Read an excerpt from Family Interrupted
CHAPTER ONE
CLAIRE BARNES
Houston, Texas
September
“Bellisima! Brava! Your best work yet, Signora Barnes. Maybe you give Leonardo some competition?”
I rolled my eyes and grinned at my instructor. “Leonardo can rest easy.”
Dr. Colombo teased, exhorted, or flirted with his students on a regular basis, especially the talented ones, but comparing my work to the Mona Lisa was going too far, even for this powerhouse.
I stepped away from my easel and focused on a portrait of a young girl peeking sideways under half-closed lids. I’d called it Girl with Secrets. The child held secrets I wanted to know.
“Your daughter, yes?” Colombo asked, his voice a deep rumble.
DNA didn’t lie. I nodded and said, “On the outside, Kayla’s mine, brown eyes and blonde hair, but inside, she’s her dad, an unquenchable extrovert. Sometimes my daughter’s surrounded by more friends than my house can hold.” My pride in Kayla overrode the mock complaint. “She’s twelve-and-a-half, almost a teenager—almost grown up, as she likes to remind me.”
“Ahh.” He sighed as if he understood. “I have two daughters, Signora, and I know how they too much wanted to be women but were not ready, never ready in the eyes of their mama.”
The man had nailed it, nailed my heart. I wasn’t ready for Kayla to grow up and fly away, especially with her brother applying for college this year. I wasn’t ready to let either of my children go.
“This portrait of your daughter.... It is...is...” Colombo waved his arm this way and that as he searched his English vocabulary. “Exceptional!” His voice rang out, eyes shone. The young student at the next easel walked over and stared.
“Holy Toledo, Claire,” she whispered. “Your kid could step right into the room. How’d you do that?”
Surprised and uncomfortable—I was just a student like the others—I wondered how to respond. Capturing Kayla’s image had come easily. I knew every smile, nuance, and angle of her face. I knew how she looked when she was happy or sad or puzzled. The work hadn’t been that difficult to execute.
“I’m her mom,” I finally said as if that explained everything. To me, it did. A few of the students nodded. Others seemed to be waiting for more, which I guess was not surprising. I was old enough to be their moms!
“I know all Kayla’s moods and expressions,” I said. “I can picture her rolling her eyes at her dad’s bad jokes. And I’ve seen those dark eyes shine when he walks through the door each night.”
My classmates seemed glued to my words, so on I went. “And her hair...it’s so thick and long, she still needs my help combing it after a shampoo.” I thought about how I could never resist kissing her neck and laughing when she groaned, “Ooh, Mom.”
Pointing to Kayla’s hair in the painting, I said, “See the rich auburn color here? In the summer sun, it glows like a banked fire. Maybe next time, I’ll paint her outdoors.”
I finally shut up, and in the quiet room, I felt the other students’ eyes on me and forced myself not to squirm. Being the center of attention was Jack’s specialty, not mine.
“Don’t be too impressed,” I quickly added. “I’ve sketched her hundreds of times. Maybe thousands.” I was trying to be modest for the sake of my classmates, but dang, I found it hard not to celebrate. See, Jack? I told you I had talent! And the validation feels damn good.
My endless drawings through the years had meant less to him than the bottom line of our construction company. But when I turned forty-five last year, I knew I couldn’t keep waiting for Jack’s promise of “one day.” I’d seized my own moment and enrolled in the University of Houston’s MFA program.
I was a second-year student now, and whatever artistic gifts I possessed were being revealed under the guidance of a marvelous staff. No instructor, however, could match the gusto and intuition of Professor Colombo. Like the original explorer, this Colombo also led his crew on a voyage of discovery. Create like Michelangelo! Find the heart, the soul of the stone, and chip away the rest. Fall in love with your subject, and it will show.
The teacher had a point. I certainly loved my subject.
“So, Signora, we will spotlight Girl with Secrets in the galleria next month, at the exhibition.”
I pivoted toward the man so sharply I almost tripped. “Exhibit? But I’m not ready.” Was I? Sure I was living my dream, learning and improving, but didn’t I need more experience and confidence before showing my work in public? If I’d spent the past twenty years painting instead of decorating model homes for Barnes Construction, I would have been more than willing to exhibit.
