 
Quicksand

Adrienne Baldwin

Published by Adrienne Baldwin

Smashwords Edition

Cover Art by Amy Veneziano

Art By Amy

Copyright 2013

Discover other titles by Adrienne Baldwin at Smashwords.com

Even They Have Secrets

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

"Grandmother Claira wanted my mom to name me something really southern like Blanche, Magnolia, or Juniper. She was initially disappointed when my mom said no, but soon was honored when mom named me after her. I am blessed to carry on her name. When my family..."

Claire pauses for a moment, her throat beginning to close and head beginning to spin as she recollects memories of her grandmother. She takes a tissue out of the pocket of her slim black pants and blots under her eyes. She momentarily stares at the mascara lining the tissue. It was a novel concept to publicly show emotion. But it was impossible for her to maintain her unique state of homeostasis in these particular circumstances.

"was taken..."

She doesn't know if she can finish the sentence, yet alone the eulogy. A couple of years of therapy sessions twice a week still had not given her the strength to talk about what happened to her family without being overwhelmed into silence. Saying it out loud was more difficult than the nightmares that have persisted for the last 28 years.

"from me when I was young, she was the person who took care of me. She was the one to support and nurture me. And she was the one who convinced me that I would be stupid to not marry Lewis."

She takes a moment to collect herself.

"I would not be the woman I am today without her. I will carry her spirit with me for the rest of my life, and continue to live the life she wanted for me. I love you Grandma."

She had more to say to the hundred and fifty or so pairs of eyes staring at her. She had more words of love and admiration for the people sitting in the wooden pews waiting for a serious and sincere show of grief.

"I'm not going to let them see my pain," she says to herself as she steps down from the microphone. As she steps onto the hard wood floor, she feels her black pumps slip, and she catches herself before she falls. "I wonder if they noticed," she thinks to herself, making her way down the front stairs of the altar. She hadn't been to a Catholic Church in 20 years, and had to request instruction from the Priest on the proper behavior when approaching and retreating from the podium.

Before putting her head down out of respect for her Savior, she looks into the eyes of the bronze statue. For a moment she believes she can feel His love. She can feel his arms around her; his warmth taking away her pain and suffering for just a few seconds. As soon as she realizes that she is feeling something besides anger and sadness, she is thrust back into reality by the touch of her husband's hand on her back.

"Come on back honey. It's okay," Lewis whispers to her as he turns her around and guides her back to their spot in the second pew. Claire sits silently throughout the rest of the service.

"There is Aunt Bonnie," she thinks to herself and shakes her head. Bonnie frequently came to Claira when she needed money, but her absence was noticeably felt when she had been able to find another funding source. And her visits were frequent, and grew closer and closer from every three months to every three weeks. Grandma Claira had an enormous capacity for compassion, and would do anything for family. She didn't have the heart to turn Bonnie away, even though Claire spent most of her adult life convincing Claira to find the courage to say no.

Claire turns around and sees her cousin Melissa. "What a bitch" she thinks, faking a comforting smile. Melissa was the type of woman who could take any occasion and make it about herself. Claire would do whatever possible to avoid hearing about how much she is suffering and grieving after the loss of such a wonderful woman.

If it weren't for her husband, she wouldn't have noticed it was time for her to process down the aisle. She stood up as the pallbearers carried the casket. She tried to ignore the sympathetic eyes, and focused on the tall wood doors in the front of the church. She watched as her grandmother was shoved inside the back of the hearse. The entire scene was going in slow motion, and she preferred it that way. The longer it took for them to get to the cemetery and complete the burial, the longer it would be before she had to accept the finality of this process.

As she climbs in the limo, Lewis leans over to ask if she is okay. She turns her head, giving a fake and condescending smile, and returns her sight to the white curb in front of the church.

"Stupid question," Lewis says placing his hand on her shoulder.

"No shit Sherlock," Claire says to herself.

People are coming up to the door of the hearse giving their condolences. She focuses her attention on the beautifully carved stone statues and the elaborate stained glass windows above them. Her eyes meet those of Saint Paul in the front. She stops her tears before they run down her cheek and ruin her beautifully matted foundation and black satin mascara. Lewis sees the tears in her eyes and grabs her hand.

"It's okay to cry darling."

Claire is silent. She hears the chiming of the church bells as the limo pulls away from the curb.

"Really Lewis...is that really necessary?" she says as she sees him pull out his Blackberry.

"I'm sorry Claire. I meant to put it on silent."

"You could have left it at home. This is a funeral. Couldn't leave your patients alone for just one day?"

"I'm sorry Claire."

"Don't worry about it Lewis."

Claire sighs and looks out of the window at the colors blanketing the grass.

"It's totally ironic isn't it?"

"What's ironic honey?"

"Everything is changing around us. Nothing can escape it."

"I don't think your life will change very much honey."

"The person I loved the most in the world is dead; I think a lot will change."

"What about me?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"You love me right?"

"Yeah."

"Then I can be your support system?"

Claire remains silent. Claire thought she would gladly replace Lewis with her grandmother; her husband's life for her grandmothers. "Black Corolla, Navy Honda, Red Fusion, Green Jeep, Silver Mercedes, Pink Cadillac, ewww...ahh Mary Kay, White Corvette, Harley Davidson..."

"Claire, we're here."

She can see the black canopy over the burial sight from the street. Her aunt Bonnie begged her to bury her in their hometown of Mobile, Alabama. But Claire wanted her surrogate mother to remain close; just in case she needed to talk. The limo stops. The driver walks around the back and opens the door. She steps on the grass and her heels sink in the soil from the rain the previous day. She walks toward the sight, arms folded, and face devoid of any expression. Lewis reaches for her hand, but she doesn't notice, and picks up her pace.

She almost trips sitting down in a chair on the first row, but Lewis catches her arm and helps her down to her seat. As the Priest begins, she blocks out the sound of his voice. She pulls down her black sunglasses so no one notices her attention is somewhere else.

She nods her head occasionally, pretending to listen. She feels Lewis's hand on her back. She turns her head to smile at him. She can't keep her defenses up with her grandmother's cherry wood casket in front of her. Someone walks in front of them, handing her, her aunt, and cousin a pink rose.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" she whispers to Lewis.

"When the Priest finishes, put it on the casket," he responds.

"These were her favorite," she says quietly.

Claire had never been to a funeral as an adult. She has spent the last couple of days asking Lewis a hundred questions about funeral etiquette.

"Claire and her husband Lewis would like to invite you to their home for a reception."

"Why did I agree to that?" Claire asks as her and Lewis walk back to the limo.

"You said it would be too hard to have it at your grandmother's house. You also said, and I quote, you didn't want people's greasy hands all over her stuff."

"Did I really say that?"

"You were upset...I understand."

Claire kisses him on the cheek and grabs his hand.

"Do you want to take a drive before we go home?" Lewis asks.

Claire looks at him questionably.

"It would give us time to breathe and be alone for just a little while."

"It's okay honey. I need to make sure the caterer prepared everything. I also need to make sure the cleaning service did a good job and the flowers arrived."

"Honey, you are the only woman I know who would hire an event planner for a funeral reception."

Both Lewis and Claire giggle.

"You know I don't have time to plan anything."

"You could have taken some time off work. They do give you paid leave for bereavement."

"Yeah but work is the only thing that has kept me distracted."

By this time the limo has begun headed back to their home. It has begun drizzling outside.

"Damnit, I didn't bring an umbrella."

"You can borrow my coat."

Their two story brick single-family home sits on a corner lot; by the time they get there, cars are lining the street. Claire wanted to keep their high rise condo in downtown Homewood. When they moved to the city of Birmingham, Lewis wanted to be close to work; so they rented a house in Southside, a community north of Birmingham. Then they realized that the area was too young for their taste, so they moved a mile down the road into a rented condo in the downtown area. Birmingham wasn't a large city, but it still had some of the best condos she had ever seen. Then, they decided that if they were going to live in a home, they may as well buy one. Without any children, a condo seemed the best option. So they moved to a new condo facility in Homewood. After four years, Lewis suggested they buy a large single family home. Claire knew what that meant; the clock is ticking. She knew he was ready to have the talk about children. The entire time they dated when he asked the question of having children, she always said maybe. She didn't want to tell him that she was certain small humans running around the house ruining bamboo hardwood floors, oriental rugs, designer furniture, and travertine tile, was not in her future.

They moved to Birmingham from Atlanta for Lewis to take a surgical chief of staff position at the University of Alabama Birmingham hospital. Even after 10 years, Claire had not gotten used to the non-existent "city" life. But she did like being able to escape to a quiet place with only a 15 minute drive, instead of a 45 minute one. You can hear traffic in Atlanta from anywhere near the city. Now they lived in Vestavia Hills, supposedly the place where "new money" resides. Claire knows that their 4000 square foot home is too big for the both of them, and with 40 approaching, there was only so much time she had left to tell Lewis the bad news.

Before she could start thinking about a real family life in this home, Lewis came around and escorted her into the house. Claire took a deep breath before opening the door. As she stands in the foyer, hanging up her jacket, she notices all of the eyes slowly turning to her. She hated the "I'm so sorry for your loss" smile and the empty compassionate eyes. The eyes that appear sympathetic but the source of the sympathy isn't a warm heart, but a sense of pity and condescension. For some it may even be the free food. 90% of the people in this room have never spent more than five minutes with Claira, yet alone known her well enough to actually grieve her death.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," a blonde woman says as she shakes Claire's hand. "I was your grandmother's nurse in the hospital."

"It's nice to meet you and thank you for treating her so well in the hospital."

"Your grandmother was a sweet woman."

Claire speaks in a tone intended to urge someone to leave. The words of sympathy, empathy and the like were slowly annoying her. "Thank you," she would say robotically; she didn't know if she even meant it anymore. Claire stood in the kitchen, a glass of red wine in her hand.

"Is everything okay Mrs. Grayson?"

"Yes, Lisa, everything is going well."

Lisa, the event planner, placed a comforting hand on Claire's shoulder, and turned to yell at one of the waiters for not quickly replenishing the baby quiche.

"I think we should go around and thank so more people," Lewis suggests.

"Why should I do that? Thank them for what exactly? Showing up for my grandmother after she died, showing their pretentious sympathy, eating free food and getting drunk off of better than average champagne?"

"Claire..."

"I know. I don't really feel like congregating anymore. I'm going to find somewhere to be alone."

"Okay honey," Lewis says watching Claire walk upstairs.

She closes the door behind her. She lies down on her bed. When she closes her eyes, she thinks about the times she spent the night at grandma's house. Grandma Claira would let her stay up past midnight and give her all of the sweets she wanted. Grandpa Charles died when Claire was in middle school. When Claire would visit, Charles would give her a big hug and then return to the basement. Claire could always hear the TV when her and Grandma Claira were eating dinner in the kitchen. She would always ask what grandpa was doing down there. "He is just relaxing," Claira would say and return to serving the meal. "Does grandpa mind me sleeping in bed with you?" Claire would ask when they both laid down. "Of course not sweetheart," Claira would respond.

Claira would sigh and grab a book for us to read. She never talked about her husband, good or bad. When Claire lived with them, all three of them rarely spent time together; Charles preferred to be alone. Claire thought that sleeping in their bed would be temporary until she got used to living in their home, but months went by, and Charles never demanded his place next to his wife of thirty years.

Claire imagined herself back in the rocking chair in the corner of the room; that was their special chair. No one else was allowed to sit in the chair and that was their place for Claira to read and sing. Claire didn't know, but sometimes her grandmother would sit in that chair and watch her play, just daydreaming about the things she wanted for Claire's life; hoping that despite everything, they would come true. That chair was a sort of safe haven. Even Saturday morning cartoons were more colorful and funny because Claire sat in her grandmother's lap or at her feet to watch them. They would even watch the news. Things began to change once Claire moved in permanently. She grew out of the rocking chair. That comfort wasn't enough. She didn't want to sleep in the same bed with her grandmother, and she hated watching the news.

Claire opens her eyes to the sound of Lewis knocking softly on the door.

"Yes Lewis?"

"Guests are beginning to leave honey."

Claire rises off of the bed and opens the door. She glances into a hallway mirror to check her hair and makeup, and returns to the living room where people are hugging and saying goodbye.

"I wonder what they are all thinking," Claire says to herself. "Maybe John Winslow over there is thinking about whether or not any of grandmother's furniture is going to be donated to his thrift store. I bet Patty over there is thinking about the soap operas she has recorded on her TIVO. I know little Mikey over there just wants to get back to his video games; who brings a small child not related to the deceased to a funeral? The caterer probably can't wait to get off of her feet and I'm sure the housekeeper that came in to clean is not looking forward to coming back tomorrow. Father Craig is most likely thinking about the wedding he is performing this evening."

Claire's thoughts continued to run, distracting her from the dozen people walking up to her to give there last condolences and say goodbye.

"If I hear I'm sorry for your loss one more time I'm going to scream," she whispers to her husband before the people get so close they can hear her remark. Lewis grins and tries to hold his laughter as the mournful faces approach.

Claire watches all of them proceed out of the door and hear all the car engines igniting. Some roaring softer than others, but all important because they were getting all of these people away from her. She closes the door behind her inappropriately dressed cousin Julia and heads back to the kitchen.

"Bonnie and Mildred, what are you doing here?"

"We are waiting for someone," Bonnie says sitting down at the first bar stool next to gorgeous black granite countertops.

"Who are you waiting for? Is someone picking you up?"

Mildred and Bonnie look at each other, each suggesting the other reveal their true intentions.

"Ladies, damnit, what is it?"

"The lawyer is coming...to read the will," Bonnie says quietly.

"What?" Claire yells in disgust. "You had to do this today?"

"Well we are leaving for Mobile early tomorrow morning."

"Bonnie, you are going to Mobile?"

"Yes," Bonnie replies, "I'm moving in with Mildred."

"Of course you are," Claire snidely says.

"What does that mean?"

"Bonnie...you could never take care of yourself. And you use your charm to manipulate people into believing you are completely incapable of doing things on your own."

"That is not..."

Before Bonnie could finish, there was a ring at the door.

"You know what ladies, you could have waited until tomorrow. You could have given me a fucking second to breathe," Claire says before opening the door.

"Yes?" she says.

"Bonnie?"

"No...I'm Claire, the granddaughter of the deceased. You must be the lawyer who thought the day of a funeral was a good day to read a will."

The man at the door is momentarily silent, unsure of an appropriate response.

"I'm Daniel Seymour. I guess you weren't expecting me."

"No shit," Claire responds. For a moment she couldn't believe she said that aloud. She intended the thought to remain in her head. "Come on in Mr. Seymour."

The lawyer cautiously walks into the house.

"Mr. Seymour, I'm Bonnie. I spoke to you on the phone. I apologize for her rude behavior."

"She is grieving."

Bonnie escorts him to the dining room table. Before Lewis passes through the French doors, Claire pulls him back into the kitchen.

"Can you believe this?" Claire asks rhetorically.

"Well honey..."

"Well nothing. Bonnie just wanted to know as soon as possible what grandma left her. That is fucking ridiculous. My Claira is not in her grave 5 hours before Bonnie walks in wanting to know what is hers to take."

"Claire, she wasn't only your Claira."

"Biologically no, but I'm the only one who took any time to take care of her. I'm the only one who didn't want anything more from her."

Lewis leans in and wraps his arms around his wife.

"Claire, lets just go in there and get it over with."

Claire nods her head and walks into the dining room, sitting down at the dining room table.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting. Mr. Seymour, go ahead and begin."

"Well, Claira Sanders did not leave a long will, but she was very specific. She left her home, her car, the items in her safety deposit box, her life insurance, and the contents of all of her checking and savings accounts to her granddaughter Claire Isabella Grayson."

"What?!" Bonnie yelled disappointedly.

"Bonnie, she left you the contents of a special savings account she set up specifically for you."

"How much is in it?" Bonnie responded quickly.

Mr. Seymour hesitated to reveal the amount of money in the account.

"Well, Claira asked that Claire be the executor of her estate so it is up to Mrs. Grayson if I am able to reveal that amount."

"You can tell her," Claire said with a slight smile on her face.

"There is 2,346 dollars in the account ma'am."

"That's it?" Bonnie asked frustrated and confused.

"Yes ma'am. Mrs. Sanders did not leave anything else for you. Of course, Mrs. Grayson can give you anything you like."

"Well how much did she leave for her precious pretentious snooty granddaughter?" Bonnie asked.

"There is no need for that Bonnie. This is our home and if you can't be civil, you can leave," Lewis responds immediately.

"Mrs. Grayson?"

"She doesn't need to know," Claire said. "This is my grandmother's estate and it isn't really any of her business."

"Tell me damnit, you spoiled brat."

"That's it Bonnie!" Lewis yells. "Get the fuck out!"

"No honey, no. It's okay. Mr. Seymour you can go ahead and tell her whatever she wants.

"Okay. The home is worth 150,000 dollars and it has been completely paid off. I do not know the contents of her safety deposit box. She had 1,436 dollars in her checking account. She has 4,500 dollars in her savings account."

"Well that isn't too much. You didn't get that much more than me Claire, Grandma's precious Claire."

"Well...," Mr. Seymour continues, "her life insurance policy is 100,000 dollars and she left a special account for you Claire of 234, 624 dollars."

Everyone in the room gasps.

"Where did my grandmother get that kind of money?"

"I have no idea Mrs. Grayson, but it is for you to decide what you want to do with it."

The room is silent. The first one to speak is Bonnie.

"I can't believe this. I can't believe she left all of that money to you."

"Listen Bonnie, I don't need this money. If you want her insurance money, you can have it."

"I don't need any handouts from you Claire."

"Okay...then take all of the contents of her house," Claire responds trying to be reasonable.

Bonnie thinks for a moment.

"Can you put everything in storage and I come look at everything?" Bonnie asks.

"No Bonnie. If you want the contents of her house, you have to look through everything and take what you want."

"But I'll be in Mobile."

"Then you will have to figure out a way to clean the house if you want what's in it. If you don't want the money, I'm going to give it to charity."

"All of it honey?" Lewis asks.

"Not all of it. We can save some of it and go on a long relaxing vacation."

"It would be great for a children's college fund," Lewis says.

Claire pretends not to hear the last comment, and turns her head quickly enough to see Bonnie rolling her eyes.

Chapter 2

When Lewis woke up in the morning, Claire wasn't in bed. The sheets had been folded up and the pillows placed perfectly against the cherry wood headboard of their sleigh bed. He put on his robe, leaving his side disheveled, and walked around the house calling for Claire.

"Claire!" he yells as he walks around the upstairs. He takes a peak into the office where she spends her time writing and grading papers. The desk appears untouched, but it always did. He heads down the stairs, yelling louder. The kitchen, family room, downstairs study, living room, and dining room are empty.

"Claire!"

Lewis was starting to worry. He runs to the sunroom to grab his cell phone; he left it there after his late night reading of Under the Dome, his latest Stephen King novel. As he picked up the phone to call his wife, he saw her out of the corner of his eye sitting on their outdoor patio furniture, computer on her lap. Her head was laying to the side and her eyes were closed. Lewis walks next to her and puts his hand on her shoulder. She slowly opens her eyes.

"Darling, why are you outside?"

Claire sits up and places the laptop next to her. She leans forward and rubs her face. Lewis sits in the chair next to her and puts his hand on her back. With the feel of his touch, she leans back

"I couldn't sleep so I came out here to work on my collection."

"I thought you were working, but why out here?"

"Different inspiration I guess."

Claire stands up and grabs her laptop.

"Maybe you should take a nap Claire."

"I can't. I have to grade assignments."

"What did the students do?"

Claire didn't want to talk about school, especially when she only had three days before she had to return.

"I had them think about their first novel and then write the first chapter."

"That's interesting."

"What does that mean?"

"I thought you would have wanted them to write a complete story."

"Would you read a novel if the first chapter isn't good?"

"Good point."

"All of my students want to be novelists. I am teaching them how to be that."

"I gotcha."

"How many chapters do you have to read?"

"18."

"Would you like my help?"

"How can you help me grade creative writing? What have you ever written?"

"Nothing, but I know how to recognize a good book."

"Really?"

"Yes Claire I do."

"So I'm guessing the rows and rows of mystery, Sci Fi and DIY books

on the shelves in our bedroom make you this incredible book critic."

"Do you have to have such a....freaking attitude Claire?"

"I don't want to have this conversation right now. Can I please go take a bath

now?"

Claire goes into the house, slamming the door behind her. Lewis sits back in the chair, staring at the rose garden behind the pool Claire begged him to get but never uses. For fifteen minutes, he contemplates his next move. He walks into the sunroom and opens a drawer in a desk against the wall underneath a painting they bought during their trip to Thailand. In a small drawer on the side of his cigar box, sits a metal box with five Marlboro menthol cigarettes. He takes one, grabs his lighter, and goes to sit in the grass beside the garage. He composes himself enough to go back into the house and pretend to be a loving husband. "Her grandmother died, I'm just going to let it go," he says to himself as he heads back upstairs.

He passes by the bathroom and hears a mix of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata and the low rumble of the bath. He can see the glow of candles reflected on the tile. He contemplates going in to join her.He opens the door and sees his wife laying in the tub, bubbles covering every inch of water, her head back, eyes closed, and red hair up in a bun. Not wanting to intrude and feeling inadequate, he returns to the hallway.

"I could go read next to the pool," he thinks turning himself towards the stairs. "But then again, breakfast sounds good too." He stands, hands on the stairwell railing looking out of the second floor foyer window. Before making his way down the stairs, his home phone rings and he follows the sound to his bed side table.

"Hello."

"Hey Lewis, how are you doing?"

"I'm allright Rob. What is going on?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to call and checkup on you."

"Really? From the hospital phone?"

"Well..."

"What do you need?"

"We are a surgeon short and we need someone to come in and do a surgery in two hours."

"What's the surgery?"

"Removal of tumor."

"Is it anything serious?"

"No. The tumor is benign but it needs to removed from the patient's stomach."

"I'll have to think about it. Can I call you back after I talk to Claire?"

"Sure. Just let me know within 15 minutes so I have time to call another doctor."

"Okay."

Lewis gets off the bed and makes his way to the bathroom.

"What was that about?" Claire asks as she walks into the room drying her hair with a towel and her robe tied around her waist.

"Rob called."

"What did he need now?"

"He needs me to come in."

"You said no right?"

Lewis is silent. Silent because he didn't want to disappoint his wife, and even more, surprised that she cares.

"You said yes didn't you?"

"I told him I would let him know when I talked to you."

"Well I'm asking you to say no."

"Why?"

"You are supposed to be here for me right now."

"Oh now you want me here for you. I'm sure in a couple of hours you will change your mind and be rushing out the door to go to your office to grade papers."

"Damnit Lewis, what is your problem?"

"Nothing Claire, absolutely nothing."

Lewis walks past her and out of the door. He heads downstairs to his office they created in a fifth bedroom that was on the first floor. He closes the white French doors behind him and turns on his Ipod Stereo. Before he can turn on his computer, he hears the sound of the doors opening and feels the breeze of their furious open.

"What was that?"

"What do you mean my beautiful grieving wife."

"That! What is wrong with you? Why do you have the attitude of a 15 year old boy who just got grounded for smoking weed?"

"Because I could go actually help someone who needs me or stay here and wait for you."

"I need you."

"Really? For what? I'm sure when I leave you will be ecstatic. You can grade your papers in peace and not have to worry about me asking if you are ok, bringing you coffee, making your lunch, or comforting you when you appear upset."

"Lewis...there isn't a manual on how to properly grieve."

"But there is what you have learned from Claira about how to treat people."

Claire's mouth drops in disbelief. "Have I been a bitch?" she asks herself as Lewis gets up from his chair. He stops next to her.

"Claire, I understand you are upset, sad, angry, depressed...a range of emotions I cannot comprehend. But I am your husband, and since you won't let me do anything for you, I'm going to do something for myself. I'll be home as soon as I can."

Lewis walks upstairs; Claire's eyes follow him. She is silent, uncertain of what to say. She sits on their new couch, head in her hands. She stops herself before leaning back and putting her feet up on their stainless steel coffee table purchased not for use, but for the contemporary look. Claire thought the mix of contemporary decorations with the classic look of the house would be a perfect match for the message she was trying to send as an English professor married to a doctor.

Claire hears the sound of footsteps on the stairs. "Don't scuff the hardwoods," she thinks to herself before rushing to the door.

"I'm sorry Lewis."

Lewis grabs his coat and keys and walks to his car. He sits in the driver's seat, hands on the steering wheel thinking about going back inside and kissing his wife goodbye. "I can't give into her, even if she is grieving." Claire watches him drive away. Without a second thought, she returns upstairs to the bathroom to blow dry her hair. "What an asshole," she says to herself. She starts to cry. "Pull yourself together," Claire says aloud while wiping her face with toilet paper.

The final touch was a flat iron. "I need a glass of wine." Claire hurries downstairs to the kitchen to only find the wine cooler empty. She returns upstairs and quickly dresses. The sound of her black peep toed shoes is loud against the floor, especially as she picks up her pace. She grabs her purse and cardigan and heads to the car. She leaves the house without a destination. She stops at the gate to decide.

As she pulls up to the liquor store, she looks around to see if she recognizes any cars. "Ladies don't go to the liquor store, especially at 1'oclock in the afternoon," she says to herself as she pulls into a parking space right in front of the store. Despite the hovering clouds, she puts on her large black sunglasses that remind her of Audrey Hepburn, tucks her head, and opens the door.

"Good afternoon ma'am," the short blonde young man says from behind the counter.

"Hi,' she responds quietly.

"I look like I'm about to rob a bank," Claire says to herself as she searches for the Chiraz red wine she desperately needs to distract her dangerously depressing mind. She grabs the largest bottle she can find and heads to the register.

'Is this all for you ma'am? Did you find everything you needed?"

Despite his polite, yet necessary comments, she responds quickly and earnestly takes out her wallet.

"Dr. Grayson?"

Claire ignores the call, hoping to pretend she does not hear him, long enough to walk out of the door. She feels a hand on her shoulder.

"Dr. Grayson, it's me, Shawn. I'm in your fiction writing class. I guess this isn't the most appropriate place to run into your professor." He chuckles nervously.

"Hi...Shawn."

Claire quickly turns her attention back to the cashier who has finally put her wine into a brown bag.

"Thank you ma'am."

Claire nods her head and rushes to the door. Before she can finally hear the bell of the door opening, Shawn catches up to her.

"Wait Dr. Grayson. How are you doing? I heard about your grandmother. I'm very sorry for your loss."

Those words would usually drive her to the brink of temporary insanity, but this time, the words seemed sincere.

"Thank you Shawn. I'm doing as well as can be expected. I'll be back Monday."

Before he can respond, she pushes the door open and escapes to her car.

"What are the chances? What are the fucking chances?!" she yells, banging her hands against the steering wheel. Claire couldn't believe that the one time she didn't want to be seen, she encountered someone she knew.

When Claire pulls into her garage, she couldn't remember how she got home. Every turn and brake was instinctual, as her mind was distracted by the potential whispers culminating between her students about her drinking problem. She grabbed the bag and went straight to the kitchen.

"Damnit; where does Lewis keep the bottle opener."

As she stood in the kitchen, she thought about her multiple options for simultaneous entertainment. She thought about retreating to the entertainment room to watch a movie, sitting in the living room and reading a book, or staying in the family room and flipping through the channels. For a short moment she thought about going for a swim, but only a crazy person would swim while drinking. Her ultimate decision was to listen to music and sit by the pool. She appreciated the stillness of the moment; she tried to not think at all. She put aside her grief for the few minutes she could.

The reality of her situation was currently present when she felt her husband's hand on her arm.

"Were you asleep?"

"I guess so," Claire says slowly opening her eyes.

Claire had no idea how long she had been sleeping. She sits up and faces her husband who has already made his way to the patio door.

"I'm going to go watch some TV in my study," Lewis says opening the door.

"Wait," Claire says walking towards him. "Don't you want to talk about what happened?"

"Not really," Lewis says heading towards the kitchen.

Claire shuts the door behind her and follows him.

"We should really resolve this Lewis."

"Don't you mean you want to resolve this?" he asks closing the refrigerator, putting a six pack of Yuengling on the counter.

"Well yes Lewis, I want to resolve this."

"Are you going to apologize?"

"For what Lewis?"

"For being a bitch, Claire!"

"I am grieving the loss of the most important person in my life. Can you have a little compassion?"

"How long are you going to use that excuse Claire?"

"Fuck you Lewis. Fuck you."

Lewis walks around the corner and down stairs to his man cave. Claire storms up the stairs to their bedroom. She sits on the corner of the bed crying.

"I can't believe he said that," she says aloud. She lifts her head, staring in the mirror. She wipes her face, clearing the smudge of her black mascara from under her eyes. "I need to get out of here."

Claire takes off her heels, and replaces them with silver flats. She takes off her cashmere pink sweater, and replaces it with a short sleeve knit purple top and a white sweater. She walks down the stairs to grab her purse. She stands in the foyer for a moment. She puts her purse down on a side table meant for keys and mail, and heads to the basement door.

"Lewis!"

The sound of ESPN reporters is deafening.

"LEWIS!"

Claire heads downstairs to see him lying on the couch, eyes closed, with the remote on his chest. Claire grabs the remote and turns off the TV.

"I was watching that," Lewis mumbles.

Without responding, she lays a blanket over him. She finds his phone and sets his alarm to go off in an hour. She writes a note and leaves it on the coffee table in front of him. She kisses him on the forehead and heads back upstairs.

The drive to Grandma Claira's house was silent. Claire drove as slowly as possible, simultaneously regretting her decision to start cleaning her grandmother's house and realizing that it's best to go ahead and get it over with. She feels awkward and sad as she pulls up in front of the house. As she turns off the ignition, she sits and stairs at the closed curtains on the windows. She remembers running up to the door after school with only the screen closed and the living room windows wide open for her afternoon reading.

As she opens the door, she spots the neighbor across the street waving.

"Hi little Claire! How are you?"

"I'm okay Mrs. Henderson. How are you?"

Although her instinct is to ignore her southern manners and walk straight to the house, she walks up to Mrs. Henderson and sits in a chair next to her on the porch.

"I'm sorry about your grandmother Claire."

"Thank you."

"We constantly talk about her at the weekly neighborhood meetings."

"Really?"

"Yeah of course. Your grandmother attended every one of them."

"Did she do a lot of things for the neighborhood?"

"Well sweetheart, the meetings were usually just an opportunity for us to sit around, play cards, have a couple of beers, and gossip."

"My grandmother drank beer?" Claire asks herself.

"So what are you doing over here Claire?"

"I came to start cleaning out the house."

"Isn't it a little too soon darling? Give yourself time."

"I'm okay. It will be good to remember the good things."

"Sugar, just take your time."

Mrs. Henderson begins to rock her chair, the end of her floral night gown skimming the concrete porch. Claire looks into her eyes, waiting for the nonverbal queue that it is okay to leave. Instead, Mrs. Henderson stares straight forward at Claira's house, her wide rimmed glasses taking up most of her face, and the sun reflecting off her white hair.

"Well honey, go ahead and start. I'll be praying for you and your family."

Claire was shaken by the sudden return to conversation.

"I will Mrs. Henderson. Do you need anything?"

"No dumpling, go ahead and do what you need to do. You come see me if you need anything, even if it's just to talk."

Claire smiles and nods her head. The sun has begun to set and she has to find the keys to the house in the dark. She digs in her purse, and when she finally finds them, searches for the right key among the 15 or so on her chain. When she was hired at the University of Alabama in Birmingham, it seemed like they gave her 10 keys; one for her office, one for the classroom doors, one for the faculty lounge, one for the copy room etc. It felt like she had been standing on the porch for 15 minutes by the time she puts the key in the wood door.

Everything about the house, even the smell, wreaks of the mid 20th century. The green carpet leading up and down the stairs of the split level foyer. The beige carpet in the living room. The only thing that is moderately contemporary is the open floor plan. The house is small, warm and cozy. Claire spent most of her life in this house, and now she is erasing all of those memories to make space for a new occupant.

As she walks up the stairs, she takes in the scent of the 60 year old house. She scans the room, taking in the floral furniture, the black lacquered dresser, the old wooden side tables, and the glass coffee table. She moves over to the dining room with two china cabinets and a dining room table with a brown tablecloth that seats six. She turns to look in the small kitchen; a kitchen the size of a closet. Despite the renovated floor and updated dishwasher and refrigerator, the stove constantly reminds Claire of how long her grandmother lived in this house.

Claire sits at the head of the dining room table facing the kitchen. She thinks about the first time her and Grandma Claira made pancakes from scratch. The first time, Claire burned her finger. Claira made her sit on the sofa with her hand in a glass of ice water for 2 hours. Those two hours were the beginning of another tradition; the daily watching of soap operas. Claire watched One Life to Live and General Hospital. From that moment, she was hooked.

Upon standing up, she glances at the television. Claire spent many years trying to convince Grandma Claira to let her buy her a new television and finally get her a microwave. Although Claire was successful with the microwave, Claira insisted she did not need a fancy television to watch 5 channels. Claire wonders what to do with the 20 year old television that sits in a corner by the bay window.

She opens the cabinets in the kitchen, exploring the pots, pans, canned foods, cereal, chips, and at least 10 cans of cashews. In the fridge was an almost empty carton of lactose free milk, a six pack of Bud Light, microwavable bacon, random condiments, and an unopened carton of orange juice. The freezer was full of microwavable dinners; evidence that Grandma Claira was past her cooking days. Claire looks under the sink for trash bags. She finds a box of black bags, but there are only a few left. "I guess I can't do too much cleaning today," she thinks to herself as she grabs paper towels, rubber gloves, a dust cloth, and all of bags. She decides to get the hardest part over with and begin with the bedroom.

Despite the dingy carpet and dusty curtains, the room is clean. The bed is made, the dresser uncluttered, and all of the clothes in the closet. She sits on the bed, setting everything on the floor. "Can I do this?" she asks herself as she puts on the gloves. Everything she remembers; everything that reminds her of her life will be thrown away or given to charity.

Two hours after beginning, it barely seems she has gotten that far. Half of the dressers are still full, and she hasn't finished sorting through her clothes. After a short break, she heads back to the closet. Digging around in the bottom she sorts through shoes and bags. As she starts throwing empty shoe boxes into the room, she picks up one too heavy to throw. She places it right outside the closet. Next to it is another one but heavier. Once everything is off the closet floor, she picks up both boxes and sits on the bed.

She takes the top off, to discover what appears to be a hundred letters. She picks up one. It is addressed to Claira Sanders, 2417 Anderson Drive, Birmingham, Alabama 35210. She scans the envelope to the return address. St. Clair Correctional Facility, St. Clair Springs, Alabama 35004. Claire stares at the envelope, anxious to open the letter.

She runs her fingers across Claira's name and thinks about her life in this house. Her eyes scan the room. The pink and yellow floral comforter was folded at the end of the bed. Plain white sheets covered it with blue pillows at the head. Above the bed was a crucifix hanging in the center of the wall; practically the only thing disrupting the plain white walls. Grandma claimed that was the only thing she needed to look at.

"That was the place nightmares went away," Claire says to herself as she stands up, letter in hand.

***

Claire rushes into the bedroom, clutching tight to her small pink and white bunny. "Grandma! Grandma!" she yells jumping on the bed. "What is it honey?" Claira quietly asks as Claire gets under the covers. Claira puts her arm around her and squeezes softly.

" _I dreamed he came to get me."_

" _He won't be coming for you my dear."_

" _But what if he does?"_

" _Darling Claire, I will protect you. He will never come for you again"_

Claire sits up on her elbow facing her grandmother.

" _Do you promise to protect me?"_

" _I promise."_

" _Do you promise to love me?"_

Claira sits up and kisses her on the forehead. "I promise to love you...forever."

Claire lays down on her side facing the wall.

" _Grandma?"_

" _Yes dear?"_

" _I have one more question?"_

" _Mmhmm?" Claira asks drifting into sleep._

" _Do you promise I don't have to go back to school tomorrow?"_

Claira sits up and asks Claire to do the same.

" _Why don't you want to go back to school sweetheart?"_

" _Because everyone knows. They will make fun of me."_

" _Oh baby girl," Claira says picking her up and holding her. "They will not make fun of you. They know you are sad and they know that is nothing to make fun of. If they do, you tell me and I'll take care of it."_

Claire nods her head. "I have butterflies Grandma."

" _You know why?"_

" _Why grandma?"_

" _Because you are nervous. It has been so long since you have seen your friends, you are afraid you have forgotten their names and what they look like. Don't worry. You will remember who they are and the games you all like to play."_

Claire smiles. "We could just move somewhere else Grandma."

" _Now why would we do that? Don't you like Grandma's house?"_

Claire nods.

" _And don't you love your friends? And won't you miss Mrs. Donalds?"_

Claire nods again.

" _Then why don't we stay here and let us just see what happens. If things don't go well tomorrow and Tuesday, I will consider letting you go to a different school. Deal?"_

Claire nods once more.

" _Claire, I need you to tell me yes and you promise to give it a chance."_

" _I promise Grandma."_

" _My little pumpkin, everything will be fine. I promise, everything will be fine."_

***

Claire jolts with the sound of her cell phone ringing. She rolls over, only to find that it is not on the night stand, where she would normally put it. "I forgot where I was," she says to herself as she stands walking around following the sound of her ringtone. She finds it on the floor next to the closet under the top of a shoe box.

"Hello" she says with a phlegm filled voice. She immediately clears it.

"Damnit Claire!"

"What Lewis?"

"You had me worried sick. Where are you?"

"I'm at the house...Claira's house. I fell asleep."

As she says this, she turns ands looks at the bed, the unopened letter half under the pillow that was next to her.

"What? I'm sorry," she says coming back to her husband's voice which by this time had calmed.

"Claire please come home."

"I'll leave in a few minutes. Just let me get my things together."

They exchange underwhelming "I love you's" and Claire begins to look for her purse. She grabs it, keys in one hand and phone in the other. At the top of the stairs she turns and looks into her grandmother's room. "Damnit."

She walks into the room, putting all of the shoeboxes in a bag. As she rushes out of the door, she runs into the room grabbing the letter off of the bed. She stuffs the letter in her purse.

"I'll come back and get those when I'm done," she says to herself seeing the few bags of clothing donations she had compiled. She gets into her car and turns on NPR. Without even thinking, she heads towards the nearest Starbucks. "Can I have a venti white chocolate mocha please?"

Waiting in the usual half a mile line at 8am, she takes out the letter. Again, she stares at the letter, putting it in the passenger seat as the line creeps along. By the time she has her coffee in hand, she has forgotten her curiosity and makes her way home.

Chapter 3

Claira sits at a cafeteria style stable, rummaging through the photos she had brought. She wraps the strap of her purse around her wrist and waits. She sees her son being guided in the room. When he walks through the door, she stands and gives him a hug.

" _How are you doing sweetheart?"_

" _I'm allright mom."_

" _Do you have everything you need? Is anyone bothering you?"_

" _Yes and No mom."_

" _I'm glad you are doing well honey."_

" _What's been going on with you?"_

" _Well Mr. Crants at work may be fired. I heard from some of the other tellers that he misused some money."_

" _Mom I will never understand why you left your job as a cushy assistant VP of a publishing company to work in a bank part-time as a teller."_

" _Honey, I was done. I was 60 years old. I had been there for 30 years. It was time for a change. It was time for a job that wasn't so stressful. Besides, I spent most of my time proofreading other people's work. It was time for me to do my own."_

" _Well if you had just stayed there..."_

" _What? What would have been different?"_

" _Nothing I guess."_

There is silence between them for five minutes. Claira looked at her son, his eyes deviating from contact with hers. Claira reaches down to grab some pictures off of the seat.

" _Here you go."_

" _You know I can't look at those."_

" _Just try."_

He pushes the pictures back to her without a glance.

" _Have you been getting my letters mom?"_

" _Yes."_

" _And?"_

" _Thank you."_

" _You know what I mean."_

" _No I haven't."_

" _Why not mother?!"_

" _Don't raise your voice at me."_

" _I don't understand why you won't do it."_

" _It's too early."_

" _Five years?"_

" _I'll do it when I'm damn ready..if I'm damn ready."_

" _If? Thanks a lot mother!"_

He gets up from the table. "You can come back when you start acting like you fucking care about me."

" _I do" she whispers quietly as he walks away. "I do damnit!" she yells as he gets to the door._

" _Then act like it!"_

Claira stays at the table crying. She buries her head in her hands scanning the pictures. After a few moments she gathers herself and puts them in her purse.

" _I love my son, I love my son, I love my son" she repeats to herself."_

***

Eighteen students crowd the small classroom. Claire capped the class at 13 but there was so much interest, she allowed five more students to join. When she walks in the classroom, all of the students yell welcome back Claire and begin clapping and laugh. "Hi class" she says putting a folder full of papers on the desk. As she puts her purse down, she notices a container on the desk.

"We made you cookies!" Cassie yells from the back of the classroom.

"Thank you," Claire says attempting to stop a well of emotions. With 18 pairs of generous and genuine eyes looking at her, she can't keep the tears from welling in her eyes. The room is quiet except for the sound of a chair scraping against the floor when a student brings her tissues.

"I really appreciate this guys. I know these are only cookies but it means a lot that between assignments and parties you thought about me."

The class laughs as she gathers herself and takes out her notebook and pen.

"Push the desks back."

Everyone in the class stands up and brings their chairs to the center of the room to form a circle. Despite the influx of donations to the school, the university had forgotten about the humanities building. The classroom had the same dark hardwood floors and elementary school type desks. The dingy beige walls matched perfectly with the outdated wall border that looked like at one time it was a collection of blue, purple, and white flowers. The school had taken the time to replace the blackboards with white boards, but it seemed to contrast with the aura of the room. The only redeeming quality of the room was the oversized windows that allowed a plethora of light to brighten the walls and give life to the room.

"So guys I have your papers graded. Like I told you in the beginning, I grade based on the writing and how I felt reading it. Now, these can be a work in progress. If you are unhappy with your grade and want to revise and edit, I will let you do that. But only if you come talk to me about it first. You have to listen to the criticism and take it in. I'm just getting you guys ready for the real world of being an author."

Claire makes her way to an empty chair within the circle.

"So let's talk about the assignment. I wanted you to think about your first novel and what you wanted it to be like. Then I wanted you to write the first chapter. When I am looking for a book to buy, I read the first paragraph. If I like it, I buy it. So it is important to begin strong and make the reader want to continue reading."

Claire hands them back their papers. They glance down with worried and questioning looks on their faces.

