16
claire
When Chris had been out of work for eight months we spent the last of his severance on Christmas presents for our families and the kids, deciding to forgo gifts for ourselves, both of us insisting that we didn’t need anything. We weren’t often extravagant with each other, so it wasn’t a big adjustment for us, but Chris seemed a little down about it. He’d always done a good job of finding just the right gift to give me and he wasn’t the kind of husband who ever forgot my birthday or our anniversary.
With his severance depleted, our only source of income was our savings and the money Chris collected from his unemployment benefits, money he initially hadn’t wanted to apply for at all. “You’re entitled to it,” I reminded him. He hated filling out the monthly paperwork, and even more than that, he hated filling out applications for jobs he was completely overqualified for just so he could show that he was indeed attempting to find a job. The realization that his applications were going unnoticed, that no one was even considering him for those jobs anyway, was even harder for him to take.
I walked into the office one snowy January day with a bowl of soup and a sandwich. The omelet I’d made him for breakfast was still sitting, untouched, on the plate I’d delivered four hours earlier. “Chris. You didn’t eat your breakfast.”
He didn’t even look up from the computer screen. “I’m not hungry.” He rubbed his temples, like I was a pain he could massage away.
“You can’t just stop eating,” I said.
He sighed and pushed his chair back from the desk. “I said I’m not hungry.” I started to speak but Chris cut me off. “You know what, Claire? What I really need is for you to leave me alone,” he said. “Stop asking me how I’m doing. Stop asking if I’m eating, or sleeping. Just stop.”
He’d never lashed out at me like that before, but he had an expression on his face that worried me more than his tone or his words: It was the look of sheer desperation. The pupils of his eyes were dull and flat; the blue lacked sparkle and the whites were streaked with red. I wanted to throw my arms around him, say something, anything that would make him feel better. But the realization that he didn’t want those things from me, that I was only making it worse, brought tears to my eyes. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll leave you alone.”
So I stopped hovering, stopped asking him how he felt or if there was anything I could do, and he retreated even further into himself, barely speaking to me. Before long, he wasn’t the one with whom I shared the highlights of my day; Elisa or Bridget, or sometimes Julia, filled that role. I didn’t seek Chris out the way I once had, as a partner, a confidante. Certainly not as a lover. Finding new ways to cope, to satisfy the needs he once met, unsettled me. I felt as if my world had been turned upside down, but in a completely different way than his had been. He had a goal, and once he found a job, his worries would disappear. But in the interim, I had no idea what to do about mine.
Our household dynamic shifted, buckled under the weight of its problems until the only option was to adapt lest the whole infrastructure crumble. Self-preserving in the short term, absolutely disastrous for the long haul.
We did it anyway.
• • •
I sought refuge at my parents’ house one particularly lonely, desolate winter day. My mom was standing near the stove when the kids and I walked into the kitchen, and I inhaled the smell of pumpkin bread as I shrugged out of my coat. My spirits lifted instantly; it smelled like my childhood and to let someone else be the parent that day was exactly what I needed.
“Well, this is a nice surprise,” my mom said when the kids ran toward her, almost knocking her over in their haste to smother her in kisses. “Your timing is perfect. I was just about to make the dough for chocolate chip cookies while the bread is baking.”
“Can we help, Grandma?” Jordan asked, jumping up and down.
“I get to help, too,” Josh said, elbowing his sister out of the way.
“Josh,” I admonished. “Tell your sister you’re sorry. You can both help.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
My mom got out the big white bowl, the same one she’d been mixing cookie dough in my whole life. She instructed the kids to wash their hands and began lining up the ingredients on the kitchen counter.
I looked around. “Where’s Dad?”
She turned on the oven light and peered inside to check on the bread. “He’s in the basement,” she said. “Working on the train track.” I heard the slight irritation in her tone, which meant my dad was in the dog house for something. “You kids be good for Grandma,” I said. “No fighting. I’m going to go down and see what Grandpa’s up to.”
“Tell him we’ll be down as soon as we make the cookies,” Josh said. He loved the trains almost as much as my dad did.
I opened the basement door and walked down the stairs. My dad whirled around at the sound of my footsteps when I entered the room. “Claire!” He smiled at me, the way only he could, and held open his arms. I went to him and he enveloped me in his embrace. “What brings you by? Are the kids and Chris with you?”
