Now she was the one avoiding eye contact. She distracted herself by opening the can of Coke and pouring it carefully into her glass.
“Last week at Softline.”
“He phoned you at work?” She shouldn’t have been surprised; Michael was too much of a coward to risk having her answer the phone here at the house. Naturally he’d taken the low road.
“He invited me to dinner.”
“And you’re going?”
Clare felt her son’s scrutiny. “I don’t know yet. Mick doesn’t think I should.”
“But you want to, right?”
Alex stood and paced the area in front of the table. “That’s the crazy part, Mom. I do and I don’t. I haven’t talked to Dad in over a year—well, other than to say I wasn’t going to talk to him.”
“He is your father,” Clare said, to remind herself as much as her son.
“That’s what Kellie said.”
Sure Kellie said that, Clare mused darkly. She hadn’t seen her mother betrayed and then dumped like last week’s garbage. Kellie had two loving parents. She couldn’t even imagine what divorce did to a person’s soul or how it tore a family apart.
“I told Mick and I’m telling you. If my seeing Dad hurts you, then I won’t do it.”
Clare forced a smile but wasn’t sure what to say.
“Kellie thinks I should be talking to Dad,” he said, studying her closely, as though the neighbor girl’s opinion would influence her. Clare wasn’t particularly interested in what Kellie thought, but she knew how difficult the last two years had been for Alex, knew how badly he missed Michael.
“Kellie’s right,” she said briskly. “You and your father should be communicating.”
“You don’t mind?”
His obvious relief was painful to hear. She swallowed and said, “Alex, you’re my son, but you’re also your father’s.”
“I can’t forgive him for what he did.”
“I know,” Clare whispered. She sipped her Coke in order to hide the trembling in her voice, although she was fairly certain Alex had noticed.
Her son glanced at his watch, did a startled double-take and bolted out of the chair. “I’m late for soccer practice.”
“Go on,” she said, waving toward the door.
“Dad said he might start coming to my games,” Alex said, the words rushed as he hurried to the back door.
“Alex—”
“Sorry, Mom, gotta go.”
Oh, great! Now she had to worry about running into her ex at their son’s soccer games. And what about his girlfriend—was she going, too? If Alex chose to have a relationship with his father, that was one thing, but Clare couldn’t, wouldn’t, be anywhere in Michael’s vicinity when he was with Miranda.
The anger inside her remained deep and real, and Clare didn’t trust herself to control it. But under no circumstances would she embarrass her teenage son, and if that meant not attending the games, then so be it. Almost immediately, the resentment sprang up, as strong as the day Michael had left her. He’d already taken so much! How dared he steal the pleasure she derived from watching Alex play soccer? How dared he!
For a long time she sat mulling over her conversation with Alex. She knew how relieved he was to have this out in the open. Alex had been on edge for a while now, and she’d attributed his tension to the upcoming SATs. But it wasn’t the tests that were bothering him, or his relationship with his girlfriend or even his part-time job. It was Michael. Clare was positive of that.
Once again her ex-husband had gone behind her back.
January 15th
I got the job! There was never any doubt I’d be hired. Dan Murphy nearly leaped across the desk when he realized what he had. He gave me everything I wanted, including the part-time hours I requested. He’ll go ahead and hire a full-time manager and I’ll be more of a consultant.
Damn, it feels good. I’ve never experienced this kind of spiteful satisfaction before—and I do recognize it for what it is. Until these last two years, I had no idea I could be so vindictive. I don’t like this part of me, but I can’t seem to help myself.
Chapter Two
LIZ KENYON
“The teeth are smiling, but is the heart?”
—Congolese proverb
January 1st
For the first time in my fifty-seven years I spent New Year’s Eve alone. I ordered in Chinese, ate my chicken hot-sauce noodles in front of the television and watched a 1940s movie starring Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. They sure don’t make films like that anymore. Then at midnight, I brought in the New Year sipping champagne all by myself. I was in bed a few minutes after twelve, my thoughts full of Steve.
After six years the memories aren’t as painful as they were in the beginning. What continues to haunt me are the last minutes of my husband’s life. I wonder what went through his mind when he realized the huge semi had crossed the yellow line and was headed straight toward him. I wonder obsessively if his last thoughts were of the children or me, or if in those split seconds there’d been time to feel anything but panic and fear. I keep imagining his absolute terror when he knew he was about to be hit. Witnesses said he’d done everything possible to avoid the collision. At the last second, he must have faced the gut-wrenching horror of knowing there was nothing he could do. I’ve lived through my husband’s final minutes a thousand times. The sound of the impact—crunching metal and shattering glass—the screeching tires, his scream.
I thank God he died instantly.
As I lay in bed, I remembered our last morning together, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday instead of six years ago. April twentieth was an ordinary day, like so many others. We both got up and dressed for work. He helped me fasten my necklace and took the opportunity to slip his hand beneath my sweater. While I made breakfast, Steve shaved. We sat across from one another and chatted about the morning news, then he kissed me goodbye as I left for the hospital. I remember he said he had a staff meeting that afternoon and might be late for dinner.
An hour later my high-school sweetheart and husband of thirty-one years was dead. My life hasn’t been the same since; it’ll never be the same again. I’m still trying to accept the fact that Steve won’t come bursting through the front door wearing his sexy grin. Even now, I sleep on the far right side of the bed. Steve’s half remains undisturbed.
The last three months have been hard. I knew when Amy phoned to tell me Jack had been transferred to Tulsa that being separated from my daughter and grandchildren was going to be difficult.