"When you read a book, what is the thing you look for? What qualifies a good book in your eyes? Yes...Katie."

"The characters need to develop."

"How?"

"What do you mean?" Katie asks.

"I mean should you know who the person is within 50 pages, 100 pages, by the end or never?"

"Well I guess it depends on the book" Thomas says.

"True, true," Claire says nodding her head.

"It depends on the author's intent and whether it fits with the story."

"That is great Heather. Is there a time when the characters should never change?"

"Well just because they don't change doesn't mean they aren't developing" Cyndi says.

"Expound on that Cyndi."

"Well maybe a character doesn't need to change and he or she accepts who they are by the end of the novel."

"Good example Cyndi. Anymore examples?"

"What if a character should change and the whole point of the book was to see their progress towards that realization," Crystal responds.

"Or maybe your main character is a badass and you don't want them to change," Christopher chimes in.

The class laughs while a smile slowly develops on Claire's face.

"All of you make a good point. Character development is completely subjective. Change should never be trite. It should be relevant to the story. I'm sure many of you have read books or even watched movies that take place over 30 days and the protagonist seems to make this dramatic change in a short period of time. And I'm sure you all thought it ridiculous."

Claire's eyes meet those of students nodding their heads in agreement.

"Which brings me to my next question. How important is it for the story to be realistic?"

"Depends on the genre," Heather says.

"Go on..."

"I mean, if you are writing fantasy or science fiction, the whole point of the plot is to be outrageous. To be outside the current limitations of humanity and technology."

"Well not necessarily," Christopher interjects. "In order for those genres to succeed, there have to be relatable aspects of the characters and the story. It can't be completely devoid of reality."

"I agree with both of you. Some genres of fiction do allow an author more creative license. However, like Christopher said, if the reader cannot relate to the story, the author has failed. So a good book is relatable. What else makes a good book good?"

"A good plot" Sean says.

"What is a good plot? I mean...you may like action but Cara over here may want to read something romantic."

"I guess I mean a well-developed plot. Something that isn't too complicated."

"Something I've never seen before" Josh says.

"Well Josh that is going to be difficult to find. People have been writing for thousands of years. Good doesn't necessarily have to be new."

"Like a twist" Heather says again. "Like the plot seems ordinary but it is tweeked."

"Yes you can put a spin on it as long as you don't go soap opera on it," Claire responds.

The class laughs.

"The story doesn't have to be original but the way you tell it can be. Even Picasso said good artists copy but great artists steal."

"I have a question," Claire continues. "Have you ever read about the premise of a book or movie and thought it sounded amazing and interesting. And then you watch it and read it and you are just floored by how much it sucks?"

Everyone in the class nods their head.

"Give me an example, book or movie."

"Have you seen the movie Limitless Claire?" Steve asks.

"Yes I have and I totally agree."

"I mean," Steve continues, "it could have been so good but they just ruined it with the bad acting, terrible writing, and awful pacing."

"Twilight" Stephanie says.

"Which travesty, the books or the movies" Claire asks with a smile.

"The books" Stephanie says. "I know we've all read and seen the story of a vampire in love with a human. Buffy did it better. But putting it in a different environment with different issues could have been great. But vampires don't sparkle and the writing just made me want to puke."

"You can cater to a specific audience and still write a great book. JK Rowling did it," Tyler says.

"That's a great point Tyler. What is the major difference between the two? Really think about it."

The class is quiet for a few minutes. Claire moves her eyes across the circle hoping someone is thinking the same thing she is. "Better their idea than mine" she thinks to herself; this is why students loved her.

"Better storytelling" Cara says with excitement.

"Took the words right out of my mouth Cara. Stories don't have to be complicated. In its simplest form, Harry Potter is about a young wizard who loses his parents and has to stay with the family he hates. The books are about him growing up and discovering his purpose in life."

"So it's okay to be cliché?" Andrea asks. "I hate being cliché."

"Why?" Claire asks.

"I'm not really concerned about being original. I'm concerned about being different," Andrea explains.

"Ahhh. I think that's okay. It seems like you just want to make your own mark in the world of writing. That's healthy. It's not healthy desiring to be the first and original of anything. Look at Mark Zuckerberg. His idea wasn't "original" but he stole it and did something great with it."

"Now, I want everyone to go around and read the first line of the chapter and we will discuss whether or not we are captivated. Let's start with you Stephanie."

"Okay. Don't laugh. Stop look and listen before you cross the street. First use your eyes and ears and then use your feet."

The class laughs and so does Claire.

"Stephanie that was fantastic."

"Really?"

"Yes. I would want to read the rest of that novel. Tell us the basic premise."

"Well my mom is a teacher so I wanted to write about a teacher. Basically it's about a teacher who falls in love with a child's parent."

"So you would write a romantic comedy of sorts."

"Yes ma'am. Is that okay?"

"Of course Stephanie. I encourage my students to write funny and charming books. Even I can't spend my life reading dark and depressing books all of the time."

"Okay...Sean. What is the first line of your novel?"

"You said you loved me. Then forgive me. If you love me you'll stay. For better or worse. I'm sorry honey. I'm sorry."

"Now that's interesting. I'm guessing it's a dark romance."

"It's a about a girl stuck in an abusive relationship."

"Sounds like she is thinking about getting out of it?"

"Exactly."

"I'm a little surprised you would want to write a novel from an abused woman's point of view but I'm intrigued. However, the first line gave it away. You want the reader to want to read more. Draw me in but don't tell me the whole story. I like the idea though. Who's next? Cara."

"Dahlia's husband watched her eyes close as he pressed his hand against her heart."

"Class can you tell me why that line is perfect. Now let me say this, just because your first line is perfect doesn't mean you get to suck it up for the rest of the novel. It's great if you peek my interest but don't lose it. Anyway, go ahead."

"I think it's good because you don't know what's going on. It sounds like she is dying but you aren't totally sure. And then all of these questions run through your head like why is she dying, how she died, and even about her relationship with her husband," Tabitha says.

"I also like that you mentioned a character in the first line. It encourages us to immediately get invested in her. Great job."

"Go ahead Thomas."

"Run, you idiot, run," Rico says clutching his revolver.

"I think the same reasons Cara's was so good apply here. When you read this, you desperately want to know what's going on. Again, mentioning a character is good. And I like when a novel begins in the middle of a scene that is already being played out."

Claire continues listening to all of her students. The classroom feels like home. This is the one part of her life that she can honestly describe as functional.

As class ends, she reminds them of their assignment due next week.

"Now this should be fun and don't worry, you aren't going to have to write anything extensive. I want you to take one of your favorite books and change something about it. You can change a character, part of the plot, a relationship, whatever your heart desires. And then I want you to tell me why you chose that, how it would change the story, and whether or not it would make the novel better. The details are posted online so take a look. I'll see you guys next week."

Students start to line up in front of her desk, offering condolences, hugs, and appreciation that she is finally back. After 5 minutes, she has to force herself to take a deep breath in order to take it all in. She smiles and nods, mechanically thanking students for their caring thoughts.

Each student gives her a card and she gathers them in her hand, placing them in her bag. She takes out her cell phone to see if she has any messages. She quickly thumbs through the papers she has collected and makes sure every student turned in one.

"Claire?"

She quickly stands. "I'm sorry Angie I didn't see you there."

"I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes?"

"Of course. Do you want to come to my office?"

"Sure."

They both walk out of the classroom, Claire closing the door. Unfortunately her office is in the building next door. Claire's 4 inch red heels clink against the floors as they make their way outside.

"This humidity is killing me," Claire says, adjusting her bag and removing her cardigan. "And it's only the beginning of Spring. This is not a good indicator or what's to come."

Angie is quiet, oddly unnerving to Claire. Once they get to the office, Claire puts her bag on the "everything" chair in the back corner of the room across from her desk. Her office reminds Angie of a therapist's office rather than that of a professor. Right in the front of the door is a sitting area with a loveseat and antique chair. A coffee table covered in trinkets, books separating them. A nightstand with a lamp completes the area along with a black and white area rug. Behind the sitting area is her large L-shaped desk with a wall size mahogany bookshelf covering the opposite wall.

"Take a seat anywhere," Claire says making her way to her chair. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I wanted to talk to you about the assignment...kind of."

"Kind of?"

"I wanted to talk to you about the assignment and...your grandmother."

Claire holds her breath. She never discusses her personal life with students; never. Most of them are at least 21 but speaking to them about adult issues opens pandora's box.

"Angie, I appreciate your concern, but I cannot talk to you about my personal life. I'll be happy to talk about anything concerning the assignment, but that is where I draw the line."

"Claire, I'm not a child. I'm 28 years old. I'm just trying to help."

The room is suddenly silent. Claire begins to feel the air in the room smothering her. "Angie has some balls," she thinks to herself. She gets up and heads to her mini-fridge. "Would you like something to drink? I have water and diet coke."

"No thank you."

Claire sinks into the chair, excuses to derail the conversation racing through her mind.

"Claire, I know how upset you are. You can try to hide it all you want but that kind of pain doesn't disappear just because you are back to where you feel most comfortable."

"Do you realize how inappropriate you are being right now?"

"You looked like you needed someone to talk to, especially at the end of class. When those students were giving their condolences, you didn't look any of them in the eye and barely said thank you."

"Maybe I don't want your help."

"I said the same thing...when my mom died 9 months ago."

Claire straightens in her chair. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. My novel was about a young woman who loses her mother a few months before she is supposed to get married. One of the reasons I wanted to talk to you was so that you wouldn't be surprised when you read the assignment."

"That's considerate of you."

Claire has always been suspicious of people's motives for interfering. She didn't always believe in the kindness of strangers until she came to Birmingham and it was forced on her.

"It's...."

"A lot...I know," Angie says. "But it does get better. It doesn't seem like it now when you feel like your heart is slowly dying but everyday, you will feel a little better."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"And hiding how you feel isn't going to help either. You seem like the type who always appears put together, calm, collected, and assured."

"Are you a psychology major?"

"No...social work."

"Can I ask why you are in this class?"

"I've always loved to write. Why not share what I've learned from my field in a book?"

"So saver of all people and distinguished author" Claire says sarcastically attempting to diffuse her emotions.

"I'm not trying to save you. I can't. I'm just trying to give you some hope in a hopeless situation."

"I don't need hope. I need really expensive and time consuming therapy...which I am about to be late for."

Angie gets off the sofa and heads to the door.

"If you want to talk just let me know. And don't open those cards just yet."

"Why?" Claire asks.

"They will all say the last thing you want to hear right now... 'I'm sorry for your loss.'"

***

"I can't believe she did that," Claire says. "Can I have a drink?"

"No Claire," Dr. Wilcox sternly says.

"Can you believe she would just approach me like that?"

"Claire, some people are astute. They can see when a person is crying out for help and desperately needing it."

"I don't desperately need help."

"Then why are you here? Why do you keep coming to see me? Have all of your issues been resolved?"

"I've already paid you for the month."

Dr Wilcox can't help but laugh. Claire takes off her shoes and leans back on the chaise lounge.

"Claire, seriously, are you more upset that she approached you or that she could see she needed to?"

***

"That was a waste of time," Claire says to herself as she turns the key in the ignition. Claire's mind had been somewhere else during that time. She could barely remember five words that were said in the last 30 minutes. As she turned out of the parking lot, she began to replay what happened that day. Her safe place became just like her home and her therapist's office, one of judgment and unwanted insight.

"Why do I keep going back?" she thought to herself. Claire had been seeing a therapist since she was 16 years old. It began because of depression and soon became a necessary weekly experience just to function. She stopped briefly in college but after barely surviving final exams and 250 pages of reading weekly, she decided that therapy and medication should be reintroduced to her daily life.

She pulls into her driveway. "It's just been one of those days," she says to herself. When she pulls her purse across her lap, she hears her cell phone ringing. Claire purposefully set her ringtone to one that actually sounded like a normal phone's ring; she didn't believe phones should sound like CD players. "Hi Mitchell."

"Hi Claire. Are you busy?"

"No."

"I just need to talk for a minute."

Claire settles back into her black leather seat. Her agent, according to her own words, is a piece of work. He may have gotten her a deal for her first book but he is the most difficult man to reach. Between work email, blackberry email, home phone, personal cell phone, and work cell phone, she thought he would be more accessible. Unfortunately, it typically took three days to get a response and he usually didn't have good news. She isn't expecting good news now.

"They pushed up your deadline."

"What?"

"The publisher pushed up your deadline."

"To when?"

"8 weeks."

"So you are telling me I only have two more months to finish it?

"Yes."

"Fuck!"

Claire puts the phone down in her lap. She can hear the faint sound of Mitchell yelling her name.

"Claire!"

"I'm here Mitchell. Why did they push up the deadline?"

"They really want to get it out before July."

"So?"

"So they want your book ready for summer readers."

"Do they not know that most people typically read all year round?"

Mitchell does not respond.

"Mitchell, why do you only call me when you have bad news? How am I supposed to get this done with teaching, grading papers, finishing my research and saving my marriage."

"...um...you have to do it Claire."

"You'll have it in two months."

Claire hangs up the phone and throws it in her purse. She furiously exits her car and quickly makes her way to her home. Once in the house, she places her keys on the table by the door and puts her jacket, purse, and work bag on the living room sofa. She leaves her heels in the middle of the floor as she makes her way to the kitchen.

"Bad day?" Lewis asks at the bottom of the stairs.

"Why do you say that?"

"Your shoes are in the floor, your jacket isn't in the hall closet, and your bags have been thrown on the couch instead of placed in your office."

"Yes I had a bad day...well not all of it. Just most of it."

Claire puts the cork back in the bottle of Chiraz and goes outside to the patio.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Lewis asks following her.

"Not really."

"Well do you want me to just sit with you?"

Claire shakes her head as she takes a sip of the wine.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Leave me alone."

Lewis glares at Claire. She doesn't notice, too focused on the garden she asked Lewis to hire someone to pull the weeds from. "He can't do anything right," she says to herself leaning back in the chair. Her eyes drift upward to the sky. The sun hasn't quite set and she sees the moon peaking out from behind Mr. Crawford's pear tree. She quietly sits, letting the alcohol slowly calm her mind and relax her muscles. She thinks about Claira, the person she would be talking to right now. "You just had to abandon me didn't you?" she asks taking the last sip of wine.

"What would you like for dinner honey?" Lewis asks through a slight opening in the door.

"I'm pretty sure I asked to be alone."

"Well you have to eat Claire."

Claire stands up.

"Lewis, I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts. I just wanted a few minutes of peace."

"One question Claire. It's just one question. Did you have to turn on your bitchy switch when you walked in the door?"

Claire doesn't respond. Honestly, she doesn't have one.

"What do you want to eat Claire?"

"I don't know Lewis!"

"It's just one simple fucking question."

"And I gave you a simple fucking answer!"

Lewis slams the door and Claire falls back into the chair. As she drifts to sleep, Claira's face appears. Claira loved her gray hair. Every time Claire tried to convince her to dye it, Claira would say no. She said she earned every strand. Her green eyes were clear and deep. Every time Claire looked into them she felt safe and secure. They were both calming and fiercely passionate. When some of her friends talked about having plastic surgery, Claira boasted that the lines around her mouth were a symbol of the laughter and smiles that filled her life. Her crows feet were a badge of honor. Despite the wrinkles, Claire remembered the softness of her skin; she contributed it to the miracles of Oil of Olay. When Claire would hug her grandmother, after the embrace, she would put her hands on Claira's cheeks. Their foreheads would touch and they would Eskimo kiss.

Lewis walks outside and touches her arm.

"Claire," he whispers.

She opens her eyes.

"Dean Clemson called."

Claire sits up.

"What did he want?" she asks wiping her eyes.

"Before you start yelling at me, I saw you were asleep and didn't want to wake you. He wants to meet with you in the morning. He said he would be in his office until 11am."

"Oh...thanks."

"And no he didn't sound upset."

"Thanks," Claire says getting up from the chair and heading towards the door.

"And dinner is ready," Lewis says keeping the door open.

"What are we having?" she asks passing him into the kitchen.

"Lasagna."

Claire looks at him confused. "Did you make lasagna? How long was I asleep?"

Lewis laughs.

"I pulled it out of the freezer. Mrs. Kingston from around the block brought it the day after the funeral."

Claire nods and makes her way to the peninsula. She sits on a bar stool.

"I forgot my wine glass."

"I'll get it for you," Lewis says putting a plate in front of her.

Claire picks up her fork and begins to eat. Lewis pours her another glass of wine and sits next to her, a plate in front of him.

"This is good," Claire says shoving food into her mouth.

"I wish I could take credit for it."

Lewis occasionally glances at Claire, getting the courage to say the words that have been haunting him for the last hour.

"Claire, I need to tell you something."

"Lewis, there is no need..."

"No. Let me say what I need to say."

Claire nods, puts down her fork, and faces him.

"Claire, I know I'm not her."

Claire's eyes begin to water and her heart drops.

"I know I will never be her," he says as he grabs the hand she desperately wants to use to wipe her eyes.

"I know she would be the one you would have been talking to when you walked through the door. You would have ignored me to go into your office and tell her every detail about your bad day."

Claire takes a long deep breath fighting the sweltering grief that she has kept under control for the last 10 days. She silently begs him to hurry.

"But I'd like to try to at least be someone you can talk to about your bad days instead of the person you take them out on."

"I'm sorry," Claire suddenly says unable to control her thoughts. "I'm sorry."

Lewis takes both of her hands making it impossible for her to wipe her face; instead the tears graze her cheek and soak the top of her black shirt.

"I know you are. And I'm such a good man that I knew all of that anger and bitterness wasn't about me."

Claire laughs and smiles.

"There you go. That's what I want to see," he says wiping a tear with his thumb and kissing her softly on the lips.

"I love you Claire and nothing will change that. Just remember, that when you want to talk I'm here. And I am willing to put up with all of your crap until you can."

Claire kisses him on the cheek and returns her attention to her plate.

Chapter 4

Claire sat in her car until she found the keys to the house. She only wanted to stay in the heat as long as she had too. By the time she turned the key, Claira was ready at the door to greet her.

" _Hi my darling," Claira says embracing Claire. "How are you?"_

" _Besides hot as hell, I'm good."_

" _Maybe you are having hot flashes," Claira says putting her arm around her and guiding her up the stairs to the dining room table._

" _Grandma, I'm too young for hot flashes," Claire says with a smile._

Claira had owned the dining room set since the year after she got married. It was a gift from her husband for their first wedding anniversary. The cushioning in the chairs had become so worn that Claira had to buy pillows to put on the seats. Besides the cushions, the set was still sturdy. The armoire still held rarely used silver and old copper pots and pans that she could no longer use. The china cabinet still beautifully displayed her and her mother's wedding china. There were chips in the table from decades of Thanksgiving dinners, action figures slamming down on the wood, and children playing around the table with their pretend guns.

" _Would you like a cup of coffee?"_

Claira drank coffee every day all day. She said at her age, it was the only thing that could keep her awake long enough to watch her soap operas.

" _No Grandma I'm fine. I'll just take a glass of water."_

Claire gets up from her seat.

" _Now you just keep your little booty in that chair."_

When Claire was in that house, she couldn't do anything. Even though Claira sometimes had trouble walking and bending down, she still insisted that Claire was a guest in her home.

Claira returned with a glass of water and a small saucer with lemons.

" _Grandma I have something wonderful to tell you."_

Claira's face lights up before she utters another word. Claire loved that about her grandmother.

" _What is it honey?"_

" _I got a publishing deal."_

" _Oh sweetheart that is wonderful! I didn't know you were working on a book."_

" _I didn't want to tell you until I got a deal with a publisher. I didn't want to get too excited."_

" _You should have said something dear. I could have been praying for you."_

" _It's okay Grandma."_

Claire tried to avoid all discussions of prayer and church. She grew up in the Catholic Church. She went to Mass every Sunday at 8:30. She endured the elongated masses of Christmas and Easter. Easter was the worst; four days of Mass was too much for her to handle. Grandma wouldn't let her bring a book and forced her to listen to the homilies and recite every prayer. Once she got into college, she stopped going. She experimented with Baptists, Methodists, Episcopalians, and even Mormons and Jews. She still believed in God but she felt organized religion was a waste of time. When she would come visit during school breaks, she would appease her grandmother by accompanying her to church, but she made it clear to Claira that she was no longer interested in the practice.

" _What is the book about?" Claira asked after taking a sip of her coffee._

" _It's about us."_

" _Us?"_

" _I'm writing a collection of short stories based on my life here."_

Claira begins to cry. She grabs Claire's hand and gently squeezes. "I can't believe you wanted to write about me."

" _Grandma, you are the most important part of my life. Your love and attention is the foundation of my life. Of course I would write about you."_

Claira sits quietly, grabbing a tissue and wiping her eyes.

" _It's called Things I Learned from Grandma Claira."_

" _That's a beautiful title."_

Claire didn't know what else to say. She smiled and looked at Claira, waiting for the nonverbal cue that she could continue.

As Claira calms, her face becomes sullen.

" _I need to ask you something and I hate to ask now."_

" _What is it?"_

" _Are you going to talk about your father?"_

Claire's expression suddenly matches that of her grandmother.

" _Well Grandma, I have to."_

" _Why do you have to?"_

" _What happened to me as a child was a part of our lives in the house."_

" _Are you sure you want your business all out there for everyone to read?"_

" _Grandma, I'm not ashamed of what happened. It happened to me not because of me."_

" _I know but what will people think?"_

" _I don't care what people think of me."_

" _But what about me?"_

" _What do you mean?"_

" _What will people think of me knowing I raised a son like that?"_

Claire had never thought about how these stories might reflect on Claira as a parent.

" _Grandma, I'm sure pretty much everyone in the town knows. Who he was and what he did was all over the news. Why not introduce the wonderful woman behind the brutality?"_

This moment, that was supposed to be one of joy and excitement, has become something Claire would never have presumed it would be. The conversation had drifted into something she had not prepared for.

" _Grandma, I didn't know this would upset you."_

" _Honey, I know this is a different era. With the face thing and the...um...twatter, I know it's normal for people to put everything about themselves for everyone to see, but I didn't grow up like that."_

Claire laughs; really she bellows. The laugh is so immediate and overwhelming.

" _What is so funny?" Claira giggles seeing Claire laugh so heartily._

" _Twatter Grandma?" Claire continues to laugh, putting her head down on the table trying to calm herself. Claira continues to laugh, suddenly realizing what she said._

" _It's Facebook and Twitter Grandma," Claire says, barely able to get the words out of her mouth._

Both women laugh for minutes, both grateful to lighten the mood and ease the tension. Claira grabs her hand again.

" _Dear listen. I think I'm strong enough to handle whatever scrutiny may come..."_

" _But Grandma..."_

" _Let your old grandma finish. I've been the vice president of a publishing company and now a teller, but the thing I am most proud of is being a mother. I don't want any of that to change. I don't want other people's judgments to change how I feel about how I raised my son."_

Claire waits.

" _Grandma Claira, this book will the most shining example of how to raise a child. How could it be any different? No one in this community would ever question your abilities as a mother. If they do, they will have me to answer to."_

Claira smiles, the tension slowly releasing from the muscles around her neck.

" _If it makes you feel better, before I send it to my agent, I will let you read every word. If you don't approve, I will change whatever you want."_

" _Don't do all of that for me."_

" _Grandma, you are the most precious thing in my life and your approval is important."_

" _I don't have to approve to support you."_

" _But I'd like both."_

Claira slowly gets out of her chair and grabs Claire's shoulders, encouraging her to get up.

" _Now listen to me. Are you listening?"_

Claire nods.

" _You have both. You will always have both. I trust you with every bit of my soul and I love you with all of my heart. I know, just by looking into those beautiful clear green eyes of yours that you would never write anything that would hurt me."_

Claire hugs her grandmother and sighs heavily into Claira's neck. She breathes in the mix of baby powder, lavender body wash, and Oil of Olay face lotion. They lean back from the embrace and look into each other's eyes for a moment. Claire puts her hands on Claira's cheeks . They lean in, foreheads touching, and Eskimo kiss, giggling.

***

"Hey guys,"

"Hi Claire," the class says.

"So I graded all of your papers and I was very impressed. I asked you to describe 5 minutes of a story in only 2 pages and you all did very well. There were a diversity of situations. I even read a provocative and vivid sex scene."

The class giggles and scans the room, guessing who had the guts to write about sex and actually turn it in to a professor.

"I was also impressed by the lack of extensive conversation. Dialogue would be an easy way to fill up two pages. In summary, I'm proud."

Without instruction, the class moves desks and returns to their usual circle at the center of the room.

"Before we start talking about today's lesson, I want to remind you about the final. You have about three and a half weeks left. You have multiple options. You can write the last chapter connected to the previous assignment where you wrote the first chapter of a novel, you can write the first chapter of a new novel, you can write a short story, or a screenplay for a short film. Unless you have been working on this since the beginning of the semester, I would not suggest the screenplay unless you enjoy functioning without sleep."

The class laughs.

"If you would like to talk to me about your ideas, just set up an appointment."

Everyone in the class nods their head. Some faces are confident; those are of the students who have already started. Some faces express a daunting sense of worry as if in that moment they remembered they had a final assignment.

"So let's dive right in to today's discussion...loooooooooove."

"Oooooooooh," the class responds as if they had suddenly been transported back to second grade.

"We are going to discuss love stories today. I was going to ask you to write a story about two people in a relationship but I wanted you to focus on your final."

"That would be fun," Angie says.

Claire glances at her, suddenly reminded of that afternoon in her office. She quickly distracts herself from the reoccurring uncomfortable thoughts.

"I agree," Thomas says.

"Okay, how about extra credit. I want you to write a story about two people in a relationship with an obvious conflict. Typically you don't want it to be too obvious but I want you to be creative. So she can be Catholic and he is Jewish and wants her to convert. They can be about to get married but he hasn't told his parents he is gay. Do you understand?"

Again, the students nod.

"There won't be a minimum page limit. Just make sure you completely explore the conflict."

While she is talking, students are furiously writing in their notebooks or typing on their smartphones. Claire remains silent while the students finish writing down the instructions for the assignment.

"I can email you a copy of the instructions and I can have that to you by this evening."

The class stops writing and returns their attention to Claire.

"So, love stories. We have all been inundated with the infamous and unrealistic romantic comedy. Boy meets girl in the cutest and most romantic way, boy loses girl being an idiot, boy gets girl back, they get married and live happily ever after. We all know real relationships don't happen like that."

"They really mess with a woman's head."

"Why do you say that Shelly?"

"Because we subconsciously develop all of these expectations of what a relationship should be, what our mate should look like, what he should do, and how our lives should be with the person we love."

"It's not just romantic comedies. Fairy tales screw us up from the beginning," Stephanie responds.

"Even as adults with your knowledge and experience, do you still want that happily ever after? That prince charming?"

"Maybe just the first part," Clarissa says.

"Elaborate," Claire says leaning forward in her chair.

"We want the happily ever after but we know it isn't just going to happen. We have to do the work. But we don't need a prince charming rescuing us anymore."

"Interesting, you know I've read many articles that state that the reason why men have become less chivalrous and ambitious is because women have exercised their independence to the point where they don't feel needed anymore."

"Isn't it better that I want you and not necessarily need you?" Andrea asks. "I mean, you need the broccoli but I'm certain you want the macaroni and cheese."

"Well men, what do you have to say?"

"Well the romantic comedies have messed us up too," Tyler says. "That is a lot of pressure to give women those moments they want."

The men in the room all nod their head.

"And we get a bad wrap because women always say we are intimidated by their independence. We want to feel needed but so do they. You may not need us to support you but we would like to know that you need us in your life," Sean says.

"So basically the images and portrayals of love in the movies and fairytales have set both sexes up to fail?" Claire asks them.

"Yes" they say emphatically.

"Okay so what would describe a real relationship?"

"You tell us," Chris responds.

Claire is frozen. She never...

"Come to think of it, you never talk about your husband." Chris continues.

"And there is a reason for that," she thinks to herself.

Claire forages through her soul for bravery. She had told her students this room was a safe place to speak openly about anything. She asked the questions and now the Socratic method is being used against her. She clears her throat, searching for her voice.

"What do you want to know?" she asks the class.

"Did I just say that?" she thinks to herself waiting to be bombarded with personal questions.

"Why don't you just tell us how you met and your first date? You know, all of the stuff in the beginning when you are unabashedly happy and blissfully unaware of the person's flaws."

"Okay Stephanie."

Claire sighs in relief. "A story, I can do that."

"I wish I could tell you that Lewis and I had some beautiful and romantic 'meet cute' but we didn't. We were actually set up by our grandmothers. In stereotypical fashion, my grandmother loved to go play bingo."

"Wait, your grandmother gambled?" Sean asks.

"No. This was at the church. It was actually a way to raise money. You had to pay 1 dollar to play and the money went to the Catholic Center of Concern. Anyway, Claira, my grandmother, and her friend Donna both decided one day that we would be perfect together. The PhD student and her doctor boyfriend sounded great to Claira. Anyway, Donna gave Lewis my phone number and the same day he called.

Now, I have to admit, I am not a phone person. I rather talk to someone in person so our first conversation was not great and neither was the second one. Eventually Lewis decided that if he wanted to get to know me we would have to go on a date. Unfortunately he was a resident at the time working 70 hour weeks so getting together would be difficult."

"Where was your first date? Somewhere romantic?" Andrea asks.

"Not exactly. Our first date was in the hospital cafeteria."

There is a collective aww from the women in the room.

"He ordered Thai food and had it delivered. He even had a white tablecloth, candles, and wine for me. It was sweet."

"Was it love at first sight?" Clarissa asks.

"He says it was for him. Not for me. I thought he was pretentious and more interested in his work than me. Our cafeteria picnic was an hour and for about 6 months, I only saw him for about 3 hours a week. Let's just say we spent a long time casually dating."

"When did it become serious?" Thomas asks.

"After a year."

"You waited a year?" Sharron asks, surprised she would be so patient.

"I didn't wait. I dated other men during that time. But I just kept going back to him."

"That's kind of sweet," Andrea says.

"After one year of casual dating and random lunches at cafes, I told him that if he wanted to be with me, I needed to be high on the priority list and he needed to commit."

"An ultimatum? I'm surprised it worked," Tyler says. "We usually don't like that."

"It didn't work immediately," Claire says laughing. "He didn't like being forced to commit knowing he wouldn't have a lot of time to be someone's boyfriend. But I was patient and let him choose what he wanted. If he didn't want me, I would be disappointed, but I didn't want to be with someone who didn't truly want to be with me."

"When did you fall in love with him? What was that moment you knew?"

Claire settles back into the chair. Her heart swells as she remembers the moment she knew Lewis was the one.

"It was the first time we went to Claira's house for dinner. It was like they were best friends who had known each other for 30 years. I basically had to beg for my grandmother's attention. While we were sitting at the dining room table, Claira got up after the timer went off. The moment she bent over to open the oven, Lewis hurried to the kitchen. Not only did he take it out for her, but he continued helping her cook. I sat there with my cup of coffee and just watched and listened. Their interaction was so genuine and sincere. Claira loved him and the moment she put a spoon full of gravy in his mouth for him to taste, I knew I loved him too."

Claire pauses, awaiting their curiosity to spark more questions. She scans the students but they are quiet.

"So what have you all experienced in your relationships and what do you think you should include in a story to make it realistic?"

Claire was happy the attention was no longer on her relationship. The rest of the class is a blur. She is usually extremely focused in class, but her mind has drifted back to the early days of dating Lewis. She suddenly feels the rush of first love. Even though there are thoughts of what happened and why it had to change, she remains in that space of being in love. She indulges in the memories of their wedding. Her white sleeveless gown, his James Bond like black tux, the pink Lilies and hydrangeas engulfing the room, and the dancing; it was the last time she remembered dancing all night.

"Sex is important. Lots of sex is important."

This statement from Sean brings her back to the classroom. She looks at the clock and realizes they only have 5 minutes left in class.

"Okay so I have one more option for extra credit. I brought all of you copies of the first chapter of my book."

"I didn't know you were writing a book," Stephanie says.

"I'm pretty sure I mentioned it. I actually have two more months before the final draft is due. My stress level has tripled. So I'd like you to do a little editing for me. I'd like you to look over the first chapter and make comments. Be completely honest."

"How many points will we get?" Thomas asks.

"I'll give you 1 bonus point on your final grade."

"That's not a lot," Clarissa says laughing.

"Guys, a point on your final grade. That could be the difference between an A or a B. For the love story, I will give you 2 extra points on your final assignment. Sound fair?"

All of the students nod their heads.

"Come pick up the chapter on your way out. Remember, this is optional and so is the assignment about two people in a relationship."

The students reorganize the room and head up to the front, grabbing a copy of the first chapter.

"Can I read the rest of it?" Andrea asks.

"Of course," Claire says winking at Andrea.

***

Things I Learned From Grandma Claira

In the Beginning

In the beginning I knew my family wasn't the same as Katherine's or Molly's. My lunch wasn't in a cute cartoon lunch box but in a paper bag. When I woke up in the morning, my mom wasn't in the kitchen making pancakes and bacon over the stove or pouring us a bowl of cereal. As we were walking out the door to the bus, she handed us a piece of toast with butter. My sister and I usually spent the morning in our rooms, creating that day's avoidance strategy; most of the time, I helped her finish her homework. My dad didn't get dressed in a suit, grab his briefcase, and sit at the kitchen table reading the paper. If he wasn't gone by the time we came down to go to school, he typically just rushed down the stairs and ran out of the door, not even a kiss for his children or his wife.

We were comforted by his lack of affection. He wasn't a happy man. When he came through the front door, he threw his coat on the floor and headed straight to the refrigerator for his beer. My mom was expected to pick up the coat and hang it in the hall closet. The beer he drank that week depended on what was on sale.

We lived in a middle class neighborhood with a lower class lifestyle. When Grandma Lucy died she left my mother her house. It is fortunate for us that the house was paid for. She also left an insurance policy of 50,000 dollars. Of course my father took ownership of the money and spent it on a new truck and Jack Daniels. We didn't get new clothes or a doll. My mom didn't get an iron skillet or a new dress. Within a year, the money was gone and our family had nothing to show for it.

Despite our financial struggles, my dad refused to allow my mom to work. I learned later that it was his way of exhibiting control. My mom had incredible administrative skills. She could type 85 words a minute and file 100 pieces of paper in less than an hour. She learned all of this from Grandma Claira. When she was a teenager, Grandma Claira gave her a job with her publishing company. Debra, my mom, loved it. She loved making her own money and she loved contributing to her household. She loved saying she had a job and acted like a giddy school girl when she told her mom and dad she was leaving to go pick up her paycheck. She was proud.

After she got married, that pride shifted to being a wife and mother. There were two good years...only two. Then it began. My mother never talked about it. The only details I know I heard from Claira. She said that she began to notice a change in Debra's behavior when they came over for dinner and they stopped inviting her to their home. She stopped calling; they usually spoke every day. She stopped coming by the office and having lunch. She simply just stopped being herself. Everything about their life she heard from her son. She knew something was wrong and wanted to say something, but she was raised to never get involved in other people's business.

Mom didn't come into our rooms at night and read stories or sing lullabies. She locked our doors and went to her room. Frequently her voice was the noise that haunted our sleep. Sometimes we were awakened by a door slamming or the twisting and turning of the door knob. My mother had key locks put on our bedroom doors and hid the key. This made my father angry when his rage was too much for just one person. I would hear him yell damnit and shit as he tried in frustration and eventually gave up on his pursuits.

It was a horrible night when my mother forgot to lock the doors. He would come into the door quietly and turn on the light. I would pretend to be asleep but he knew I was playing possum. He would look around the room and find something. Maybe I had forgotten to put my jacket in my closet or left a toy outside of the chest. Maybe a hanger was out of place or a scratch on the floor. He found something he could use to justify his anger. I needed a spanking...a whopping...a beating. I needed something to knock the evil out of me and teach me a lesson. And I wasn't supposed to cry; crying made it worse. I would close my eyes and imagine I was somewhere else. I wanted to be in Grandma Claira's rocking chair, leaning back on a pillow and watching cartoons.

In the beginning, I learned that my mother spent most of our lives grieving. First she grieved the loss of the life she had, then a marriage she believed to be her happily ever after, then her sense of security, and last was her ability to protect her children. Over time, she had become a shell. Where warmth had once been was now cold. When she hugged me, I felt a sudden sense of security and unconditional love. Eventually, the hugs became sparse and when they did happen, they were too quick to notice. I thought the unconditional love was still there but she was no longer emotionally capable of showing it. She didn't feel like a mother anymore; she didn't feel like anything.

We had afternoons with mom. Celia and I would go with mom to the beauty salon. We were mesmerized with what the women were doing to her hair. "How could she cut that fast?" I would ask my sister. I was almost 3 and had no idea that even I could one day grow up to do incredible things with the dead protein streaming from people's heads.

After the beauty salon, we went to lunch. It was only at a diner, but we felt fancy in our loafers, ruffled socks, pink bows, and dresses with colored sashes. My mom always got me a grilled cheese sandwich while Celia ordered a hamburger. We shared a huge bowl of French fries which we doused in ketchup. Mom put mustard on half; I thought it was too spicy. After lunch, Celia and I shared a strawberry milkshake. Mom would often ask us if we wanted to try chocolate or vanilla, but we were attached to our strawberry and appreciated every sip.

When we were done with our lunch, we would go to the park and sit by the lake. I would only come to learn later that it was man made. Despite this, I was eternally fascinated. We talked for at least 30 minutes. Mom talked to us like we were adults and indulged the majority of our curiosities from where babies came from to why the sky is blue. She always had an answer. Celia didn't always believe her but I did. I knew mom would only tell me the truth about life. What I didn't learn from her own choices, I learned from her words.

After talking, Celia and I would go play. Sometimes mom would bring a ball or walk us over to the playground. When it was warm enough, she would surprise us by secretly stashing our swimsuits and towels in her bag. I remember splashing water on Celia and trying to run from her. Of course that was impossible with 1 and ½ foot tall legs. I would look over at my mother sitting on the grass, sometimes on a blanket, and her smile would melt. She wasn't looking at the sky, the grass, the water, or the other children playing. Her gaze was strictly on us and she took in every sway of wet hair, move of an arm, or kick of a leg. For her, we were the only ones on the planet.

It was amazing when our afternoon turned to evening with dinner and a movie. We would go home, change clothes, and make our way to a fancy restaurant. Fancy for us was a restaurant with booths, square tables, white tablecloths, and waiters in uniform. We liked Charlie's. It was small and compact, but the food almost rivaled our mothers and we always had fun. The movie was usually a cartoon or family movie, but sometimes mom would let us see a PG-13 movie depending on why the movie had that rating. That was our little secret and mom made us promise not to talk about the movie in front of dad.

When the night was over, mom would carry me into the house, holding Celia's hand. She would quietly open the door. Sometimes I would wake if the screen door closed too loudly and I would see dad sitting on the couch with his beer and remote.

"Where have you been?" he would ask.

"Honey, please quiet. Claire is asleep," she would say making her way toward the stairs.

"Well answer my damn question."

"Sweetheart, it was our day, remember? One Saturday a month."

"Well hell I forgot. Just hurry up and put them to bed so you can fix me a late night snack."

She would nod her head and take us upstairs. We didn't have to take a bath on those days. She took both of us into Celia's room and laid us down on her bed. She would then read us a story. Our favorite was Cinderella. We loved the idea of going dancing in a glass slipper. We wondered who could afford such a thing. We imagined the day the perfect man would come into our lives and rescue us. For us, the wicked stepmother was a father and the wicked stepsisters were my father after he drank and my father after he had a hard day at work. My mom would call him Jeckyl and Hyde. I didn't know what that meant at the time, but as a got older, I realized the intense truth of that description.

In the beginning, I didn't know I wouldn't grow up with my mom. I thought she would be the one to talk to me about boys and teach me how to interact with them. I thought she would teach me how to apply makeup and help me pick out a dress for prom. I thought she would be in the front row at my high school graduation taking hundreds of pictures. I thought she would be there when I picked out my wedding dress. I knew she would be the one pressuring me for grandchildren. I thought I would kiss her goodnight until I was 18 and went to college. I could imagine the conversation we would have when I told her I wanted to go to a university in Georgia, Tennessee or Washington D.C. She would cry and tell me she would miss me. But then tell me that she would support me no matter what and that I needed to do what would be best for me. I didn't know she wouldn't be there when I desperately needed a mother's touch.

In the beginning, I knew my father was different. There wasn't a grace period when I was daddy's little girl and got his undivided attention. He didn't tuck me in at night or read stories. He didn't look at me with loving and compassionate eyes. I was never his little girl.

I was jealous of my classmates. Their fathers walked them to the bus stop. Their fathers picked them up from school. Their fathers came for career day. Their fathers thought they were angels. They hugged their children fiercely and kissed their foreheads as if it would be the last time they would see them. They played with them in the park and pushed them on the swings. They adored them. They looked at them with hope and joy. It was the life I could only imagine. There were no fun stories at the dinner table; there wasn't even dinner at a table. There weren't family nights of movies and popcorn. We didn't love like other families.

I thought it was me when my mom started to change. I thought I had done something wrong; it was the second year of my life when the house began to get dark. Grandma Claira spent a lot of time assuring me that any problems in our home were not my fault and worse, I couldn't fix it. I asked my mom questions but she was silent; she was increasingly silent.

In the beginning I hoped for the best and experienced what I thought was normal. Not until later did I understand that not every child felt that the dark streets in the worst neighborhood were safer than their own home. In the beginning I believed something would change. I didn't feel like a good child. I didn't feel like a loved child. I didn't feel like a child. But I wanted so badly for things to be as I imagined they began. In the beginning, I wanted my father's gentle touch. In the beginning, I wished and prayed for a better life. Be careful what you ask for. In the beginning, I knew something was different about us. I knew something was wrong. And I knew something needed to change...for our sake.

Chapter 5

The spring semester ended as quickly as it started. Claire had a difficult time saying goodbye to her students; they were her only anchor. Despite not having any summer classes to teach, she still had a summer full of responsibilities. Attending a writer's conference in Vermont, finishing her novel, and completing research on postmodernism and women in television. Somewhere in there is a vacation with her husband to an undisclosed destination that he refuses to reveal.

Claire grabs the edited papers and walks to her office upstairs. She is anxious to see the comments her students left about her first chapter. She slowly climbs the stairs, becoming more nervous that the copies will either be covered in red ink or a dump truck full of brown nosing.

