need to go back and see that doctor again, Ron had told her over and over. There’s other medication they can prescribe.
If Claire had been able to take a magic pill to make the overwhelming sadness go away, she would have gladly done so.
People grieve differently, the psychiatrist had told her. Your husband has put the death behind him, but you’re not ready to. And that’s okay.
The doctor had also agreed that married couples ought to support one another, to respect their differences. Instead, Ron had begun to spend more time at the office and less time at home. His absence, along with the emotional distance that separated them even while they were in the same room, pushed her to agree when he finally suggested they divorce.
Claire searched the old man’s face. Something decent flickered in his eyes, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly what it was.
“Just between you and me?” she asked.
“I’m good at keeping secrets, especially when I don’t have anyone to tell.”
Sincerity in his tone gave her cause for relief. Sympathy, too. It seemed they had more in common than either would have guessed, and she felt compelled to confide in him. “Analisa wrote a letter to God and placed it in the big mulberry in the center of the park.”
He arched a bushy white brow. “So that’s what you were doing when I spotted you in that tree.”
“Actually, the first letter practically fell in my lap.”
“How many has she written?”
“Two. And yesterday she left me a picture she’d drawn.” Rather, she’d left it for God and Claire had taken it home and placed it on the refrigerator overnight. Now it sat in her car.
Walter didn’t object or accuse Claire of doing anything especially odd, so she added, “I felt sorry for her. She wanted to know if her parents were happy in Heaven. I told her they were, but that they missed her.”
“You believe that?” he asked.
Claire shrugged. “Once upon a time I did.” And she wanted to now, but somehow it was difficult believing that a loving God had taken her son, leaving her to wallow in grief and trudge through life alone.
As a child, she’d believed angelic choirs sang in the clouds and walked along streets of gold. But the thought of Erik being anywhere other than in a satin-lined box under six feet of sod was hard to imagine, even though she’d tried.
Walter didn’t respond, and she was almost sorry he hadn’t.
“I suppose you and I are on the same page,” he finally admitted. “I’ve got a lot of friends who’ve passed on. Too many, actually. And I’d like to believe I’ll see them again, but the truth is I’m not so sure.”
A part of Claire had hoped for more from him, reassurance or some kind of confirmation. Yet she realized he’d probably had a few faith-busting trials of his own. Somehow, commiserating didn’t seem to be anything that would help either of them.
“I used to believe,” she told him. “Now I merely hope.”
“You’ll probably get a few brownie points for renewing a child’s faith.”
She chuffed. “Maybe so, but taking up a pen and claiming to be God could just as easily trigger a well-aimed lightning bolt.”
“Nah. From what I understand, God’s big on the Golden Rule.” Walter chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what I would have done if those letters had fallen to me. Probably tossed them in the trash.”
Claire hadn’t even wanted to admit to Erik that Santa and the Easter Bunny weren’t real. She fingered the hem of her shorts, then brushed at the edge of the adhesive bandage that protected the scrape on her knee. “I hope I did the right thing.”
“Not to worry. In fact, I admire you for what you did.”
Claire turned, caught his eye. For a moment they shared some kind of connection, although she’d be darned if she knew what it was.
Walter tossed her a wry grin. “I have no delusions about the Ol’ Boy Upstairs being all that proud of me—even though I’ve straightened out my sorry life in the past couple of years. And I don’t pretend to have an inside track.”
Claire certainly didn’t. She watched the girl for a moment longer. Analisa now had a face. On the outside, she appeared clean and healthy. But if her uncle didn’t have time for her, were her emotional needs being met? And if not, to what extent did Claire want to get involved?
Oh, for Pete’s sake. She was barely taking care of her own emotional needs. What did she have to offer anyone else?
She got to her feet and excused herself. “It was nice chatting with you, Walter, but I’ve got to go. I have errands to run.”
“I’m here most every day. Anytime you want someone to spot you while you climb trees, I’d be happy to. ’Course, if you tumble, I’m not as strong or quick as I used to be.”
“My tree-climbing days are over.” She offered him a smile that held more warmth than the last. “Thanks for sharing your table.”
“Any time.”
She nodded, then headed toward her car. As she retrieved the keys from her bag, an old van pulled into the parking lot, the engine grinding to a halt. She stole a glance at the driver—a Latina who looked familiar.
For a moment, Claire had a difficult time recalling where she’d seen her before. Then she remembered. It was a woman who’d come in for a loan a week or so ago. Maria Somebody. Rodriguez?
Averting her head, Claire aimed her key at the car, clicked the button, and unlocked the door. Then she quickly climbed in and turned the ignition.
There was no need coming face-to-face with the woman she’d been unable to help. Why make either one of them feel uncomfortable?
But as she glanced into the rearview mirror, it wasn’t Maria’s gaze that she wanted to avoid.
Maria Rodriguez pulled the twelve-year-old minivan into the parking lot at Mulberry Park. From the sound of the motor, she suspected the transmission was slipping again.
Just what she needed. Another major repair.
“Analisa doesn’t always come to the park on Saturdays,” Danny said, “so I hope she’s here today. She likes the swings, too. And I’m going to show her how to jump out and land in the sand.”
“You need to be careful, mijo. I saw you do that the last time you were here, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Don’t worry, Mama. I know what I’m doing.”
Wasn’t that just like a child? To feel invincible? To downplay parental advice?
Maria had said as much to Tía Sofía when she’d been warned about dating the children’s father. But did she listen? Oh, no.
“You’re