“With respect, Signora Barnes, you do not decide who is ready.” Colombo swept away my protest with no hesitation.“I, myself, handpicked the twelve artists in this class. I studied the portfolios from last year. You are more than good enough. Art is to be shared and enjoyed. To touch the soul. Claire—or Clara, I may call you Clara? Good. Let me tell you something else, a secret between us.”
He glanced around the room while I stood alert, heart racing at being the focus of his pointed attention. Handpicked for his class? I’d had no idea. When he turned to me again, his gaze holding mine, a frisson of electricity danced down my back. His index finger covered his mouth for a moment, reminding me that this was a private conversation.
“You are my most promising student in a long time,” he began. “Your hands transform what your heart feels and your eyes see.” He tapped his chest. “The emotions here, inside, are on the canvas too! Do you think everyone can do that?”
I took the question seriously. “Well, not the man on the street, but the other students...?”
“You are not listening, Clara! Am I speaking with the ‘other students’?”
As his words began to sink in, my excitement soared. My attention focused exclusively on Colombo, and my classmates seemed to disappear, leaving the professor and me in our own private world. The man was implying I was extra special, wasn’t he? Oh, Lordy, I hoped so. And then I’d tell Jack. And maybe we could hire a decorator, someone to replace me at work. If that happened, I could finally devote more of my time to art and less to business. Could the day get any better?
“Thank you. Thank you.” I’d finally found my voice. “I appreciate everything you’ve said and done. I know I’ve improved as an artist because of you.” Take a breath. Calm down. I turned my attention back to my painting of Kayla. Despite all the compliments, evaluating my own stuff was difficult, especially at this professional level. Sometimes I was too critical, sometimes too soft.
“All right, Professor. I’ll agree with you. It’s pretty good.”
“Very good, Clara. Excellent.”
During the past month, I’d started trusting Colombo’s judgment despite him being a showman. His own work had impressed me—his use of light and shadow in particular—and the Art Department had been delighted to attract this visiting professor. Now I felt lucky to be studying with him. Even privileged. I knew my talented classmates felt the same. But to be called his best student in a long time?
I scanned the room for glimpses of the others’ work and realized my fellow students had already put away their easels and were leaving the studio.
Quickly checking the wall clock, I felt my stomach tighten. “Oh, God, I’ll be late. And Kayla has a dental appointment.” Forgetting about my schedule and kids was unlike me. Had I encouraged the professor’s compliments? Our lingering after class?
Pushing those thoughts aside, I quickly became a focused mom again. I carried Kayla’s portrait to my private studio space, threw my smock on a chair, and shouted a goodbye to the professor while running toward the staircase. Down, down, down, until I exited the building to the parking lot, digging for my car keys at the same time. Finally, I thrust myself into the driver’s seat and revved the engine. Back to reality. Back to Jack, the kids, my domestic life, and my working life. Tomorrow was soon enough to face Colombo and his compliments. A handsome Colombo with his dark mane of hair touched by wings of silver. I wondered how many art students, both in Italy and America, had produced his portrait while studying with him. My fingers reached for a phantom pencil.
#
I followed the restrained campus speed limit but hit the gas as soon as I reached the interstate. Twenty-four miles stood between the University of Houston and home. I gave myself fifteen minutes. The miles disappeared until sirens blared and lights flashed in my rearview mirror. Damn, damn, damn. I slowed down, pulled over, and prepared to smile my widest. Jack always said my smile was my secret weapon. I didn’t necessarily agree but was prepared to give it a try if it meant getting Kayla to her appointment on time.
I rolled down my window and beamed.
“License and registration, ma’am.” No twinkle, no smile, no sense of humor. Pure cop face.
I handed over the documents and used my cell as I waited for Houston’s Finest to check out my identity. I had to leave a message at the house but wasn’t really surprised. If Ian had to watch his sister, he’d be sure they shot hoops in the driveway or kicked a soccer ball on the lawn. God forbid he’d set a good example by doing homework right away. So irresponsible. I sighed a frustrated sigh. A mother’s sigh.
“Ma’am, you were clocked doing eighty in a sixty. That’s twenty miles over the limit.”
I could do the math. “Any chance of turning this into a warning? I’m usually excellent at following the rules.” Smile.No answer except for the scratching of his pen. Five minutes later, I was on my way with a ticket nearing two hundred dollars and an invitation to driving school. For the rest of the trip, I crept at posted speeds until, with a sigh of relief, I finally entered my subdivision and turned left around the lake toward Bluebonnet Drive.