She sits down in her leather chair, leans back, and puts up the first copy.

"This broke my heart," is the first thing she reads. She takes in the words. She had expected an emotional reaction, especially because her students didn't know about her past. She just didn't want it to be the first reality she encountered.

She thumbs through the pages, noticing marks where the student believed commas should be and reactionary statements in the margins. "Good flow" and "insightful" are on every page. When she gets to the last page, there is a note from the student.

"Thank you Claire. I didn't know how to put my own experience into words and you did it for me. You have no idea how reading this motivated me to confront my own past and my determination to avoid how it has affected my life now. You are an inspiration. I see that someone can go through this as a child and still become a wonderful and successful human being. I can't wait to read the rest of it."

Claire grabs a tissue and slowly puts the paper on her desk. Her mature adult mind constantly tells her that she isn't the only one who was abused as a child or grew up in a poor home. But she still feels alone in her pain. Occasionally she questions what she did to deserve it. She tries to invent ways she could have changed her father; what she could have said to help him learn how to express the love he proclaimed to have for his family to strangers. In all honesty, she had to think hard to remember a time he said he loved her. He probably said it the day she was born. Then he grew to hate her just as he did her mother and sister.

Claire takes a sip of her coffee and picks up the second copy. She is disappointed and thrown by the feeling that nothing else she reads will be as honest as the paper she just put in her desk. While she is going through the papers, she writes down the provocative comments and any changes she will consider making.

"There aren't any red marks on these papers. Either these students don't own red pens or they heard the same story on NPR that I did about red ink making teachers grade more harshly." She is impressed with her students' honesty and even more so of her own openness to receive it.

As she opens her laptop, Lewis knocks on her office door.

"Hi honey. Are you busy?"

"No I'm in here with the door closed because I enjoy stuffy rooms," she thinks to herself. "Kind of. What do you need?" she asks, the door still closed.

"Dinner is ready," he says.

"Dinner?" Claire says in surprise.

"Yes, dinner," he says as his voice fades down the hall.

Claire looks at her watch; she had been home for three hours. Once up from her desk and making her way to the kitchen, her stomach rumbles and she notices the extent of her hunger. "How could looking over comments on 18 papers take 3 hours?" she asks herself and she feels the cold of the marble floors on her feet. "And I'm not even done."

As she pours a glass of red wine, she takes in the smell of Chinese.

"What did you get me today hun?"

"Shrimp lo mein, hot and sour soup, and egg rolls. And I didn't forget the wontons."

Claire smiles and takes her wine and his beer to the kitchen peninsula.

"Why don't we sit in the family room and watch a movie?"

Claire is surprised; a year ago, Lewis was stressing the importance of sitting down, having dinner, and talking.

"Sure, if you tell me where we are going on vacation."

"Then we'll be sitting at the dining room table then," Lewis says smiling.

Both make their way to the family room. Claire grabs the remote and begins flipping through the on-demand movies. She stops on Pretty Woman and hits okay.

"Really?" Lewis asks surprised.

"Are you shocked?"

Claire returns her attention to the television and her dinner.

"What time is your flight Saturday?"

"9:10am."

"What time do you want to get to the airport?"

"About an hour early. This is the Birmingham International Airport not JFK."

Both of them giggle as Julia Robert's knee high boot appears on screen.

"How long is the retreat?"

"Two weeks."

"I'll miss you."

"It's only two weeks Lewis."

"Yes and I'll miss you Claire."

***

It already feels like 100 degrees at 7am. Claire tries to remain quiet as she finishes packing. She grabs her luggage and begins rolling it down the hall towards the stairs. Unfortunately, she loses her balance and her Louis Vuitton luggage begins tumbling. When it hits the travertine floor, Claire begins to laugh. Lewis walks out of the room, tying his robe with eyes half closed.

"What's wrong honey?"

"Nothing" Claire says trying to compose herself.

Lewis smiles watching his wife laugh.

"You could have woken me up to help."

"I thought I'd let you sleep for a few more minutes."

Lewis goes down the stairs and picks up her suitcase. "I'll go head and put your things in the car."

Lewis grabs her keys and goes out to the car, luggage and carryon in hand.

Claire visualizes her bags and tries to picture all of the things in her luggage to ensure, for the last time, that she had everything. Of course she always budgeted for anything she had to buy that she forgot. As she makes her way to the kitchen for a bagel and orange juice, she hears Lewis call her name from outside.

"What is it Lewis?"

"Come outside please."

Claire makes her way to the car.

"Yes?"

"You have these big black garbage bags in your trunk. Do you want me to take them out or put your things in the back seat?"

Claire had forgotten about the bags. She suddenly thought about the envelope that was now buried in her purse.

"Just take them out and put them in my office."

Lewis begins to pull them out.

"Oh wait." Claire pulls the letter out of her purse and puts it in one of the bags. "Take this one too."

"What are these?"

"Boxes of letters."

"This is pretty damn heavy for some letters."

Claire places her purse on the floor in front of the passenger seat. She makes sure Lewis has her keys and they both make their way back inside. Claire sits in the kitchen eating breakfast while Lewis gets dressed. Ten minutes later, he is downstairs with her in the kitchen with his Poptart and Pepsi.

"Are you sure you don't need a mimosa Claire?"

When Lewis and Claire first met, she was terrified of flying.

"I don't need a mimosa dear. They have plenty of alcohol on the plane."

***

Lewis pulls up to the terminal and opens the trunk. He goes to open his door.

"Let me help you," he says putting his left foot out of the door.

"It's okay," Claire says leaning over and kissing his cheek.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes Lewis."

Claire leans into Lewis. "I guess I'll miss you too," she says and kisses him gently on the lips. Lewis smiles and watches her get out of the car. He turns to face forward and begins daydreaming. He automatically turns his head towards the entrance when he feels the trunk close. He watches her take a few steps and turn and wave. He sees her fade into the minimal crowd and puts the car in drive.

The car is silent as his mind drifts with every passing of a plane overhead. His autopilot guides him out of the terminal and back on the interstate. Once at a steady speed, he grabs his phone from the cup holder.

"Hello, Dr. Casey."

"Hi Dr. Casey, it's Lewis."

"Hi Lewis. It's been a long time."

"I need to make an appointment."

"When do you and Claire want to come in?"

"Actually, Claire is out of town. It will be just me."

"Oh, ok."

"I need to talk about our marriage."

"I have time today at 1pm or next Tuesday at 9am."

"I can come today."

"Is everything okay Lewis?"

"I'm not sure. I just lied to my wife."

"What do you mean? What did you tell her?"

"Things will be different these next two weeks. The house will be different. I will feel different."

"Lewis...just tell me."

"I told her I would miss her."

***

Lewis refused to go home until after his appointment with Dr. Casey. He feels guilty for wanting to be alone and appreciate the absence of his wife. He feels excitement to finally be himself in his own home. To fill the time, he went by the hospital to check on patients; when he found out Claire was going to a writer's retreat, he immediately took the time off. "Now I can do the things I want to do she wouldn't approve of," he thinks to himself.

After he left the hospital, he stopped to get lunch at his favorite deli and heads straight for Dr. Casey's office. He walks into the office, anxious and nervous.

"Hi Lewis," she says walking out of her office handing something to her secretary Lisa.

"Hi Dr. Casey."

Lewis walks into the office heading straight for the loveseat. Dr. Casey is a marriage counselor, supposedly one of the best in the city. The taupe carpet with the deep blue walls are inviting and warm. Dark wood furniture is in every corner of the room. Despite the beauty of the sofa and matching chairs, they were comfortable; patients sink into the cushions the moment they sit. The loveseat is small; Dr. Casey is forcing couples to at least be physically close if emotionally and mentally they are miles away.

"This is strange," Lewis says throwing his jacket over the back of the sofa.

"What is strange?"

"Being here without Claire."

"We can wait until she comes back."

"No," he quickly responds. "She doesn't need to hear this. She wouldn't want to hear this."

"Why are you here Lewis?"

"I dropped her off at the airport this morning and something weird happened. The second she went through those revolving doors, I felt relieved."

Dr. Casey nods her head. By this time, Lewis knew the drill. She wasn't going to verbally respond to everything. She would nod her head and encourage him to keep talking. She wasn't going to directly give him advice but let him ramble until he figured it out for himself. He was supposed to talk it through.

"I was relieved because for two weeks, the house would feel like more than just a place to lay my head. For two weeks, I could be myself and do the things I can't do because it doesn't meet her standards. For two weeks I don't have to walk on eggshells careful not to say the wrong thing and send her into a downward drunken spiral. For two weeks, I can do things my way. For two weeks I can relax and not have to worry about the daily schedule on the refrigerator."

"So it is difficult living with her?"

"I don't know if difficult is the right word. It is definitely frustrating."

"Why is it frustrating?"

Lewis sits back on the loveseat and takes a deep breath. He is ashamed of his thoughts. Ashamed that he can't be more compassionate and understanding.

"Things aren't the same."

"Since her grandmother died?"

"Since a year after we got married."

"We haven't talked about this before."

Dr. Casey is right. Lewis had been feeling lost in his marriage for a long time. But it was never a good time to talk about it.

"She is so guarded."

"Go on."

"I don't even think she realizes how unhappy I am. Or if she cares."

Lewis begins to question whether or not he has any love left for his wife. Wondering if he is the disappointment. What kind of husband talks about his wife in such a cold and unloving way? What kind of husband can't wait for his wife to leave? What kind of husband doesn't know if he loves his wife anymore? What kind of husband doesn't like his wife? He is calmed by Dr. Casey's stoic expression.

"At least when Claira was alive there was a glimpse of humanity."

"So the death of her grandmother worsened the situation for you?"

"Yes."

Lewis realizes how selfish and inconsiderate he sounds. But does her grief outweigh all of the things he is feeling?

"Damn I'm an asshole."

"Why are you an asshole?"

"Because my wife lost the most important person in her life and I'm complaining about how I'm feeling."

"You want to be that person?"

"I've always wanted to be the most important person."

Lewis wonders what would happen if he died. It is a dreadfully depressing thought, but he is uncertain that she would be as grief stricken.

"She wouldn't miss me."

"What Lewis?"

"Sorry. I was just thinking about what would happen if I died."

"You don't think she would miss you?"

"Claira was the only person she confided in. She was the only person who knew Claire completely and honestly. She was the only person Claire truly loved."

"Do you think you could ever be the most important person in her life?"

"Only if she let me in but she won't."

"What do you mean let you in?"

"She won't let me be there for her. She won't trust me to protect her heart."

"Why do you think that is?"

"You know the story Doc. She spent her entire life protecting herself. The people she loved hurt her the most, except for Claira of course. Men aren't the supportive, kind, loving and compassionate people she always hoped they could be. Her father ruined her forever."

"So it's her father's fault?"

"Mostly, yes. Some of it is hers; she won't get help."

"Didn't you tell me she has been in therapy for most of her life?"

"Yes but do you know how many times she has cancelled her appointments?"

"So she doesn't do what she needs to do to resolve the issues of her past?"

"She prefers to live like none of it happened. She pretends that her current way of living has nothing to do with her childhood. She thinks it's normal to be emotionally stunted and everyone else is crazy. She thinks I'm crazy because I actually want her to tell me how she is feeling and vice versa. I'm not her father. I thought that would work to my advantage."

"That's all she knows."

"What am I supposed to do with a woman who is so used to men hurting her that she doesn't recognize love?"

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know."

"I can't leave her."

"Why not?"

"Because her grandmother just died. Besides, aren't you supposed to be encouraging c=us to stay together?"

"My job would be ten times more difficult if I had to do that. My job is to help couples resolve their issues. Sometimes that resolution includes separation or divorce. You cannot leave your wife because she just lost her grandmother. So the timing is bad?"

"The timing is awful."

"Will the timing ever be good Lewis?"

"What do you mean?"

"If you decide that you do not want to be married anymore, you will have always left her after her grandmother died."

Lewis sits for a moment shaken by her words. Different scenarios run through his mind, sort of rehearsals for potentially giving the news that he wants a divorce. None of them feel good, rather the news be in 2 months or 2 years. "I would be the one to leave her alone no matter when it happens," he says to himself.

"Lewis, are you afraid to leave her alone?"

Lewis nods, not surprised that she is somehow embedded in his thoughts.

"I promised to love her in good and bad. I promised to love her forever."

"Don't you still love her?"

"Yes."

"Would you still love her if you weren't together?"

"Yes."

"Lewis, I don't think you want a divorce. I think you want the marriage you had envisioned yourself. There is nothing wrong with wanting it with her. However, at a certain point you have to realize that she may not be the person you can create that life with."

"We have to do the work I guess," he says moving closer to the edge of the cushion.

"Yes. People make the mistake of believing that if you truly love someone, marriage is either a piece of cake or trying to push a steel ball up a mountain. If it is too easy, neither person is being themselves. If marriage is too difficult, both people are trying to be something they aren't."

Lewis is struck by silence. Thoughts multiplying too quickly for him to immediately form a sentence.

"Should I get a divorce?"

"You know I'm not going to answer that. However, I do believe that you all have not tried hard enough. I haven't seen you all in at least 2 months."

"That means she has to want it too."

"Yes, in order to resolve the issues in your marriage, both of you have to participate in the process and the healing."

"What if she doesn't want to?"

Dr. Casey takes a deep breath. "Then either she thinks the marriage is fine the way it is or she doesn't want to be married anymore."

Lewis isn't saddened by the thought that Claire may not want to be his wife anymore. They are more roommates than a married couple right now. Maybe separation would be good for both of them and they can both find what they want. But he can't ignore the feeling...the rush he gets when he pictures her face when she is sleeping. He can't imagine not feeling the race of his heart when he gets a glimpse of her when she gets out of the shower. He can't picture his day without hearing the kind of laugh he only hears occasionally when her luggage goes tumbling down the stairs.

"I can't imagine my life without her. But I don't want to live my life like this with her."

***

"What r u doing?"

"Sitting in my car outside our therapist's office."

"Good session? Bad session?"

"It was ok."

"Was she there?"

"No."

"Divorce?"

"Idk"

"U should."

"Idk."

"We r better together."

"The sex is better."

""

"We actually have sex"

"I miss u Lewis."

"Don't say that."

"I do. Can I c u?"

"When?"

"Tonight. Can u get away from the house 4 a few hours?"

"She is out of town."

"Even better."

"Maybe it's fate."

"Want to meet at our usual place?"

...

"Lewis, r u there?"

...

"It's okay if u don't want to. I'll be here when u r ready."

...

"Lewis?"

"I'm here. How about 9pm."

"Great. Same room?"

"Same room."

"I love you Lewis."

"C u later Sasha."

***

Claire feels a slight breeze as she exits the car. The driver helps her get her bags, she gives him a tip, and makes her way to registration. As she steps out onto the circle driveway, she suddenly feels refreshed as she breathes in the clean air. It is a mild 74 degrees and she quickly takes out a cardigan to put over her short sleeved purple knit shirt. As the car pulls away, she turns and looks at the forest of trees behind a sparkling lake. She feels an immediate peace watching the ripples on the lake and hearing the stunning silence of the world around her.

Around the lake are benches and tables evenly spaced to provide a creative space for those who like to write outside. "I know where I'm going to be," Claire says to herself as she finally makes her way inside the first cabin.

"I want to live here," Claire says as she makes her way to the back of the room. She would never see anything like this in the city. The log cabin is a perfect mix of rustic and contemporary. The large modern furniture offsets the old stone fireplace. The abstract paintings on the wall play a wonderful contrast to the dark wood and vaulted ceilings. She walks past the perfect kitchen with granite countertops and a butcher block island. Despite the cherry wood cabinets, the large window over the under-mounted sink allows an enormous amount of sunlight in the room. She would never put bamboo floors in her own kitchen, but in this dream space, it is perfect. She couldn't help but stare. "If only I could just put that kitchen on a plane and take that home with me. I might actually cook."

She almost trips on the multi-colored floor rug as she heads toward two women sitting at a long table covered in name tags and brochures. On the floor next to them are bags, presumably full of retreat materials. Claire puts on her "nice to meet you smile" and walks quickly.

"Good morning," she says, searching for her name on the table.

"Good morning," the ladies say in unison.

"I am Barbara and this is Carol."

"Hi," Claire says putting her nametag on her shirt. Barbara's accent suggests another southerner whereas Carol screams Midwest.

"Here you go sweetie," Barbara says handing her one of the bags. "Feel free to look through this."

Carol looks at Claire's name tag. "Claire, here is your information. It has your cabin number and itinerary. Don't worry, you will have a lot of free time to write but there are workshops you can and should attend. You are one of the first to arrive. Go ahead and get settled and even take a walk around the facility. As you can see, it is beautiful. We will begin with our meet and greet at 3:00pm followed by dinner."

Claire never takes naps; her 5 hours of sleep at night is usually enough. But thinking about where she is and the unwavering calm, it may be the perfect time to start the habit.

Before walking out of the building, she takes the map out of the folder and tries to find her cabin. Usually she would be wondering if she would have to share a room and contemplating the clash of personalities in one space. But today, she is too distracted by the surprises she encounters every few feet. From the garden of roses to the vegetable garden she can see in the distance.

She finds it difficult maintaining her balance in 5 inch heels on the ground so she takes off her shoes and walks the rest of the way barefoot. With the first step she takes, she feels a chill when her foot hits the cool grass. She wants to put down her purse, her bag, and suitcase and sit down. She wants to just indulge in this moment.

She finally gets to her cabin. It is just as beautiful as the common area. High vaulted ceilings, hardwood floors, beautiful and colorful paintings, a large floor rug underneath a clear glass coffee table. There is enough seating for 8 people with a large sofa, loveseat, and three chairs. In the back corner is a large dining room table. She is the most excited about the kitchen, a miniature version of the one she saw 15 minutes ago.

She makes her way down the hall to room 3. She is pleased to have a corner room. A corner room means an extra window which means an extra view. The room isn't large but it is big enough for a queen size bed, two bedside tables, a bookshelf, and a television stand. A flat screen TV sits on top of it as the stereotypical distraction when writer's block kicks in or when writing becomes tiresome and it is time for a break.

She opens her suitcase and begins taking out her clothes. She takes a look in the closet, thankful to find hangers. Five minutes into unpacking, only having done two pairs of jeans and a sweater, she begins to admire the comfortable looking bed with fluffy pillows. She ignores the rest of her clothes that need unpacking, takes off her sweater, and lies on top of the comforter. She rests her head on the pillow and closes her eyes.

Claire had felt an immediate change. Away from her job, her responsibilities, and her husband, she is free from her anxieties. Yes, when she returns, those issues and tasks will be waiting for her. But now, she can forget them. She can indulge in her greatest pastime and finally enjoy just being. Before falling asleep, she sits up and finds her phone in her purse. She can take a 2 hour nap before she has to get ready for the meet and greet. "Or I can take a shorter nap and walk around." Claire forgets the idea as soon as it crosses her mind and sets the alarm for 2:30.

***

" _Claire, what's wrong," Claira says running into the hallway after hearing the door slam and her granddaughter scream._

Claire sits on the floor in the living room, rocking back and forth in front of the window.

" _Claire, dear, what is it?" she asks quietly kneeling next to her._

Claire just looks into her grandmother's eyes, remaining silent. Claira runs into the kitchen to call Debra. "Maybe someone tried to hurt her at school," Claira thinks to herself. The phone rings and rings. "That's odd," Claira says. She makes her way back to Claire, trying to think of the right words to encourage her to talk about what happened.

" _Claire, why are you here?"_

" _I don't know Grandma."_

" _You don't know? Did your mom send you here?"_

" _No. No one did."_

Claira was exhausting all of her options. She really wished her forte was child psychology right now. Claira sits next to Claire quietly. "Maybe this will work," she says getting up. She goes and grabs crayons and a coloring book. .

" _Here you go honey," she says putting the crayon box of over 100 colors in front of her and the only coloring book she could quickly find._

Claire picks up the Sesame Street coloring book and begins flipping through the pages. She stops on a picture of big bird. She pulls the cover off of the crayons and goes straight for yellow. She begins outlining the picture with the color.

" _How did you get here Claire?"_

Without looking up and pressing the crayon hard against the black outline, "I ran," she says.

" _So you didn't walk? Why were you in a hurry?"_

" _I wasn't."_

Claira turns her head away, confused.

" _Why did you run if you weren't in a hurry?"_

" _Celia told me to."_

Claira sighs, finally getting an answer she can use.

" _Did she tell you to run here?"_

" _No ma'am," Claire says beginning to shade in the bird's shape. "She told me to just run."_

Claira begins to worry. Her stomach turns over and she can feel knots in her throat.

" _Why did you run here sweetheart?"_

" _Because I feel safe here."_

Claira stands up and runs back to the kitchen phone. She dials the number again and paces the kitchen as it rings and rings.

" _Damnit," she screams._

She runs back to Claire. "Claire, I need you to listen and answer me okay. Do you know why Celia told you to run?"

" _I'm not sure. So much was going on. When I heard the noises I ran into the kitchen. Everyone was already in there. Mom and Dad were screaming and Celia was beside mommy. Daddy hit mommy really hard. Then Celia told me to run."_

" _Claire, I'm going to go to your house."_

" _Can I come?"_

" _No Claira, sweetheart, you need to stay here."_

Claira runs upstairs to get dressed. While searching for any combination of pants and a tshirt, the phone starts to ring.

" _Hello?"_

" _Mrs. Sanders?"_

" _Yes, this is she."_

" _This is Officer Morgan of the Birmingham Police Department."_

Claira stops breathing.

" _There's been an accident."_

" _What kind of accident?"_

" _You need to come to your son's house."_

" _What's wrong? What happened?"_

Claira's lungs finally begin working but she can feel her heart pounding in every crevice of her body.

" _Mrs. Sanders, please just come to the house."_

" _Officer, would you please just tell me what happened to my son."_

" _I'm sorry but your daughter-in-law Christina and granddaughter Celia have been killed."_

" _What!?" she screams, the floor shaking as her voice vibrates against the house. She begins sobbing and falls to her knees. "Are you sure?"_

" _Yes ma'am."_

" _How about my son?"_

***

Claire opens her eyes to the annoying sound of her alarm. This afternoon it is more annoying than usual. After dreams of memories, she usually wakes up unaffected as if what happened wasn't real. As if the memories were of someone else's life. Today, she is exhausted just from thinking about the childhood she spent most of her adult life trying to therapy away. She doesn't notice the wet spot on her pillow from tears when she lifts her body and rubs her eyes. Before she can balance herself after getting off the bed, there is a knock on the door.

"Yes?"

"Hi. I'm Megan. I hate to bother you. May I come in?"

"Sure," Claire says as she puts on her shoes.

"Hi. Great shoes," she says looking at her feet as she walks around the bed. "I just wanted to know if you had a tampon. No matter how many times you go over the list in your head, it seems you always forget something."

Claire looks through her carryon bag and finds a tampon. "Here you go," she says handing it to her. "I'm Claire."

Claire looks at her watch and hurriedly puts on her sweater. "You want to walk to the meeting hall together?"

Both ladies walk out of the cabin, running into their two other roommates, Robyn and Mary. For a little while, she forgets about her dream. For a few minutes, she discusses her career and her loves with these strangers. They laugh and make small talk about their writing all the way to the meet and greet.

The room is cozy when they walk in. For someone growing up in the south, 65 degrees is bordering on chili. There are two roaring fires in the room with rectangle tables and chairs arranged in the middle. With the warm browns, reds, and oranges, Claire expects a room randomly put together with sofas, ottomans, and oversized chairs. Like school girls, they race to a table to sit together. Engaging in conversation, she does not even notice the variety of people coming in.

Tom is slanky, skinny arms, skinny legs, and skinny face. He is over 6 feet tall with the stereotypical beard and mustache. "He looks like a writer," she says to Megan and not as a compliment. "Yeah, he is trying too hard," Megan responds. His dark clothes, combat boots, and black reading glasses suggest he has been watching too many movies about the life of a writer. Of course he sits in the back and leans back in his chair with arms folded. "He is brooding," Robyn says and they start laughing.

Tammy looks lost, literally lost. She walks in the room still unsure that this is where she is supposed to be. "I guess the crowd isn't a clue," Mary says leaning forward. Tammy looks like she walked out of a Gap commercial with her long blonde wavy hair, her long dress, short cardigan, and leather sandals. She heads straight for the front. "Why can't I have hair like that?" Robyn asks. "You know she spent an hour on her hair even though it doesn't look that way. The beautifully unkempt style of young people. She has to be like 23." Tammy sits in the front, looking around the room admiring the woodwork and paintings. "Maybe she's looking for inspiration," Claire says noticing her behavior.

Bradley comes in semi-strutting, reminding Claire of her metrosexual coworker Daniel who spent the first years of his time at the university trying to prove he wasn't gay. Bradley is wearing the designer jeans with the designer polo with red converse. He has perfect hair with the perfect balance of gel and hair spray. "It may be cougar time," Mary says. Mary is recently divorced with all three children out of the house. "I need something to do," she says winking and giggling. "I think you are right Mary. What's the point of going on a retreat without having an affair?" Megan asks. All of the ladies look at her in agreement.

Claudia walks in wearing scrubs. "She's a nurse, or a doctor, or a surgeon," Claire says. "That's a side effect of the job," Megan says watching her unnecessarily hurry to a seat.

A dozen more people walk in, most of them fitting into one of three categories, the normal adults, like Robyn and Mary, the clichés, like Tom, the people who don't know who they are, like Tammy, and the people who know and flaunt it, like Bradley. There are those who could fit into multiple categories, some at different times of the day and during different seasons.

"Excuse me ladies and gentlemen."

The ladies quiet and try to focus their attention on the older gentleman standing in front and the woman behind him.

"I am Dr. Stewart."

"He is about to tell us all of his credentials," Claire whispers.

"I got my Masters in Fine Arts from the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill and my PhD in English from UC Berkeley."

"Point 1," Claire says.

"This is Felicia."

"Second wife," Claire says.

"My wife of 5 wonderful years."

"Bingo. Point 2."

"I would like to welcome you to this wonderful retreat."

"Next, he is going to talk about how he came to create this retreat and all of the wonderful things he has done to expand and improve it." Claire has been around enough pretentious professionals to know when one is standing right in front of her pretending to be humble. She begins to tune him out when he starts talking about his own journey as a writer. She has to turn away when he starts over-talking with his hands and pointing his chin in the air as if he was born in Buckingham Palace and not a hospital in El Paso, Texas.

After introductions, her attention is once again on the front of the room when Felicia walks up to the podium.

"Hello everyone."

"She is the total opposite of him. Only someone with actual humility with her feet on the ground could actually put up with him," Claire says to Robyn.

Felicia goes on and on about the activities and workshops available for everyone to enjoy. There are a few encouraging words for us to attend as many workshops as we can to improve our writing skills. I'm sure they are aware that most of the people here come to relax and write; they need a reason to get away from their overly busy lives. They don't want workshops and inspirational activities. They want the free time to do what they want. Doing nothing is the best cure for a writer.

"I forgot one type of person," Claire says as the door closes. "The person who likes to act like they don't give a shit."

A man in his forties apologizes and walks to an empty seat in the middle of the room. When the dust settles, the ladies at the table draw their attention to his handsome face. "What an ass" Megan says licking her lips. Claire is surprised by Megan's flirtation considering her husband at home struggling to take care of their 2 children under the age of 3. "That is so inappropriate," Claire whispers. "I'm married, not blind," Megan responds.

"There are actually some published authors here that would be happy to help you," Felicia begins once John settles in his seat. "Will the published authors please raise their hands?" Mary raises hers. "Really?" Claire says looking at her with a playfully envious smile. "For your convenience, we have satellite internet. You can access it from anywhere on the property. We understand that research is part of writing a good story."

Claire's mind drifts into that awkward space where half of her is paying attention and the other half is somewhere in her book. In her mind, she is somewhere back with Claira enjoying a cup of hot chocolate with 25 marshmallows on those rare cold nights.

A small part of her mind is with her husband trying to figure out how to be a good wife. And another part of her is here pretending interest in this speech. She forces her attention back to the present when Megan touches her arm.

"Hey girl, lets go."

The ladies get up from their chairs and head to the dining room.

"This is kind of early for dinner. Who eats dinner at 5?"

"The elderly," Mary says laughing.

They sit down at the table.

"I guess we're waiting for the early bird special," Megan says.

Chapter 6

After dinner, when her roommates head back to the cabin, Claire decides to take a walk by the lake. She uses her cell phone as a flashlight as she walks through the dimly lit property. As she gets closer, she puts it in her pocket, the reflection of the moon guiding her to her destination. She finds a bench and tries to adjust comfortably on the wood. "How is this good for writing?" she asks herself shifting on the seat. Claire tries to avoid drifting back to the contents of her book. But it's difficult for her to think about her writing when it is predicated on the experiences of her past.

***

Things I Learned From Grandma Claira

There's a First Time for Everything

Celia would tell me stories of Grandma Lucy. When I didn't want to come home from school, she would tell that the warmth of grandma's touch was still in the house. We would walk from the bus stop hand in hand, Celia telling me of days when everything would be better. I believed her. I believed her because I wanted to. I had nothing but hope.

I thought Celia was the smartest person I knew. Mom was too distracted with her own problems to talk to me about the important things I needed to know. I remember the first time I asked her where rain came from. She looked me in the eye, said God, and returned to the kitchen to help finish dinner. I asked her why worms didn't have feet and she was quiet. I asked her what daddy did for a living and she simply said "get drunk." At the time I didn't know what that meant. Now I do. Every time I see a student walk into my classroom, obviously hung over, it reminds me of my father. When friends get drunk at parties, I do exactly what my mother did.

One day I asked her how the other children could handle the life we had. I thought every little girl had the same kind of house they did. Except in public, fathers kissed their little girls on the cheek and mothers kneeled down to fix their sweaters and pull up their socks. Mom was there to pick them up from school or waiting for them at the bus stop.

"Some of them have nannies," Celia would say when I commented on how youthful some of the "moms" were.

"What's a nanny?" I would ask.

"Well some people have mommies and daddies that work. They hire someone to take care of the children when they aren't home or when they want to be alone?"

I nodded. "Why would anybody need someone? We do just fine." When we were alone, which was a lot, we would take care of ourselves. In the mornings, Celia would take a stack of books and stand on top of them to reach the milk on the top shelf in the refrigerator. She would then move the books to get on top of the counter to reach the cereal in the cabinet above the microwave. Celia was more like my mom.

I tried not to get mad at my mom. I tried to understand what she was going through and why the woman that took us out for dinner and milkshakes became frigid and distant. As I grew up, I understood that my mom had her soul stolen. Weeks later, there were still remnants of my father's knuckles against her face. When he hit her, the impact traveled through her body to her heart where it rested. Eventually, she had nothing left to give us.

I was always telling the truth. But my father didn't want the truth; he wanted obedience. He wanted us to explore his fantasy with him and indulge his desires, even if that meant we had to suffer the consequences of his decisions. The night he was fired, he blamed us. He said that if he didn't have such a horrible family, he could focus at work instead of worrying about what nonsense we were doing and thinking. He told me I was the worst; making all that noise at night while he was trying to sleep.

"I don't remember making noise daddy. Mommy says I have to be in bed by 8. I'm sorry though."

"Are you calling me a liar little girl?"

"A liar?"

"A storyteller dear," mommy says.

"Shut your mouth Debra!"

Debra takes a step back, as close as she can get to the kitchen counter without sitting on it. When his attention was back on me, his face changed. His eyes widened and his face turned the color of a strawberry. I started to shake. I had never felt so terrified in my life. I suddenly felt hot and at the same time chills ran down my spine. When I opened my eyes, I noticed my head was hurting; really, it was pounding. It was a new sensation, a new intense sensation. My eyes moved upward toward the ceiling. Celia leaned over to help me up. She grabbed both of my hands.

"Come on sweetie," she says pulling me up.

He walks back into the room. "Celia, what are you doing?"

"Just helping her get off the floor."

"Did I tell you to help her?"

"No sir."

His face changed again. I took a step back, not wanting to feel that heat again. My head was bent all the way back looking into his eyes as he towered over us. Celia grabbed my hand, giving me some of her brave energy. I was grateful as she squeezed my hand. It distracted me from watching his eyes move back and forth between us; it was as if he was choosing which one of us to punish.

All of my muscles tensed as I noticed his arm move. I shut my eyes and closed them tight, bringing my shoulders up to my ears. I heard a loud clapping sound and felt my hand jerk downward. Then Celia's hand slipped from mine and I felt the ground shake. I opened my eyes and Celia was on the floor, in the same position I was in a minute before. But by the time I could collect myself long enough to help her, she was already back on her feet.

"Both of you go downstairs!"

Celia and I look at each other confused.

"Go into the basement and stay there until you have learned your lesson!"

I wasn't sure what kind of lesson I was seeking. What was the basement supposed to teach us? Maybe Celia knew.

We stuck close to each other as we made our way to the basement door. The knob was cold to the touch. I wasn't sure what to expect from this new place. Celia had been down there before. As our father followed us, she told me that I shouldn't be scared. She said the floor would be cold and the room dark, but that was all I had to worry about. Her words weren't enough to calm my anxiety.

The stairs creaked with every step and it increased my fear every time my bare feet hit the old wood. When we got to the bottom of the steps, I turned around and looked up.

"Now stay down here until I feel you have been here long enough."

We didn't respond. We waited as the door slammed. He didn't turn the light on. We remained in our spot hoping he would remember. Eventually we gave up and found the brightest area in the basement where light from the street lamp came in through one of the few windows.

"What can we do down here?" I ask

"We will have to use our imagination."

We didn't know how long we were down there. We had enough time to play hospital. I was the nurse and Celia was the doctor. We had a patient who had bugs crawl up his nose and they were eating his brain. We had to remove each one carefully. Unfortunately, one had attached itself and didn't want to come out. We had to tempt the bug with a crumb of bread and it worked. Once we had removed all of the bugs, we closed his head and brain, and he was better again.

We also had enough time to play police. We were partners out in the field. While we were sitting in the car having a burger and fries, we saw a bank robbery in progress. We threw down our food and got out of the car. We grabbed our guns and held them in front of us while we ran. While headed toward the bank, the robbers ran outside and we started chasing them. "Stop! Police" Officer Celia yelled. We started running faster. One of them tripped on the curb and fell. Celia ran to him and got on top of him and put on handcuffs. "Claire, get the other one!" I ran after him, looking back one time to make sure she was okay. She had it under control. The guy ran into an alley and tried to climb a fence. I quickly put my gun back in the holster and grabbed his legs, yanking him down. He hit the ground. I pulled out my gun and pointed it at him. "Stay down you jerk!" I walked him back to the car in handcuffs and we headed to the police station.

We also played princess. We were princess sisters living in a castle. We had butlers and maids who took care of whatever we wanted. Our parents had died when a dragon attacked the village three years ago. We missed them, but our Grandmother was great. We had a big ferris wheel in the backyard that we rode for hours every day. We would have chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast, apple pie and big peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, and icecream with M&Ms for dinner. We had whatever we wanted. We had a personal beach across the street and played in the ocean every morning after breakfast. We were happy and loved going shopping in the village. Everyone loved us. Villagers would walk for miles just to come to our parties.

We also played family; she was the mom and I was a dad. We were what we wanted. We were the parents we dreamed of at night. We were the parents that loved unconditionally and showed affection every moment we could.

"Girls?" a voice said from the top of the stairs.

We suddenly stopped laughing, rushing to get up. When we got to the staircase, we saw mom standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob.

"Come on up. Your dad is asleep," which I learned was code for he drank a case of beer and passed out.

We walked up the stairs quietly.

"You have to go straight to your rooms," she whispered.

"Can we sleep in the same room tonight?" Celia asked.

"Sure...that's fine. Just get in the room now."

Mom was scared. She was certain dad would stay in his recliner throughout the night, but she wanted to make sure we were safely locked in our rooms just in case he sobered quickly and arose in the middle of the night for another case. That night, we crawled into bed, concerned by mom's look on her face. When she kissed us on the forehead, her lips were cold and shaking. I almost invited her to stay in the room too but she was the barrier. The only way she knew how to shield us was to sacrifice herself.

That first time never left me. Despite the many future experiences, the first was the most traumatic. I learned to expect pain. I learned to feel ashamed and guilty. I learned to shut down to protect myself. I had to make myself numb so the shoves, pushes, and punching became bearable. My father was allowed to express a plethora of emotions without ridicule or judgment. We, on the other hand, had to be the living dead, walking through life oblivious to anything objectionable. I had to grow up quickly and so did Celia. We used to be taken care of but quickly progressed to adulthood when mom became incapable of even fixing our lunches.

Those lunches. Celia and I were embarrassed by our sandwich and piece of fruit, usually an orange. We didn't have chips and cookies like the other children who would often barter their grapes for an extra bag of cookies or half a peanut butter and banana sandwich. We sat together in the cafeteria, pretending we were an exclusive club. In some ways, we were. We were those girls to pity; to look upon with sadness and sympathy. We weren't teased or bullied. We were invisible. The other children just passed us by when it was time to play kickball or swing. They didn't know that I looked upon them with contempt as they enjoyed their childhoods when mine was slowly disappearing, seeping through the floors and walls of our home.

I began to resent my mother. I began to resent her cowardice and meekness. I thought she was fascinatingly desperate. I often asked myself why we couldn't leave. I didn't know it was harder for her to stay. I didn't know every sense of independence and self-worth had been stripped from her. I didn't know she didn't have the strength to leave. However, I didn't understand that it took more courage to stay. She thought she was doing the right thing, staying with a man who didn't love her as a display of love for her children.

I stopped crying. It became normal to cringe. It became normal to close my eyes and go to another place. Sometimes it was Snow White and prince charming, rescuing me from this horrid place that was supposedly my home. Sometimes I was 13 years older and on my own with my own place to live. Sometimes I was just running. And sometimes I was simply at the park playing in the man-made lake.

I stopped seeing my parents as my parents. It was like I was an orphan living in a home with strangers. I was only a child and didn't know anything else, but my instinct urged me to not accept this as normal. My common sense told me that love wouldn't hurt. My heart told me that parents weren't supposed to be void of those feelings that even as a child I could recognize.

I stopped loving...myself. I stopped loving my parents. I stopped...loving. And I felt such despair. I should love my parents. They gave me life. But is that enough? Is it enough that without their love I wouldn't be here? But where was that love? Where were those moments when I could see the love I was created from?

I stopped caring about them. All of these negative emotions can overwhelm someone not even in the first grade. Of course it took me until I was in my 20's to finally label the things I was feeling. When I brought home my first A, I rushed home to show mom. My handwriting had been perfect. Mom wasn't impressed. I didn't show it to my father; I was afraid he would throw it away or burn it. Celia, on the other hand, looked at me with the eyes of a proud mother. She took it and put it in her room. She leaned it up against the wall on top of her dresser. She had to often pick it up when it fell on the floor or slid down, but she did her best to make sure it could always be seen.

I started fighting. I did what ever I could to make sure everything I did in the present led me out of that home and into a better life. As a child, I had to let others make a life for me. I couldn't work or live on my own. But I could make good grades and spend every amount of energy I had avoiding every norm I was taught until I was 5. Everyday became a battle. And because the violence was my normal, I was content going through life like this.

***

"So this is a small group," the moderator Charlotte says sitting down.

Claire decides to attend a workshop about writing memoirs. It is early in the morning and the brisk wind woke her up as she walked from the cabin. She had been up until 3am talking. She had recently experienced late nights grading papers, doing research, or writing. But she couldn't remember the last time she stayed up talking; she didn't know if she ever had.

"Why do you think the group is so small," Charlotte asks.

"Well many of the people here may be too young to have enough experiences to fill a novel," Samantha says.

"True, true," Charlotte says.

"I don't think that's necessarily true. Some people experience more in their childhoods than others in their entire lives," John says.

"It's harder and it takes longer, although publishers can force you with insanely unreasonable due dates. There is some truth to what Samantha says. As Francie said, 'when you write of actual things, it takes you longer because you have to live them first'" John continues

"Ahhh, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn," Charlotte says.

"Living is necessary to write about living. Even if you did have a childhood full of a lifetime of experiences, you have to get to the point where you can write about them," Claire continues.

"You make a valid point," Charlotte says.

The room is quiet, everyone looking at each other. Claire can see the desire to speak in their eyes. But not about the topic, but about their own works. Claire smiles, feeling the unfamiliar urge to talk about her novel.

After waiting 2 minutes, Charlotte continues addressing the group. She tells them that the point of the workshop isn't to give particular skills and exercises to help you write a memoir. She tells them the workshop is to help them get into the space where they can write their honest stories without fear of judgment.

"I know it's hard writing about yourself."

Everyone in the room nods, listening to Charlotte speak of the difficulties she had telling her own story.

"You relive everything," she continues, "the good and the bad. The horrifying and the joyful. The traumatic and the peaceful. Everything becomes more real when you put it into words. And it will never go away."

"That's probably the most difficult part. I have been sitting with an almost complete work for 3 months," Tracy says. "I have one chapter left. But when that chapter is written, it is done. When it is published, it is forever a part of my life. I don't know if I want that."

"Then why did you start?" Charlotte asks.

"Someone told me it could be cathartic. I needed something to help me finally confront my past. I honestly believed my story could inspire or help someone desperately seeking what I was...what I still am."

"What are you seeking Tracy?"

"Peace."

The group is quiet in silent agreement.

"You don't write a memoir just because you want to be a published author," Claire says.

"Why did you want to write your story?"

"I had to change. I knew I was going to lose everything if I didn't."

"What do you mean Claire?"

"I was..."

Claire pauses for a moment. Why was this difficult? She admitted it to her students. She finds it more difficult speaking the words versus writing them.

"I was..."

She is seemingly stuck. To the average person it appears she is just searching for that perfect non-overused word to express how she is feeling. But to everyone in that room, she is trying to force something she has never spoken to suddenly escape her throat.

"I was...abused as a child. I spent most of my life living with my grandmother."

"Why did you live with your grandmother?" Charlotte asks.

"Both of my parents died," Claire responds. "I guess that's my sob story," she thinks. "Every writer has one."

"I'm sorry to hear that," John says putting his hand on her shoulder.

"It's been a long time. They died when I was five."

"What happened?" Samantha asks.

Everyone is suddenly intrigued by Claire's story. None of them can even come close to losing parents at a young age. Samantha is writing about her experiences as a single lesbian woman. Christopher is writing about losing the job he had for 15 years and suddenly deciding to follow his dream. Tracy is contemplating a book about raising an autistic child and Megan wants to write about her experience in the military as a woman. Everyone has something traumatic to talk about, but none as devastating as the presumed depths of Claire's story.

