sublet instead of bailing on the lease entirely.

Maybe…

Maybe she could ask Hunter to let them live in the guest room and pay rent?

The thought of being in the same house as him while he looked at her with that blank indifference hurt her stomach.

She’d spin back through the apartment listings she’d already looked at and be less picky. They could handle small. They could handle ugly. They’d have each other, they’d keep busy, they’d spend time with friends.

Where had that one gone…?

She clicked on the browser’s history. Scrolled…

Through apartment listings and page after page of Stefan Spencer.

Phoebe had been doing online searches for her father. Looking at every photo in existence. Reading every article ever written. Watching trailers from his show.

She shouldn’t be surprised. Not after that voicemail from Stefan.

She swiped her phone to life and tapped the voicemail icon.

“Phoebe’s emailed me a couple of times. She’s a funny kid. I—I’d like to get to know her a little better. I don’t suppose there’s any chance L.A. is still in the cards for you? There’s an entry-level job available on the show that would involve at least part-time work on set design. I think it could be a chance for you, if it’s something you still think about. I’ve got a friend whose apartment will be available the next month or so; you and Phoebe could live there while you looked for a place to stay. It would mean a lot to me. I know I’ve been a shit father, but I’ve grown up a lot and I’m ready to do better.”

She’d almost deleted the voicemail unheard. Then she’d listened and almost deleted it again. But she hadn’t. It was still on her phone. And suddenly it seemed like a very different proposition.

She’d met Stefan in high school. They’d done theater together and bonded over their shared plans to head to Hollywood after graduation.

Stefan was gangly, an unlikely leading man—until he wasn’t. Until he came back to school the fall of his senior year after a summer of working on his grandparents’ Iowa farm. The sun had cured his acne and tanned his skin, and manual labor had put muscle on his frame. Trina had had trouble looking away. Plus, he was still her friend Stefan, the one she’d conspired with about sharing an apartment after they both managed their escape to Tinseltown.

Then he got the part of Harold Hill in The
Music Man
.

Up there, on the stage, strutting and commanding—

Night after night, wooing and winning over the audience, softening them up until they were putty in his hands—

And finding his confidence, his own best self, of course.

Trina was a
goner
.

She made up her mind she’d have him.

Only thing was, she had Marian for competition. And Marian was up there onstage, being kissed, having Harold’s—Stefan’s—arms around her. So Trina needed a trump card. And she had one. Marian was a good girl. And Trina wasn’t.

After cast parties, when Marian the Librarian demurred, Trina had no such compunctions. She’d drown Stefan’s adrenaline or soothe his post-performance depression, whatever it took. Kisses in the living room, blow jobs in the dark backyard of some cast member’s family’s house, and eventually, after some wooing, sex in the backseat of Stefan’s car.

A broken condom.

He didn’t see why she couldn’t just terminate the pregnancy. And she got as far as making the appointment. She’d been an accidental third child, herself, her mother pregnant at forty-nine, Trina’s next youngest sibling thirteen years old. In the car on the way to the clinic, Trina asked her mother,
Did you think about—having an abortion?
And her mother had said,
Yes
.

And why didn’t you?

I don’t know. I just couldn’t.

A long silence, in which Trina heard condemnation. Even at sixteen, she was old enough to wonder whether it was in her mother’s voice or in her own head.

Do you think it’s wrong that I’m going to?

I was forty-nine, Trina. You’re not even seventeen yet. Having a baby right now will cut off so many possibilities for you.

But she hadn’t actually answered Trina’s question.

And in the next block of silence, Trina understood that she wouldn’t go through with it.

Even though Stefan had made it abundantly clear that if she went ahead and had the baby, he didn’t feel like he owed her anything.

Stefan went to L.A.

Trina had Phoebe. And fell in love.

She worked harder than she’d ever worked in her life—and that was
with
her parents’ help. She waited tables and made espressos and handed clothes into the T.J. Maxx dressing room and did whatever it took to make a life for her daughter. Eventually, L.A. and Stefan drifted farther into fantasy.

Trina toyed with the rubber edge of her phone case, then made up her mind and tapped Call Back.

“Stefan. It’s Trina.”

“Oh! Hey. Wow. I didn’t think you were going to call me back. Not that I would have blamed you.”

For twelve years, they’d spoken only when money was on the line. When Phoebe’s needs outstripped Trina’s budget, those few but scary times. She’d told herself she’d never let her pride keep her from making sure Phoebe had what she needed, and she’d stuck to that. And Stefan, to his credit, had never, ever made her feel small for asking. He’d always said that L.A. had been good to him and he was happy to do something for Phoebe.

He occasionally invited them to visit and Trina always said no, thank you. There had been a few times, here and there. A trip to Disneyland when Phoebe was six, a tour of the studio when she was eight. But L.A. was a thousand miles away and Stefan’s world a million miles from theirs. He’d never wanted things different, and after her heartbreak had healed in the joy of new motherhood, neither had she.

He wasn’t a bad guy. It was just that Phoebe had changed everything for her and nothing for him, and their lives had veered apart.

“I almost didn’t,” she said. “But your timing was good. We’re a bit—between things, here. The job—is it still open?”

“It is. And it’s yours if you want it.”

“I don’t—I’m not sure yet.”

“Do you know when you’ll know? There are a few potential candidates waiting in the wings. I could probably push you to the top of the list, but I’d need to know tomorrow. You know how it goes.”

She did. For a job like that, a foot in the television door, there would always be thousands of potential applicants. She was lucky it was still a possibility.

“And if I want it? When do I need to start?”

“Yesterday?” He laughed. “Definitely within a week or two. I’ll check to see what the drop dead is.”

“And that apartment you mentioned—still available?”

“I’ll check, but I think so.”

“If I give you an answer by eight a.m. tomorrow?”

“Works for me,” he said.

She had only just hung up the phone when Phoebe came into the guest room, wrist extended, a handmade friendship bracelet dangling from her fingers.

“Mom? Can you help me tie this bracelet on?”

“Did Clara make this for you?”

“Uh-huh. And I made one for her.”

She tied the thin strands. “Phoebe?”

“Yeah?”

“How would—what would you think about maybe going to L.A. for a while?”

“To L.A.?”

“Where your dad is.”

“Why?”

“Well—there’s a job there. A set design job. That’s what I used to think I’d want to do.”

“Before you got pregnant with me?”

“Well, when I was in high school.” She tried never to make Phoebe feel guilty, like somehow she’d cut off Trina’s opportunities. Because, yes, after getting pregnant, Trina had been on a different path than she’d ever planned on, but now she couldn’t imagine her life without Phoebe.

Trina had barely done any designing since Stefan left—just community theater here and there when her parents could watch Phoebe.

“I miss it,” Trina admitted to Phoebe. “When I worked on the tree house, I was so happy.”

There was a tree house in Hunter and Clara’s backyard, a fabulous one he’d built himself. Trina had taken one look inside and seen a world of possibility. She’d imagined it just like a theater set, the first time her mind had taken that kind of creative flight of fancy in
years
. And bringing her vision to life, with Phoebe and Clara’s help, had been incredibly satisfying.

“It was really fun,” Phoebe said.

“It was, wasn’t it? Set design’s like that.”

And she wanted to create the best possible example for her daughter. She wanted Phoebe to see her working on something that mattered to her. A labor of love, not just making ends meet. If she took Phoebe to L.A., Phoebe would get to watch two parents do that. Surely that was worth something.