“The kids are upstairs making cookies with Mom. Chris is at home.” The office door was closed when we left, so I didn’t tell my dad what Chris was up to because I had no idea. “How’s the train track coming along?”
“I’m working on a playground. The kids will love it.”
Three weeks after my dad retired, he decided he needed something to fill his days. “I’m going nuts,” he told my mom.
“He’s driving me crazy,” my mom told me. “He’s got to find something to do; he’s underfoot all day.”
My dad solved the problem by immersing himself in the world of model trains, and one end of the basement showcased his entire collection. He actually spent more time working on the track than he did with the trains. He’d mounted it on a large platform and the elaborate, winding track included trees and shrubs, small outbuildings, and houses. There was even a frozen pond with a miniature ice-skater on it. Jordan loved that the best. I walked over to check out his progress with the playground. He was right. The kids would love the tiny swing set and slide, and the picnic table. “What’s happened here?” I asked, pointing to a jumbled pile of track that wasn’t connected to anything.
“I’m switching the direction so that it winds back around. I’ll probably switch it back,” he muttered. I sat down on the old plaid couch. The bookshelves along the adjacent wall still held all the mementos of my youth, including my soccer trophies and my senior picture from high school. My mom had saved every award or certificate I’d ever earned and they were lined up on the shelves in their outdated eight-by-ten frames. I found the nostalgia comforting and also a little embarrassing. The room was one giant time capsule. Chris loved to come down here and tease me good-naturedly about the shrine my parents had erected in my honor. The bane of an only child.
“What’s new, Claire-bear?” my dad asked.
“Nothing. Just waiting for spring.”
His doubtful expression said he wasn’t buying it, not for one minute. He walked toward the couch and sat down beside me, polishing his glasses on the hem of his flannel shirt. “You gonna tell your dad what’s really wrong?”
His candor surprised me. I expected these kinds of questions from my mom, had in fact fielded several since Chris lost his job, but not from him.
“I can’t reach him, Dad. We don’t talk and he won’t let me help him.” Tears welled up in my eyes, maybe because it felt cathartic to finally say it out loud or maybe because everything was falling apart and I wanted nothing more than to let my dad handle it, the way he’d fixed my bicycle when the chain came off or changed the oil in my car when I started driving. I knew those thoughts were ridiculous because I was a grown woman, a mother of two, and I could hardly expect him to solve my adult problems.
“What Chris is going through is a hard thing, Claire.” His tone was gentle, but his words stung. My own dad didn’t think my emotions were justified. He noticed my expression. “Now, don’t get your feelings hurt, honey. It’s hard on you, and the kids, too. I know that. This hasn’t been easy on any of you. But a man wants to take care of his family, and it doesn’t matter whether they’re capable of taking care of themselves or not. He’s out of sorts. Doesn’t know what to do with himself.”
“He won’t talk to me about it. I try, and he shoots me down.”
“He hears what you’re saying, Claire. He just can’t answer you right now. Men aren’t big on sharing their feelings, especially during the hard times. Don’t give up on him. He needs you more than ever.”
I nodded, wiping the tears that spilled onto my cheeks. “It will probably get worse before it gets better,” he added. “You should remember that.” He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “I’m not saying you don’t have a limit, when enough is enough. Don’t be afraid to tell him, either. You’re nobody’s punching bag.”
“Oh, Dad. Chris would never raise a hand to me.”
“I know that. But words can hurt every bit as much.”
He pulled me toward him and hugged me. I heard the thunder of footsteps on the stairs and Josh and Jordan burst into the room, eager to spend time with their grandpa and check out the track. They hugged him and after he showed them everything that was new, I told them I was heading back upstairs.
“Grandma said we’re supposed to come back up, too, as soon as we’re done looking at the track. The pumpkin bread is ready,” Josh said. He and his sister left the room as abruptly as they had entered it. I started to follow. “You coming, Dad?” I asked.
He picked up a tiny swing and added it to the playground, giving it a slight push and watching as it swung back and forth. “I suppose. Been hiding out down here long enough.”
“Why are you hiding?”
He cleared his throat. “Because your mother wants to talk about my overdue prostate exam, and I don’t.”
Despite my swirling emotions, and my despair, I couldn’t help but smile and shake my head.
“You’re gonna get it checked out though, right?”
He threw his hands in the air and snorted. “Yes.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, honey.”