"They were killed." Claire says.

All of the other 5 mouths gasp. Claire knows this is a natural reaction but the courage she has to tell her story is slowly leaking from her body.

"Continue Claire," Charlotte says calmly trying to counteract the hesitance caused by their reaction.

"Someone broke into our home and killed them," Claire says so matter of factly.

In order to talk about what happened to her family, Claire has learned to disconnect from it. She treats it as if it is a movie she watched when she was little.

"My older sister was also killed."

Everyone is careful not to have the same strong reaction. Claire goes on to tell them what her grandmother told her; that a man, attempting to rob their home, came into the house and killed her family. Claire speaks of her sister, who told her to run out of the house.

"I guess she saw the man coming in the house," she says. "And I ran," she continues, "I ran to grandma Claira's house."

"I'm guessing she was important to you?" Megan asks.

"She was. Wait, how did you know she was dead?"

"Just the way you say her name."

Claire tells them about her group of short stories and the importance of talking about the life she lived with the person who finally made her feel safe.

"But it wasn't enough," Claire continues. "The abuse hardened me. And even though Claira showed me what real love looks like, I kept fighting. I kept hiding. I kept keeping my emotions buried beneath the scars because that's what I had to do to survive. I thought those memories would cripple me if they were ever able to survive outside of the darkest part of my mind. And now, this barrier, is keeping me from being completely happy with the only person I feel I have left, my husband."

Claire doesn't know why she is different here. She doesn't know why strangers provide the best ears for indulging her own need to explore the meaning of life. Why strangers are more of a comfort than her husband. "They won't judge me," she thinks to herself. "And if they do, it doesn't matter. They may pity me for two weeks but then they will return to their own lives and forget about the girl whose life reads like a Shakespeare tragedy."

"I'm hoping writing this book will give me the kick in the ass I need to finally be honest with my husband. To finally be honest with myself. I want to be a good wife damnit."

***

Claire has reached the top of her emotional tolerance as she gathers herself outside of the building. The rest of the workshop had been a blur. Many people would call her admittance an "aha" moment but she wishes she could return the breakthrough. She wishes she hadn't talked about her relationship.

Claire walks outside and takes a deep breath of the mild air. With every exhale she tries to breathe out the anxiety. She tries to let out her determination to remain the same with the pretense of happiness. She tries to force out who she wants to be. With every inhale, she tries to take in the honesty of where she is. She brings air into her lungs but desperately wants to bring truth to her being. She begins to breathe faster, desperate for certainty and direction.

She walks toward the end of the porch trying to take in as much sunlight as possible.

"Be careful or you will fall," John says as Claire gets closer to the edge.

She opens her eyes and turns around to see John leaning against the wall with arms folded.

"Thank you," she says returning her attention to the energy of the sun.

John looks at her, admiring her figure. During the workshop, his attention was drawn to her. He was fascinated by her unwillingness to be vulnerable. Even in profound discussion of emotion and desire, she was still headstrong. She was continuously stubborn, not wanting to appear that, despite being overwhelmed, she could not handle everything on her own.

John was impressed and saddened by her persistence. He had never met someone so strong yet so vulnerable. He had never been in such a presence as hers. One that was warm and inviting, yet pushed everyone away. Of course it made him want her more. When she walked in the room, she immediately demanded everyone's attention; she immediately demanded his. He didn't understand how so much sadness could be in one person's eyes. Yet her semi-expensive outfits, designer shoes, and perfectly groomed hair drew a strong contrast to her disheveled inner state.

He notices the slight movement of her straight brown hair with perfect highlights when the wind blows. His eyes move down her back and he can't help but take a longer look at her butt. "It's perfect," he thinks to himself and he forces himself to admire her long legs. From where he is, he cannot see her perfect face, her supple lips or the breasts he has to keep from staring at.

"Would you like to go for a walk?"

"I'd like that."

Claire doesn't want to admit that she would enjoy spendong some time with John. She feels relaxed with him. She can be herself; she won't have to spend time with them, see them every day, or live with them. They can't decide to give her tenure or the best class times. They don't have to decide whether or not to publish her books.

"Are you enjoying the retreat?"

"Such a trite question," Claire thinks to herself. "I am," she says clasping her hands together in front of her.

"That's good."

John hesitates.

"Go ahead," Claire says.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sure small talk isn't the reason you asked to take a walk."

John is embarrassed and relieved.

"Why did you come to the retreat?" John asks, "the real reason?"

"Like everyone here, I wanted to get alone time to write. But soon I realized I needed to just get away...from everything. From my husband, from the city, from life. Things were getting complicated. Well things have always been complicated."

"What do you mean?"

"My grandmother and I had always been close. I confided in her about everything. I never really had any close friends. When your own father claims to love you and treats you like shit, you tend not to trust people."

John nods his head.

"Well Claira was my mother, my grandmother, my father, and my best friend. I didn't need anyone else. I didn't want anyone else."

"So your husband isn't your best friend?"

"No. He isn't really anything."

"Have you ever been yourself with him?"

"I don't think so. I don't trust him to love the real me. The real me is...well...fucked up."

John laughs. Claire is immediately offended but her grimace soon turns to a grin, not able to be completely unaffected by his laughter.

"Why do you think you are fucked up?"

"I've been in therapy since I was a teenager."

"So? If I could afford therapy, I would see one at least twice a week."

"I'm serious. In high school I began getting depressed with periods of anxiety. It wasn't severe but I've been dealing with it most of my life."

"Well, at least you are in therapy."

"Yeah, but I don't take it seriously. It's difficult to even admit I need it. I tell myself she is just someone to talk to."

"Why don't you want to admit you need it?"

"Then he has won."

Claire stops in her tracks and looks into John's eyes.

"If I admit that I need therapy then he has destroyed me. Then he has weakened me and turned me into the self-conscious, meek little girl he always wanted me to be and tried to make me."

John doesn't know what to say and everything that is at the tip of his tongue sounds extremely cliché and condescending.

"I don't know what to say Claire. I can only tell you that you are none of those things."

Claire wants to smile but can't. She cannot physically fake a sense of calm when everything in her is chaotic.

"I hate to ask this but why did you marry Lewis?"

"I loved him. And my grandmother was, like any typical southern parent, pushing me to get married. She said she wanted grandchildren."

John looks into her eyes as if trying to nonverbally communicate with her.

"What?" Claire asks beginning to feel uncomfortable.

"Do you think that what you just said has anything to do with how you are feeling? Do you think that part of your grief is guilt for not giving Claira something important she wanted?"

Claire wishes she could give John some exciting affirmation to congratulate him for enlightening her. But she is well aware of the multitude of emotions that are keeping her stuck in intense grief.

"I do feel guilty...for a lot of things."

"Survivor's guilt?"

Once again, another moment where she wishes she could fake it.

"Yes."

Claire isn't the typical therapeutic patient. She is completely aware of how to identify her feelings. She just can't express them constructively...or at all.

"I can tell you hate being vulnerable."

"You are correct sir."

By this time they have made two rounds around the lake and have decided to sit on a patch of grass next to an old willow tree.

"Are you happy? In your marriage?"

"The truth?"

"That would be best."

"Not really?" Claire says ashamed. "And I don't understand why."

"Should you be?"

"Yes. Lewis is a great man. He has a great job. He's a surgeon. He is smart, kind, generous, funny, and patient. So very patient."

"What about children?"

"We don't have any."

"Do you want children?"

"No but he does."

"Why don't you want children?"

"Should I?" Claire says defensively.

"No. It's not like that. I'm just curious."

"I'm scared.'

"Why?"

Claire has never spoken about her fears of being a parent, not even with Lewis. She continues to pretend that she wants them and she just needs time. At the age of 35, she can continue the charade.

"I'm afraid I'll be just like my father."

"You do know how unreasonable that sounds."

"It's not unreasonable. You do know the statistics concerning the probability of an abused child becoming an abusive parent."

"Yes but not every abused child eventually abuses their children."

"I know that. But the best way to make sure another child doesn't suffer like I did is to just not have children at all."

John is again speechless. There isn't a right thing to say and the wrong thing could quickly end this conversation. Claire is overwhelmed. She no longer wants to talk. She is sick of the attention and the sympathy.

"I'm tired of talking about myself."

"I know."

Claire is not only physically and emotionally exhausted from the discussion but she is sick of being transparent.

"Why don't you tell me about yourself?"

"That could take all night. What do you want to know?"

"Are you married?"

"Divorced. I have a daughter...Ailyn. She's 8."

"That's a pretty name."

"Thank you."

John pulls out his cell phone and shows her a picture.

"She is beautiful John."

"She looks just like her mom."

"What happened between you and your ex-wife..."

"Janette..."

"Janette."

"We just grew apart. We got married young and weren't really prepared."

"How long were you married?"

"10 years. We've been divorced for 4."

Claire doesn't know what to ask next. But she felt entitled to the same level of disclosure she offered.

"Did you want a divorce?"

"I did. I wasn't happy anymore. When we divorced, we hadn't had sex in 2 years."

"It's been 1 for us," Claire says automatically. She questions her choice to reveal that information. But it doesn't matter at this point; he already knows too much.

"What changed in the marriage?" Claire asks.

"We didn't communicate well anymore. Ailyn had taken over our lives and we forgot to work on our marriage. She became more important than us."

"See...another reason not to have children."

"Claire, I would not change anything. She is the most precious thing in my life and the love of a child is nothing like I've felt before."

"I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize. I don't want to imagine my life without my little girl."

"You all fell out of love?"

"We did but that wasn't the problem. That feeling of being in love that begins a relationship didn't change into that deep everlasting unconditional love that you need to sustain it."

"Lewis and I don't have that either. We don't even have a child to bring us together."

"Maybe it's not meant to be."

"I don't want to give up. I don't give up on anything."

"Staying in a destructive marriage is giving up on yourself."

"But John, I would be stupid to volunteer to not have him in my life."

"Just because you aren't married doesn't mean he can't be in your life. Janette and I are great friends. We are better now than we were when we got married."

Claire takes in everything John has said. This part of the conversation was supposed to be about him but the focus has suddenly returned to her.

"How did you cope with the divorce?"

Claire feels odd asking this question as if she is already contemplating separation.

"It was difficult but I got through it. Luckily, we didn't have any problems. We both agreed to joint custody of Ailyn and split our assets 50/50. The hardest part in the beginning was sleeping in bed alone."

"Are you okay being alone now?"

"Yes. In all honesty the divorce has given me time to focus on improving myself."

"Do you want to get married again?"

"I think so. Before I get married, I want to make sure I can be a good husband."

"What does that mean John? What does it mean to be a good husband? A good wife?"

"I don't know Claire. I guess it means being both what your spouse needs and what you need at the same time. That is not easy."

Claire wonders if she can be that, especially considering she has no idea what Lewis needs.

"I have no idea what I need."

"You have to figure that out."

"Do you think we should separate?"

"I don't know you or him well enough to answer that. Have you tried marriage counseling? Janette and I did whatever we could first before we separated."

"We have gone to counseling. But we stopped and haven't been back for two months. I have to admit that's my fault. I believed our issues could be resolved with just time."

John shakes his head, surprised that such an intelligent woman could be so naïve.

"I know John. I know."

Claire sits quietly, desperately wanting this emotional rollercoaster to end. She awkwardly changes the subject.

"So John what do you do for a living?"

"I'm an attorney. What about you?"

"I'm a professor at the University of Alabama in Birmingham."

"Oh, so you are a smarty pants."

Both of them laugh. Claire had to change the topic of conversation. She doesn't want to fall asleep thinking about her troubled marriage.

"It's getting a little chilly," Claire says rubbing her arms.

John leans in towards her and it's as if God presses the pause button. She looks into his eyes, exploring his intent. She looks at his masculine brows and chin. She stares at his lips, fighting her own desire. She thinks about Lewis, the man she was talking about not 5 minutes ago; her husband who she professed to love. She thinks about herself, the woman who said she wants to be a good wife. "Kissing another man is not being a good wife," she thinks to herself as she watches John close his eyes.

Claire is surprised that she doesn't move back. She doesn't stop him by putting her hand on his chest and pushing him away. She doesn't tell him no. She is frozen and closes her eyes as his lips meet hers. Lewis's face fades from her mind as she indulges in the butterflies in her stomach. She moves in closer to him and releases a quiet moan.

By the time she completely gives in, John removes his lips from hers.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Claire says, ashamed to admit that she wishes he hadn't stopped. Especially ashamed of the thoughts that were now going through her mind as her eyes quickly drifted from his eyes down his body.

"I shouldn't have done that."

"Yes you should have," Claire thinks to herself.

"Would it be terrible for me to tell you how much I want you right now?"

"No, it wouldn't be terrible, especially since I feel the same way."

"Do I really want to do this?" Claire asks herself knowing where this conversation is going. Knowing what this conversation may lead to. "This is so unlike me. I'm not a cheater."

"Do you want me to go to my cabin?" he asks.

"No."

"Do you want to go back to yours?" he asks.

"No."

"We could go to one of the writer's quarters."

Claire walks slowly giving her time to change her mind. She wants to change her mind. She wants to think about Lewis and the importance of their vows. She wants to stop. She wants her legs to stop working or forget how to walk. She wants her conscience to knock some sense into her; the angel to appear on her soldier and remind her that good people remain faithful. She wants to remind herself how much she used to love her husband and think about the prospect of having that again. John turning around and saying, "maybe we shouldn't do this," would be a welcome sentiment. But he is silent, only occasionally turning around and looking at her with the eyes of an infatuated teenage boy. They arrive at the porch of an available cabin and Claire is both frustrated that she hasn't stopped herself and relieved that he didn't stop her. "I still have time to do the right thing. I still have time to show some respect for my marriage," Claire says to herself as she takes the first step up to the front door.

The cabin is like a studio apartment. The room has a kitchenette, a sitting area with a couch and two chairs, a twin bed, a desk, and a fireplace. It is just a place for people to come and be alone to write. "Don't forget to flip the switch," Claire says. Since the cabins are open to everyone, there is a light outside the cabin to let people know that it is occupied. Claire thinks it is a little motel-ish but the taste level of the retreat is the last thing on her mind.

John and Claire are quiet, having nothing else to say. Claire is afraid to speak, thinking she will tell him she has changed her mind. She's afraid she won't take a chance and do something she wants to do, even if it is careless. John is afraid he will say something to change her mind. He may not be married, but he isn't free from guilt. He is silently carrying some of the guilt she may have right now.

John slowly undresses her, kissing her softly and deeply. She shudders in delight as his hands move from her face down her chest. She stands in his arms with only her bra and panties on. She is grateful to get her feet off the cold floor when he lays her on the bed.

She relaxes when she feels the weight of his body on top of her. She doesn't realize how much she ached for the feel of a man on her body until this moment. She tries to imagine her husband's face, trying to mentally redeem her current action, but it is useless. She rather open her eyes and look into his. Every guilty threat associated with adultery slowly leaves her with each kiss.

She is disappointed when he leaves her mouth but is immediately excited by the feel of his lips on her neck. She feels his hands fumbling with her bra and he begins to touch her breasts. She is unable to think when she feels his tongue on them. Her body moves and her moans become louder with every second. She opens her eyes to see him looking up at her. She doesn't know whether to smile or simply pretend she doesn't see him. When he is done, she expects a return to her lips, but he continues down her body.

"What are you doing?" she quietly asks.

He doesn't respond but instead pulls her panties down. She tingles everywhere. It's as if she had never felt anything like this before. She spent her entire life under the impression that true pleasure could only come from someone she is in love with. "Am I in love with him?" she asks herself. She is jolted back into the present when her body convulses and a quiet scream fills the room. When her body relaxes, she opens her eyes again to see a smile on his face.

"You must be so proud," she says.

They both giggle as John gets on his knees and begins undressing. Claire is intrigued by the concept of pleasing her first. Once her mind returns to this moment with John, she takes in the details of his body. She leans up to push him over on the bed but he forces her back down.

"Are we making love?" she asks herself as he slowly makes his way inside her. She moves with him as ecstasy entangles with a small amount of bitterness from the fleeting thought of her infidelity. She focuses on the feelings traipsing through her body. She concentrates on his hands on her body and their lips pressing together.

She is surprised again by the convulsing of her body and the arching of her back. "Well damn." She has certainly not experienced that before; typically she settled for one or most often none. He moans loudly and his face contorts. He leans down and kisses her as his body rests on hers. His body is wet with sweat but she puts her arms around him, pulling him in closer for a deep kiss.

"Wow," she says as he rests next to her, guiding her head to rest on his chest.

"That was amazing," he says still breathing heavily.

For two minutes, there is silence. There are no words to describe what has just happened. For those minutes, Claire is able to enjoy the pleasure and the joy. She is able to push thoughts of betrayal into the back of her mind as she rubs her hand across his chest and abs. She is able to experience this moment in its entirety, separate from her situation.

"What do we do now?"

"What do you mean," she asks, completely understanding the depth of his question but not wanting to answer it.

"What are we going to do now? We can't exactly become a couple and we can't suddenly become childish and ignore each other?"

"Let's not talk about it. Can't we just enjoy this moment and think about the consequences later?"

John complies and kisses the top of her head. Claire feels the beating of his heart while she dreams. In her dream, this has been her life all along. John is her husband and she is held in his arms every night. She doesn't have to pretend. She doesn't have to be someone she isn't. She feels comfortable walking into her own home. She doesn't feel the burden of her past because she has found someone who doesn't want her to forget it. She truly lives because she has someone to tell her secrets so they aren't buried and weighing down her very existence. She looks forward to being with someone rather than seeking those minutes or hours she can be alone.

Claire is awakened by the sound of John snoring. She smiles and kisses his cheek. Lewis snores but this is different. Somehow the sound is comforting and sweet. She slowly gets out of the bed and pulls the sheet over him. She puts on her clothes and leaves, taking a moment to look back at him at the threshold. She walks back to her cabin, smiling and glowing. It hasn't occurred to her yet that she cannot stay in this paradise forever.

Claire turns off her glowing smile, her uplifted soul, and satisfied demeanor before she walks in the cabin.

"Where have you been?" Robyn asks when Claire opens the door.

"I've been in the writing quarters."

"Oh. Did you get anything done?"

"Not really. I just wanted some time alone. I left my laptop here hoping that not staring at the screen and brooding over it would actually give me the peace of mind to finish."

"I know your due date is coming up but you will be fine. Don't stress about it. You will find the right way to finish it."

"Honestly, I'm surprised I got this much done. I only have one more chapter left. I'm hoping the rest of the time here will be enough time to complete it."

"Dinner is in 2 hours," Robyn says.

"Just enough time for a nap."

"Tired?"

"Yes...from thinking."

She makes her way to her room and lies on the bed. This time her dreams can be of the last 4 hours instead of the last 35 years. This time she can wake up smiling from remembering something wonderful. This time, her heart isn't heavy.

Chapter 7

Claire was apprehensive when she approached her grandmother about changing schools. Richardson High School was a crowded place where teachers took role without looking up from their desks. The school felt like a college campus and ten minutes between each class wasn't enough time. She had friends but they weren't close. There weren't late night phone calls or group outings to the movies. She didn't have a boyfriend and wasn't interested. She purposefully took as many honors classes as possible to remain busy and not have the opportunity for people to get to know her.

" _Why do you want to change schools?"_

" _It's just too big."_

Claire didn't want to admit she felt more lonely than ever in that school. When she walked down the hall, more eyes glanced at her and more pretended she wasn't there. She wasn't happy.

It wasn't cool to be smart. It wasn't cool to read all of the assignments and do all of the homework. It wasn't cool to know the answers to all of the questions and raise your hand in excitement. She could feel eyes burning through her head when they perceived she was showing off. She was the snob. In the classroom people were forced to notice her but when the bell rang, she was invisible again.

" _I know that's not the only reason dear."_

" _I don't like it. I'm nobody there," Claire says hanging her head._

" _You are never nobody. God created you and put you on this earth for a reason. You are always somebody. Even while you sleep, you are somebody."_

Claire prepared to hear a story; Grandma Claira always had a story to relate to what she was going through.

" _I'm not going to sit here and tell you about how I had a tough time getting through high school and how I made it through with my head held high."_

" _Thank God."_

" _Excuse me," Claira says surprised._

Claira's stories were often inspiration but sometimes unnecessary. Sometimes Claire just wanted her to get to the point. Sometimes they weren't motivating but instead made Claire feel inadequate.

" _As I was saying, I don't have a story like that. High school was hard, especially for me. I wanted to go to college and be a writer. For a woman, that was not what was expected. You are lucky. You had the luxury to go to college and society didn't presume a higher education was only for men."_

" _How did you get through it?"_

" _My mother told me not to let the boys get to me. I wasn't interested in dating them. I wanted to beat them. I wanted to show that I deserved what they were automatically given."_

" _Grandma, I don't think you are enough. It's torture. It's like being in limbo. I'm not popular but I'm not unpopular. I'm nothing."_

" _Why do you care what those people think?"_

" _Because I do."_

Claire had never thought that she would ever need something so superficial as a clique. But she needed to belong, even if it was to a group that would never have the opportunity to know her.

" _Can I go to St. Stephen's?"_

Claira almost falls off of her chair. For the last two years, Claire has fought her when it came time to go to Mass. It began as pretending to be sick or complaining that she didn't sleep well. Then the excuses evolved and eventually she began to tell Claira that she didn't want to go to church anymore. Claira was disappointed and afraid that her precious granddaughter would live a Godless life. "I still believe in God," Claire would tell her, "but I don't like the Catholic Church anymore. I don't appreciate any religion that preaches the importance of Mary the Mother of God on one hand but then tells women they are 2nd class with the other."

Claira understood her objection but begged her to look beyond the dogma and doctrine to see the core of the practice. She emphasized God's grace and forgiveness but it wasn't enough. Claire could never see the forest through the trees; she could never see the love in the practice. So she abandoned religion but promised not to abandon God.

" _You want to go to a Catholic school?" Claira asks in astonishment._

Claire is just as shocked by her own request. But that was the only place she felt her intelligence wouldn't be considered abnormal and teachers and other students would appreciate her eagerness. She thought the discipline would create an environment with a different kind of student. She liked structure. She also looked forward to wearing a uniform. She didn't care about clothes and preferred to be in a place where other girls didn't either. Well they may have cared but her clothes wouldn't be a display of her status or sense of fashion. She needed to be in a place where everyone was at the same level and it took more than a designer pair of shoes to prove you were above average.

" _Can you wait until next year?"_

Claire doesn't want to wait. She wants to escape; she had been imprisoned by her own expectations.

" _Why do I have to wait? Can't I start in January?" Claire asks still astonished by her eagerness to be in a place that practiced what she considered the most ridiculous._

" _I'll have to talk to the school and make sure I can transfer you in the middle of the school year."_

A few weeks later, they visit the school. Claire is immediately impressed by the display of honor roll students in the hallway outside of the principal's office. They walk to the cafeteria into a sea of students. Everyone looks the same. Claire is comforted by the monotony of the situation; it is much easier to not stand out when no one stands out.

They make their way around the school, exploring the band room, choir room, art room, and theater.

" _This looks expensive," Claira says._

" _We take pride in our drama department," says Dr. Wilson. "The arts are very important to us and our students."_

When they walk into the journalism room, Claire takes in the smell of fresh printer ink. She imagines herself sitting at one of the computers writing about the soccer game, the homecoming dance, the charity's successful fundraiser, the large donation from an alumni, or the new teacher joining the faculty. Claire doesn't mind what the topic is as long as she can write.

" _You should submit something," Dr. Wilson says noticing the steady widening of her eyes as she looks around the room. "We are always looking for new students to join the staff."_

Claira has never seen such happiness on Claire's face and immediately desires nothing more than to make that joy permanent.

They wander through the halls looking into classroom windows, checking out the high tech computer lab, and the science labs that bored her the most. Her mind kept going back to the journalism room.

" _And this is where they edit and put together the literary journal."_

" _What?" Claire says her mind now focused on the room in front of her._

Claire is excited by the thought of finally contributing to her own life and the lives of others with her words. Her current school becomes a distant memory. She couldn't imagine feeling such ease there.

" _We publish two editions, one in the fall and one in the Spring. The head of the English department, along with the editors, choose which things to publish."_

" _Do they choose poetry or short stories?" Claire asks._

" _They do both actually."_

" _I love the school Dr. Wilson," Claira says as they arrive back at her office._

" _We would love to have Claire as a student. What do you think Claire?" he asks._

" _I love it!" she says her voice raising half an octave with each word. With that she is quickly reminded the day she brought home a word processor for Claire. Other girls have that look on their faces with a new pink bike, a Nintendo, or a Barbie dream house. Claira had always known her granddaughter would be a great manipulator of words. And in this moment, knowing this school would foster her writing, she had to make it happen._

The first day of school was wonderful. The school had allowed her to start in January and she was relieved to be in an environment that wouldn't actually make her cringe when she walked through the front door. The nerves and anxiety of the first day of a new school was outweighed by the enthusiasm of being in a school that actually valued what she could offer.

Her first stop was the office to get her locker number; she had gotten her schedule before Christmas and visited the school before the winter break to make sure she knew where her classes were. Next, she had a brief visit with her counselor to talk about adjusting to the new school and basic introductions. Then she headed to find her locker.

" _Hi, I'm Andrea."_

Claire peeks behind the door of her locker to see a petite blonde with green eyes standing with her hand outreached.

" _I'm Claire."_

" _Claire, nice to meet you."_

" _Nice to meet you too," Claire says shaking her hand._

The energy of the school was different. Teachers smiled as they made their way to their respective classrooms. Students appeared as if they were happy to learn. The classrooms were bright and airy and she felt lifted when she passed through the threshold of her first class.

***

Claire walks to the garden to have some private time before the workshop. She grabs a bagel and coffee and decides to eat in the garden. She admires the flowers, breathing in their fragrance, the fragrance mixing with the smell of her black coffee. She sits down on the bench, enjoying the quiet of this moment where her mind can simply be still. She is disappointed when she looks at her watch to see that her workshop starts in 15 minutes.

Claire begins to think about John, hoping that she will see him in the workshop or at least in passing. When she woke up that morning, he was the first thing on her mind. Lewis was her second. She is amazed by the lack of guilt. She knows it will eventually make its way to her consciousness but she desires nothing more than to be in the present. She feels butterflies in her stomach when she remembers the previous afternoon. She tingles with the thought of his hands on her.

When she walks in the door, she scans the room. She is one of the first to arrive and is disappointed every time someone walks in that isn't John. Robyn and Megan don't even spark her attention. Two minutes before the workshop begins, she becomes nervous that she won't be able to see his face. That she won't enjoy looking at his strong chin and admire his perfect lips and relive how they felt on hers. She settles into her chair, content that she will have to spend these two hours without him. The leader of the group sits down in the circle and as if right on queue, the door opens, and there he is; with his button up navy shirt and dark wash jeans that make his amazing butt even more perfect. They look at each other and there is silent communication. They check each other out, their eyes remaining connected until the leader begins introducing herself.

"Good morning, I am Amanda. I think we should go around the room and introduce ourselves."

As each person goes around the room, Claire tries not to stare at John. Robyn and Megan begin to notice the flirtatious eye contact and sexual body language. "She reeks of sex," Megan thinks looking at Claire. After everyone introduces themselves, the leader introduces the topic, the writing process.

"So who in here has to have an extremely detailed outline before they begin writing?" Amanda asks.

"I do," John says.

Claire is surprised. She never would have guessed that the man who is so spontaneous in life would be so organized and methodical in his writing.

"I have to write every detail. I'm deathly afraid of forgetting something."

"Is it easier writing when you have that outline? Does it prevent things like writer's block?"

"Not really," he says and the room laughs with him. "Many times I don't include the ideas and details I've written down but I have to have a thorough place to start."

"That's an interesting point John. The outline is more of a foundation and guide."

Claire absorbs every word and has to stop herself from staring at his lips when he speaks.

"Anyone else need a detailed outline before beginning?"

"I did it once," Tyler says. "And then I threw it out. It was too much."

"What do you mean by too much?" Amanda asks encouraging more detail.

"We are creative people. I found that such a detailed outline was actually stifling my creativity. I felt I had to go by this outline that I had spent so much time on or I would be betraying my own sensibilities and ignoring my own hard work."

"Tyler, I hear this all of the time. While you are writing, you may think of a new idea. But the next two pages of that outline no longer fit the story. What do you do?"

"You change it," Claire says. "The characters will tell their story if you just let them. Now, I'm finishing a non-fiction work but I'm starting an outline for a fiction novel and right now it is close to one page. I think that's enough."

"Some people want to plan every step of their characters and some want the characters to evolve as the story evolves. Is one better than the other? Does one produce a better story?" Amanda asks.

"I mean an outline is an outline. It's not set in stone," John says as if he is defending his method against those who disagree. "I deviate."

"Sometimes a story can write itself," Robyn says. "I'm working on something now and I'm not halfway through and I know how I want it to end. I just don't know how I want to get there. It's part of the fun."

"When I first began writing, I used to spend weeks just outlining the story. I wouldn't even start a book until I knew the ending. Then I realized I didn't have to know how it ends as long as I know how it begins," Amanda says.

"The beginning is the most important part," Claire says. "I teach creative writing and just this last semester I had them write the first chapter of their first novel. They thought I was crazy. But people aren't going to spend 30 minutes reading a book just to figure out if they want to buy it."

"Do you all agree with Claire? Do you think the beginning is the most important part?" Amanda asks.

"I think it is if you are just trying to sell a book," John says winking at Claire. She can't help but blush.

"But I think that the ending has to be the most satisfying part. The reader has to feel all of the previous pages were worth the last sentence," John continues.

"But you have to get them to that last sentence," Megan says. "I agree with Claire."

"In class I asked them to read the first line of the chapter to emphasize how important it is to pull the reader in enough to make them want to read more but not tell them so much that reading it is unnecessary. It's like those horrible movie trailers that tell you the whole story in 60 seconds and leave nothing to make the 10 dollars and 15 minutes to find parking worth it."

"Do you remember one of your favorites from that class?" Robyn asks.

"My favorite was 'Stop, look and listen before you cross the street. First use your eyes and ears and then use your feet.' I thought it was precious."

The room explodes in laughter.

"I hope that student finishes the novel," Charles says intrigued.

"I wish I had brought them. There were some great ones." Claire pauses. "I got one. '"Dahlia's husband watched her eyes close as he pressed his hand against her heart.' I thought the line was perfect. It had..."

"Wait, wait, does anyone agree or disagree. Would you read a book that started with that line?"

"I don't know. I mean isn't it obvious she's dying?" Patty asks.

"I didn't think so," Claire says, like John, defending her opinion. "How do you know she isn't falling asleep?"

"Point taken," Patty says.

"And even if you assume she is dying, you want to know how or why. You want to know the before and after of that moment," Robyn says.

"Your young writers seem extremely talented," John says. "Must have a wonderful teacher."

Claire blushes again, and this time both Robyn and Megan notice.

"Do you plan how long you want it to be?"

"I did once but only because the structure of the chapters was so important. The even numbered chapters took place in the past while the odd ones took place in the present. I wanted to end in the present so it was important," Megan says.

Amanda nods her head but does not respond.

"I think that depends on the type of writer you are. The detailed outliner may decide the number or chapters while another person may let the writing guide itself," Tyler says.

"I think it also depends on the type of book you are writing. Non-fiction almost demands structured writing whereas fiction may not."

"So Claire, how many hours a day do you write?" Amanda asks.

"It depends. Some days I'm busy with classes and research and errands and I may only write for an hour or not at all. Sometimes I may write for five."

"What about you Megan?" Amanda asks beginning to go around the room and inquire about everyone's writing habits.

"I write three hours everyday."

"And you John?"

"I'm with Claire. It just depends."

Claire is surprised again. He has to have a detailed outline but not a detailed schedule? She doesn't understand how one person could be so unpredictable.

"About half the room has a writing schedule and the other half does not. For those who have a schedule, what if you have nothing to write? What if you are blocked?"

"Usually I'll just sit at my desk until something comes," Megan says.

"I may not just sit at my desk but I'll usually stay in the room and pace or lay on the couch," Charles says.

"I couldn't do that. That would drive me nuts," Robyn says. "If the words aren't there they aren't there. I'm not going to force them. I'm a student of the philosophy that better writing and storytelling isn't forced."

"I don't want writing to become like a job," Katherine finally interjects. "I have a schedule for work. I don't want that for writing. Once it becomes a job, it won't be something I do to relax anymore."

Many heads nod in the room.

"So like everything we've previously discussed, schedule versus non-schedule just depends on the person. Okay, so where do you right?"

"What do you mean?" asks Robyn.

"Do you write at a desk in your office, on your couch in the living room, or on your porch?"

"All of it," Claire says.

"Interesting. You don't believe that writing in the same place will support creativity?"

"Just because Stephen King said it doesn't mean it works for everyone."

The room laughs again. Everyone in the room has picked up On Writing.

"Sometimes I write sitting in front of the television on my couch, sometimes I write in my office at school at my desk, sometimes I write on a bench at the botanical gardens, and other times I'm on the outdoor patio at Barnes and Noble. I write where I want to write," Claire continues.

"Does anyone feel differently?"

"I write in bed. That is the only place I will write. I have a specific laptop for my writing that I keep in my bedroom. Sometimes I'll write at my desk or even on the floor, but my bedroom is my sanctuary. Therefore I write there. It is the only place I could potentially be alone when my daughter is there."

"I bet his bedroom is inspiring," Claire thinks to herself.

"Anyone else?"

"I'm boring I guess. I always write in my home office. I guess I'm different from Katherine. I have to treat my writing like a job to make sure it gets done," Charles says.

"And that's okay. I think what we're learning today is that there is no right or wrong way to write. It's whatever works for you."

The room is quiet while Amanda gathers her thoughts. John and Claire continue to take quick glances at each other. Despite the unspoken agreement to never sleep together again, the urge is rising in Claire each time she feels his eyes on her.

"I have a question. Has anyone ever noticed that towards the end of a novel, the story seems rushed?"

"That is so true," Robyn says. "It seems like the writer is anxious to finish but I don't think it's intentional."

"I think they are excited. Even when we read novels we tend to read faster towards the end. They are just as excited about how the novel will end as we are," Megan says.

"I don't like it," Claire says. "The only time I don't really see it is when reading a series like Harry Potter or Wheel of Time."

"Well I think that can be beneficial depending on the story," John says.

"Explain," Amanda says

"If you are writing something John Grisham-esq, picking up the pace towards the end of the climax could affect the reader and give them the feeling you get before a jury reads a verdict."

"Good point," Amanda says.

Claire can always appreciate a man who makes her think and brings to light those things that would have never come to her. For her, John is becoming sexier and sexier with every sentence of enlightenment.

"How do you all keep from doing that?" Amanda asks.

"I don't know if I can," Tyler says. "Writing is like a rollercoaster to me. It's difficult to stop the pace once you have started."

"Do you think readers care?" Amanda continues.

"I don't think so. If that were the case, John Grisham and Stephen King would be poor and broke. Almost every writer would get bad reviews," Robyn says giggling.

"I think as long as the story ends well, the dramatic increase in pace can be excused," Claire says as if she had been a literary critic for 10 years.

"Why do you say that?" John asks.

"At the end of the day, it's all about the story. It's all about the characters. It's all about whether or not the writer told something fascinating yet true. It's about whether or not you loved the villain and hated the protagonist. It's about whether the characters developed into something beyond their initial introduction. After reading the last sentence, you want to be both satisfied and desperate for more."

***

"Hi sweetheart."

"Hi Lewis."

"How is the retreat going?"

"It's been pretty good."

"It's been great," Claire thinks to herself. "It's been the time of my life," she continues. "How have you been?" she asks him.

"I've been okay. Just missing you," Lewis says. "Why do I keep saying that?" he asks himself. Lewis has spent the last 10 days battling between enjoying his time alone and wanting to want his wife to return home. Both want to appear less enthusiastic about their indiscretions and neither want to admit to the lack of guilt they should be feeling. Neither is sure what to talk about. The conversation is slowly progressing and admittedly more like small talk rather than one between two married people.

"I'm sorry I haven't called as much as I should," Claire says trying to pretend consideration.

"It's okay. I know you've been busy writing. Have you gotten a lot done?"

"I have. I think I'm almost done."

"That's awesome."

"Thank you."

Lewis and Claire are becoming exhausted forcing this conversation. But both are determined to say something real to each other that isn't contrived or shallow. Neither can talk about what is really on their minds. Lewis cannot talk about Sasha and his evenings not alone in the pool, in a hotel room, in the car and in the guest room. Claire cannot talk about John. Both wonder how a person can regret something they want to happen again. How both can in one breath profess love for the other and wanting to improve their marriage and then doing one of the few things that could ruin it?

"What time does your plane land?" Lewis asks after struggling to find something to say.

"4."

Claire is having the same problem.

"Well Lewis, I'm going to go. It's almost time for lunch."

"Okay. Text me when you take off."

"I will."

Lewis wants to say I love you. He wants to speak it and mean it. But the words won't escape his lips. His heart won't let him tell her he loves her when he's not sure it's the truth. Claire doesn't want him to say it. If he says it, she will feel obligated to say it back.

"I'll see you in a few days."

"Okay. Bye Lewis."

"Bye."

That was the most awkward conversation they ever had. It was full of admissions and feelings that were never spoken.

"A few days," Claire thinks to herself. She doesn't want to go home. She wants to stay in this beautiful place. She wants to stay in this moment with John. She wants to stay with these women who, without much thought, have accepted her. But then she realizes the beauty of this situation is the lack of intimacy. Intimacy requires truth and revelation and she doesn't want either. Truth and revelation lead to judgment. Judgment would put her back to the place she was before she left.

Claire puts her phone on the night stand and heads out to the living room to see what the ladies are doing. All of them are sitting down watching television. She doesn't know they have been waiting to begin an ambush.

"Claire..."

"Yes Robyn?"

Claire is suspicious. She knows that tone, the tilted head, and slightly closed eyes as if she is trying to figure something out.

"What is up with you and John?"

"What do you mean?"

"We noticed the flirting during that workshop," Megan says.

"I used to be so good at this," Claire thinks to herself, remembering the days when she could easily hide what she was feeling. "Nothing is going on between John and I," she says as confidently as possible.

"We don't believe you," Mary says smiling.

"You don't have to," Claire says.

"You can tell us Claire."

"No I can't," she thinks to herself. Claire sorts through her emotions trying to find the one that is preventing her from telling them about her night with John. It isn't shame or guilt or regret. Once she realizes the reason she can't quite label it. She tries her best to divert their curiosity. Claire wants that time between her and John to be only theirs. She doesn't want to share her secret. In her past, her secrets had been known to everyone before she knew about them. This time she wanted the secret. She wanted to hide something. She wanted to know something first and control when it was told and to whom.

***

"This wasn't supposed to happen again. We made a pact."

"You made a pact," John says kissing and pulling her shirt over her head.

"Should we be doing this again? We can't call a 2nd time an accident."

"It wasn't an accident the first time."

John pushes her on the bed and takes his own clothes off quickly.

"Wait John, I don't know if I can do this."

"If you don't want to then just tell me."

Claire is relieved and turned on. They could still say their proper goodbyes and John would remain an amazing fling that summer. But the genuine sincerity of this naked man, who isn't trying to convince her to do anything that would jeopardize how she feels about herself, makes her feel even more attracted to him.

"Ah fuck it," she says pulling him into her and giving into that part of herself that had been lost. A part of herself she hadn't discovered until the right person came along and told her it was okay.

Chapter 8

Claire awakens refreshed. She turns her head to find herself laying next to John. The cabin is cool; they had turned the heat off before they went to sleep. Neither could sleep if they were hot. Claire admires the peaceful and undisturbed expression on his face. She is mesmerized by the up and down movement of his chest as he quietly breathes. She sits up and kisses him on the forehead. She puts her feet on the cold floor and takes a look at the clock. She is relieved to have a few hours before she has to leave.

"Where are you going?" John says opening his eyes.

"Well I can't just walk around naked."

"Yes you can," he says smiling. "I would really appreciate it."

Claire laughs and stands up.

"Don't go yet," John says reaching for her arm.

Claire smiles, accepting and reciprocating the desire in his eyes.

"Just one more time," he says putting his arm around her waist.

Without hesitation, she leans down to kiss his lips. She indulges in him. She takes in every touch and kiss of this intimate moment. She breathes in his scent and touches every dimple and strand of hair. She appreciates every touch of his hands and makes a mental note of how they feel.

This time is like the first time. John intentionally slows every movement, doing the same as Claire, doing what he can to make sure he remembers every curve of her body. It is easy for John to remain in this moment. Unlike Claire, there is nothing to carry home with him.

"You are so beautiful," he says looking into her eyes.

She smiles and puts her hand around his neck pulling herself up to him. A kiss is the only way she knows how to respond. The only meaningful way. For once, she is without words.

Claire's mind races as she mulls over the ecstasy and the sin. She isn't under the slightest impression that he is her future. She doesn't believe that this affair will go beyond these 50 acres. She knows John cannot be home but she is delighted by the idea that he could...in another life.

"2 weeks isn't enough time to fall in love, is it?" she asks herself enjoying his body on top of hers.

Claire isn't aware John is thinking the same thing. Wishing he could sweep her off her feet and convince her that there is no need to return to the house she hates living in.

"I wish we could be together," he says without thinking.

Claire doesn't want to have to break his heart. She wishes she could do both, be a devoted wife and his lover.

"Don't freak out," John says feeling her body tense. "I'm not asking you to run away with me. I'm just telling you my greatest hope right now."

"I'm not freaking out," Claire says. It's the truth. Just a mild anxiety."

"Liar."

"We may not be able to run away together but we can have breakfast."

John smiles. Claire can see the disappointment in his face; she can also see how hard he is trying to hide it.

"I wish things were different too John," Claire says putting her chin on his chest. "I wish we had met years ago. I wish I had the courage to leave Lewis right now but he at least deserves that I try. I even wish I could tell you that maybe in a year or two I will be available. But I can't promise anything."

Claire has never felt so comfortable in the presence of a man. There is nothing in him that reminds her of her father. There is no part of who he is that is in her husband. She can be herself. But she is relieved to leave today. Her time with him can remain a wonderful memory.

Their silence isn't awkward or uncomfortable. It's beautiful and sweet. They have nothing else to say because it has all been said. .

"Now how about that breakfast? Meet in an hour?"