As I approached, I saw a small crowd milling on the corner, blocking my street. In the mid-distance was a revolving red glow. My body tensed, every muscle taut with strain at the possibilities. I lowered my window when I saw my friend Anne Conroy waving at me.
“She’s here,” Anne called over her shoulder while rushing toward my vehicle. “Pull over. You need to park right now.”
I didn’t like how she looked. My hands began to tingle, but I followed her directions.
“There’s been an accident, Claire.”
“What? Who?”
Instead of answering, Anne opened my door and pulled me out. “It’s Kayla. She was hit by a car. The EMTs are lifting her into the ambulance right now.”
My worst fear.... I took off like a track star. A path opened as I headed for the gurney. Around me were familiar faces I could barely recognize because I saw only one face. Kayla. My beautiful Kayla, lying on that narrow bed, her complexion snow-white, forehead swollen, head enlarged, and blood oozing from her ears. Her stillness frightened me most.
“I’m here, baby-girl. Mama’s right here.” I leaned over her and kissed her cool cheek. No response.
“Ma’am, we’ve got to get her in the truck.”
One medic spoke to me while the other was arranging stuff—tubes, IVs, and God-knows-what. They hoisted the gurney, and I jumped in beside it while scanning the crowd for Ian. Where was that boy? Then I saw him, right in front of me, sobbing aloud with tears running thick down his face.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but we were only throwing a football,” he cried, his voice cracking. “That’s all....”
“You should have been doing homework,” I snapped.
He ignored me and pointed at a young woman sitting on the ground, a stranger. “She was driving and...and...”
Glancing at her, I took a mental snapshot, certain I’d recall the details later. I didn’t care about the driver then. Instead, anger, fear, and dread filled me, and I lashed out. “How could you have let this happen? You were in charge.”
“But it wasn’t my fault! I’ve told you a million times I’m not a babysitter. Maybe if you were home more, Kayla would be okay. It wasn’t my...fault.”
Because it’s my fault. My fault for being late. That was the bottom line. My son and I were at odds again, and remorse filled me. “I’m so sorry, Ian,” I whispered. “It’s all right. You’ll be okay. Kayla will too.” She had to be. “Hang out with Anne and Maddy for awhile, and I’ll see you tonight.”
“Gotta close these doors, ma’am,” said the EMT, suiting action to his words.
For a moment, I worried about leaving Ian but later was glad I did. My son didn’t need to witness or hear the conversations that followed.
#
Kayla lingered for five days. Jack and I slept at the hospital, neither of us wanting to leave. We drank strong tea, wrapped ourselves in warm blankets, and had quiet conversations with the staff.
When I mentioned to Jack how kind the nurses were, he shrugged and stepped closer to Kayla’s bed. “It’s part of their job.” His words were abrupt, curt, and cold, a rarity for my husband.
“But only kind hearts become nurses in the first place,” I argued, as if making my point would make everything better. It made nothing better.
Six weeks had passed since Kayla died, but I still remembered the name of every medic on the unit. I still pictured the IV bags with their liquids dripping into Kayla’s arm one drop at a time, the orange chairs Jack and I dozed on, and the plantings between the parking lot and Kayla’s hospital wing. Most of all, I remembered holding Kayla’s hand, stroking her cheek, and talking, talking, talking, praying she’d hear my voice and smile. I remembered that insulated hospital world in detail.
But I couldn’t remember my daughter’s funeral.
Vague recollections of friends and family surrounding us at the service were all that stayed with me. I’d watched their mouths move but heard nothing. I’d seen nothing. Usually, I’d notice particulars—the cut of a blouse, a change of hairstyle, a newly framed picture—but my powers of observation disappeared that day. All gone. Just like Kayla.
Friends said that Jack and I had been amazing. What nonsense! We were numb. Paralyzed by the unthinkable. They described Jack catching me as I fainted at the cemetery. I didn’t remember falling, but they said I’d collapsed the moment our daughter’s casket was lowered into the ground. I believed them. I’d become a zombie, one of the walking dead.
At home, meals arrived, coffee brewed, and the refrigerator and house remained equally full. Our loved ones surrounded us, stayed with us, supported us. My parents. Jack’s parents. Their lips trembled and pain etched their faces.