"And where would you like to have breakfast?" John asks.

"Why don't we go to the dining room, fix a plate, and then sit by the lake."

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"People seeing us walk out together? They might make some assumptions."

"So?"

"Did I just say that?" she thinks to herself. Claire has always been aware of the looks and whispers. She has done whatever she could to subdue them or at least soften the impact of the rumors.

"I don't care what they think. Some of these women are my friends but I want to have breakfast with you. They can assume what they want."

Claire knows walking into the dining room with John will turn heads and initiate whispers. They will talk about what they think is going on and remember that she's married. She knows she will give them something to talk about in their cars and on their planes. She smiles walking into the door of her cabin, almost laughing at the thought of being breakfast's entertainment.

"Hi Claire," Megan says with a smirk while she is sitting on the couch watching Good Morning America.

"Can I at least take a shower before you start interrogating me?"

"No," Megan says laughing.

Claire sits in the chair across from her.

"Where have you been?"

"Writer's cabin."

"Doing what?"

"I'm sure writer's cabin is self-explanatory."

"Claire, I'm not an idiot. I didn't get my PhD by being stupid."

Claire leans back in her chair. She is desperate to hold onto every second of her time with John. She isn't ashamed to share; she just doesn't want to. But she knows that Megan will continue to persist until she gets the answers she wants to hear.

"You don't have to tell me the details. Just confirm or deny that you were with John."

"Why do you need to know this?"

"Because someone needs to remind you of your husband."

"You don't have to remind me. I am fully aware."

"Are you sure you can handle this?"

"What is there to handle?"

"You may be feeling good now but you won't be feeling this way when you get home."

"Now who's treating someone like an idiot?"

"I just want you to be careful. You've told me all about your marriage. I know you aren't happy and I know you don't think he is either. But cheating isn't going to make that all better. Just because you don't feel married doesn't mean that adultery isn't still adultery."

Claire never gets upset. She rarely raises her voice. But now, she feels attacked.

"Damnit Megan. Are you my fucking mother? I'm a grown ass woman fully aware of what I am doing. I know there will be backlash when I get home. I know eventually I will feel bad. But I haven't felt this good...ever. Ever! Can't I just have this?"

Megan retreats. "I'm sorry. I'm just concerned."

"I know Megan. I know. But if you are my friend, be here for me now. And when life explodes in my face, be there for me then."

"I think I can do that," Megan says with tears in her eyes. She didn't mean to belittle her friend.

"Thank you." Claire suddenly feels the urge to reveal what has been happening with John. She wants to share how he makes her feel. "I guess this is what being in love feels like."

***

"So this is goodbye," John says running his hand across her cheek.

"Maybe not," Claire says putting her hand in his.

"Where is your phone?" he asks.

Claire searches her purse and gives it him.

"I'm going to put my number and email address in your phone. If you ever want to talk, text, call or email." He puts the phone back in her purse.

John puts her face in his hands and kisses her softly. Claire turns to put her purse on the seat.

"I will miss you."

"Is it too late to convince you to come with me?" John asks.

Claire giggles, secretly wishing she could say yes.

"Just always think of me," John says kissing her again.

Claire sits on the seat but doesn't close the door. She stares at him, memorizing every detail of his face. He kneels down in front of her.

"I don't want you to leave either."

"What's going to happen now?" Claire asks searching for assurance that she can return to her life with some normalcy.

"Well, you are going to go back to doing research and finish your book."

"And you are going to back to your law firm and continue working towards a partnership. And continue to be an amazing father."

They are quiet. John refuses to mention anything about her marriage and husband. "Just say it," Claire says.

"And you will go back to your husband."

Just as quick as Lewis comes into her mind, she forces him out.

"I wish I weren't married."

The look on John's face shocks Claire. He appears puzzled.

"I wish you were happy," John says not wanting to encourage a separation.

They kiss one more time, this time holding the kiss long enough to make a permanent mental impression.

Both of them hope to at least speak to each other again but know this is most likely the end. John knows that Claire is the type of woman to fulfill her obligations and she sees marriage as one. He knows that Claire will never leave Lewis for him. She feels a responsibility to work on her marriage even though her desire lies with him. Maybe she can learn to love Lewis again like she loves John. Maybe she doesn't want to love Lewis that way. Claire is ashamed to think that she would be content being married to one man and giving her heart to another.

***

Lewis wakes up in the guest room to the sound of the alarm on his cell phone. He turns it off and looks over, staring at the woman lying next to him. His eyes begin at her long red hair down her back to the light blue sheet covering the rest of her body. He gets out of the bed and heads to the bathroom. He stares in the mirror thinking about Claire. He waits for the guilt and shame to arise. He wants to feel it. He wants to punish himself for sleeping with another woman. But nothing. He feels nothing.

When he arrives back to the room, the bed is empty. As he walks down the hall to his bedroom to get dressed, he hears footsteps downstairs. He walks down finding Sasha in the kitchen.

"I wanted to surprise you," she says taking eggs out of the refrigerator.

Lewis smiles ecstatic to watch a beautiful half naked woman make breakfast for him.

"What are you making?" he asks coming around and kissing her on the cheek.

"None of your business. Now go upstairs and shower. By that time, your breakfast will be done."

Lewis kisses her and goes back to his bedroom. He can't help but imagine the life he would have if Claire was like her. If she had sex with him on a regular basis. If she was spontaneous. If she made him breakfast in the morning and wanted to go skinny dipping in the heated pool. He wants Claire to be that woman.

As he stands in the shower, he forces himself to think of her. He tries to redevelop that sexual attraction he once had. He pretends she is the one he woke up next to and the one now making him breakfast. He imagines Claire's personality has suddenly transformed and when she gets off the plane, she runs to him, kisses him passionately, and urges him to drive home quickly so they can make love. .

He turns off the shower hoping to turn off his desire for Sasha. He wants to stop wanting her. He wants Claire to be enough. He wants a little better than bearable to be enough. "For better or worse," he keeps repeating to himself. "If this vow had not been enough, why would it be enough now?"

He puts on a pair of jeans and polo and walks down the hall. The smell of bacon envelops him as he makes his way back to the kitchen.

"I made some mimosas," Sasha says bringing his plate to the counter.

Lewis smiles, wishing he could have this everyday. But in a few hours, his life will return to normal. His home will once again be cold. His bed will once again feel empty. His life will once again be monotonous and unfulfilling.

"So what time are you picking her up from the airport?"

His wife didn't have a name. Sasha doesn't want to acknowledge her existence. In all honesty, she has been in love with Lewis for months but understands his hesitance to leave his marriage. He has told her about Claire's past and everything she has gone through, including the death of her grandmother. Lewis felt, on some level, that he was telling Sasha too much but since he couldn't have an open and honest conversation with his wife, he had to confide in someone. Sasha has never asked him to leave Claire or given him an ultimatum. She spends the time with him that she can and hopes that one day their marriage just naturally dissolves. And he will choose her.

"She arrives at 4."

"Well that gives us a lot of time to..."

"To what?"

Sasha winks and smiles at Lewis. He immediately gets excited. The rest of their conversation consists of plans for the rest of the morning and reminiscing the past two weeks. When Lewis contacted her that first day, he thought that would be it. He would get his fix and then spend the rest of the time having fun but remaining faithful. Instead, after one night, he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the time with her. It had been the best two weeks of his life with a woman. And he feels guilty even admitting that.

"Thank you," Sasha says getting up and putting her plate in the sink.

"For what?" Lewis asks following with his own.

"For these last two weeks."

"You say this like this is goodbye."

"Lewis, I think it is. You are determined to work things out with your wife."

"That doesn't mean it's going to work. That doesn't mean we have to stop seeing each other."

"You can't work on your marriage and still see me."

Lewis realizes Sasha is right. The hypocrisy of the situation would be too much even for him. Lewis puts his arms around her waist with hers around his neck.

"We still have now," Lewis says kissing her.

"Hey, come on, I need to take a shower," Sasha says grabbing his hand and leading him to the bathroom.

"I've already had one," Lewis says laughing.

"Then we'll just have to get dirty first."

***

Claire puts on her lip gloss and puts the final touches on her hair. She adds a touch of hair spray to make sure her curls survive the night and heads back to her room to put on her new black leather pumps. She sits on her queen size bed with pink comforter and slides them on.

Claire has just moved into her new apartment and has to dodge boxes as she tries to find her sweater and purse. Her apartment is small but perfect. When she looked at it the first time, she fell in love. It is a loft with exposed brick walls and hardwood floors.

She fell in love with the floor to ceiling windows and open floor plan. She was intrigued by the juxtaposition of the old structure and new finishings. When she saw the bedroom, bathroom, and closet in the model, she had to have it. The large bedroom provided enough space for a king size bed. The walk-in closet had enough room for her shoes, which was the most important, and the bathroom was like a spa. The bathroom was a place she could relax and get away from the stress of her day. Originally she had wanted two bedrooms, but a small den space had suddenly become enough when she saw how much smaller the master bedroom would be.

Unlike most women, she didn't care about the kitchen. It is gorgeous with granite countertops, an under-mounted sink, and stainless steel appliances. For anyone who loved to cook and wanted to spend their hours in the space, it would be perfect. "There is enough counter space to spread out my takeout food and a place for a microwave," she said to the leasing consultant.

Claire wasn't sure about agreeing to go out with Lewis the day she moved in. She still hadn't unpacked her clothes and shoes and had decided to go out and buy a new outfit instead of searching through her belongings for the perfect anniversary dress and shoes.

The bell rings and she makes her way to the intercom.

" _Who is it?" she says pressing the speak button._

" _It's your wonderfully awesome boyfriend," Lewis says._

Claire smiles and lets him in. She quickly continues her search. Just as Lewis knocks on the door, she grabs her purse and puts her cardigan on her arm. She takes a final look in the hallway mirror and opens the door. Lewis is standing in dark jeans, a white polo shirt, and a navy jacket with a dozen pink roses. Claire thanks him as she takes them and puts them on the coffee table.

" _Hi honey. You look gorgeous. I feel under-dressed."_

" _You look amazing," Claire says kissing him on the lips._

" _Don't you want to put them in a vase with water?" Lewis asks._

" _We will be starving by the time I find the vase," Claire says looking around the room trying to guess which box her vase could be in. Claire shakes her head, glad that she will have this time away from the chaos of creating a home._

" _Where are we going? Claire asks locking her door._

" _It's a surprise," Lewis says holding her hand._

" _Do I get a tour of the apartment later?"_

" _If you help me unpack."_

Lewis laughs knowing Claire is somewhat serious and is not ashamed to enlist his help.

Claire tries to guess where they are going based on the landmarks. They pass a long street of fast food restaurants and gas stations but then hang a left at a country club. Lewis gets on the interstate but two exits down, gets off and follows back roads. It doesn't take long for Claire to realize that he is just trying to confuse her.

After 20 minutes, Lewis pulls up to the parking deck of the hospital. Claire's first thought is that he forgot something, "but why would he park in the deck?" she asks herself. "Maybe he has a sick family member," she thinks as he gets out of the car," but he wouldn't be grinning ear to ear in that case."

" _Come on," he says opening her door._

She steps out of the car, wondering if the man she loves is really bringing her to the hospital for their anniversary. "Maybe he wants to introduce me to his colleagues," she thinks as they cross the street into the emergency room entrance. Seeing people coughing and sneezing, bleeding, those with broken limbs, and saddened families is not her idea of a great beginning to a special night. But Claire forces herself to give Lewis the benefit of the doubt.

They make their way through the emergency room navigating the hospital.

" _How do you not get lost in here?" Claire asks as they weave in and out of corridors._

" _Oh trust me, I do," he says._

The walk is becoming familiar as she remembers the same walk 3 years ago. But then, there wasn't an addition to the hospital and finding the cafeteria only required two turns.

" _Here we go," Lewis says walking through the cafeteria door._

Claire isn't impressed until her eyes see a table in the back of the room. The round table is covered in a white tablecloth with two candelabras. There is a small bouquet of blue hydrangeas in the middle with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Claire smiles and kisses Lewis on the cheek.

They make their way, hospital staff looking at them as they pass. "He is so romantic," Claire thinks to herself. As they walk, she thinks about their first date. She remembers her first impression and how on that day she wouldn't have imagined she would be here 3 years later.

" _This is beautiful," Claire says when they arrive at the table and she can notice all of the details._

After she sits, she feels many pairs of eyes on her. She looks around the room. Some of the women are staring, looking as if they are watching the cutest romantic comedy they had ever seen. Claire is certain some of the women had taken a stab at getting Lewis. He is extraordinarily handsome with his perfect dark hair and green eyes and with the athletic build that would suggest a swimmer not a doctor.

" _So what are we having?"_

Just as she asks, a waiter in black pants, a white oxford shirt, and a black tie bring two small plates and a large bowl of fried calamari.

" _This looks great."_

Claire grabs a piece and dips it in the sauce as Lewis begins to describe his day. After a couple of minutes, the waiter returns with two garden salads.

" _I hope this is the entire dinner. You know I can't eat much."_

Lewis laughs.

" _How was the move?"_

" _Easy," Claire says taking a bite of her salad._

" _Really?"_

" _It's very easy when you hire movers."_

Lewis laughs. "I'm sorry I couldn't help."

" _It's okay. I know you are a busy doctor."_

Lewis and Claire's conversation flows naturally. It reminds Claire of their first date. Soon the waiter comes back to get their plates.

" _I'm ready for the main course," Claire says anxious to know what Lewis has chosen for their anniversary dinner._

The waiter puts the silver platters on the table and takes off the top. Claire is surprised by what she sees; fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and black-eyed peas. Claire laughs as she takes in the smell.

" _You told me your favorite meal Claira cooks for you."_

" _Oh you do listen," Claira says picking up her fork. "The only thing missing is cornbread."_

Just as she says that, the waiter brings a plate of cornbread for both of them.

" _You don't miss a beat Lewis."_

She begins to eat her food, enjoying every bite.

" _This tastes just like Claira's food," she says._

Lewis laughs.

" _What?" Claire says wondering._

" _Nothing," Lewis says._

" _Tell me," Claire says beginning to laugh with him._

" _It is Claira's food. She was gracious enough to cook this part of our meal."_

" _Such a wonderful woman," Claire says imagining her grandmother cooking dinner for them._

" _How did you convince her to do that?"_

" _I didn't have to. I told her it was a special night and she said yes without hesitation."_

Claire and Lewis continue to eat, Lewis becoming more and more anxious by the moment. While he eats, he fumbles around in his pocket making sure the box is still there. He goes over the speech that he had written the night before. He makes sure he knows every word.

" _Lewis?"_

He does not hear Claire, distracted by his own mental reciting.

" _Lewis," she says sternly._

" _Yes?" he says finally hearing her._

" _What's wrong?"_

" _Nothing."_

" _Lewis, I've known you for 3 years. I know when something's wrong."_

" _I'm just nervous that's all."_

" _About what?"_

Lewis decides this may be the perfect time. If he doesn't do it now, he may never do it. "That's not true," he says to himself. But his anxiety may worsen and the moment she is supposed to remember for the rest of her life will be a mess of mumbling and stuttering.

" _Claire, I love you."_

" _I love you too Lewis." Claire continues eating, oblivious to the thoughts racing through his mind. The fear flowing through his body._

" _You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I can't imagine my life without you and I don't want to. I don't want to ever be without you. "_

Claire puts down her fork now aware of what is about to happen. Her nerves are just as frazzled as his and she is just as afraid.

" _Claire, my love," he says getting on his knee. "Will you marry me?"_

He pulls the box out of his pocket and opens it. Claire is pleased to see a princess cut diamond with a platinum band. She is even more pleased to see a ruby on each side of it. She smiles but doesn't know what to say. She looks around the room to see everyone's eyes on her, waiting for her yes. "I don't know if I want to marry him," she says to herself. "But how can I say no in here with everyone looking when he went to so much trouble? How can I say no in this romantic moment?"

Claire looks up into his eyes and her heart begins to race. He looks like a teenage boy waiting to hear if his crush will go to the dance with him. She loves him. But she never imagined she would ever marry. They had never discussed getting married. They never talked about those important things like where they are going to live, children, buying a home, what kind of wedding they would want... Claire wants to say yes. She wants to make this man happy.

It feels likes minutes but only seconds have passed since he asked the question. Claire can see his hand has begun to shake and his breathing has quickened. "I can't embarrass him in front of all of these people...in front of his colleagues."

" _Yes," Claire says despite her uncertainty._

Lewis stands up, puts the ring on her finger, and hugs her tight. She feels his heart beating against her neck. He leans back and gives her a lingering kiss. She closes her eyes and forces herself to enjoy the moment. All she can think of is the smile on Claira's face.

Claire's heart warms when she takes in the smile on his face. When she sees the bliss in his eyes. She is contented thinking about her life with Lewis. She is satisfied to be his wife. She is satisfied she could make him this happy.

***

Claire stands and waits for her bag. John and Lewis have traded places, Lewis is in her dreams and John is her reality. She likes how that feels. She is almost put to sleep by the sound of the conveyer belt moving, the sounding of the alarm and the rustling of bags. She looks closely at the black bags searching for her name tag. "Lewis was right. I should have chosen a bright color," she says.

She feels relieved when she finally spots her light blue tag. She grabs her bag and makes her way outside of the terminal. She waits and with each passing second becomes more impatient. She hates waiting. His black Mercedes SVU comes into sight. She never knew why he needed such a large car. She suspected it was in anticipation of children.

When she sees his face, she becomes heavy. Her heart sinks into her stomach and she finds it hard to catch her breath.

"Hi honey," he says grabbing her bag and kissing her cheek.

She stands frozen for a moment. Her legs will not let her get in the car with Lewis. His eyes aren't the ones that have excited her the last two weeks. His hands aren't the ones that have sent her heart and body into a tailspin. His voice isn't the one she has waited to hear every day.

Then her stomach turns as she finds the strength to put one foot in front of the other. "This is my husband," she repeats to herself. It's as if she knew for the past two weeks, but now her time with John had become surreal and her marriage had become the reality she had avoided while in Vermont.

"So tell me all about it," Lewis says trying to engage his wife.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

Claire doesn't know where to start. 50% of her experience included a man she cannot mention to her husband. She focuses on the workshops.

"I'll be on lock down for the next week."

"I understand."

The conversation is short and Lewis turns on NPR to break the awkward silence. "It shouldn't be this difficult to talk to my wife," he thinks as Melissa Block begins "All Tech Considered." Claire finally takes a deep breath at the sound of public radio. She doesn't want to talk to Lewis. Not only does she not want to but she can't.

Claire can see Lewis is uncomfortable. She can see he is struggling to participate in their marriage. "Is it bad that I don't care?" she asks herself closing her eyes. She begins to feel bad watching him adjust and readjust in the driver's seat.

"Tell me how you spent your time off? I know you had plenty of boys' nights."

Lewis wasn't expecting Claire to exhibit any interest in what he had done while she was gone but was happy to hear the question. Claire listens to him, mentally changing his voice, eyes and lips so the 7 minutes left in the car together are ones she can minimally enjoy.

***

"This is hard," Claire says.

"Already?"

"I've never had a secret. Even my disturbed past was once on the front page news."

"What are you going to do?" Robyn asks concerned for her new friend.

"I don't know. I'm not going to tell him anything of course."

"Well honey you are going to have to tell him."

"Why?"

"Well you are his wife. You are supposed to be honest with him."

"Didn't I ruin the honesty thing when I slept with John?"

Robyn is silent.

"Robyn, I'm a little worried. I don't feel anything."

"You mean you aren't guilty?"

"Yes! I don't feel guilty. I should feel guilty. Shouldn't I? I promised this man I would be faithful and I wasn't."

"What do you want me to say? It will probably hit you when you least expect it. So be prepared."

"That doesn't sound like something to look forward to. I don't want to feel guilty."

"It's natural sweetie. You may not be in love with him anymore and you may not feel married, but you are a good person. Eventually, you will feel the pain of cheating."

"I don't feel like a good person. But I don't care."

"Why don't you care?"

"I've spent my entire life caring. Caring about other people, caring about my husband's feelings, caring about my career, caring about my students, caring about their feelings. I want to not care about something for once."

"Sounds like you are being selfish."

"Is that a bad thing? Why does that word have such a negative connotation?"

"No I don't think it's bad. But remember that what you do has consequences. So doing something for yourself will affect the people around you."

"I don't think he would care."

"You don't think Lewis would care if you cheated?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Because I think he is just pretending to care now."

"Wow Claire. That's harsh."

"It's not a bad thing. He feels the same way I do. He's trying to hide it but I know. He is trying really hard to make us work."

"Are you going to?"

"What do you mean?"

"Make your marriage work. I mean really try. Not just sit in therapy and pretend to listen."

"I am. I feel obligated to. When he proposed, I said yes, and I shouldn't have."

"That's intense."

"I know. I thought about that on the plane home. I wasn't certain but I didn't want to embarrass him in the middle of the hospital cafeteria in front of his colleagues."

"A hospital cafeteria? He proposed in a hospital cafeteria?"

"He was a resident when we met. He didn't have a lot of time. Our first date was in the cafeteria of the hospital."

"That's actually sweet."

"I know. How could I tell the man no?"

"Well, you could have told him later."

"And then give my grandmother a heart attack who celebrated for weeks when I told her I was marrying Lewis? She was happier than me. Her granddaughter was marrying a doctor."

"So you married him for everyone else except yourself."

"Pretty much. But he is a good man. I enjoyed my time with him. I was in love with him. So I thought I would give it a try. I didn't mind the idea of spending the rest of my life with him. I thought I would be lucky to have a man who loved me so much he would risk embarrassment just to show me how much."

"Do you have feelings for him at all?"

"I don't have any romantic feelings."

"Do you love him?"

"Like a friend. I still want him in my life."

"You may not be able to have your cake and eat it too."

Chapter 9

Claire and Lewis sit in the car, the engine still running as they both stare at the sprawling tree in front of them. Lewis slowly turns the key toward him and the car quickly shutters as he places the keys in his jacket pocket.

"Are you sure we need to do this?" Claire asks.

"How can someone who sees an individual therapist be so opposed to marriage counseling?"

"I'm used to being in therapy alone. How can we truly be honest about a person with that other person right next to you?"

"Then why don't we promise to be honest about and with each other right now."

Claire sits and thinks about the idea of having to promise to be honest to her husband. The idea is laughable. "We should always be this way," she thinks to herself. "Honesty is implied in the marriage contract. Why is it we are only now promising to tell the truth? Maybe we wouldn't be going to see a marriage counselor if we had."

Claire and Lewis walk in the office and check in with the receptionist. They sit in two chairs next to each other, Lewis taking out his Blackberry and Claire picking up a magazine. Lewis reaches out his right hand waiting for her left. "Holding hands could be a new beginning," he says waiting anxiously for her to return the affection.

She finally notices and puts her hand on his, their fingers intertwining. She begins to remember the first time they held hands. After their first date, Lewis offered to walk Claire to her car before he had to get back to his rounds. He helped her put on her sweater and as soon as his hand was free, he grabbed hers. He squeezed it and smiled. She smiled back and began walking with him. Despite her initial impressions, she thought they could at least be friends. And there was nothing wrong with friends holding hands.

"She's ready for you," Linda says briefly looking up from her computer.

When they walk in, Dr. Casey gets up from her desk and shakes their hands.

"Sorry for your wait. I had to finish up some notes from a previous session."

"It's okay, "Claire says politely searching for the perfect place to sit.

"Why don't you all take a seat on the couch." Dr. Casey insists.

Lewis has already taken a seat at one end and Claire slowly sits down next to him, wondering if she can slip into the chair next to Dr. Casey. Realizing she has no other option, at least not one that makes sense, she relaxes into the cushion, placing her purse on the floor.

"You can put that on my desk if you like," Dr. Casey says.

Just like Claire, she had been told by both grandmothers, her mother, and her aunt that if you put your purse on the floor, you will lose money.

"Thank you," Claire says.

Dr. Casey is silent. Claire had seen many psychoanalytic methodologies. She had participated in many a technique to get a client to open up and spill their guts. Because of her awareness, Claire leans back on the loveseat and waits. Lewis takes his queue from her.

"So what brought you in today? I haven't seen you in a couple of months."

"We have major issues," Claire says.

Lewis is alarmed by her word choice. Major makes their issues appear insurmountable and daunting. Major categorizes their issues in the file marked "not worth the counseling."

"I wouldn't say major."

"How would you describe them Lewis?" Dr. Casey asks.

"Challenging."

Challenging is a better word. People are able to obtain goals and overcome obstacles that are challenging. And challenges have the potential to improve a person's skill and build character.

"Claire, you tell me, what do you think are the challenges?"

"Where do I start," she thinks to herself. She could be having dinner with John right now. She could be making love. She could just be sitting on the couch next to him working on her book while he watched Sportscenter.

"We don't communicate well. We hardly speak to each other."

"Whose fault is that?" Lewis says.

"Lewis, let her say what's on her mind. Then you can respond."

"I don't feel anything for him anymore. There isn't a spark. There isn't any passion. I don't think I'm in love with him anymore."

Claire looks at Lewis trying to determine how much she may have hurt him. His face is stoic and unchanging.

"Lewis?"

"Yes," he says his mind mulling over every word.

"What do you think about what Claire said?"

"She's right," Lewis says. "We don't have a spark and we aren't in love anymore. We don't communicate with each other. Things aren't the same as they were in the beginning."

"Well they aren't supposed to be," Claire says. "But it's not supposed to be like this."

Lewis is in disbelief over Claire's openness. They look at each other as if they haven't known each other for the past 8 years.

"Is this normal?" Lewis asks. "We've only been married 5 years and we are already having problems."

"Tell me what your normal would be. What would you all like your marriage to be like?"

They look at each other wondering who would speak first. Intrigued by the potential answers. Wanting their answers to be the same but secretly hoping they aren't.

"I want to wake up next to someone I don't want to leave in the morning. I want to talk to my spouse about everything. I want to come home to a place that feels warm and inviting. I want someone to rip my clothes off and fuck me sideways."

Claire's breath becomes labored at the end. Lewis eyes are widened hearing his wife talk about sex. He didn't know she even wanted sex anymore.

"Claire!"

"What?"

"I'm...just..."

"Surprised? Shocked? Embarassed?" Claire asks.

"Yes, yes, no. I didn't know you wanted sex that badly. Why didn't you say anything?"

Claire's mind returns to John. Ever since that last week, her libido has tripled. But she isn't willing to settle for a chaotic tussle with Lewis.

"Is that all you got out of what I said?"

"I'm a man Claire"

"Not the man I need," she thinks to herself.

"Why have you never told me any of this?" He continues.

"Well we did just both mention our issues with communication."

"Lewis, you haven't told us what you want," Dr. Casey interjects.

"I want more sex. I want to have more fun. I want us to be more spontaneous. I want us to communicate better. I want you to be a little less selfish. I want to be in love again."

"Less selfish," Claire responds, honestly not surprised.

"Yes Claire. Our home is dictated by your rules. And when I try to inquire about your life, you bite my head off. Everything we do is what you want to do. I have no say in our relationship."

"That's not true!" Claire yells. "Yes it is," she thinks to herself, realizing she has taken every step she can to take control over any aspect of her life possible. This has included her husband.

"Claire and Lewis, we need to calm down and talk about what you want. Now Claire, if Lewis could only change one thing, what would it be?"

Claire sits quietly. "Change into John," she thinks trying to come up with a reasonable request.

"I wish he would be more patient. He has no idea what my life has been like. I wish he would take that into consideration when I'm not exactly being loving and affectionate."

"I try to understand."

"But some things are not easy to talk about."

"Shouldn't they be with me? I married you. I'm not going to judge you."

"The only person I've been able to talk to is Claira."

"Well..."

Lewis stops, not wanting to sound like an insensitive jackass.

"What is it Lewis?"

"I don't want to say anything. It will probably just start another argument."

"Might as well go ahead and get it out of the way."

Dr. Casey is still silent. Claire thinks it is ridiculous to pay 150 dollars an hour to sit in someone's office and argue.

"Claire, I know she was important to you. But you told her everything and told me nothing. She knew more about you than I did."

"Isn't that the way it is supposed to be? She is the woman that raised me."

"I agree. But I would hear about important things from Claira. I heard about your publishing deal from Claira. Why didn't you want to tell me first?"

Claire takes in a breath ready to respond but exhales when she is unable to develop a response. Why didn't she want to tell Lewis first? Why didn't she tell him anything? In her mind a man cannot be trusted. A man is not someone she can trust with her body or heart. A man is not someone who cares and will do anything he can to protect her. A man does not have her best interest at heart. A man doesn't care about her greatest accomplishments

"I don't know Lewis. I don't know."

She knows but she doesn't have the emotional energy to discuss the destructive effects of the first five tumultuous years of her life. She has been dealing with the damage for all of her life. Now, in her thirties, she is just now beginning to learn to manage her life and develop the strength to carry the baggage of her childhood. She has slowly begun to bring them to light but insists they be on her terms. And now is not the time.

"What are we going to do?" Lewis asks directing his question to both Claire and Dr. Casey.

Claire sits and waits for a response.

"What do you think you should do?" Dr. Casey asks.

The room is quiet. You shouldn't suggest a divorce during your first session of therapy.

Dr. Casey patiently waits for them to go through all of the suggestions swimming in their minds. Once a couple of minutes has passed, she interjects with her own.

"Claire, you have to decide if this is something you can change. I know your grandmother was your true confidant. Now that she is gone, you will need someone to talk to. You can't hold everything in. If Lewis can't be that person, you need to tell him. It seems to me that a continued lack of communication is a deal breaker."

"It doesn't seem like it but you are asking me to do a lot."

"Your fucked up father ruined it for me," Lewis says.

"Don't say that," Claire says defiantly.

"Really? You're defending him? Just because I said something you are defending that asshole."

"I'm not defending him. I'm just..."

Claire doesn't know what she is doing. Her dad would never have gotten the father of the year award but he was still her father. He was still the man who contributed something to their home. It may not have been good but he was present.

"I'm just trying to make sense of all of this. You can't blame him for our dysfunctional marriage," Claire says.

"No...you are right. But I can blame him for your distance and coldness. I can blame him for your inability to give yourself to any man. I can blame him for the calculated way you live your life. I can blame him for you not even giving me a chance. I can blame him for you not wanting children. I can blame him..."

Lewis pauses, replaying what he said in his mind. Claire does the same. "Maybe it isn't me," she thinks to herself realizing that she has given of herself to a man. She has been vulnerable. She has let a man see her.

"Lewis, you said that she doesn't want children. Why do you think that?"

"Because she has told me."

"She's said it directly?"

"No. But every time I bring up the subject, she says it's not the right time."

"Claire?"

Claire wants to run; not walk, but run out of the door. This is why she wanted this conversation before they got married. She could have told him then that the chance of her wanting children was the same chance Glenn Beck had of being President of the Democratic National Convention.

"Is he right Claire?"

"Yes, I do avoid the subject. I do brush it off and just tell him I'm not ready."

"Claire, do you want to have children?" Dr. Casey asks.

Claire knows her answer will break his heart. She knows Lewis desperately wants to be a father. It is at his core to nurture and love. He grew up in the family you see on television. He was raised by both of his parents who displayed their unconditional love. He has two brothers and they all come together on the holidays and sit around the table laughing about their time together and recalling embarrassing stories.

Maybe part of her "yes" was her desire for his family. Sometimes, she became jealous. When she went with him to visit his family for Thanksgiving, she wouldn't enjoy the time and laugh at pictures of Lewis when he was little. She sat upset and saddened by the fact that she missed out on something. She missed out on playing hide and seek with her sister. She missed playing with her mother's jewelry and makeup. She missed becoming daddy's little girl.

She looks at Lewis fearing his reaction will crush her very being.

"I don't want to have children."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"Why Claire? Why don't you want to be a mother?"

"Because I don't want to be my father."

Lewis leans back on the couch speechless. It had never crossed his mind that her resistance would be due to her own family experience; he felt like an idiot. He didn't think his wife was superficial and didn't want to ruin her figure. For a moment he thought she was concerned about her career.

"Claire, you are nothing like your father."

"How do I know that? How do I know I didn't inherit his parenting style?"

"Do you know how ridiculous you sound?"

"Lewis, this is how she feels. Your job is to listen and acknowledge. You may not understand her reasoning, but you aren't supposed to. That is how she is feeling and all she wants is for you to validate them."

"I'm sorry," Lewis says putting his hand on her leg. "I'm sorry."

"Claire, why do you think you will be like your father?" Dr. Casey asks.

Claire shrugs her shoulders.

"Can I say something?" Lewis asks.

"Go ahead."

"Claire, you know the damage abuse can do. You suffered through that. You would never do that to a child what was done to you."

Claire begins to cry. She doesn't try to hold back the tears or reason them away. Lewis's eyes begin to water, having only seen his wife cry a few times.

"How can you have such confidence in me? Wouldn't you be afraid for them?"

"Claire, I see past all of that. Things were done to you. You didn't do anything wrong. I think you would be an amazing mother."

"Thank you," Claire says smiling and searching the room for a box of tissues. "I still don't know," she says seeing Lewis begin to overexcite. "But thank you for believing in me."

"It's not as hard as you think."

Claire still isn't certain she wants to have a child. She feels the child they create would be just as empty as she is right now.

"Lewis, I'm sorry for being such a bitch."

"You haven't been a bitch."

"Yes I have."

Claire is sincerely sorry for what she has done. She has married a man when she wasn't sure she wanted to be a wife. She said yes when she should have whispered maybe. She stood in a church in front of God and promised till death do them part when she meant till she finds something better. She has allowed someone else to lead her life, the same person who claims she is the one who makes all of the choices. She does, but only choosing the ones that she thinks she should make. The ones she is inclined to make as Mrs. Robinson.

"Claire and Lewis, I have some homework for you. I want to see you all in two days at the same time. Until then, I want you all to sit and talk for an hour each day. I don't care when but both of you must listen to the other. I want you all to go back and forth, one person speaking for 2 minutes and alternating until you have spoken for an hour."

"What are we supposed to talk about?" Lewis asks.

"Anything. Tonight, Claire begin the conversation. Tomorrow, Lewis begin the conversation. Then we will discuss it during our next session."

"That doesn't sound too hard," Claire says.

"It is harder than you think. While the other person is talking you cannot interrupt. You can nod and say yes but you cannot respond until the 2 minutes has passed."

Lewis and Claire look at each other. The depth of their conversations has been lessening and lessening with each passing month. They didn't think they could spend an hour talking about their careers and what happened that day. They couldn't spend 60 minutes discussing politics; neither had much fondness for it. They had to really talk to each other about each other and they had to learn once again how to do that.

***

The car ride home is silent. Not even NPR can drown out the noise of their entire hour long therapy session. Each of them takes in a breath and almost speaks but soon decides that silence would be a better option.

Claire is relieved when they arrive home, checking her text messages and email as many times as normally possible without appearing obsessive compulsive. She is the first to walk through the door and heads straight for the kitchen. There is a bottle of red wine already open from the previous night and she pours a glass. The tension between them is thick. The openness they shared has made their interaction initially awkward with the mild hope of improving over time.

Lewis walks downstairs ready to be alone in his office with his television, remote, and beer.

"Hey Claire," Lewis yells as she walks toward the patio doors.

"Yes?" she responds ready to participate in her own retreat.

"Don't forget about the bags I took out of your trunk. I just wanted to remind you so that when you went into your office you wouldn't be surprised."

"Thank you," Claire yells in gratitude.

This is the perfect time for her to explore the contents of the letters. She knows she will have at least two hours to herself. She walks upstairs to find the trash bags right by her desk. She opens the bags and takes out a box, carrying it downstairs. She grabs her glass of wine and heads outside. She takes a seat at the patio table and puts the glass down. She takes out the first letter, once again staring at her grandmother's name.

Once she regains focus, she reminds herself of the return address. A prison. She looks at the postmark. July 5th 1984. "Who did grandma know in jail?" Claire asks herself as she opens the envelope.

Dear Mom,

I first want to say I miss you. I miss you terribly. I also miss Claire, Celia, and Debra. Despite what I did, I miss them all. Thank you for coming to see me. I don't have anyone else in my life and it's good to know that you are standing by me.

I want to remind you that you are a great mom. You raised me well. It's my choices that got me here. It's my choices that put me in this place for the rest of my life. It's my choices that destroyed everything. I am sorry. I am sorry for what I have done to you and the people you love. I hope you will forgive me.

I look forward to reading your letters. I just wanted to tell you that I've been reading. We actually have a library. What else is there to do? I've been writing things. Some guy in here writes poetry and I've been trying to do it myself. I've had to find things to occupy my mind besides the memory of what I've done. And I will always feel guilty. I want you to know that. Despite the articles in the newspaper and the reporters on TV, I still have a heart. I still have a soul. And I'm still your son. I always will be. I will always love you. I hope you will continue to love me.

I love you

Chapter 10

"I have an uncle in jail?" Claire asks herself reading the letter again. Claire is confused. She doesn't remember Claira talking about another child. "Maybe it's because he's in jail," she thinks folding the letter and putting it back in the envelope. She picks up the next envelope out of pure curiosity.

Dear Mom,

I'm getting lonely. You haven't visited in a few weeks. Of course there is nothing going on in here. I just finished a book called "Huckleberry Finn." It took me a long time to read but I thought it was good. I know you have read it having been so long in the publishing world.

How is your new job? You told me you had started being a freelance editor. I knew you couldn't stop working with books. Please come see me soon. I need to see your face. I'm sorry I don't have much to say. I'm just hoping I'll at least get to hear your voice soon.

I love you

Claire tries to imagine the man writing these letters. She imagines a man that has done something bad enough to spend at least some of his life in jail but still loves. The hardness of prison hadn't stripped away all of his sensitivity. She thinks it is precious that he ends every letter with I love you. She reads a few more, all of them basically saying the same thing. Speaking of loneliness and sadness. Expressing guilt and shame over his actions. Begging for more frequent visits and professing his love hoping for it in return. He wants forgiveness and sometimes asks Claira to give him the strength to forgive himself.

Six letters, combined with two glasses of wine and therapy, has left her exhausted. After putting her glass in the kitchen, she trudges upstairs ready for bed. She puts the box in her office and heads to Lewis's office. She wants to ask him if he knew of another sibling besides Bonnie, but she finds him on the sofa, remote in his hand, the television blaring, and his snoring occasionally reaching decibels higher than she could imagine. She decides not to wake him and heads to the bedroom.

For a moment Claire contemplates taking a bath, but is too tired to sit up. She takes off her clothes and replaces them with a white t-shirt and black shorts. She could never understand how anyone, including her husband, could sleep naked or just with their underwear on. "What if there is an emergency and they have to run out of the house?" Claire lays her head on the pillow. She closes her eyes hoping that ten minutes of peaceful recollection will soothe her to sleep.

"I'm too tired to sleep," she says finally sitting up. She sits on the edge of the bed deciding which insomnia solution to choose. She had read that watching television was a bad idea; the brightness of the screen would only prolong the sleeplessness. She could go old-fashioned and just get a glass of warm milk. She could read until her eyes could no longer stay open to absorb the pages. She could write; at least be semi-productive with her time.

She decides the last option would be best. Considering Lewis may soon decide to stop sleeping to the background noise of ESPN, she puts on her robe, her slippers, and heads to her office. For a few seconds she is distracted by the bags still in her office full of letters. But reading them wouldn't be relaxing. It would be like trying to figure out the plot to a novel whose chapters are out of order. She returns her attention to her laptop.

***

Things I Learned From Grandma Claira

The Beginning of Loss

Claira didn't want me to go. She said I was too young. But Bonnie told her that I had to be there and that it would look tacky and ridiculous if I wasn't present at my mother's wake and funeral.

"She won't remember it," Claira said walking to the table with a cup of coffee.

"Of course she won't if she's not there. Claire should be able to say goodbye."

"Bonnie, I think that is too much for a 5 year old. "

"She needs to be there."

That's all I remember of the conversation I overheard hiding on the stairs. I'm sure there was more. As an adult, I'm certain there was more. I'm sure Claira thought that I had experienced enough trauma and didn't want me to go through the ordeal of a funeral. I'm sure Bonnie, with her constant concern for what other people think, argued that people would want to give me their condolences.

With all of the clichés stored in her back pocket, I'm certain Bonnie said I would be the bright spot. I would be the light of hope that guests could bathe in considering the death around them. They could make themselves feel better by assuring me I would be okay and Claira would take care of me. They wanted to put on their best smiles and make me feel as if I still had a family.

Claira and I spent a whole day shopping. I didn't have clothes that were appropriate for mourning. We started late morning after she cooked me breakfast. She wanted to erase the purpose of the day by letting me sleep late and cooking my favorite breakfast, chocolate chip pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese, and orange pineapple juice. When I saw the breakfast on the table, I thought I had slept for months and had awoken on my birthday.

"It is a special day," Claira says to me putting a napkin on my lap. "Today, we start a new life together. Today is all about you."

She smiles and kisses me on the cheek. I wanted every morning to be like that. I wanted a tremendous sweet indulgence when I got out of bed. I wanted this time with Claira. I ate as much as I could, which turned out to only be half of what she cooked. I remember telling Claira that I was a great sharer and would give her some of my food. She laughed and told me that all she needed was a cup of coffee and some toast. This was my first glimpse of life with Claira. She would expend all of her energy taking care of me and giving me what I want, not asking or wanting anything in return.

I only had a few outfits at grandma Claira's but luckily she had found something I wouldn't suffocate in on a surprisingly sweltering day. I put on a pair of white shorts with a purple shirt with a cute ruffle collar. She added plain white socks with white Keds and put my hair in a ponytail. I looked like a happy 5 year old girl.

I thought it was a treat to go to Macy's. It was such a large store and it seemed so grand when I was only 3 feet tall. I thought it was amazing that we could go to the same store and Grandma could get her makeup, I could get a new outfit, and we could both get new shoes. Grandma Claira would hold my hand, guiding me through what seemed like 50 different departments.

First we went to find a dress. I felt like a princess trying on pretty dresses with flowers and lace. I twirled around in the dressing room, looking at myself in the mirror and finally feeling like a girl. I knew I had lost my mother, sister, and father and felt ashamed that I could even smile. But Grandma Claira assured me that my response was okay by returning a smile as I analyzed every detail.

I wasn't sure when Claira asked me which dress I wanted. I liked the navy blue dress with the pink and yellow flowers. But I also liked the black one with the lace. Claira looked at me lovingly as I looked back and forth between the dresses. I yelped and screamed when she said, "why don't we get both."

The cashier put my dresses in one of the fancy hanging bags and I carried them. Our next destination was the shoe department. I believe this is where my love of shoes began. It was easy to try on all of the shoes; it was effortless taking one pair off and putting on another. I wanted a new pair of shoes for each of my dresses. I tried on shoes of every color. My favorite were the black Mary Janes. I had never wanted something so badly. I tried them on a second time and walked around the department. Claira laughed at me as I strutted on the carpet around the shoe display tables. While I was strutting, I didn't notice that Claira had paid for the shoes. She told me I could wear them out if I wanted to. Claira offered to carry my dresses but I was excited to have the dresses in my hand and my new shoes on my feet.

When we walked out of Macy's, I felt joyful. Two days after I lost my family I felt joy. I felt the rush of something new. Even then, I felt that the change was necessary. I felt things would be okay. Once we got in the car, Claira suggested lunch. She asked me where I wanted to go and the first place I suggested was the diner. The place me, mom, and Celia would go on our Saturdays. That's where I wanted to be. I missed them already and wanted to be somewhere I might feel them.

After lunch, Claira took me to the park. It was as if she knew I wanted those days back and tried her best to recreate them. I went straight to the playground; I went straight to the swings. I wanted to feel the air rush against my face and move my hair. Claira followed me to make sure I could get as high as I wanted. I could forget about tomorrow. I could forget about watching the caskets being lowered into the ground. I could forget about the violence.

I don't remember much about the day of the wake. I wasn't responsible for anything. My only duty was to be the sad child who missed her mommy. And I couldn't even play that part well. I wanted to go outside and play. I wanted to go upstairs and sit on my grandmother's bed. I wanted to be normal when I couldn't. I wanted to be quiet when I had to say thank you.

Bonnie was the one who came looking for me when I would sneak upstairs. She was the one who would pick me up and take me back to the living room. I was supposed to sit down and be the target of everyone's sympathy. Looking back, I don't understand why the wake was in Grandma's home. I don't know why she wanted the bodies in her home. Even as an adult, I understand the necessity and inevitability of death, but it is still morbid and haunting. .

"I'm so sorry for your loss," was the worst. "My condolences," was better. It seemed less rehearsed and more sincere. People often didn't know what to say to a grieving child. My condolences was honest. "I'm not sure what to say so I want it to be brief and to the point." Some of them fought back tears because they wanted to be strong for me. They wanted to show me that one day I would get over this. They wanted to appear together, as if they knew exactly what I was feeling and thinking. They wanted me to know they were sympathetic which made them seem less so.

That night I experienced my first restless night. At home, sleep was a welcomed retreat. Dreams were a place I could not only imagine but live a different life. It was the place where my parents were loving and affectionate. A place where Celia and I were the most important and precious things in their lives. In this reality, I was happy.

I was nervous about the funeral. I didn't know what I had to do and what I was supposed to feel. Just like the wake, I was expected to be the grieving daughter but somehow on a larger scale. I was supposed to weep for my father when the only tears I could manage to cry were for my mother and Celia, especially Celia.

Grandma Claira was somber that morning. She tried to smile but she struggled. She struggled to move her muscles. She couldn't feel the emotions that would allow her to express anything but sadness. Her son had died.

I didn't show how much I loved wearing my dress. I wanted to be just like Claira, sad and grief-stricken. I held my head down and frowned. I looked in the mirror to make sure people would look at me and think I was sad enough.

When Claira started to cry, I didn't know what to do. A black limo was sitting in front of the house and when she saw it, she covered her face with her hands and walked swiftly to the bathroom. I didn't know what was so upsetting about a black limo. I learned it was what that limo represented. It was where the limo was taking her. It was the fact that the limo was going to bring her back to a home that would never be the same.

I sat on the stairs on the front porch and waited. I looked at the limo driver, with his black suit and black hat, smoke a cigarette. He walked around the front of the car, occasionally lifting his head and blowing smoke in the air.

When she came out of the front door, I stood up and reached out my hand. It's as if I knew what she needed. She locked the door behind her, tissue in hand, and we walked to the limo. I didn't know the protocol and let Claira guide me through the process. First was the ride to the church that was too quiet and uncomfortable. Claira spent the entire time staring out of the window. When I tugged on her jacket, starving for the attention that would keep me from shattering, she would turn her head, give a slight grin, and return her head to its original position.

When we pulled in front of the church, there were people, none of whom I had met before, standing in front of the church. I didn't know that people were going to come and open up the doors for us. I didn't expect to see the crowd of puffy teary eyes and red cheeks. I didn't expect to see the varying sobs and all of the somewhat sympathetic faces. I didn't expect all of these people to want to mourn with us.

"It's okay honey," Claira says seeing the awkwardly overwhelmed look on my face.

She squeezed my hand and finally smiled. And it was sincere. It came from a place of genuinely feeling my well-being was more important than hers. Of wanting to make sure that I survived this day. She wanted to be there for me and it was comforting to finally feel that from an adult in my life.

The church was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. It seemed on the grandest scale, with 8 foot stained glass windows and marble pillars. Even Claira's two inch heels echoed as she walked down the aisle to the first pew. I admired the altar as we got closer, wondering how much time was spent etching every detail from the lilies to the scenes of Christ's life from his birth in a manger to his death on a cross. The large bouquets of flowers and lit candles gave the ambiance of a much more joyful event. But the sea of black hats, demure clothes, and quiet crying reminded me that I was at a funeral.

Catholic funerals are long and I felt it. I went from ancy to agitated. The immense sadness made me uncomfortable. After an hour, I wished I had been deaf so I wouldn't have to listen to the cries, especially those of Grandma Claira. I had to turn away many times and pretend to be listening to the Priest so that I wouldn't have to see her sobbing. And she was sobbing. She was taking a new tissue out of her purse every few minutes. When she noticed I was looking at her, she quickly wiped her eyes and forced a smile. Even at 5 years old, I could see past the bullshit. I could see the sorrow in her eyes even when she appeared to want to celebrate the life of her family.

"It's almost over," Claira whispered to me noticing the swaying of my legs and the movement of my eyes from one statue to another and back to the large crucifix above the altar.

I wished I hadn't been such a distraction. I wish I had the attention and focus to sit through the 2 hours without being the typical child unable to sit for more than 15 minutes without complaining. I wanted to be there for Claira. I wasn't the one weeping uncontrollably. I wasn't the one deeply saddened. I didn't know what I was supposed to be but I could be there for her when she was trying to be there for me.

The caskets at the bottom of the stairs were petrifying. I didn't know what death was. Claira had told me that my family was never coming back. She told me that they were asleep but would never wake up. That was the simplest way to describe the abstract concept of death to a 5 year old. That was the only way without making me terrified that one day I would be just like them.

As the caskets were pushed down the aisle, I thought about where they were going. Just like death, heaven was an inconceivable place where you went to if you were good. Hell was easier to understand. There was fire, destruction, punishment, and hate. I could picture where my father was but Debra and Celia, I couldn't imagine perfection. I couldn't imagine their perfect place that didn't include me.

I was surprised when Claira pulled my arm to follow. I didn't like the idea of following death. Of letting it lead us. But I needed to be with Claira. I needed her to know there was going to be someone with her always.

I didn't know where we were going in the limo again. Claira sat in the car with the door open while people lined up to kiss her cheek, shake her hand, and try to give empathetic words. She says thank you graciously each time. She is earnest in her gratitude. I lean into the back window and notice the police motorcycles.

"Did we do something wrong?" I asked Claira.

"What?" she asked.

"Did we break the law? I asked pointing to the police.

Claire giggled. "No dear," she said. "The police are here to lead us to the cemetery."

"Why?"

Claire paused figuring out the best way to explain their necessity.

"You know you have to always have respect for the deceased right? Those who have died?"

I nod.

"The police are here to make sure everyone respects your family."

I didn't understand why anyone wouldn't. As we rode along, I could no longer sit still. I leaned in the back window again and watched the cars following with their lights blinking. Cars coming in the other direction pulled over and we didn't have to stop at red lights. It was as if we had immunity as an exemption for suffering the loss of someone we love.

When we got out of the limo again, the energy enveloped me and I felt those dark feelings. I was sad. I wanted to cry. I wanted to lay in the back of the limo and fall asleep. We passed headstones, some of which I couldn't read. I remembered Angel Fairly; it sounded like the name of someone who didn't deserve to be dead. I tried to walk around people, thinking that my footsteps somehow defaced their graves.

Two rows of chairs sat under a blue canopy on a green rug. In front of the chairs were the caskets I had hoped not to see again when the men pushed them out of the church. Fr. Richard stood by the casket as everyone made their way. Again, I was unaware of the necessity of watching my family be buried. I thought it was gruesome and cruel to force a child to watch her family be lowered into a grave.

I tried to keep my eyes closed. I listened to the Priest recite the prayers. The prayers began to quickly put me to sleep. It wasn't long but it was enough time for the memory of my family to flood my mind. It was enough time to think about my mother's face and the feel of her hand. It was enough time to remember slumber parties with Celia. Thinking about them and realizing I would never see them again was better than looking at the box that would hold them for all eternity.

Grandma Claira had to nudge me when it was over. She handed me white roses and I immediately thought they were a gift for surviving the ordeal of the death ritual. But then grandma placed them on top of the caskets. I wanted to walk away with something but did as she did. As we made our way back to the limo, I looked back. I could no longer see them. I could no longer pretend that this was a horrible joke and I would return home to find my mother and sister sitting at the kitchen table. I could no longer wish for their resurrection.

I thought the day was over and I could go lay down in my new bed but we returned to the church. Mourning was exhausting. I didn't have the energy to eat but I took a couple of bites out of respect for the members of the church that cooked a wonderful meal. I had to force my eyes to stay open as Grandma Claira talked to people who wanted to wish her well and thank her for letting them be a part of the celebration. If this was a celebration, I didn't want to celebrate anything else for the rest of my life.

"We can go home now," Claira said leaning down. "I know you want to."

Home was different. I wouldn't go back to my room with my toys and twin bed. I would have to create a new life for myself in the house with Claira. And I wasn't scared. I didn't have to worry about staying in a locked room the entire night, even having to hold it when I had to use the restroom. I wouldn't have to hear my mother and father yelling. I wouldn't have to feel the hardwood floor shake when my mother would hit the floor.

During the 15 minute ride back to Grandma Claira's house, I fell asleep. I could no longer resist the urge to escape to the perfect place, where even if bad things happened, I could just open my eyes. I tried to picture the last time I was with Celia and Debra. I tried to taste the strawberry milkshake. I wanted to smell the mix of nail polish and polish remover in the salon. I tried to feel the cold water on my skin. I tried to breathe in the air that was a mix of fresh mowed grass and fragrant flowers. I tried to experience the heat of the sun on my face. I tried to hear Celia laughing and my mother asking us not to go too far. I needed the last image of my family being those perfect Saturdays.

I was woken up by a gentle rub on my back and a kiss on my forehead.

"Come on sweetheart," Claira said.

I didn't want to open my eyes. I tried to play possum but she could see right through it.

"Come on darling. You can go lay on your new bed."

I had spent the last four nights sleeping in Claira's bed. I didn't want to be alone. I was used to my own room but somehow without my sister down the hall and mother next door, being in bed by myself was lonely. So I buried myself beneath the covers and slept as close to her as possible. It was warm. It was comforting. It was secure.

When I woke up the next morning, I had forgotten where I was and for a split second, expected to run into Celia on my way downstairs for breakfast toast. But as soon as I was out the door and felt the soft carpet between my toes, absorbed the brightness of the room, and smelled the aroma of bacon and French toast, I was hit with the reality that this was not the home that I had become accustomed to. And I was ashamed to be excited about the prospects of this being my every morning.

The next time, it was different. The passing of time was supposed to make things easier. I was supposed to grow and learn how to cope with those devastating moments. Instead, as I became an adult and understood the unfairness and affect of death, the loss felt more like a betrayal of the universe rather than an accident.

I was cold. I was distant. During my adolescence, I was in a permanent emotional state. It was beginning to interfere with my life so I began to learn how to shut them down. I learned to suppress them so I could survive. So I could sleep. So I could focus. It was a necessary and unhealthy defense mechanism that left me incapable of displaying any affect. I was like a stone that even God couldn't chisel.

I didn't want to deliver the eulogy. But I was the closest person to Grandma Claira. She only had two children; one was dead and the other only came to visit or call when she wanted something. In particular money. I honestly didn't know what to say. When the Priest asked me to do it, he, like everyone else, thought I would be the perfect person to remind everyone who Claira was. Provide the context for this tradition. I accepted the request out of courtesy and the nagging thought of someone else standing up in front of the church attempting and failing to describe her essence and life.

The morning of the funeral, I felt less like myself than when I was 5. We had forgone the wake; I didn't want to voluntarily grieve an extra day. Lewis tried to console me but I wouldn't let him. I was still in denial. There were no words of comfort needed. That day was harder than before. I knew the protocol. I knew what was expected of me. But I couldn't give it to them. I worried throughout the service if I would be able to deliver.

The only comfort of growing up was realizing that I wasn't the only one who had lost someone they loved. They modeled how I was supposed to be. But I couldn't quite grasp the concept of getting over something I wasn't sure I was even supposed to. I learned to pretend I was better.

***

After spending two hours editing the last chapter of her novel, Claire goes downstairs to grab a snack. She has one day left before her agent and editor will be calling her every hour to check on the status of her book. When she walks downstairs, Lewis is splayed out on the couch watching baseball.

"Hey honey," Claire says quietly.

Lewis does not respond. When anything is on television, whether it be a baseball game or Big Cats, Lewis cannot hear anything and Claire has to resort to yelling like a nagging wife to get his attention.

"Lewis!" Claire yells.

"Yes?" he says finally being distracted.

"Can we talk?"

"Sure."

Claire brings her plate of grapes and crackers to the couch.

"You remember all of those boxes you brought into the house before the retreat?"

"Yes."

"They were full of letters."

Lewis chokes on his beer and then takes a deep breath. Claire doesn't notice. He composes himself.

"Did Claira have another child?"

"What do you mean?"

"These letters were written by a son in jail. I only knew about my father and Bonnie."

Lewis waits for her to continue.

"How do you know it was a son? It could have been another relative?"

"He called her mom."

Lewis is silent again.

"Maybe he just thought of her as a mom. Claira was extremely giving and loving."

"That's true."

Lewis hopes this is the end of the conversation. He hopes Claire accepts his answer and continues reading the letters with the idea that Claira spent her time writing to a lonely man in prison who thought of her as a mother. He breathes a heavy sigh of relief when she gets up from the couch and goes to the kitchen.

Claire is unsatisfied. She considered Claira her mother. Why would Claira keep it a secret?

"Lewis," she says.

Lewis is nervous, afraid her questioning will continue, and in his effort to try to revitalize his marriage, will force him to tell a truth Claira didn't want her to know.

"Lewis, that doesn't make sense."

Lewis begins to twitch as she makes her way back to the couch.

"Lewis, I think Claira was hiding something."

"Not what you think," Lewis thinks to himself.

"Why do you think Claira was hiding something?" he asks.

"Some of the letters started when I was 7. That's a long time. Claira has never kept anything from me. Why this?"

"I don't know honey."

"Maybe you should read one and tell me what you think?"

"That's not necessary Claire."

"Maybe I should write the man back?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why Lewis?"

Lewis doesn't know what to say. He has done everything he can to avoid this conversation. And he isn't prepared to confront it now.

"You are acting strange. Why are you so against this?"

Lewis turns his attention toward the television. He isn't as good with words as his wife. For him, he rather be telling a patient that they need invasive surgery rather than here right now about to reveal something to his wife that she should have known before he did.

"Claire, I need to tell you something."

Lewis thinks about just going along with her train of thought. Maybe he can just tell her she's right and she has some long lost uncle in prison for armed robbery. "It has to be something non-violent," he thinks to himself. He tries to use the minimal creative abilities he has to quickly come up with a believable story. "What if she wants to write him?" he asks himself. "I'll just have to burn the letters."

"Lewis...what is it?"

Claire's demeanor changes, watching his face become sullen. Her heart sinks and her thoughts deviate to every possibility. She prepares herself to react to the worst possible thing she can imagine. Lewis grabs her hands.

"Claire, you don't have a secret uncle."

Claire exhales relieved Claira hadn't kept something from her. Lewis leans into her and looks into her eyes.

"The letters are from your father."

"But there are letters from 6 months ago?" Claire says without thinking.

Lewis just looks at her waiting for her to register what he has just said. He appreciates the seconds. All of the life drains from her eyes and the color from her face.

"What?"

"Those letters are from your father. Some of them are addressed to you."

"My father is alive?" Claire asks standing, almost tripping over the coffee table.

"Yes."

"But Claira told me he was dead?"

"I know."

"Claira told me he died with Celia and Debra."

"I know."

"How long have you known?"

"For a while."

"How long is a fucking while Lewis!" she yells

"Since right before we got married."

"How could you keep this from me?"

"Claira asked me not to tell you."

"Why would she do that?"

Lewis doesn't have the emotional energy to tell her everything.

"Claire, in those boxes is a letter from Claira. She explains everything."

Claire starts to walk out of the room.

"Claire, don't leave."

She looks back at him. He has never seen her so upset. He has never seen her eyes so empty and her face so expressionless.

"Claire, please talk to me," he says following her up the stairs.

She slowly takes each step as if she has forgotten how to walk.

"Claire."

Once she is at the top, she turns around to face him. His heart breaks when he sees her face.

"Lewis, I'm really angry. And I mean pissed off. I need to be alone."

Lewis stands on the stairs, unsure of what to do. Part of him wants to follow her and hold her. He watches her walk down the hall, saddened by each of her sniffles. When he hears the door slam, he sits on the stairs with his head in his hands.

"Fuck!"

Chapter 11

"Claire," Lewis says knocking on the door.

She doesn't respond. She isn't crying. Instead, she has resorted to sitting down on the bed staring out the window. She has been shocked into silence. She has been betrayed. Claira had been that person that never hurt her. The person who never lied to her. Claira had been her entire world. Her secure and loving world. The only honest relationship she had ever had. Claira had changed. She was a liar. She kept secrets.

"Claire," and Lewis knocks again.

Claire felt miserable. Despite his grievances, she spent her life grieving the loss of her father. She didn't like him...or love him. But she wasted her breath telling people she didn't have a father. She expended unnecessary tears over his death even though part of her was relieved she would never again have to experience his tyranny. But she missed having a father. On days that she was forced to remember her family, such as Father's Day, Mother's Day, and Christmas, she felt obligated to include her father. Now, all of those thoughts had been a waste of time. All of those fits of rage over not being able to deny him her forgiveness had been unnecessary. Feeling grateful that at least he had died gave her hope and allowed her to have a life where she could ignore the past. All of the guilty pleasure of knowing her father was dead had left her.

"Claire I'm going to stand here until you open this door and knock every five minutes."

Now she is angry. He got to live. The beautiful lives of two people who didn't even want to disturb a roly poly crossing the sidewalk were dead. Claira had taught her to forgive. And now, Claira was in the back of her mind reminding her that now she had to. She didn't need to forgive a dead man. But someone alive and presumably well supposedly deserved her forgiveness.

She wants to ignore Lewis and his anxious desire to be the comfort that saves her from her own desolate thoughts. But she is furious. She expects her husband to lie. She expects him to be less than what she wants and needs. She expects him to be a typical man with his annoying idiosyncrasies and dirty habits. But knowing something so essential to the history of her self. But she understood. She would have done anything for Claira. She would have looked into her eyes and taken in her manipulative smile and given in. But now, Claire wishes he had the strength to deny her.

As if God had shoved her, she quickly gets off her bed and walks out of the room. Lewis lifts his head when he hears the door open and stands as she rushes to her office. To keep from having to confront Lewis and see his overly-sympathetic face, she slams the door. She rummages through her purse. Once finding her phone, she looks through her work bag to find her address book.

"Bonnie."

"Yes Claire?"

Bonnie is disinterested. She is disinterested in anything that will not interest her.

"I need to talk to you."

"What is it Claire?"

Claire could sense that Bonnie was still upset because of the post-funeral debacle. Bonnie resents Claire. Her mother doted on Claire. Bonnie wasn't the focus of her attention and never had been. Admittedly, Bonnie had never been a good child. She had never been particularly ambitious and preferred a hand out rather than a 40 hour work week. She didn't make her mother proud and she didn't want to. She wanted the attention for being rebellious and anti-establishment. Who went to peace rallies and protests instead of getting a college education.

"It's not the rallies and protests Bonnie. Why can't you do both?" Claira would ask. Bonnie would just refuse to give into her mother's wishes and continue to rebel. Until it was that time. It was that time when living with 6 other unemployed hippies didn't work. It was that time when she was hungry and needed a warm place to lay her head. When it was that time to go crawling back to mommy, Claira opened her doors. But she wasn't immune to the attraction of "I told you so." She could be compassionate but couldn't resist the urge to remind Bonnie that she had wasted time protesting the government and capitalism not realizing that one day these would end and she would have to join that society she had been fighting against.

Bonnie had become Claire's nemesis. She is everything Claira had wanted in her own daughter. All of Claira's attention was on them. Claira didn't have time to console her only daughter when she lost her job for the 5th time. When a misguided relationship left her broke because her man of the month stole her television and stripped her bank account to the last penny.

She tried to find the attention she wanted in men that didn't deserve it. But when boys came to her home, Claira smiled and asked questions as if she was interested in every one of them becoming her new son-in-law. Then she protested when he walked outside to smoke a cigarette or go to the bathroom to take a hit. Bonnie would ignore her and then a month later, come home crying because he had dumped her for someone less needy.

Claira tried to love Bonnie like she loved Claire. Even her violent son was able to exhaust her compassion and keep her coming back. Bonnie didn't understand that compassion was for Debra, Celia and Claire.

Bonnie convinced herself that she cared. There were times when she could muster enough confidence to feel better than Claire. And then she felt ashamed. She was smiling because her life was better than that of a woman who had an abusive father. Had a better childhood than one who loss her family when she was 5. She reinforced all of those things she imagined her mother would say.

So when Bonnie saw Claire's name on the caller ID, she wondered what disgusting personality trait she would accuse her of having that day. What action she would label despicable and berate her for. She tried to guess what rumor she had heard from an undisclosed family member that she wanted to discuss and confirm. She didn't want to answer the phone.

Bonnie felt guilty when Claira died. She knew she hadn't visited her mother enough. She knew she had remained hurt too long. She knew she had remained angry too long. She knew that she could forgive her mother for loving her the way she was but could not accept it. So out of a slight respect for her mother, she answered.

"I need to speak with you Bonnie."

"You are speaking with me."

Bonnie tried to be compassionate. Claire had a rough childhood. At least Bonnie lived in a home where love and affection were the normal. But hostility towards Claire had been typical and she couldn't stop the behavior if she wanted to.

"I need to speak with you in person."

"You want me to drive four hours to speak to you in person."

Claire thought about making the drive herself. It would give her some time to be alone in her thoughts. It would give her time to construct the perfect responses. But the same disgust Bonnie had for her she had for Bonnie. And she knew how to lure her up to Birmingham.

"Yes."

"This better be good."

"Claira's estate has been settled. And I've decided to give you some of the money. You need it more than I do."

"I don't need your pity."

Bonnie was lying. She needed it. She needed the consequence of that pity.

"I don't pity you."

That was also the truth. Claire hardly thought about Bonnie. She didn't think it was worth the time to think about someone who made Claira's life miserable. Well not miserable. Just tumultuous enough to initiate 2 hour long conversations whenever Bonnie called begging for help to get out of a situation her own horrible choices got her into.

"Just come up please."

Claire couldn't tell Bonnie why she really wanted her to come up there. She wouldn't come. Claire didn't believe Bonnie would do anything out of the goodness of her own heart. If there was any goodness left.

"When do you want me to come up?"

"Can you come up this weekend?"

"You do realize it's Wednesday."

Bonnie had to give Claire a hard time. She had already made up her mind to go. She knew her friend would be free to ride with her and take over some of the driving duties. But she couldn't give into Claire too easily. She had to make her work for it.

"I do but I will reimburse you for gas and pay for your hotel."

"Hotel? Why can't I just stay in Grandma Claira's house?"

"Because it's already being rented to someone else."

This infuriates Bonnie.

"You could have let me live there. The damn house is already paid off."

Claire remains calm. She doesn't want to give Bonnie the benefit of affecting her.

"Bonnie, you live in Mobile. How the hell was I supposed to know you would want to move up here?"

"You could have asked. I am her fucking daughter."

"Really? When have you ever acted like it?"

Bonnie doesn't feel she needs to defend her entire 57 years of life to Claire. She takes a deep breath and prepares to end the conversation. Claire is on the same page. She realizes she will never get answers if she continues to question Bonnie.

"I'm sorry," Claire says. "Just please come up here this weekend."

"Fine. Throw in a couple of dinners and I'll be happy to oblige."

Bonnie has always been good at milking a situation. She was and will always be the queen of manipulation. She gets more than what she needs by giving others what they desperately want.

"Okay Bonnie."

Claire hangs up. Another minute of her high-pitched twang and she would have needed extra therapy for a month. She retreats to the couch. The short 5 minute conversation has exhausted her. "She has always been exhausting," Claire says to herself.

"Claire," Lewis says knocking at the office door.

"Can't he just fucking leave me alone?" Claire asks herself.

"I know you want me to leave you alone. But we have our session in an hour. Do you still want to go?"

"Damnit!" Claire says. The last thing she wants to do right now is work on her marriage. She doesn't have the mental or emotional stamina.

Lewis opens the door.

"Of course I forget to lock it."

"Claire..."

"What Lewis? What?" She asks her voice trembling.

"Just tell me what you want to do."

"I don't know," Claire says. "I don't know."

She wants to cry. She wants to let everything go. But she can't. Her eyes are dry. How is it that when she wants to cry, she can't.

"We don't have to go," Lewis says. "We can just stay here."

Claire looks at him.

"Do you really think I want to go to marriage counseling right now?"

"Why not? You can yell at me and call me anything you want in a safe environment.

Claire smiles.

"That's what I wanted to see."

"You know I'm still mad at you."

"I know," Lewis says brushing her hair behind her ears.

They sit together on the couch, Lewis holding her hand and Claire's eyes wandering around the room as if the answer is hidden somewhere in her office. She looks down at his hand grasping hers.

"Maybe we should go."

"Are you sure?" Lewis asks.

"No."

"Then let's just stay here."

"Did you ever try to convince her to tell me?"

"Of course I did. But she didn't want to. I had to respect her wishes."

"No you didn't. I'm your wife."

"But Claire, the secret wasn't for me to tell."

"Doesn't this marriage mean anything to you? Didn't our vows?"

Claire is aware of the hypocrisy of her statement.

"What if I had told you? What would have happened?"

"I don't know."

"You would have been just as angry for telling you as you are now for not telling you."

Claire's once calm state as evolved. She has moved from denial to anger. And Lewis is the only one she can take it out on. And her fury is more than justified. He has lied to her consistently for at least 5 years. How honorable is it to allow the woman you love to believe her father is dead knowing he isn't?

"I'm sorry Claire."

Lewis doesn't know what to say. He thought he had soothed her into a pleasant place. A state in which she had forgotten the lying and remembered that he is the only one present to be the consoling words and supportive shoulder. But she didn't forget. Every time he tried to look at her lovingly she was reminded that the look was just an attempt to evade the truth that this situation could have been avoided if only Lewis had put his obligation to his wife before his pledge to Claira.

"I probably would have still been mad," Claire thinks to herself. But she wouldn't have been this angry.

"An apology isn't enough Lewis."

"Then what would be?"

"Go back in time and tell me the truth the moment you heard it."

"You are being impossible."

"You are being an asshole."

Lewis is no longer interested in what to say. He is no longer interested in trying to help her see reason. It doesn't matter. No matter the exceptional logic, she will still remain in the same emotional state.

"I'm going to go since no matter what I say you are going to still be hostile."

Claire glares at him. It's one of those looks you hated to get when you were a child. It was the look of disgust and rage. It's the look that went through you and incited fear. It's the look that made you want to run away and lock yourself in your room before your mom could say anything. It was actually worse than words. You had done something to render your mom speechless.

Lewis turns and exits, slamming the door behind him. Claire is momentarily startled, not just by his action, but by his presumption that he has the right to be angry too. "Who does he think he is?" she asks herself.

Claire picks up her phone again, wanting to seek consolation since the familiarity of her relationship couldn't provide any. She scrolls through her phone, debating between John and Robyn. Both would understand. Both would help her relax. However one would be a betrayal of the marriage she just tried to make Lewis guilty for minimize.

"Hello."

"Hi Robyn."

"Claire! How are you?"

"Terrible."

Claire's usual response was fine, ok, or good. She didn't want anyone to feel uncomfortable or feel obligated to divulge a sentiment of sympathy. She didn't want to hear "I'm sorry" and then have to express her reasons for feeling less than content. But this time, the truth was necessary. There could be no encouraging and calming words without providing the reason for them.

"Claire, what's wrong?"

"Everything."

Robyn is silent. She had heard Claire's story. She had listened intently and marveled how someone with that past could actually have a functioning adult life. Robyn's life wasn't free from stress, but growing up the only child of a single mother wasn't nearly as difficult as growing up without a mother at all. Her family struggled to make ends meet but her mother never complained of living paycheck to paycheck. It wasn't until Robyn was in college did she learn that her mother would often go without eating to make sure she had three meals a day and a snack when she came home from school. They moved, not to live in a better neighborhood, but because they were about to lose their home. Robyn went to private school, but Carolyn often had to borrow money from wealthy church members to ensure she could remain there. And Robyn had learned to cope with her past and reconcile the things she thought she had missed.

Robyn had to work her way through college and spent years trying to make her due dates as she worked to finally have a thriving business. She had lived by the motto not to quit her day job but had found a way to make money as a writer by doing freelance editing, technical writing, contributing to the New Yorker and Huffington Post and now in the internet generation, a successful blog giving advice to writers working hard not to be demoralized by the overwhelming number of rejections that tempt them to finally give up on their dream.

"Tell me what happened."

"I don't know where to start."

"Anywhere."

Claire reflects upon the important details.

"Just tell me everything Claire," Robyn says.

"After Claira died, I started going to her house to clean. While doing that, I found boxes of letters. I completely forgot about them. Then yesterday, I decided to read them. They were letters from a man in prison to Claira. The man called her mom."

"Did Claira have a son you didn't know about?"

"That's what I thought. But no."

"Was it just someone who she was really close to and thought of her as a mother?"

Robyn knows. She had never spoken to Lewis. She had never met Claira. But she knew where this was going. She got off the couch and started walking to the kitchen to make some tea.

"No."

"Then who was it Claire?"

"My dad."

Robyn is stunned, even with her instinct sounding an alarm and slapping her in the face.

"What?!"

"Yes. One of the letters I found was from 6 months ago. My dad is alive."

"How did you find out it was your dad?"

"Lewis told me."

"Lewis knew?"

Robyn knows this isn't going to be good. She had seen constant flirtation between Claire and John and had known that she was one argument or one problem away from separation.

"Claira told him a long time ago."

"And I'm guessing you're just as mad at him as you are at Claira?"

Claire doesn't want to admit that she is more upset with Lewis. Yes, Claira's lies were worse but she couldn't find the courage to blame her right now for the pain she is feeling.

"I am mad at him."

"You think he should have told you?"

"Of course he should have!"

"I'm playing devil's advocate here but maybe he felt like it wasn't for him to tell."

"You sound just like him."

Robyn knows she isn't going to convince Claire to forgive Lewis. She isn't going to get Claire to see it from Lewis' point of view. Her role, she has now discovered, is to listen and do her best to be impartial. Not to give her opinion.

"I'm sorry Claire. I'm just trying to understand his motives."

"But you're my friend."

That was her first mistake. Believing Claire actually wants to hear the truth.

"Again, I'm sorry. What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know."

"I love you."

Claire smiles.

"I'm shaken. Everything that I thought I knew about my life has been a lie."

"Not everything. Have you thought about why she kept it a secret?"

"At this point I don't care. I need to get over this first. I need to deal with my idol lying to me my entire life before I can even think about and understand why."

"Has your opinion of her really changed that much?"

"Yes it has. I mean she let me experience grief I didn't have to."

"I don't know if I believe that."

"What do you mean?"

"Whether he was dead or in prison, you still lost your father. In reality Claire, you lost your father a long time ago. Claire, you lost him before you even had him. Tell me the truth. Did you really grieve losing your father David or did you just grieve over losing a father? Did you spend your life being sad because you didn't have a parent? Did you truly mourn the loss of an abusive father?"

Claire feels like she is being battered. She didn't miss David. She missed having a father. She missed the potential of being daddy's little girl. She didn't have the opportunity to help him change. She didn't have the chance to watch Claira convince her son to be a better man.

"Damnit Robyn. I still loved him. He was still my dad. I didn't know it was supposed to be different until I grew up and learned it was."

"So at some point you did stop mourning?"

"I guess."

"Then why are you really upset Claire?"

Claire shrugs her shoulders as if Robyn can see her.

"Admit it. You aren't upset because she lied to you. You're upset because she isn't the perfect angel you thought she was."

"Maybe," Claire thinks to herself. "Is the image of Claira more important than who she really was?"

"She rescued you. She raised you when you had nowhere else to go. And your life with her was better than the one you had. She was your knight in shining armor. But now you are realizing that your knight wasn't free from mistakes."

"I wanted her to be," Claire finally admits. "I wanted her to be flawless. I wanted her to be the extreme opposite of my parents so I could know I had experienced something better."

***

"She lied to me. So what? It's more about what the lie has done to what I think of her."

"Why is it so important that you maintain this image of Claira?" Dr. Wilcox asks quickly glancing at the clock.

"What happened to my family is tragic. But it saved me from the life I could have had. She saved me from the life I could have had."

"Are you telling me she is your savior?"

"Yes, she was my savior. My savior is supposed to be a certain way."

"Was she perfect?"

"Of course not."

"Then why do you need her to be?"

"I just need to," Claire says beginning to cry. "I need to remember her as the perfect caretaker and guardian who did what my parents were never able to do. Who always acted in my best interest."

"So because she lied to you about your father she wasn't acting in your best interest?"

"No she wasn't."

"What if she had good intentions?"

"How could she lie to me for so long with good intentions?"

"A few weeks ago you told me you weren't sure you loved your husband. Don't you still tell him you love him?"

Claire's face contorts.

"I do."

"So you lie in the best interest of your husband. You don't want to hurt his feelings."

"But lying about my father being dead is different."

"How? A lie is a lie."

Therapy had always been this way. Claire being inundated with the truth she doesn't want to hear.

"Claire, why does your view of Claira have to change?"

"Because, this isn't about lying to me about how my dog died. This is lying to me about my father dying. And then hiding it from me until you didn't have to deal with it anymore."

"Ahhh...now we are getting somewhere."

"What?"

"You can't confront her about it? She's just another person who you feel has betrayed you who you can't confront."

"How do you reconcile with a dead person?" she asks herself gathering her purse, prepared to leave early.

***

Claire walks into the house, daunted at the prospect of having to finish her book. She doesn't think she can move her fingers to delete and add words. She is tempted to send it as is; that's what her editor is for. But her need for perfection will not let her send it without at least reading the last few pages.

It's hard to end her book like this. Praising and admiring Claira for her goodness and honesty. "But does this one thing really take away from that?" she asks herself. She leans back in her office chair and stares at the ceiling. Her entire life goes by in a flash and just as quickly so does her untainted ideal of Claira.

Despite her afternoon in therapy, she finds herself once again wanting to tell someone. There's only one person left to talk to. And honestly, it's the one person she has wanted to tell. The one person she knows will actually have that comforting tone and supportive voice. The person who won't try to inject his advice when all she needs is for someone to listen and agree with everything she says.

"Hi John. It's Claire."

Claire waits for his response, her leg increasingly twitching with every passing second. "Maybe he is busy," Claire says to herself picking up her phone and unlocking the screen every ten seconds. "Maybe he doesn't want to talk to me."

She gets up and walks to the couch, resolved that she won't be able to get the fix she needs. She won't get the trigger she needs to spend her night dreaming of the two weeks she had with him.

"Hi Claire."

Claire sits up and smiles. She doesn't know that John did the same thing once he finally realized his simple one note ringtone for his text messages had gone off.

"Do you have time to talk? Are you busy? I don't want to interrupt you and your daughter. If you have her. I'm sorry if I'm bothering you."

Claire realizes everything that is the opposite of calm and collected is visible in that text. He can see her anxiety and urgency. He can see her desperation. He now knows that she feels like a 15 year old girl with a crush rather than a grown woman.

"I don't have her this week. And I'm not busy. You aren't bothering me. You would never bother me."

"Can I call you?"

"Of course."

Claire taps the message and hits call. Her anxiety arises again when he doesn't pick up after the second ring. "He's expecting me to call." It goes to voicemail. "Damnit." She calls again.

"Sorry. My ringer is still only one notch above silent."

"It's okay." Claire is not okay. For a second, she felt rejected. She felt lied to. She felt ignored. She didn't know a person could feel all of those things in such a short period of time and it culminate in the most intense uneasiness she has ever felt.

"What did you want to talk about? Let me guess. You want to leave Lewis, get a job here as a professor, and marry me."

John doesn't realize how much Claire appreciates his humor and affection.

"I wish," Claire says.

She does wish she could. She could just run away. She could just forget everything that she is and create a new life where no one would remind her who she was.

"What's wrong?"

Claire tells him everything. She laughs to keep from breaking down. She opens up and tries to act as if she isn't afraid of her own emotions.

"I don't know what to tell you Claire."

"Nothing would be preferable."

And John listens. He forms his own opinions but keeps them to himself. He is the one who listened and said yeah and uh huh once in a while to remind her he was still listening. When she asked for his advice, he was supposed to deduce his answer from the hints she had already given or simply reply I don't know.

"I don't know what to do."

"What do you want to do?" he asks.

"I want to pretend this never happened and go about my life as if I never knew my father is still alive and Claira never lied to me."

"You can't do that."

"I know I can't."

"And you shouldn't."

"Why not? Why not go back to the world I had adjusted to and come to know as the norm?"

"This may be an opportunity."

"For what?"

"To know someone you didn't know you could. To learn something new about your life."

"Yes, all I need is a felon father and another tragic situation."

"You don't know that."

"I rather he be dead."

"What?"

"I rather have a dead father than a father in jail."

"I don't understand that."

"People look down upon a man in jail. Even if he had done wrong in his life, people at least have some sympathy because he's dead."

"I thought you didn't care what people thought."

Claire smiles, remembering the conversation they had during their last hours together.

"I didn't care in Vermont. I didn't care around strangers."

"I'm not a stranger."

"No but I wasn't compelled to hide anything from you. I have always been myself. You hadn't expected anything of me based on my past."

"And I don't expect anything of you now."

"You have no idea how much I appreciate that."

Claire tries to minimize her anxiety. The last thing she wants from John is pity. Pitiful and damaged are not her forte. She prides herself on being strong and determined. But just hearing John's voice crumbles the foundation in which she built that wall. He keeps her from being stubborn and unfeeling. The switch that makes her unaffected has been turned off and she can't turn it back on.

"Claire, you have to deal with this. You have to face everything you are trying to avoid. Do it now."

"That scares me."

"I know. I think I'm pretty much the only person you would allow to experience your vulnerable side."

"You were. You are."

"Then I'm certain you can do it alone."

"But I'm not alone. I have a job and a husband."

"Who says you have to let them see it. It's none of their business."

"So I just pretend to be okay when we are out to dinner and when I'm in front of my class. Then I just go cry in the bathroom?"

"Exactly Claire. This is your life. This happened to you. You are allowed to be alone in your grief."

Claire feels understood. She has never been able to grieve alone. Everyone in the city participated with her. They expressed their words of empathy and encouragement. They extended their assistance if she needed help. They offered their homes for play dates and afternoons in the park. They brought chocolate chip and sugar cookies. They smiled and hugged her and the thought of another person touching her would drive her almost to insanity. For a while, even Claira's hugs and kisses made her cringe.

Today, she is assured that her desire to be alone was normal. She stopped wanting people hovering over her like she would break. Teachers would come rub her back and ask if she was okay. Other students would look at her with sorrow, making her uncomfortable; she never liked being the center of attention. (She always thought it was odd that she decided to spend her life standing up in front of people).

Today she has a chance. The chance to decide how she wanted to handle the loss of something she never really had. The chance to be alone and not feel obliged to prove to others that she felt something. John's words have settled her heart. John's words have given her the courage to be alone in her sadness. Something she thought she wasn't supposed to be. "It took a village," meant that the world had a right to console and care. She needed people to make sure she didn't cry herself to sleep every night or harm herself. People had the right to interfere.

Chapter 12

Claire decides to finally escape her office, daring to return to her world. The house is quiet. There isn't the echo of Diane Sawyer pacing through World News Tonight. Lewis isn't on the phone ordering dinner. The shower isn't running and there aren't the subtle sounds of footsteps on the carpet.

"Lewis?" Claire yells surprised by her own craving for company.

"Yes?" Lewis says, his voice trailing from the room.

Claire walks to the bedroom finding him on the bed with his reading glasses and what she can assume is a medical book.

"Hi," she says sitting on the edge of the bed at his feet.

He puts the book down.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For giving me some time alone."

"I didn't really have a choice," Lewis thinks to himself.

"I called Bonnie."

Lewis is suddenly upright. "Why?"

"Because she can tell me what happened? She can tell me why my dad is in jail."

"Do you really want to know?"

"Of course I do. Wouldn't you want to know?"

"Maybe," he lies.

"Maybe? You are lying. You are more nosy than I am."

Lewis laughs.

"And Bonnie knew Claira better than anyone. She would be able to tell me why Claira would do such a thing."

Lewis had hoped that reading the letters would be enough. That she would be satisfied and move on.

"Honey, at least ask yourself if this is going to help? Will this make you feel better?"

"Of course it won't."

"Then why do it?"

"Because I have to know."

Lewis sighs out of frustration. He desperately wants her to let it go. "Just let it fucking go!"

"I invited her up so we could talk in person."

"Really? You invited Bonnie into your home?"

"Yes. This is something we need to talk about face to face."

"Claire."

"You aren't going to change my mind Lewis. I need this."

Lewis wants to support her in her search for the truth. He wants to be there when the inevitable happens. But he doesn't want to hear her cry. He doesn't want to see the light drain from her eyes. He doesn't want to watch her love for Claira change.