But no one managed to answer the one question that mattered: how could a vibrant twelve-year-old kick a soccer ball one day and lie in a coma the next? The question haunted me still. I knew there were reasons. Cause-and-effect type reasons. But I hadn’t been able to accept them. How would I ever cope with this nightmare? The memories...the memories...
When Kayla was five years old, she’d said, “Mama, if you turn the number eight on its side, you know what you get?”
“What?”
“Infinity!”
A grown-up word. She’d giggled, eyes beaming, so proud of herself for surprising me. I hadn’t known how she’d come up with the word, but I’d been pretty sure her brother had some influence there. Infinity. An appropriate description for the days that now came and went, unremarkable one from the other, simply periods of light and dark I sometimes noticed through the windows of my diminished home.
So, six weeks later, I was still a mess. Jack too. Not sure about Ian. He’d been hanging out with his friends almost twenty-four/seven. Maybe if I started cooking—really cooking—again every day, he’d find his way home for dinner. He loved meatballs and spaghetti. Heck, he used to love anything I’d put on the table. A growing boy needed nourishment, and we all used to laugh about our skinny boy devouring more than his dad. He’d filled out some this year.
Jack finally returned to work yesterday because he’d been afraid to leave me alone sooner. He’d taken calls at the house after the first two weeks and depended on his staff to keep Barnes Construction going. He had great employees, but we all knew that my Cracker Jack was the engine driving the company. It was his baby, his creation, and certainly his success. I sensed he was anxious to get back to work full-time while I, on the other hand, had no heart for anything, not even painting.
Thirty minutes after Jack left, the doorbell rang. I sure didn’t want any company, so I peeped through the sidelight curtain, ready to ignore any social caller. But I couldn’t ignore a FedEx delivery. Occasionally, items for Barnes Construction were shipped to the house. This item was a pretty large box, which the driver pushed over the threshold for me.
Return address: University of Houston, Art Department. I hadn’t stepped onto the campus since that horrible day. I hadn’t contacted the department or the registrar to officially drop out of school. Maybe they wanted clarification. I opened the outside envelope and extracted a note:
Whenever you are ready, Clara, come back. I am keeping your last painting here. You have much art still to make, and I am saving your place. CC.
The man would have a long wait. None of it mattered anymore. Only Kayla mattered. I didn’t open the box, didn’t look at any of my portfolio items. Instead, I dragged the carton into the guest room and closed the door. I brushed my hands together and walked to the kitchen. My college adventure was over. Maybe someday, I’d have the courage to retrieve Girl with Secrets.
I spent the rest of the morning alone, looking through photo albums, torturing myself. Jack called me every hour.
“How’re you doing?” he asked.
How did he think I was doing? “Fine.”
But of course, I’d never be fine again.
After four phone calls, I threatened to ignore his number on the Caller ID. We finally compromised. He’d stop phoning if I promised to take a walk. He said I hadn’t gone out of the house since the funeral. Somehow, I also promised to track Ian down, cook a real dinner, and then make love to Jack that night. I promised a lot of things because when you lived in a time warp, nothing mattered. Not even promises made.
As it turned out, however, I did take a walk in the afternoon. Maybe the milder temperatures and gentler sun lured me, or maybe it was the general quiet with everyone else at work or school. I thought a solitary walk would be a perfect first venture outside. Unfortunately, one of my neighbors spotted me, a neighbor I didn’t know well, and I wanted to retreat but couldn’t.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Barnes...Claire,” she said, full of sympathy.
I just nodded. A tiny nod. I pressed my lips together and began to stride past her.
“Sometimes,” she continued, “it’s hard to accept God’s will.”
I jerked to a full stop. My heart pounded, my vision blurred. God’s will? God’s will? I screamed silently. What had my innocent child done to deserve this fate? I whirled and stared at the woman for what seemed hours. Her self-righteousness oozed like the slow-running sap of a sugar maple tree. My palm itched. My fingers curled. Her cheek would make a good target. Don’t do it, Claire! Don’t do it.... But I was in my time warp, watching myself from afar as I lifted my arm and smacked her across the face.
“That was God’s will too,” I said and walked off, confirming I was a long way from acceptance. If there was such a thing.