"Whatever you need me to do I'll do it," Lewis concedes. He has convinced himself that not interfering will show Claire how much he loves her. It will be the first step to their better marriage. But he will have to suffer through the turbulence.

"Can I change the subject?" Lewis asks unable to provide anymore substantive responses on the current topic.

"Sure."

"Do you want to still go on vacation? We are supposed to leave in less than a week."

Claire wants to be mad that he would even think about that right now. But she can't. She knows that after this weekend, she will probably want to go on vacation. She will need the time away from her life. It will take her mind off what she is now preparing to hear. It will take her mind off the ensuing comments from her editor. It will just allow that time where she doesn't have to, but will, think about what she will have to deal with when she gets home.

Lewis puts his feet on the floor, almost too exhausted to get off the bed.

"Can you tell me something? I need something to be excited about. I'm not excited about Bonnie coming up here."

"What is that?" Lewis asks turning one step out of the threshold.

"Where are we going?"

"A cruise to Alaska," Lewis says returning to the bed.

"Really?" Claire asks trying to appear excited about taking a vacation to one of the coldest places on the planet. It won't be freezing, but she won't be able to lay on a beach and have a margarita. She won't be able to lay in a chair on the beach and fall asleep to the feeling of her skin absorbing UVB rays and converting it to vitamin D. Falling asleep to the feeling of the alcohol finally making its way into her blood stream and the sound of crashing waves. .

Claire pretends that the thought of being around hundreds of people with no way to escape is pleasant. She pretends that no way to escape the grasp and eye of her husband will be settling. Despite her smile, Lewis can tell that she isn't exactly happy and was more likely expecting a trip to Italy or Greece.

"You always said you wanted to go on a cruise to Alaska."

"That's like saying you always wanted to go skydiving. You only say it because you want to believe it's true knowing it's not."

"Come on Claire. We are not going to Europe. We've seen more of Europe and Asia than our own country. Get out of your comfort zone."

"I already have. I married you didn't I," she thinks to herself.

Lewis has put up with her bullshit. He has tolerated her mood swings and accepted the glares. He has listened to her complaints about everything from the way he organizes the pantry to the way he shaves. She is compelled to change the trip. To take over, as usual, and do things her way. But he is supposed to have a say in this marriage. But they are supposed to be working on communication. So common sense tells her to express her hesitation. But he is finally feeling like the man in the relationship; his pants have been returned. Maybe this one time where she keeps her mouth shut and her opinion to herself can go a long way in preserving what they have.

"Okay. Let's go on a cruise to Alaska."

***

Claire stands on the front porch, the door open, leaning against the wall with her arms folded. She looks at her watch and then back up the street, waiting for the blue Accord to pull in front her house. She stands up and walks to the edge, trying to peer around the corner. She is struggling to find one emotion to concentrate on, from her anxiety, her fear, her disgust with having to see this woman again, and her general neurosis.

Her mind traipses through all of the lifetime movies and horrible headlines on the local news. She imagines sitting across from Oprah on her stage talking about her past, the horrible truth, and how that truth ruined her life. Maybe she had become addicted to drugs and made her way through the recovery process to eventually write a best-selling novel about her journey that was more truthful than A Million Little Pieces.

Just as she is forgetting her current state, the car comes into view. She stands up and gives a polite wave. She finds the strength for a smile and walks down the stairs, ready to help Bonnie with her bags like any good southern woman would.

"Hi Bonnie," she says sounding like Blanche from Golden Girls.

"Hi Claire."

Claire grabs her rolling luggage and leads her to the front door.

"It's good to see you," Claire says once again following her southern handbook.

"No you're not Claire. Let's just be civil and get this over with. Then I can go to the hotel and go home tomorrow."

Bonnie remembers that Claire is about to give her the most precious thing in her life and changes her tone as she enters the house.

"Thank you Claire."

"She won't be thanking me in a few minutes," Claire thinks to herself, reconsidering her choice of getting Bonnie up here under false pretenses. "We could have just talked on the phone."

Bonnie walks toward the kitchen, eyeing the cabinets trying to remember which one had the wine glasses. Claire knows what she wants and grabs the bottle of Shiraz to calm both of them.

"So when is the lawyer coming?"

"He isn't."

"Then why am I here? You could have just mailed me a check if I didn't need to see him."

Claire sits down at the kitchen table with her.

"I lied."

"What?"

"I didn't ask you up here to give you money."

"Then why did I fucking drive four hours up here?"

"I needed to talk."

"Again, I have a damn telephone Claire!"

"I needed to talk to you face to face. And don't worry, I'm still going to give you money. But it isn't the primary reason I wanted to see you."

Bonnie thinks about grabbing her luggage and walking out. But she needs the check. And she's willing to put up with anything.

"I need to talk to you about...my dad."

"Your father?"

Bonnie's heart sinks. She tries to maintain a somber face. She has rehearsed her response in her head for years, expecting Claire might one day discover what Claira had tried her best to keep hidden. But her automated response is contingent on her prefabricated lies standing up to intelligent questioning.

"I found letters written from my father to Claira. And please don't pretend you knew nothing about it."

"There goes my backup plan," Bonnie thinks to herself, her fingers and feet fidgeting.

"Why did Claira lie to me and why is my father in jail?"

Bonnie's body sinks and she drinks the remaining 6 ounces of wine. The resentment washes away as she sees the face of a child looking at her. The defensive responses that are usually created to annoy Claire are put aside.

"I can't answer the first question but I can answer the second. But I'm not sure you want to hear it."

"Why can't you tell me why she lied?"

"Because you need to find out for yourself."

"I'm not John Edwards. I can't talk to dead people."

"Claira wrote you a letter explaining everything," Bonnie says rolling her eyes. "Read it. You need to hear it from her."

Claire forgoes her quest to rehabilitate the image of her grandmother and focus on her father.

"And my brother..."

The pause is stifling. Claire almost chokes on the silence as she primes herself for a truth she can't even imagine. Claire tries to distance herself from her own heart. She tries to slow its beating and preempt the emotional reaction by readying herself to minimize its affect.

"Please just tell me Bonnie. What did my father do? Armed robbery? Manslaughter? Did he molest a child?"

"No Claire"

Another silence persists. Bonnie has never had to call her brother a murderer. The press and neighbors did that for her. So she never had to admit what he did and who he was. She never had to admit they were related and both willing to do everything to prove their mother wasn't the mother everyone thought she was.

"A stranger didn't kill Debra and Celia...your father did."

Chapter 13

"You lied to me," Claire says staring at the marble headstone. She had felt awkward and inappropriate wearing only a t-shirt and jeans to the cemetery but it was extraordinarily hot and she wouldn't be able to stand on the wet grass in heels or be able to tolerate the beating sun in black clothes.

Claire had bought flowers in an attempt to forgive and as a gesture of potential understanding. She kneels down and puts them on the ground at the head, picking up the dead pink tulips.

"I don't know what to think of you anymore. How can I love you the same way? I admired you. I thought you were the most amazing person in the world. Turns out you were just as comfortable lying to me as you were telling me I'm beautiful."

Claire brushes the leaves off the top of the headstone and runs her fingers across Claira's name.

"I'm not going to cry over you anymore. I'm not going to shed one more tear over you. You're a liar now. A fucking liar!"

For the first time, Claire curses at her grandmother. She feels she has a right to that anger. She has a right to think less of Claira.

She stands quietly reminiscing her time with Claira, but the end has changed. Earlier that day, she had finally emailed her book. Content knowing the faults of her grandmother, keeping the iconic figure of a mother betrayed by her son who selflessly took on the responsibility of making sure her granddaughter had the most stable life possible. She didn't want to change it. She didn't want the end of her first book to be the beginning of a community and extended family questioning the life of a woman they considered an icon. A woman who supported arts in schools and would volunteer to teach writing classes. A woman who published unknown authors and began some minor, yet important, careers. She sat in front of them and reminded them that just because they needed to bring home a paycheck didn't mean they couldn't follow their dreams. The woman who supported hers. The woman who introduced her to the wonderful world of using words to tell stories.

She tries to remember the good things. Put those at the forefront of her mind and forget how she feels. She felt alone when Claira died but now it's palpable. She is the only one who has experienced her journey. The journey of spending most of her life processing the idea of no longer having a sister, a mother and a father. The nights spent crying over losing everything. The evenings spent at the dinner table thinking about the nights that could have been. The dreams of her father changing. The dreams that one day the beatings and locked doors would stop.

"You robbed me! You robbed me of the chance to spend my life punishing him for what he did to me. I didn't know what to do with all of that anger."

Claire is not and never has been blindly hopeful; the glass was both half empty and half full. As she got older, the dreams transformed. They were no longer fantasies of having a loving father but confronting him and showing him just how much love she would never return. She wanted to yell at him and let him see the pain he caused in just two years. Pain she would never escape, no matter how many therapists she paid 150 dollars an hour.

"I guess I could do it now. I could tell him everything I've been holding onto."

Ever since that day with Bonnie, she had been thinking about responding to his letters. Bonnie told her that her father had also written letters for her. She thought about combing through them and raking out the lies and excuses that could somehow convince her that he was worthy of a relationship with her. That he deserved her forgiveness. She was supposed to forget what he had done and offer up a means to clear his conscience. But for the first time, she couldn't put pen to paper. She couldn't press the right keys that corresponded with the letters. Suddenly her wrists ached and her fingers wouldn't move. She couldn't even waste the thoughts on the man who had never been there, even before he was in jail; even before he supposedly died.

Claire sits down on the grass, the blades brushing against her pants. She takes in a whiff of the wet ground mixed with the smell of store bought flowers and closes her eyes. "Trying to meditate in a cemetery," she thinks to herself crossing her legs and breathing in for ten seconds, attempting to release the anxiety with each passing second.

***

The loudness had dissipated with the exit of the last guest. Claire began to go around the room picking up empty glasses and paper plates. She wiped icing off the tables and scooped wrapping paper and balloon strings from the floor. The living room and dining room had resembled a child's birthday party. Exactly what Claira wanted. Claira picks up the half eaten cake that had been covered in pastel colored flowers and balloons.

" _Don't you dare. You sit down."_

Claira sits at the dining room table, obliging her granddaughter's wish that she do nothing. Her level of energy had been increased by the abundance of guests, the beautiful melodies of Sinatra and Al Green, and a collective happy birthday that was off-pitch but somehow music to her ears.

" _You know, they say 70 is the new 60," Claira says fixing a cup of coffee._

" _You look 50."_

The door closes as Lewis makes his way upstairs.

" _When are you going to stop that?" Claire asks._

" _When I want to," Lewis says putting the box in his back pocket._

" _Don't you think it's horribly ironic you are studying to be a doctor and you smoke."_

" _How do you think I got through medical school and residency?"_

" _Alcohol?" Claire says laughing._

They continue to clean up listening to Grandma Claira reminisce about her birthdays and go over the last three hours as if it was some distant memory.

" _Hey grandma?"_

" _Yes sweetie?"_

" _I was thinking about finding out what happened to my parents?"_

" _What do you mean? I told you."_

" _But you weren't there. I want to know exactly what happened."_

" _Why do you want to know?" Claira asks without hesitation._

" _Because I want to know exactly what happened to my parents."_

" _Do you really want to revisit that?" Claira asks trying to ignore her own agenda in this conversation._

" _No but I need to know."_

" _Why do you need to know? You spent so long trying to get over what happened."_

" _Are you afraid I will have an emotional breakdown? Do you not think I'm strong enough to handle it?"_

" _I think you're strong enough to handle anything."_

" _Then what's the problem?"_

" _I spent so long holding you at night and reaffirming that everything would be okay. I tried to give you all of the love I could to make up for the love you would be missing. I'm here for you whatever you want to do. But whether you are 5 or 25, the result will be the same. I don't want you to be hurt again."_

Claire sits down at the table with her.

" _Will it really upset you that much?"_

" _Yes. You trusted me to raise you. You trusted me to the joy of being your surrogate mother. Trust me now. Revisiting your past isn't necessary to sustain your present or build your future."_

Claira immediately feels guilty. Somehow, her objection to Claire's questioning, had become about her. She tried to manipulate Claire into submission with reasons related to her own well-being.

" _Fine. I'll drop it. But you owe me," Claire states reluctantly._

" _And how shall I repay?"_

" _Now you can help me clean."_

***

"I get it now."

Just as Claire's curiosity had peaked, Claira had squashed it as if it was abnormal for a child to know what happened to her family. Claire rises off the ground, tears pouring from her eyes. She stares at the headstone as if awaiting a ghost of Claira to come out and explain herself. An explanation. 10 minutes of forced patience pass and she turns her attention to her grandfather.

She barely knew him. She only remembered how he smelled, a mix of Old Spice, cigars, and beer...although she couldn't identify them at the time. He never sat in her lap or went to the zoo. They never played in the front yard and he never tried to turn her into the grandson he always wanted by buying her baseball caps and wanting her to play catch. She never knew she wanted a relationship with her grandfather until this moment, seeking a truthful relationship to cling to.

Claire walks to her car, grasping for air as she mourns the death of her past. "Mary F. Prichard," she says to herself passing the last plot before the street. Maybe Ms. Prichard, and she assumed Ms. because of the 83 years between birth and death and the single headstone, was the type of woman she needed. She had to be giving and loving considering the large bouquet of pink lilies and the orchid plant on top of the headstone.

Maybe she took her grandchildren out for icecream after a day at the park. Maybe she surprised them with a trip to Chuck E Cheese and gave them 40 dollars worth of tokens. Maybe she sang them "You Are My Sunshine," before they went to bed when they came to spend the weekend at her house. Maybe she took them on vacations to the mountains or the beach. Maybe in tragedy, she was honest with them. And even if she wasn't, eventually she would risk them loathing her in order to grant them the truth they deserved. Maybe she didn't leave them full of resentment and regret with nowhere to turn except a husband who resorted to the same deception. She covets the simplicity of the life she could only imagine.

Claire tries to shield herself from the urge to deny her family. To deny her relation to such despicable people. To promise to never return to this spot. To stop loving who she thought Claira was yet still accept the person Claire learned she is. To beg Claira to suddenly appear undead. To pray and pray that God will grant her relief or erase the memories that she had always cherished. To refuse herself the pleasure and satisfaction of being a published author and retrieve her book for the reasons of fraud.

***

"Two times in three days. I feel special."

Claire smiles but doesn't have the strength to laugh.

"I need to talk," Claire says adjusting on the living room couch. She glances out of the window to make sure she doesn't see Lewis's car. She pulls the curtain back into place and leans her head against the back.

"What do you need to talk about?"

"Nothing. Everything. Everything but this."

John quickly conjures questions completely unrelated.

"Have you submitted your book?"

"I have."

"Are you nervous?"

"Let's not talk about that either."

John realizes that by talking about the book, he is indirectly talking about Claira and decides to make himself the topic of conversation.

"Well I'm certain you don't want to hear about my boring day."

"I would love to hear about your boring day."

John avoids discussing his first case, a divorce, and moves to his second.

"I had the most horrible case this afternoon, a child custody case."

"So you practice family law?"

"I practice everything law. My boss will take practically any case as long as the person can pay the retainers."

"Really?"

"It's a large firm."

Claire makes herself comfortable. Instead of getting off the couch and adjusting the thermostat, she pulls the blanket off the back and pulls it over her.

"The child has ADD. The mother doesn't believe in medication and will not give the child his Adderol. The father is upset and thinks he should have custody of the child because he gives him his medication and feels he'll be a better parent."

"Who do you represent?"

"The father."

"Are you on his side?"

"I'm his attorney. Of course I do."

"Outside of your contractual duties, do you think the child should be with him?"

"I think he should allow joint custody. A child should have his mother in his life. The court can make her give him his medication."

"Why won't she give him his medication?"

"She says we over-medicate our children and wants to utilize therapy to the fullest extent before giving him pills."

"That makes sense."

"I understand. But, there's more to it."

"What do you mean?"

"His behavior is definitely different at school when he is staying with his mom versus his dad."

"I assume he behaves better with his dad."

"Especially at school."

"And the mom's argument?"

"She says he just likes his dad better and does it just so he can live with his father."

"Well..."

"He has seen a child psychologist. The therapist says that is not true."

"Do you think your client will win?"

"I do. But I will continue to urge him to allow joint custody and persuade the court to order the mom to give him his medication. If she doesn't, they can revoke her custody."

"Would she lose her son for good?"

"No. Just temporarily."

"Do you think she will agree to that?"

"I don't know. I hope so...for the well-being of their son."

"How can you work with families like that?"

"Divorce is tough and makes people do things out of spite."

"Do you think they are?"

"I think one of them is."

"The mother right?"

"Yes."

"You aren't just saying that because you represent the father are you?"

"No. I've spoken to both of them. We even tried a mediator. The father seems genuinely concerned for his son."

"There has to be more to this."

"Child support and alimony."

"Ahhh, she must want both."

"Exactly."

"Despite the evidence, I'm going to have a battle. Courts favor the mother."

"I think you'll do a great job."

"Sometimes my job sucks."

"Why?"

"Because what my client wants isn't what's right. And there's nothing I can do except do my best to convince him. My obligation is to my client and the child isn't my client."

"What about child protective services?"

"Well they will testify to what's best for the child but they haven't given us a decision yet."

"This seems like an open and shut case."

"Nothing is that easy."

"We were."

John is surprised by the sudden change in subject. But if she goes down that road, he will happily follow.

He wishes Claire could see the smile on his face.

"But we aren't fighting over the only thing left connecting us."

"No."

"It's hard watching this. I wouldn't suggest family law to anyone. Two people who loved each other suddenly act like they took a vow of malice and vengeance instead of love and loyalty."

Claire's mood changes. She feels like the subject of this soap box.

John senses her reluctance to continue the conversation and her sudden insecurity.

"At least my day ended well."

"How is that," she asks wanting to disappear but realizing the lack of necessity.

"I had a client suing her employer for sex and age discrimination. She got her settlement check today."

"Ahhh and you got paid your 50%."

"No."

Claire is relieved at the potential display of a flaw. He had to have faults.

"You take more?"

"I did it pro bono."

"Why?"

"She reminded me of my mother. They fired her so they wouldn't have to pay her pension. So she wasn't getting a paycheck and was denied unemployment due to the employer. She didn't have any disposable income to give me. I didn't care."

"I'm surprised."

"Why?"

Claire is unresponsive.

"So I'm supposed to be a typical lying and cheating lawyer who only cares about the bottom line?"

"I didn't say that."

Both of them laugh.

"Would you have fallen for a guy like that?"

The conversation once again manages to divert back to the course it was inevitably going to take.

"No I wouldn't. But I've been known to have bad judgment."

Claire wishes this conversation is face to face so he could see the wink and sinister smile of a woman about to take what she wants.

"I don't think you made a bad call with me."

"I don't think so either."

Claire looks out the window again, and still not seeing a sign of her husband, makes her way to her bedroom behind the protection of a locked door.

"I miss you."

"I miss you too."

Claire was afraid to say it but still repeated the sentiment without thinking. It was the truth.

"I think about that night."

"Don't you mean those nights," John says.

"I wish we could have that again."

"We could if you would come visit...or come live here."

"I can't just drop everything...especially my job. You know I love my job."

"I could come there."

"Really? You would move here for me?"

"For love, yes. I can be an attorney anywhere."

"What about your daughter?"

"I would fly to India every weekend to see her."

"I can't let you move away from her."

"What if I told you her mother was moving anyway."

"I would think you were lying just to get me to not feel guilty about wanting you to be here."

"You see right through me."

Claire and John walk through their last night together, arousing themselves to a point of no return. John finds himself aching for a cold shower. Claire finds herself wanting him and finding every other substitute inadequate.

"We have to stop talking about this."

"Why? Are you getting wet?"

"I'm not going to answer that."

"Why not?"

"Because..."

"Don't tell me you are all of a sudden shy."

"No. I'm in the bed I share with my husband."

"Then get out of it...and get in the tub."

"I'm not ready for a shower."

"Not dirty yet?"

"No."

"Then let's get there."

Chapter 14

Claire notices the generic nature of her under garments as she unpacks them. There is nothing sexy or enticing; nothing to encourage her husband to introduce himself to that area. Everything is intentionally ordinary. She glances at Lewis throwing the last of his clothes in a drawer and randomly hanging up his jackets and pants. She rolls her eyes. Two years ago, she gave up trying to convince him to organize his dresser and closets. She settled on doing the laundry herself so she wouldn't have to spend mornings helping him find pants hidden on the floor of the closet or a tie stuffed in the back of the drawer

"What do you want to do after we unpack?" Lewis asks putting his suitcase in the closet and sitting on the bed.

"I don't know. Is taking a nap an option?"

In spite of her emotional distress and slightly hostile feelings towards her husband, she got on that plane. She spent the night packing and making lists. She searched for sea sickness patches just in case. She took a last trip to Walgreens for last minute travel toiletries. She didn't object, even though she wanted to, and woke up early in the morning to fly to San Francisco.

This first day on the ship had been preceded by three days in San Francisco. Claire had been surprised and genuinely overjoyed by his planning. But she wanted to spend as much time as she could outside of the room. They took a walk through Fisherman's Wharf and had lunch at A. Sabella's. The food was wonderful but she wished she had a view to distract her from trying to look Lewis in the eye with love and adoration.

Lewis was aware, before they even boarded their first plane, that the next 2 weeks would be difficult. At some moments, frustrated by her quiet and lack of interest, he wished he had booked a simple weekend in Savanna with walks by the river and a romantic boat ride. But he wanted to spend real time with her and work on those revelations come to light through the therapeutic process. He had expected the effort to be returned or at least have casual and substantial conversation at a dinner table. But Claire didn't engage and gave short and brief answers when she was asked a question. Even discussing her upcoming publication didn't excite her.

Lewis sat in the chair at the desk and waited while Claire got dressed in the bathroom. Lewis wanted to surprise her with a luxurious dinner but she insisted on knowing where she was going to know how to dress. When she walked out of the room, Lewis felt like he did 8 years ago when he first saw her. She had long red tresses and was wearing a little black strapless dress that hugged her hips, cinched at the waist and hit the perfect spot 2 inches above the knee. Her red platform heels completed the outfit. Claire knew Lewis was surprised, especially because his eyes slightly bugged out of his head when she walked into the room.

"You look..."

Claire smiles and kisses him on the cheek after he takes her hands.

"You look gorgeous."

"Thank you."

Claire had decided to take the time to curl her hair, apply the perfect amount of makeup, wear a sexy dress, and add the perfect pair of shoes after his demeanor this afternoon after lunch. He didn't make eye contact and was distant. He didn't want to take a walk around the city or ride the trolley to Golden Gate Park. Instead, he wanted to rest in the hotel and suggested room service. Obviously, the afternoon had emotionally exhausted him and he had no more energy to attempt to be romantic. So she took it upon herself to insist they go out to dinner. That statement alone made him eager to have a night out and he made a reservation.

"Are you ready to go?" Lewis asks.

"Yes," Claire says grabbing a black cardigan and purse.

Claire is fascinated by the wonderful atmosphere of Quince. The simplicity is mesmerizing and she wants to take one of the chandeliers home and put in their foyer. In the taxi, Claire made up her mind to try. Try to take those suggestions given by Dr. Casey and use this dinner to begin repairing their marriage.

Claire is surprised by the laughter coming from her own mouth and the ease of conversation. It isn't easy. Dinner is work but is enjoyable all the same. Neither is forcing smiles and searching through their minds for discussion topics that would initiate something that would last more than 3 minutes.

At the end of the night, despite the happiness that reminded her of their first date, Claire tries to avoid the conversation of sex. Once he put his hand on her leg, she realized he was expecting the night to continue, and not with dancing.

"Why don't we go dancing?"

"Really?"

"Yes. I think that would be fun."

He knows her intention is to tire him to the point of not wanting to make love. He agrees to go dancing to appease her, knowing she isn't quite ready for intimacy. It has been over a year since they have been intimate. He can wait a few more days. The taxi driver suggests Club 525 and they pray their experience will not be tainted by drunken college students and a cheap atmosphere. The chic and sophisticated environment is a pleasant surprise. There isn't a large crowd, but is to be expected on a Wednesday night. But there are enough patrons to make them feel they have taken time out of their trip to be social.

They sit at the bar, order drinks, and talk. Lewis avoids the issues that pushed them to escape. He doesn't mention Claira or her family. He doesn't even bring up her book again and allows her to lead the conversation. Even though she suggested dancing, he has to coax her onto the dance floor.

"Oh honey, I look like a clumsy frog on the dance floor."

"Then you'll be my clumsy frog."

Halfway through the night, Claire wishes she had been smart enough to remember her backup shoes. But she risks tetanus and takes off her shoes the fourth time they enter the dance floor. The third glass of wine loosens her to the point where she doesn't care. Lewis is especially astounded by her willingness to leave him at the bar and go dance alone. Glass number four had made her spontaneous and confident. This had to be last one. Lewis knew that with 5, her personality would change and she would have the persona of a 16 year old emo kid who was depressed with the world and disappointed by everything.

Lewis orders her water and she drinks it in haste. Her state of tipsyness was slowly subsiding and she was barely able to keep her eyes open. Lewis guides her out of the club.

When they arrive at the hotel room, her giddiness has diminished and her ability to remain conscious abated. Although he still wanted to be intimate with his wife, he was satisfied with making out in a booth they had found in the back of the club. Once they were in the room, he helped her remove her clothes and shoes and laid her on her side of the bed. He had remained sober and even though it was 1am, he wasn't sleepy and not ready to join her in bed.

He spent the night researching things they could do the next day. Because he had been so upset earlier this afternoon, he decided a picnic in the park would be a great gesture. And a more casual dinner would provide the balance needed for any trip. After checking his email, glancing at his patient schedule for his return, and updating his Facebook, he joins Claire in bed.

Their last full day in San Francisco had quickly past with breakfast in the hotel, a picnic lunch at Golden Gate park, and a lecture at U.C Berkeley. By the time they returned to the hotel at 4, they both wanted a nap so that they could both stay awake during dinner and Les Miserables. Today's conversations were just as superficial as yesterday. They should have been talking about their marriage, but neither wanted to ruin the mood with serious conversation that could lead to an even more serious argument and request from either to go home and forfeit the rest of their journey.

Friday morning had been uneasy. Claire had never been on a cruise and was afraid because she would never be able to escape Lewis. During the drive to the dock, Lewis gave her a brochure about the trip. She was excited that she would have time in the southern cities of Alaska. And despite the description of the temperature as mild, she believed mild in Alaska and mild in the South meant two different things. She tried to think optimistically about the next 10 days. She tried to manipulate the idea of being alone with Lewis for 10 days into an opportunity to get closer.

Now they are endeavoring to get more than 500 pictures and conversations at special events out of this vacation. Claire reminds herself of the last words Dr. Casey spoke to her, "this vacation will be a great beginning." But the beginning of what? It could have been the beginning of the end. It could have been the beginning of the process of filing for divorce. It could have been the beginning of a new kind of marriage, good or bad. It could be the beginning of being in love. Her uncertainty wavers as she begins to think about the last three days as she explores her own strength to continue behaving like a good wife.

Their room had been larger than she expected. She had expected the cramped quarters of a freshman dorm room. But it had at least been the size of their hotel room and just the same, she would spend as much time as possible outside of it. She would find any cruise activities, at least ones not too ridiculous like shuffleboarding, to occupy their time. Once off the ship, avoiding intimacy will be easier. Claire knows eventually he will make a move or simply ask, but for right now, she will exhaust herself to the point where "I'm tired" will be a valid and realistic excuse.

She hopes she will want to give into him. She hopes one night she will want to share more than her lips with him and relive the beginning of their relationship. She hopes her body will want to feel his and they can have one of the things missing from their relationship. Dr. Casey told them they needed to have sex. Seemingly the easiest dysfunction to fix has been the hardest to tackle. It just requires action. There is not any serious discussion required or emotional vulnerability, at least in the beginning. They just need to rip off their clothes and go for it. And yet, Claire is finding it difficult.

***

Claire was mildly amused by the kisses on the cheek and the hand on the lower back. When he reached in for a peck before the movie, she obliged. When he touched her leg, she didn't pull away. She tried to force her body to tingle when he touched her. She wanted butterflies to form in her stomach when he put his arms around her shoulder. But there were none of the typical signals of attraction that she had seen in movies or heard from Claira.

Maybe she was an exception to those stories of love at first sight she heard from her disenchanted coworkers. Maybe her past had left her numb and unable to feel anything good. Maybe it was too early. But she was supposed to let him do these things and show his affection. She wanted him to be the one. The one who could will her to trust and love with her whole heart. She wanted to want him, no matter how cliché it seemed.

" _I want to see where you live," Lewis says matter-of-factly walking out of the theater._

Claire looks away from him. That was her space. That was where she walked around in her pajamas, her hair in a ponytail with her glasses on her nose. That's where she had popcorn and M&Ms for dinner by choice, even when healthier choices were available. It's the place she kept spotless and organized. The only place that was just hers. Only her energy possessed that place and only her things filled the empty spaces. And she didn't want to share. That second bedroom was her office. Her place to go when television wasn't enough to fill her time and she needed a book or to write. She didn't want to let someone else into her home. She needed to be selfish to keep herself from imploding. She had to care about herself more than her family ever did. More than Claira could. She couldn't give herself unconditional love, but she could try. She didn't want to be disappointed by another person's attempt.

" _I really want to see your apartment."_

Her apartment. A rent she paid for. A floor she swept and mopped. A kitchen she scrubbed until every last crumb was off the laminate countertops and every spill off the caulk between the tiles. A bathroom she wiped clean everyday and walls she decorated with art and cheap frames. The only family picture of her and Claira on the day of her high school graduation; it sat above the fireplace that had candles inside instead of wood. She wanted to make these 1000 square feet feel like a permanent home when she had only signed a lease.

" _Is it really that difficult?" Lewis asks chuckling, making sure she knew his tone was sarcastic. He notices her questioning look. He felt her hand loosen around his and her eyes focus on everything on their path to the car except for him._

" _Yes," she says to herself. No one had been there. Not even her friends. Not even Claira. She had shared so much of her life that she wanted something that was just her own. She had given her existence to Claira, to school counselors, to teachers, and to professional therapists. She didn't want to voluntarily reveal more than she needed._

But she didn't want to lose this opportunity. This moment that could turn into forever. This man that could be her future. The chance to have the life Claira wanted for her and she wanted to have for herself.

Lewis squeezes her hand in silent encouragement and looks at her as if a dog begging for a bone. They stop at the car and he turns her to face him. He doesn't say anything. He grabs her hands and kisses her nose. He pulls her into him and slowly kisses her lips. He is gentle but she can feel his passion. Her eyes are forced clothes and her arms move to his shoulders. And she pulls him into her. She is surprised by her body's own yearning.

" _Yes," Claire says after he pulls back._

She isn't certain what made her say yes. Maybe it was his forcefulness, which honestly frightened her. Maybe it was his control. Maybe it was his own desire for her. But she was willing to introduce him to her world to feel that again. Even if it was only once. Three minutes of inhibition. Three minutes of release. Three minutes of boundless indulgence. Three minutes of forgetting and not over-analyzing.

Claire reminds him of the turns he has forgotten as they make their way back to her apartment. They stand quiet in the elevator. It's not one of awkwardness but of anticipation. One nervous and the other excited. Both unsure but both knowing the least that could happen wouldn't ruin everything.

They enter the apartment and Lewis contemplates his destination. The couch would suggest a night of talking and verbal intimacy. But the bedroom would have been too forward. So he quickly decides to let her lead. He doesn't know she is having the same debate in her head.

" _Would you like a glass of wine?"_

Lewis feels that 5 minutes has passed. The longer he waits to make his move, the more likely this moment will pass and he will end up going home at the end of the night. 18 months of flirting and dates has to culminate tonight or he will permanently be in friend zone.

" _No, I'm good."_

Claire takes the queue from him and changes direction.

She joins him on the couch where he is sitting perched on the edge, feet flat on the ground. His silence is making her nervous. She wants to know what is going through his head. She is afraid of embarrassing herself with her lack of experience. She's already lost what Claira encouraged her to hold onto until marriage, but she's only been with enough men to count on one hand.

And then it begins. The torrid dance to achieve pleasure. Lewis wants to be that man who takes what he wants. Who takes a woman into him, kisses her passionately, and rips off her clothes. But he can't be that way with Claire.

" _What do you want to do?" Claire asks unable to remain silent while he figured out his next move._

He kisses her again and she is excited. Pleased by its exact nature to their previous encounter. Pleased to feel the same and make the same moves as before. And she thinks she is ready. She prepares herself to lead him back to her room. To unveil herself to him and volunteer vulnerability. To put her sanity and security on the line.

She breathes in his scent, an unknown cologne and aftershave. And she lets go and lets him do everything, a new feeling for her. She lets him kiss her deeper. She lets him unzip her dress and take off her shoes. She lets him lay her back on the bed and lay his body on top of hers. She lets him put his hands everywhere.

And she doesn't pull away. She doesn't move an inch of her body when he puts his hand on it. She forces herself to be one of those women who wants to be taken. But he doesn't take her. He treats her as a precious and fragile package to be handled with care. And for the first time in her life, she doesn't want to be handled with care.

He is a smart man. He is holding back to prove himself not like the image she has in her head. But she wants him to be. This could be the first time they make love. The first time they physically express what they may be feeling. This could be the first time they have sex. The first time they wrap themselves in each other so tight that the room begins to spin. The eye contact is fleeting but the passion is permanently palpable. She takes his hand and puts it on her breast and he squeezes. She thrusts her waist into his and everything changes.

Suddenly he is ferocious. But he doesn't just enter. He remembers the key to a woman's pleasure is foreplay; intense, long, titillating foreplay. And he puts aside the directed and manicured techniques in the pornos that have quenched his libido for the last 2 years and remembers the words of the girlfriends who have both complained and complimented him for his eagerness.

The feeling of his tongue was unfamiliar, in more ways than one. Her instinct was to close her legs and resort to the only thing she knew. But it was too much. The feeling was too much to ignore and push away. And when she was done, she made sure he knew it. She made sure she congratulated him for making her feel everything. And then she was back in her territory. He was spreading her legs to make way for him. And she liked it.

He tries to bury himself in her. When he flips her over she is stunned. When he presses her hips against him she loudly moans. When he begins slowly she begs for more. But doesn't get it. And without hesitation she tells him to fuck her. But again, he doesn't. He doesn't obey her command and yield to her desire. He does what he wants. And that elevates the intensity and ecstasy.

She tells him again. But he reaches down and puts his hand on her. She tilts her head back unable to give orders and receives hers loud and clear. "Shut up Claire and just the let the man do his work." She comes again, soaking his hand. She can't see the overly-contented smile on his face. She can't read his mind and know that he isn't thinking about her beautiful body. He isn't thinking about her soft lips. It's football, the most non-sexual sport he could think of.

And he wants to see her face. He could finish this way. But he wants to see hers. He wants to give her that third. He wants to prove himself the man that can make her escape. He pulls away and flips her again, this time not leaving enough time for a sound to come out of her mouth. His mouth touches hers as the rest of him does.

He looks into her eyes and kisses her in between thrusts. He gives her all of him. Not just his body but the safety he had in never connecting with a woman during sex. Claire doesn't think. She doesn't have the energy to and cannot be distracted from this moment. She can't settle on his eyes for too long, but those 2 seconds mean everything.

Her muscles relax. She had preferred to stay on her knees and not have him see her face in the end. See her struggle to remain a lady in what she considered an unladylike moment. But she couldn't stop her body's natural reaction to such a show of manhood.

It wasn't like the movies. They didn't come together. But they did lay on her bed breathing heavy for 2 minutes. He did take her into his arms and motion for her head on his shoulders. He did pull the blanket over her so she wouldn't be cold. He did assure her he wasn't going to leave.

And he didn't. Claire awoke the next morning facing the window with his arm around her waist. She felt his breathing on her neck as she slowly opened her eyes. He feels his hand slide off her hips and the sheet fall gently on her leg. The weight on the bed shifts and fully wakes her. She waits a few seconds before peaking. She doesn't hear the bathroom door open or hear the sound of running water. She rolls over to see if his clothes are still scattered on the floor. She is overcome with anxiety as she goes over the checklist of his clothing and doesn't see any of them. She sits straight up and pulls her knees to her chest.

She finally pushes herself off the bed and goes to take a shower. She forces her mind blank and proceeds to convince herself it doesn't matter. She didn't love him. She thought the sex would have changed that but it didn't. She liked him. She had feelings for him. But the sex didn't release those hormones that created immediate attachment. Instead, she had learned that she could go with or without it. She felt good. It felt good. But it wasn't necessary and she was sure she could continue to recreate the feeling herself.

She felt her wall shake and turned the shower off.

" _Honey!" Lewis yells from the hallway._

" _I'm in here," Claire says finally breathing. "You scared the sit out of me," she says as he leans in the smoke filled room._

" _I'm sorry. I thought you would stay asleep at least 30 more minutes. I wanted to surprise you."_

" _With what?"_

" _Breakfast."_

Breakfast had always been Claire's favorite meal. She could eat bacon and eggs for dinner or French Toast for lunch. Sometimes her midnight snack consisted of Frosted Flakes and buttered toast.

" _Great! What did you bring?"_

" _I'm going to cook for you."_

" _With what?" Claire says laughing. "You do know that cooking wasn't one of those things Claira took the time to teach. Therefore, I'm limited with the pots and pans."_

" _I'll figure it out. Finish your shower," he says quickly scanning her body that she hadn't covered with a towel, he hopes intentionally. Claire rolls her eyes, noticing his not so good attempt to hide his manly habits._

She finishes her shower, trying to hide her exhilaration that he had returned. She was happy she didn't have to grieve the loss of him in her life. She was delighted that she would finally have support she wouldn't have to drive 20 minutes to get or make sure to call before 8pm to hear. A second person to depend on was a relief. Another person she could love was an even greater one.

***

The fourth drink has made her loose. Not Girls Gone Wild loose, but loose enough that Lewis can see an intimate night in their near future. She is giddy and acting as if she had never had a drink in her life. Maybe it was the inclusion of two shots of vodka that had enhanced the effect. Lewis was worried about her need to consume so much, but was ecstatic at the result. The result was a woman who didn't care that she was laughing loudly and touching him in places meant for their bedroom. She was a woman he never thought she could be, carefree and careless. He loves it. He knows this isn't a permanent change, but he is appreciating every second of her transformation.

His queue to lead her back to the room came when she begins whispering dirty things in his ear that even he doesn't want to repeat. And he is astounded by her sexual freedom and flirtation. He isn't sure what to do with the enticing behavior. He anticipates that a journey back to their room would only end in her passing out on the bed and him tucking her in again. But he's willing to take the risk of rejection.

He feels bad taking advantage of a semi-drunk woman, especially since this woman in his wife. But if she didn't appear horny, he wouldn't even be thinking about what she is wearing underneath her skirt. And then the guilt begins to set in. He wants to be with his wife when she is fully aware of his presence and is actually enjoying it. And so he decides to postpone his desire for intimacy.

"You know what Lewis?"

"Yes dear," he says slowly guiding her on the bed.

"You are a good man."

"Thank you honey."

"But..."

"But what?"

"But I'm not sure about us."

"I know."

Lewis isn't surprised to hear this. Alcohol was her truth serum. It was everyone's.

"Really? Because you don't act like it."

"What do you mean?"

"Shouldn't you be doing everything you can to show me that you deserve me."

Lewis could easily argue with this statement but he knew he would lose against tipsy.

"I'm trying Claire."

"No you aren't. You should be ravaging me right now."

"I don't want to take advantage of you."

"I'm not falling off my ass drunk."

"I know."

"Then fuck me."

Resisting her wouldn't be sexy this time. But neither would sex with her right now.

"Come on Lewis," she says pulling off her skirt. "I want you."

Those words were like the shooting of a gun at the beginning of a race. He couldn't get his clothes off fast enough.

They fall on the bed and he begins kissing her. She breathes in the cheap shampoo and smoke. He doesn't slowly take off her bra or caress her neck. He devours her lips. His passion is unforgiving and she can smell his intent to get it over with so he can at least say he finally slept with his wife. He doesn't take the time to slip off her panties and doesn't excitedly tear them apart. He pushes them aside, as if they are just an obstacle to his conquest.

And then Claire is thrust back into sobriety. She tries to imagine John's crystal and mysterious smile. She tries to smell his natural musk and the face that makes her wet on sight. She is agonized by her inability to make herself feel what she wants to feel. She finds it difficult to give herself to the man she promised to when she wants to be with the man she shouldn't have given it to in the first place.

So she fakes it. Not just the orgasm but everything. The smile of delight as he slowly moves inside her. The wide eyes that are taking him in instead of manipulating his face to one that she could adore. The moans of pleasure. The contracting body that encourages his job well done and signals him for more.

She does want more. The faster he finishes the faster he can get off of her. The more be begins to think of himself, the more she doesn't have to think of him. And the closer he is to being, once again, a proud man who can please his wife. She closes her eyes, but not too tight. She has to appear as if the gratification is so intense that she can no longer keep her eyes open. His face would drive her to insanity.

She waits and waits. He forgets about himself. He forgets about his own release and now wants to persuade her own. So it was that time to pretend. She arches her back and shakes her legs. She grabs his shoulders and runs her nails across his back. She thrusts her hips upward and yells. She calls him God for the perfect ending and waits for him. Each second passes slowly and she tenses, trying to extend her act for hopefully just a couple more minutes.

Maybe she shouldn't have faked it. Now he thinks he can and will keep trying. And she breathes a heavy sigh which in turn gets interpreted as another sign of pleasure. He advances in his technique, thrusting harder and kissing her, this time seemingly trying to choke her with his tongue. And if she were brave enough she would just tell him to stop. She isn't impressed enough by his stamina to forget all of the other important aspects of making love...or having sex...or fucking...or whatever this is. Then she remembers something she heard a long time ago.

"Come inside me Lewis."

"You want me to?" he asks breathing heavy and panting like a dog after fetching a Frisbee in the park for 15 minutes.

Claire doesn't know what to say. She didn't think her direction would heed a response.

"Yes," she says, finding a deep exhausted voice.

And it ends. The troubling display of love and affection concludes. Lewis looks overly-pleased and arrogant. Claire is certain he is telling himself that he's still got it. Lewis is certain his wife is satisfied.

"I'm going to go take a shower," Claire says kissing his cheek.

"Don't you want to cuddle?" Lewis asks, afraid to waste the time he had played this out in his head.

"No honey. I'm not an insecure 18 year old who just had sex with her first love."