#
When Jack arrived from work, a home-cooked meal waited for him. Ian sat at the table too, thanks to my meatball bribe. The men ate with gusto. I managed one bite to ten of theirs and hoped Jack wouldn’t notice. When their first hunger pangs had been satisfied, I announced, “I might go to jail.”
Ian’s mouth made a perfect O.
“You might what?” asked Jack. But when he heard the story of my walk, his blue eyes glowed, and his grin stretched across his face. Then he swung me around, laughed, and cried. “I couldn’t survive without both my girls, and you’re coming to life again. I love you so much, Claire. We’ll get through this. Somehow, we’ll get through.” Then he looked at me with his I-have-a-great-idea expression.
“It’s been more than a month, Claire. How about coming back to work? The company needs you. More importantly, I need you. You know how the economy sucks, and I might have overreached, but we’ve contracted to build in the Eagle Ranch subdivision. We’ve got four brand-new models for you to work your magic on.”
I felt myself shrivel. Jack depended on me to dress up our models to their best advantage. I supposed I could manage the decorating part, but interacting with all the people involved in the business? Making intelligent conversation with Realtors, decorators, home buyers, vendors, and municipal departments was beyond me. I couldn’t focus for more than ten seconds on anything but the family photo albums I’d browsed through that day. I couldn’t fathom how Jack managed to handle his responsibilities.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not ready.” When I saw his disappointment, I added, “But I am ready to keep my promise about this.” I snaked my arms around his neck, tugged him toward me, and tilted my head back. His eyes brightened again, and our kiss sizzled at first contact.
“Yuck. I am so outta here.” Ian grabbed his backpack and left the room, calling, “I’ll be at Danny’s.”
“The kid has great instincts,” mumbled Jack, his lips on mine again.
I wanted this raw encounter with Jack. I’d been thinking about it on and off all day, knowing I needed it more now than when I was twenty-one. I didn’t know why. Didn’t care about the reason. Not then, anyway. I just wanted the numbness to go away, if only for a few minutes.
Interlocked, we headed toward our bedroom, automatically kicking the door shut before pulling at our clothes. I was desperate to be skin-to-skin, touching, rubbing, stroking. Feeling! Feeling Jack’s muscles move under my fingers. Borrowing his warmth, his strength. He knew my hot spots...just where, just how.... I knew his, too...just where, just how....
We twined closely around each other on the bed, our limbs weaving like yarn on a loom enveloping each other, so in synch, so frantic that soon there was no rhythm at all. And then, and then...oh, God...approaching that point of no return...vibrating through shimmering reds, scarlet and crimson, heading toward the neons, gold and hot orange...until the sun shattered, and we shattered. Together.
Our first communion since Kayla died.
I burst into tears.
Jack was still trying to catch his breath, but he reached out and coaxed me against him, across his chest. A very familiar position. “Aww, Claire. Don’t cry. You’re all right. You’re all right.”
No, I wasn’t. “I shouldn’t feel this good. Kayla—” But I hadn’t thought about my daughter for the past ten minutes. Had it taken the most basic of human instincts to break through my grief? As though in punishment, a new wave of grief surged through me. I’m sorry, sweetheart.
“We can’t bring her back,” Jack whispered. “But it seems that you and I are still alive.” He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “In fact, we’re very much alive. That was good, Claire. And healthy for us. So keep it on your to-do list, will ya?”
I couldn’t blame him for wanting to reclaim as much normalcy as possible in our abnormal world, and intimacy had always been a healthy part of our marriage. However, my tears kept dribbling onto Jack’s chest.
“If you keep on crying, my love, then I will too. And we’ll both go back to being zombies like in the beginning.”
“I still feel like one,” I said between sobs. “I think I always will.”
“No, no. I don’t think it works like that. It’s not forever. But in the meantime, I like having a naked zombie in my arms.”
Jabbing him, I said, “No jokes.”
“I’m just trying to—”
“I know, Jack. I know. You’re trying to pretend we’re okay.”
“What’s wrong with pretending for awhile if it works? I have to believe we’ll get there someday, that we’ll be strong again someday.”
Granted, my numbness had disappeared during our sexual encounter as I’d suspected it would. But I didn’t believe Jack and I would ever be strong again. I didn’t care about “someday,” a nebulous time in a hazy future. My heart was breaking now.
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