Lewis isn't certain how to take that comment. She should want to cuddle but more importantly, he wanted to. He wanted to bask in the beauty of their experience and have a few more minutes to have her soft skin in his possession. But he complies and doesn't argue with her need to wash the scent of sex from her body.

It is more than the sex. She wants to wash away the imprint of his hands and the remnants of his lips. She wants to scrub away the last twenty minutes. She wants to forget the experience and will forever remember the waste of a good buzz. And he will certainly want to do this again. And she will either have to force herself to perform this scripted act again or return to her typical excuses that worked. Not well, but they worked. Was the sex worth his confidence? And will she have to do this once a week for the rest of her life?

The thought of that being the finale to their date night every week makes her shudder. She thinks he is a good man. Perhaps he is perfect for someone else. Perhaps he had forgotten what she liked. It's not like she gave him the opportunity to practice and do the necessary research. Or maybe this is just the beginning of the end. And she is okay with that. She is okay with this being the last time she has sex with him. They could just be friends or roommates. Isn't being in love supposed to fade?

She returns to the bed with its mediocre mattress and polyester, cotton blend sheets. And to Lewis, whose snoring had already enveloped the room and was drowning out the sound of her voice making excuses for his behavior and both convincing her to end this and stay. She lays next to him, hoping to change the sound of a train into a melodic tune that could put her to sleep.

When Claire wakes up, she is happy Lewis's arm is absent from her body and his back is to her. She puts on her robe and heads to the bathroom, itching to go ahead and get ready and leave this ship. Ready to see Alaska and be filled with useless facts and inspiring images of the beautiful scenery. Ready to pop out her digital camera every time Lewis brings up some sentimental topic or asks a question concerning their sexual encounter. Perhaps the abundance of information concerning hot tourist spots and landmarks will push back the thoughts she can't seem to currently get rid of.

***

Claire wishes he could say his attempts at a physical relationship had dwindled. But her one night of indulgence left him wanting to continue to prove something to her and himself. It was like Claire is the owner of a candy store and gave a child a free sample and he keeps coming back for more. Or she put out a bowl of milk and the cat keeps coming back. But she doesn't want to tell the child he can't have candy and doesn't want to let the cat go hungry. She just wants the child to go somewhere else and give the cat to a good home.

And everything about the return home is awkward. The endless boat ride that didn't provide enough on board activities and free movies to distract from the increase in tension. They had made the first step in repairing their relationship yet it seemed like a step back. "How do you move on when you realize the physical chemistry is gone?" Claire asks herself as they leave the ship. Her legs wobble as she steps onto land and she is ecstatic to come back to the familiar. To arrive on the territory she is familiar with. The place where she knows how to be a bad wife but somehow make it acceptable. The place where it is normal for her to ignore Lewis and he had somehow adjusted to the situation and learned to just live with it.

Everything is awkward. The walk to the car, the car ride to the airport, the time waiting to return the rental, the plane ride, and the taxi home. Uncertainty is an understatement for the climate in their home. Claire is somehow unable to perform her usual after trip duties. Despite the fact that wine led to the cause of this tension, she walks straight to the kitchen while Lewis heads upstairs.

"Lewis, would you mind..."

Claire turns around and sees that her bags are no longer by the stairs. She feels guilty. Even in this moment, where they both know more work is needed or it's time to forfeit, he is still considerate. She sits in the corner chair by the fireplace and closes her eyes. She begins to wonder where Lewis is and what he is doing. She doesn't hear his feet pacing above her or the sound of his office television. She becomes concerned. She walks upstairs, glancing first in her office, then their bedroom, and finally the first guest room. She finds him lying on the bed, his back facing the door.

"Lewis?" she says running her hand across his back.

Claire looks down and sees the water stain on the pillow.

"It's over, isn't it?"

Chapter 15

The last four days had been an interesting mix of adoring guilt, tension, and mild affection. They weren't in separate beds yet. They were still desperate to make it work. They had been married for such a short time and Lewis hadn't gotten everything he wanted. But their backs were to each other and there weren't any kisses goodnight or sharing of bathroom space. When they accidentally looked into each other's eyes, it was uncomfortable, and they quickly turned away to avoid seeing what each other is thinking.

Lewis had been spending as much time as possible at the hospital, spending two nights on a cot instead of driving home. And it wasn't because he had suddenly become too busy to come home and see his wife. It was because he didn't want to. Her face wasn't a comfort and her voice no longer the perfect melody to a chaotic day. But the look she gave him made him feel inadequate and alone. And the rejection was too much. He feels like a stranger in his own home and a fraud; a fraud for thinking that these last 7 years had been wonderful.

Claire had been attempting to distract herself, but not having papers to grade and a book to finish had made it difficult. She even contemplated starting a novel just to have mental stimulation that wasn't related to her troubling marriage. She even went to Barnes and Noble and spent almost 200 dollars on books just to occupy her time. And she read them slowly. She fully took in every word and prolonged the occasional predictable ending as long as possible. He checked her email every ten minutes waiting for an email from her editor and agent. She took naps but was disturbed by the nightmare of being alone for the rest of her life. She tried to make John the subconscious inspiration of her dreams but it didn't work.

And here they were, attending sessions just because they had been paid for. Both had little hope that their therapist would make a difference. That her wisdom and motivation would be a game changer and their marriage would suddenly be different. That an aha moment would change what was really happening.

The worst part is that neither knows what the other is thinking. They don't know if they are on the same page because they refuse to talk about it. So much has ended for Claire, and although she feels it's inevitable, she isn't ready to end something for something she isn't certain will ever start. Lewis isn't necessarily afraid to separate, but he doesn't want to end their relationship not knowing that he gave all he could before making that choice. He is afraid to admit he hasn't been happy. A woman who has suffered enough for both of them. And he can't be the man to leave her. He will abandon his freedom. He will forfeit his wants and needs to not be the next person in her life who finds her unworthy of being with.

Claire is aware of his hesitation and guilt. But she doesn't know how to tell him that he doesn't have to worry about her. They didn't only have to define their relationship with marriage; friendship was enough. Especially since love and intimacy hadn't defined them for a long time. Maybe since the beginning. Maybe the first night of their honeymoon, and the second night, and the third, she had preferred to go out, drink, and then fall asleep to the sound of Lewis begging for consummation. And she didn't want to oblige. She didn't know if it was simply not wanting to have sex with him or not wanting to do what she was expected since she had already compromised.

Neither knows what they are doing now. This is a show. A display of false camaraderie. Perhaps the last time they could pretend to be a loving couple. It was easier with an audience that didn't expect them to be.

"Hi Lewis and Claire," Dr. Casey says.

They are silent.

"How was the trip?" She continues.

They remain quiet. They look at each other.

"It was okay," Lewis finally says, unable to contain his feelings.

"Just okay?"

"It was unexpected."

"In a good way?"

Lewis looks at Claire, expecting her to explain. He wants to understand, but he is angry that the one time he takes initiative, she squashes it with her inability to open her heart and attempt to be a loving married couple.

"Damnit!" Lewis yells and rises to his feet.

Claire doesn't respond. She is aware of the source of his frustration and feels it is completely justified.

"Lewis, you need to tell us what's wrong."

"Everything," he says looking at Claire.

"Lewis, you need to be specific. Nothing can be changed if you don't tell Claire what needs to be."

"There's nothing she can change. It's who she is."

Claire's heart drops and her eyes water. She was okay thinking they were the problem but she didn't want to accept that it was just her.

"What do you mean it's me?"

"Who you are just isn't compatible with who I am."

Claire hangs her head.

"I don't think we can be together," Lewis says finally taking a seat across from Claire.

"Well Lewis why do you say that?" Dr. Casey asks.

"We had sex like you told us to. And there was nothing there."

Claire is overwhelmed with relief. It wasn't just her.

"I'm sorry Claire, but I didn't even want to finish. But you seemed so excited, that I did."

"Claire, you haven't said anything. Do you have a response?"

Claire shakes her head.

"The trip was a fiasco. It was a disaster. Even the beautiful scenery didn't make up for it," Lewis continues.

"It wasn't all bad," Claire finally says, not wanting the beginning of the end to be a depressing reminder of what has gone wrong. "San Francisco was wonderful."

"It was," Lewis says, leaning his head back focusing on those three days.

"What was different about it Claire?" Dr. Casey asks.

"I'm not sure."

"Yes you are. It couldn't have just been the different location."

"I didn't feel trapped."

Lewis leans forward, finally getting a glimpse into the mind of the woman he didn't really know.

"On that boat, there was nowhere to go. I couldn't just get on a plane and come home. I couldn't just tell him we should leave early. When I got angry, I couldn't just walk away."

These four lines had taught Lewis more than the last 7 years. When there were boundaries, no way to escape, she felt unable to be herself. And he finally understood. He understood her despair in being in something she knew she couldn't easily escape. Like her family and like her father.

"Why haven't you ever told me?" Lewis asks. "You could have told me."

"When? When was I supposed to tell you that the commitmet of marriage was keeping me bounded?"

"I don't know."

"I didn't want to disappoint you."

"So it's not me. All of this time, I thought it was me."

"And I'm sorry for letting you think that."

"It was being married."

"Not being married to you."

Lewis returns to the seat next to her and grabs her hand.

"Lewis, you are a great man. Actually, a wonderful man. But not a great man for me."

They hug each other. They hold each other, their arms resting on each other's backs and their cheeks pressed together. Claire can feel cold wet tears on her cheek and they mix perfectly with hers.

They are both frightened, more than they have ever been in their lives. It's not what's going to happen after they divorce, but when the process begins. Will it get ugly? A prenuptial agreement had not even come up. Claira told Lewis it was bad taste to expect your marriage to end and prepare for it. Would the negotiations end with both of them unhappy, unsatisfied, and unable to have anything resembling a friendship? How long will it take for them to get to the point where they have mended enough to be in each other's lives in a way they have never known?

"I have one request," Lewis says pulling back.

"Yes?"

"Promise to kiss me, and really mean it, when this is all over."

"I promise."

***

Claire had arrived at Dr. Wilcox's office, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety. The last moment of their official marriage had ended more beautifully than it should have. He should have been angry with her. He should have looked at her with discontent and remarkable disdain. But instead he sought a final display of what had been and she had agreed. She had decided that giving him one last request would honor the end of the potential for something great.

Dr. Wilcox had obviously been going through Menopause because Claire finds her office cold, even though the fan in her car wasn't enough to ease the effects of the late July heat. She grabs the afghan laying on the side of the chair and covers her legs. With the necessity of having her Starbucks coffee, she thought about the first, and only, time a Snuggie would be an acceptable accessory.

"How are you doing?"

Claire had never been happy when she had to be asked about her current state. She wishes she didn't have to explain.

"I'm doing terribly."

"Go on."

"We are getting a divorce."

"Ahhhh."

"You don't look surprised."

Dr. Wilcox uncrosses her legs and puts down her notepad.

"I'm really not honey. You haven't been happy for a long time."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because it's not my job to decide what you should do."

"I wish you had."

"How did you all come to this decision?"

Claire goes on to explain the debauchery of their vacation. The empty sex and superficial conversations. The hopeful beginning that slowly transformed into a tragic end. And the guilt. The guilt of not being able to enjoy something with him because it didn't match up to that of someone else. The shame of not possessing guilt for her indiscretions.

"So you didn't tell him."

"I just told you. And again, you don't look surprised."

"I'm a therapist. I'm not surprised by anything."

"You aren't surprised that a woman like me would cheat on her husband?"

"What do you mean by a woman like you?"

"I mean a respected and intelligent woman who spends her life trying to be a role model to young adults who don't need a role model to learn how to binge every Saturday night but rather one who can show them you can be a hard-working adult after it."

"So because of your status and good-nature, you are exempt from making mistakes?"

"Well I shouldn't be doing things I know will hurt someone's feelings. I shouldn't betray my husband. And I shouldn't enjoy that betrayal more than my marriage with him."

"Why shouldn't you?"

"I made a vow. I promised fidelity."

"And you broke it."

"And then lied about it."

"So what upsets you more? The adultery or the lying?"

Claire looks around the room, searching for the answers in between the psychology books on her shelves, the family pictures on her window sill, or the presumably organized files in her desk. She doesn't know the answer. That's a lie. She knows the answer but doesn't want to display the utmost insensitivity in front of her therapist.

"The lying."

"So why didn't you tell him if it bothered you so much?"

"Because I didn't want to hurt him."

"Or were you afraid of disappointing him?"

"No, I cared about breaking his heart."

"Don't you think you have broken it now?"

"No! It was a mutual decision."

Claire hears her own defensiveness and forces her demeanor to mellow. She always thought her decision to keep the secret was for Lewis. She knew the information would kill him. Would dishearten his everlasting belief in the covenant of marriage.

"Claire, you have to be honest with yourself. Are you sure your decision was about him?"

Now she isn't. She always hated this about therapy. A person could be full of certainty and then everything was questioned. Intentions changed and motives were demonized. Yet she keeps coming back despite the psychoanalytic bullshit and the pursuit of the truth hidden in her subconscious.

"Now I'm not."

Claire isn't expecting an apology. Therapists only apologize for a few reasons: if their methods cause you long-term trauma, they break one of their code of ethics or they have to stop treatment.

"I don't know."

"I know you think I'm putting this in your head but maybe you didn't want his perception of you to change. To him, you are this courageous woman who braved through an unimaginable childhood to become a successful professor, writer, and wife. An honest woman born into a dishonest and deathly situation."

"I don't know," she says quietly.

"I'm sure it has occurred to you. You have been programmed to primarily consider emotional and physical survivor. You did what you thought necessary."

"Doesn't make it right."

"No, but it doesn't mean you have to punish yourself."

"Why do you think I'm punishing myself?"

"Because you haven't told him."

"Okay, so first I didn't tell him because I wanted to protect how he thinks of me. Now, I did it to punish myself. Isn't that oxymoronic and counterproductive?"

"Why we do things doesn't have to make sense. It often doesn't."

Claire presses her back against the couch, hoping she can just fold herself into it and escape all of this.

"Claire, keeping a secret is like a parasite eating you from the inside out."

"But I didn't feel guilty afterward. If I had, I wouldn't have slept with him again. And kissed him goodbye as if he had been my high school sweetheart that I hadn't seen in over 15 years. I wouldn't have wanted him like I was single and flirted with him like I wasn't married."

"You felt guilty. That's why you kept it a secret. Telling him you cheated would have been for yourself, not him."

"So now I'm selfish."

"I didn't say that. That's true in every situation such as this. We tell the secret to relieve our own guilt. We make up for the betrayal by telling the truth."

"Shouldn't I tell him now?"

"Why now?"

"Because he deserves to know before he agrees to split our assets 50/50,"

"Before he agrees not to punish you?"

Claire doesn't want to give in to her analysis because it makes her out to be the devilish bitch while he is the angelic victim of her manipulations. But she can't fight anymore.

"Fine. His job is to continue living his life thinking that his wife was moderately good and my job is to punish myself knowing otherwise. Are you happy?"

"No. Why would I be?"

"Isn't it your job to bathe in your right-ness?"

"I'm not happy when my patients aren't happy."

"When have I ever been happy?"

Claire prepares to give her signal that she's ready to leave and willing to pay her for a full hour despite cutting it short.

"Claire, I promise I'm on your side."

"Doesn't seem like it," she mumbles.

"I know. But you are going to be happier in the end when you know that it was solely your decision."

"To do what? Are you sure you just aren't just protecting yourself from an angry one person mob in my next session?"

Dr. Wilcox laughs. "No Claire."

Claire hates that each time she leaves this room, she is more confused.

"What do you want Claire?"

"When? For how long? In what area of my life?"

"You pick."

"I want this to end without him getting hurt. I want my book to get published and be a New York Time's bestseller. I don't want to think about the fraudulent portrayal of Claira. I want to immediately know the right thing to do concerning this awkward situation surrounding me and my father. I want to start the next semester and have more classrooms full of eager students; I don't want my classes filled with students just trying to fulfill core requirements and uninterested football players or biology students forced to partake in the liberal arts. I want the next chapter of my life to be better than the previous one. I want all of my uncertainty to be security. Honestly, I want to have never gotten married so I don't have to be Claire Robinson, divorced. I want to be...content."

"You do realize all of this is achievable...except for changing your choice to get married."

"No."

"Would you mind if I asked you questions about what you just said?"

"Why not? We've got 15 more minutes."

"You said you didn't want Lewis to get hurt. Why shouldn't you get hurt?"

"I don't mind. I'm used to it."

Dr. Wilcox's face is indisputably stunned.

"See, some things do surprise you," Claire says.

"Honestly, I've thought that about some of my patients but never had one actually admit that's how they were feeling."

"I may not be in touch with what I'm thinking but I am in touch with how I'm feeling. I am fully aware of the truth of my life."

"What do you think is the right thing to do about your father?"

"Now that I truly don't know."

"Are you okay with that?"

"What?"

"Not knowing right now and accepting that you may never know."

"I have to accept it."

"And about Claira. Are you sure your book is fraudulent?"

"Well people will never know about the lies."

"Do you really think people will come away from your book thinking she was perfect?"

"I portrayed her that way."

"People are smart enough to know she isn't perfect. The perception of reality is only more important than reality in politics. You are her granddaughter. People will know your opinion of her isn't completely unbiased."

"Should it be?"

"Biased? It should be whatever you want it to be. You're the writer. Do you want it to be completely honest?"

"I'm not sure."

"Your book isn't published yet. You have time to change it."

Dr. Wilcox pauses, the only sound being the slight hum of her desktop computer.

"I'm sure you're about to ask me about my marriage now."

"Do you regret marrying him?"

"I regret being divorced."

"So you regret the result of the thing but not the thing itself?"

"You make it sound like all marriages end in divorce...I feel so out of control."

"When do you feel in control Claire?"

"The classroom? When I'm writing?"

"The former is a sense of false control. You can't control what your students say or who they are. The second is absolutely true."

"So I need to get used to being out of control."

"The first step of actually beginning to manage your life."

"I think 5 years of more therapy is needed."

"Can I ask you about something you didn't mention," Dr. Wilcox asks giggling.

"Sure."

"What about John? What do you want to happen with John?"

"Based on my dreams or based on reality?"

"I have a feeling they are the same."

"I want to be with him. I want him to move here and be with me."

"And why isn't that possible?"

"I told you he has a daughter. He can't leave her."

"Why don't you move to be with him?"

"I love my job too much. And getting a job as an English professor is difficult. In academia, you have to follow the jobs."

"What else?"

"What do you mean?"

"There is definitely something else."

"I don't know if I need to be in another relationship."

"Why not?"

"Lewis."

"Just because it didn't work with him doesn't mean it won't work with anyone. Maybe you just didn't marry the right person?"

"Like I said, I shouldn't have gotten married at all. And I don't think I should get married again. It's not fair to anyone, especially John."

***

Claire watches Lewis gather enough clothes to last him a couple of weeks. Lewis had found an apartment the day before and had signed the lease. He had asked Claire to come help him search so she could keep him from buying something without enough light, with a bad layout, or overpriced. Something that didn't scream "I'm a bachelor again" and wouldn't be inviting even for a starving rat.

But she declined further involvement. She said that she had wasted enough of his time and didn't want to now invade his single life. He hung his head and went and searched for his own transitional housing. Claire didn't want to accept their house. She thought it was dramatically overstated for one person and too many square feet for her size 8s. And of course there were the memories. Many of them an example of her perpetual and devastating loneliness that she had become used to and accepted as the fate of her life. That no matter the promises and exchanges, she would constantly feel as if no one understood her complaints and frustrations. No one would believe that the hurt could potentially never end. No one could look a person in the eye without hope because it was too hard to feel the emptiness they had struggled to fight their entire life with the clichéd ideal of the silver lining, happily ever after, and everything happening for a reason.

Claire had wanted to find love at first sight. She had wanted the fairy tale to escape from the bounds of its books. She wanted something more than what she expected. And she was disappointed that she may have finally stumbled upon it and couldn't take the opportunity to explore it. Circumstances were a bitch and she would be an even bigger one to turn to a man when she is trying to cope with divorcing another. It would be distasteful but honest.

Lewis had been freaking out. He had become the neurotic anxiety-ridden psych patient that he never thought he would become. He never thought he would be single again and it frightened him. Sure there were nurses that hung on his every word and went out of their way to be exceptional to patients just so he would notice. They flirted with him and ignored the band on his finger, especially in long surgeries when he couldn't wear it. To them, the absent ring also meant an absent marriage.

Maybe he would finally accept the advances and play along with their foolish notion that he would try to immediately replace Claire with as many one night stands as possible. They didn't want to marry him. They didn't even want a relationship. They know the truth about being with a doctor. They know the hectic schedule and the requirements of the hypocratic oath. They knew they would never be number one. And that's how it is. Surgeon then husband.

And Lewis thought maybe he had done something wrong. And then remembers that he did. He had tried to substitute her and now he would have to replace her. His strategy had been to wait and see. He would wait, with the help of a therapist, until Claire could be the person that could be his wife. But that didn't work. He had made a million exceptions due to her past. He had hoped to change her. He had wanted a life with her because she was the perfect doctor's wife. She was arm candy and intelligent. She was the perfect display of what a surgeon could have. She was the perfect companion.

And now he had to say goodbye to the only real thing, outside of his career, that he had ever known. He had to start from scratch. He hated to admit that Sasha wasn't enough. She is beautiful and smart. But he needs Claire. He needs her caliber. He could run to Sasha right now and she would open her arms to him. She would give him the type of love that Claire could never give because she could never allow herself. Claire could never open her heart because it had been opened and broken.

But he had become used to that type of love. That type of love, no matter how odd and crooked, had become his normal. And he didn't know anything else. He had not been in love before Claire and he didn't know if he could fall in love again. Her love would never exist again. He can't believe he would settle for an unhealthy love where he gave everything and she gave only what she could. But it was familiar. It was what he felt when he hugged her and when she kissed him. It was what he saw in her eyes and heard in her voice when she uttered those three words.

They separated because they were no longer in love. They separated because they no longer wanted the same thing in life. They will now live in two separate houses because they no longer have a home. They will invest in separate lives. The "we" will return to an "I" and they will once again have to get used to not considering someone else when making decisions.

"Where do we go from here?" Claire asks curious as to his definition of what now exists between them.

"I don't know Claire."

"Are we okay?"

"As best as we can be."

Lewis zips his suitcase and puts his jacket over his arm. He looks at her as if being deployed. She looks at him as if he won't return from war.

"Sit down," Claire says patting next to her on the bed. She's never ended anything; the endings have always happened to her.

"I did love you."

"I know."

"I did think this would last forever. I wasn't lying."

Claire thinks about telling him now. Now would be the most imperfect time, but any later and she wouldn't have enough time to be forgiven before the end of the divorce proceedings. But she can't make this about her. Does he need to know? Of course not. So she keeps her secret.

"Claire, I know you wanted to be with me forever."

"Then why do I feel so guilty?"

"This isn't your fault."

"I own 50% of this."

"Then we are both to blame."

"Why did you marry me in the first place?"

"Because I loved you."

"We both know that's not enough."

"I was willing to give up anything to be with you."

"Now I feel worse."

This was a precedent for how she would feel all day, all week, and presumably for the rest of the year.

"Claire, you gave me everything you could. You can't give what you don't have."

"So you're basically telling me I don't love myself."

"I didn't say that. I mean...you can't give the type of love I need. That doesn't mean this is your fault."

"Shouldn't I have known this? Shouldn't I been more self-aware and deduced that I am not what you want."

"You aren't clairvoyant Claire. You didn't know this would happen. You, just like me, thought this would be forever. It wasn't. It was until...2011."

Claire doesn't know that Lewis is mulling over the same question of revealing his infidelity. Unlike Claire, his had gone on for over a year. He didn't love this woman. He only wanted her for sex. And it makes his decision even more complicated to know that he has allowed himself to cling to a woman who wants more than he does. But just like Claire, he doesn't see the benefit, except to his checkbook. And he hates to admit he thought about the financial aspect of keeping his secret.

"I hate to ask you this but what if we sold the house?" Claire asks, not wanting to continue to live in a house that should be shared.

"You don't want to keep it?"

"It's too much."

"Selling the house will be difficult right now in this market."

"We could rent it out? I just don't know how long I can stay here without going crazy."

"I'm going to leave that decision up to you."

"Please don't do that Lewis."

"Why not?"

"Because now I see that all the decisions in this marriage were left up to me and my fucking terms."

"Claire, please stop punishing yourself. We both decided to get married and we are both responsible for it ending. And this doesn't have to be a bad thing."

Claire has always been good at the things she's tried. But she has failed at wedded bliss.

"How can this be good?" Claire asks hanging her head as her eyes begin to water.

"I didn't say good. Our relationship will just change."

"You know how I feel about change."

"Yes, and just like all of the other times, you will handle this like a champ."

Lewis gets up and heads for the door. He honestly cannot handle any further discussion about the things that were and could have been. He has to leave before he selfishly tries to save something that shouldn't be. Claire follows him, with his briefcase, to the door.

"Claire, don't forget about Wednesday at 10am at Christopher's office."

"I'll be there."

Lewis closes the trunk to his car and takes his briefcase from Claire and places it in the passenger seat. That small placement leaves him mildly overwhelmed. Claire will never be in that passenger seat again and he will have to cope with the fact that his briefcase and laptop bag will be his only vehicle companion, at least for the foreseeable future.

"I will miss you," Claire says hoping he will believe her.

"I will miss you too."

Claire stands close to him, intending to leave him with the assurance that his soon to be ex-wife afforded him a last kiss that symbolized what they had wanted their relationship to be. She quickly skims over the happiest memories, focusing on their wedding day. She identifies the feelings present in those delightful moments and tries to manifest them now. She puts her arms around his neck and closes her eyes. She awaits the touch of his lips. And when she feels him, she presses her lips tightly against his. She moans quietly as they kiss like teenagers, deep, hard, but with minimal tongue. He naturally pulls her into him and she can feel his hardness against her.

And she isn't upset. It's nice to know that a lack of attraction wasn't part of the reason they were now sleeping in separate beds. For a moment, she thinks about the rapture that could occur if she indulged him. But she knows the slightest suggestion would entice a reaction and they would both regret it. A goodbye kiss could be goodbye; goodbye sex was never goodbye.

***

1am passes without Claire noticing and she is flipping through the channels trying to find the best infomercial to ridicule so she can then be convinced of its efficiency and then finally use her credit card to buy something frivolous. She has already decided to sleep in one of the guest rooms, probably the one Lewis intended to one day be a nursery. She has never slept in their bed alone. Lewis had gone on business trips or spent 24 hours at the hospital. But he always came back. He wouldn't be coming back this time.

No amount of boredom could tempt her to sleep. She couldn't concentrate long enough to read and she has not yet received notes from her editor. Besides just laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, her options were limited. A late night swim would be out of character but probably refreshing. Physical activity would probably be good considering most of her day has been spent alternating between red wine and chocolate chip cookies she found unopened in the back of the pantry.

And then her mind drifts to Claira and the remaining letters that were still in boxes in her office. More emotional instability would probably add to the necessity of alcohol, but anything at this point would be a relief. Any distraction from Lewis would be welcomed.

With the remaining bottle in one hand and glass in another, she stumbles up the stairs. She places her instruments down on her desk and goes into the closet. She picks a random box and brings it to her desk. She sits down and fingers through the letters.

She holds the envelope in her hand. The alcohol has made her less afraid of the letter's contents. She isn't exactly looking forward to the read, but at least this could give some insight and guide her decisions concerning the matter.

Claire is stunned by the first words on the page. Dear my daughter Claire is the introduction. If she had been fully conscious of her emotions, she probably would have put the letter down. Sobriety would have guided her to avoiding this letter until she had fully dealt with her impending divorce. Sobriety would have allowed her logic to dominate and her flight response would have fully kicked in. Instead, drunken curiosity had prevailed.

Dear my daughter Claire,

You have every right not to read this letter. You have every right to not believe anything I say. But I want to apologize. By this time, I'm sure Claira has told you what I have done. I'm sure she has tried to explain and I'm sure that it will never be enough for as long as you live. I wish I could explain what happened. I wish I could give you a satisfactory answer to the question Why don't I have a mommy or sister anymore. But I will never be able to give you that, and for that, I apologize.

I got angry. I snapped. I know that's not an excuse. I have a problem. A serious problem. And I will be behind bars paying for a problem I never wanted to deal with. I know you don't think so but I love you. Once I could no longer try to cover up my feelings with alcohol, I realized that I love you. I finally felt it. I finally felt what you wanted from me and if I had just given it to you, I wouldn't be here right now.

I hope you love me too. I really hope that you still love me a little bit just because I'm your father. I hope one day you can forgive me. I will pray every day that you forgive me. That you respond to this letter and tell me you are ready to listen and at least consider a relationship. Even if that relationship is not like one between a father and daughter.

I'm sorry I took your family away from you. I'm sorry I took away the two people who actually showed their love. I'm so sorry. I will apologize every day until I die, even if nothing good comes out of it. If you are ever ready, I would like you to write me back. And one day I would like you to come see me. It's torture thinking that you are out in the world knowing that your father killed your mother and sister. Knowing that you don't have an immediate family anymore. I'm sorry Claira has to take care of you. I'm sorry the people that wanted to aren't here to do it.

I'm not sure what to say. Right now, it is hard saying more. You will never feel the amount of guilt I feel right now. You will never know this pain. And I deserve it. I deserve to feel this way for the rest of my life. I took everything you knew. I took the people you loved the most. I don't think I'm ready to tell you exactly what happened. But from the bottom of my heart, I did not intend to kill them. I promise you. I did intend to hurt them. I thought maybe I would just break a bone when I threw your sister across the room. I didn't expect her brain to start bleeding and her neck to break.

I'm going to stop talking about this now because it's starting to make me upset. I know this is selfish but this will not be the last time you hear from me. I'm sorry you will spend the rest of your life saying "in jail" when people ask about your father. And even more, I'm sorry you have to answer "because he killed my mom and sister" when they ask you why.

I know you may not think so but,

I love you

Chapter 16

"Are you sure you want this?"

"Are you really asking me that? You could be the person to come rescue me from a forever of being a spinster."

"You don't want to be saved honey. If you did, you would have expelled all of your energy to make your marriage work. You would have suffered in silence."

Claire laughs.

"Well maybe not in silence."

And there was the truth. At least a small part of Claire had gotten married to escape a life of being labeled single. She did the thing she had been trained to expect of her life. Even divorce was okay. It just meant that your attempt at conforming to one aspect of the American Dream had failed; but at least you tried. It meant that you couldn't find the right person compatible with your personality and peculiarities. Remarriage was better. It showed your tenacity and your unwillingness to give up on that which was prescribed the ultimate goal of being a woman. She had succumb to the desire to solidify her existence by becoming part of something. Before "I do" and before John, she had been satisfied with the prospect of only having to consider her own needs.

And she now wrestled with her own desire to run to John. She had spent her adulthood retreating from the stereotypical expectation of a southern woman to marry young, have children, and have a career as a mother and wife. She resisted every temptation to dive into the arms of the man of the moment every time she was upset. She didn't want to need a man. She wasn't supposed to.

She had to reconcile with herself that John would be a nice addition to the chaos right now. He would give her something to look forward to when the divorce papers were finally signed.

"Are you going to stay in the house?"

"Until I can rent it or sell it."

"Why? That would be a great house for me to move into."

Every time they talked, John flirted with the idea of moving to Alabama to be with Claire. She didn't believe him or even muster hope that one day their single status would change with each other. But she liked that he entertained the idea just to give her something to dream about.

"I know you think I'm joking Claire. But I would be willing."

"Shouldn't we see if it's worth it before we live together."

"That's a great idea. Next weekend, Ailyn will be with her mother. Why don't you come up? I'll take a couple of days off work."

Claire plans her days every night before she goes to bed and makes mental to do lists. A week's advance for four days does not exactly fit her tendency to over plan her life.

"That soon?"

"Don't you start school soon?"

'Yes, in a month."

"Then this would be the perfect opportunity."

"I don't know John."

"Shouldn't we just go ahead and get it over with now. If there is nothing there, we don't have to waste our time waiting to find out. We can either resolve ourselves to a romantic or platonic life together."

A few more words and John will convince her. Claire isn't even sure why she has to be convinced. This is a man who would be worth a plane ride just to have sex with. But it's not the money or the time. It's the tackiness.

"Don't you think this is too soon?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it has been two weeks since Lewis moved out. Don't you think I should be more tactful?"

"Does it matter if he has a problem with it?"

"Yes...maybe."

"Why does it matter? You all aren't together anymore."

"And it didn't matter a month and a half ago," he continues thinking to himself.

"John, I've made enough mistakes. I don't want to continue making them."

"This will only be a mistake Claire if you don't take the time to find out what's here. I'm not asking you to marry me. I'm just asking you to come visit and see how I live. So you will know if it's the kind of life you can live."

Claire can't find any flaws in his argument. He is making more sense than she had hoped. And to be honest, it wasn't just the tackiness either. It was the risk. By going up there she was taking the risk that he wouldn't like her when he had to spend more than a few hours in her company.

"Okay."

"Okay you will come?"

"Yes."

John wishes Claire could see him dancing in the room. He has waited for this moment when he could finally say that he gave it a real chance to be something more than a fling on a retreat. He could take the time to absorb everything she is willing to give. Those things she thinks will deter him and change the look of love and adoration to that of a friend who wishes to remain distant.

"I'll show you everything the desert has to offer."

Claire laughs. "I can't believe I am doing this."

"I can."

"Are you sure you remember who I am? Claire Robinson? Overly anal retentive life planner?"

"Yes but I am more familiar with the spontaneous Claire who forgot who she was supposed to be."

"That Claire doesn't exist in real life."

"I think she does but you are afraid of her."

She didn't know where this was going. Despite its honesty, the statement had shaken her. Is she boring? Is she so obsessed with staying in control that she doesn't take any of the even safer risks that may jeopardize an hour of her time or a couple of hundred dollars she could afford? Is she endangering her own opportunities to actually live her life because she is afraid to deter her life track by a couple of miles?

"Maybe..." Claire responds hoping his next words will be a brief change in subject.

"Well don't worry about it. It might be worth it."

Might isn't a comforting word. Might only assures her that there is only a possibility of good and she needs more than potential. She needs a guarantee that only God could give right now. But she can't hold too tightly onto her life and squeeze all of the potential out of it because she isn't willing to go out of her comfort zone.

"I think it will. Besides, Lewis will probably be remarried in two years. I need to get a head start."

The conversation continues with small talk. They discuss their days and Claire's classes in the fall. She had spent most of the previous semester fighting not to teach poetry. It wasn't that she didn't like poetry; half of her undergraduate and graduate careers had been involving herself in Emerson, Thoreau and Dickinson. She had appreciated the structure and depth. She had admired the simplicity of the words with the complex and profound message. It was beautiful but it wasn't her forte. And when it came to writing, she didn't believe in the "those who can't do, teach." It was more like, "those who teach have to be able to do."

"So, you promise you will come next weekend?"

"Yes, I promise."

Claire is speechless. For most people, getting on a plane to see a wonderful man would be easy. Especially if that man had everything a typical woman would want. He had already proven to be a good father, emotionally available and committed.

"Just call me with your travel information and I will pick you up."

"I think I can do that."

"And don't forget about me while you are thinking about changing your mind."

"I won't."

"I know you won't. You know, you are really easy to tease. I love it!"

Claire laughs. Teasing had been part of the getting to know you process. A display that the flaws weren't a deterrent. It was in her best interest to interpret his mockery as a means of flirtation.

"Tease me as much as you want. As long as you follow through."

John is ashamed to admit to his wandering thoughts. She thinks they are having a warm and sentimental moment and his mind is drifting downward...to the gutter. He struggles to focus his mind on innocent thoughts while Claire tackles the logistics of a long weekend in a new place with a different culture and climate.

"John?"

John's determined focus on the law has impaired his ability to hear her important ramblings.

"John?" she asks again raising her voice.

Once his mind goes to the day he took the Bar Exam, he mellows and is able to register her inquiry.

"Sorry hun. I just got distracted."

"Thinking of another woman already?"

"No. I was thinking about my case."

"Is this what our relationship would be like? You distracted by your work while I'm distracted by our life?"

John laughs. Thinking about work had been the only thing keeping him from being inundated by sexually inappropriate thoughts. Claire knew from their first conversation that he was truly dedicated to those things that should be essentially more important than work.

"Talking about our relationship already?"

"Maybe?"

"Nothing could be more important than what enhances my life, my soul and my heart rather than my wallet."

"I know. I know you better than you think I do."

"I'm completely aware of your insight."

***

Claire walks into her condominium exhausted by her exposure to the lack of interest generated by freshman who took Intro to Creative Writing because it was better than reading 3 or 4 books and using lost critical thinking skills to analyze and write about it. It frightened her. Not all of her students had been like that. Some of them assured her, through their eager comments and opinions, that writing was more than a means to fulfilling core classes. And that is the only comfort she has at this moment.

She enjoyed coming home to a quiet home. The security of ownership combined with the frivolity of low-maintenance had made their condo an appeasing first place. Claire places her jacket on the wall hanger and purse on the top of a small bookshelf that had become the dropping spot for car keys, wallets, purses, and mail.

She had become frustrated by a syllabus that was too advanced for their goals. Their goals of passing and moving on to their entrepreneurship dreams with their business and economics. But now, she didn't have to cope with stress. She could grab a glass of wine and leave her academia behind. She didn't have papers to grade or research to do. She didn't have any meetings the next day or syllabi to complete. She could honestly sit on the couch, with the remote, and forget about her day. Or at least escape the uneasiness it had created and disguise it with content.

Just as she finds Charlie Gibson, Lewis enters the condo, repeating her routine. Claire turns her head with the sound of the door closing.

" _Hi dear," she says remaining in her spot and only muting the television to give him the shallow attention she is able to give._

" _Honey," he says excitedly kissing her on the forehead. "I have some great news."_

Great news is exactly what she needs to hear.

" _I didn't want to tell you but I applied for a chief of staff position at UAB hospital."_

" _When did this happen?"_

" _A few months ago when I grew tired of working for a pompous asshole who spent five minutes in the hospital everyday, long enough to give orders and criticize our work that was never good enough, even when we saved a life. Or two. Or ten."_

" _I didn't know you were so unhappy."_

" _I'm not unhappy. I'm just unsatisfied."_

" _Why didn't you tell me?"_

" _Because I didn't want to get you excited."_

" _Why would I be excited?"_

" _You could live closer to Claira."_

Claire had never thought about living near Claira. The distance had been a blessing, mostly because those miles had made it easier for her to separate herself from her childhood. But without Claira, something was always missing.

" _So you actually thought about me in all of this?"_

" _Yes I did," he says finally joining her on the couch with his own wine glass in anticipation of an impending celebration._

Claire unfolds her legs and places her feet on their new lilac and white abstract rug that Lewis had purchased as a housewarming gift, along with a waterfall for the third bedroom that functioned both as a reading room and office for Claire.

" _I got the job. And not only did I get the job, but I stipulated that my beautiful, intelligent, and talented wife could use her skills to improve their arts department."_

" _So you just assumed that I would be okay uprooting the life that we have barely started to go back to Birmingham where I would have to find a new home, get acclimated to a new school, and learn to live again in a city that I forced myself to despise."_

" _Claire, this is exciting. For both of us."_

" _Why both of us?" Claire asks remaining stubborn. This day had reminded her how difficult it is to be a scholar and professor. To start at the bottom and cater to the needs of a department._

" _Because they are going to make you an associate professor. So no freshman core classes. You will only be teaching junior and senior undergraduates and Masters level students."_

It does sound good. One day of indifference had made the future packing and moving worth it. And it is considerate. It is sweet and considerate that in all of his selfish search for his own career gains, he had thought about hers. He had known her so well that he knew her current position would drive her crazy, potentially for years.

" _That does sound enticing."_

" _Please smile honey. I need to know that you are okay with this. And if you don't want to move, that's fine. I can put up with this for a little while longer. If you want to see if it works out where you are or if you want to just avoid Birmingham. Whatever you want, just tell me."_

Claire's stomach turns. Not because she is upset. But because he has said the exact words to make her powerless to deny him this opportunity. And how can she deny herself? Being handed the title of associate professor? It's a dream.

" _But I will tell you Claire. I want this. I want this for myself. And I want that job for you. They want you to transform that department so students will come for more than just a degree in biochemistry, engineering, nursing, or medicine. They want a well-rounded school."_

" _Hasn't that approach worked for them? I mean...the school is always under construction because there is always another endowment or contribution."_

" _True. But they want more. They want the arts to be just as elite as the sciences. And they want you to help them do that."_

" _How did I get a job I didn't even apply or interview for?"_

" _I sent them your resume, your dissertation, and some of your creative writing. And I told them you were going to be a published author. They don't have a published author on their faculty."_

" _They will now."_

" _They sure...REALLY?!" Lewis grabs her tight, careful not to spill the glass of wine that she has now decided to place on the coffee table._

Lewis kisses her, mixing his embraces with long deep kisses and small soft pecks. In this moment, he can't get enough of her.

" _I didn't think you would say yes."_

" _Why?"_

" _You don't like change."_

" _No, I don't. But I adapt. And every time I do, I'm better than before."_

" _I concur."_

" _So let's celebrate," Lewis says handing her a glass and picking one up himself._

" _To us," he says._

" _To us."_

***

Claire was never late for anything. But that day, with her pounding head, aching throat from dryness, and churning stomach from a lack of carbohydrates, she strolls into her doctor's office 20 minutes late, with her Nook still on the dining room table and no method of occupying her 30 minutes wait.

"Good morning Claire," Felicia asks trying not to look surprised by her appearance.

Claire had also decided, that instead of putting together an acceptable outfit with perfect curls and makeup, she had put on jeans, flip flops, t-shirt, and a pony tail.

"Good morning. How are you?"

"I'm good. How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I heard about...you know."

Claire is now regretting having a gynecologist in the same hospital where her husband works.

"I'm fine Felicia," Claire says with force combined with the slightest hint of anger.

Claire pulls back in her seat and after quickly signing her name, scours the tables for a Vogue or Newsweek and sits closest to the door. Before she has time to skim the table of contents of the Newsweek, a nurse comes out and calls her name.

"That was quick," Claire mutters to herself gathering her things and carelessly throwing the magazine on the table.

The nurse takes her back for the usual formalities, review of medical history, weight, height, and urine sample. Claire feels those few things have drained all of her energy. She follows the nurse to the examination room and waits. She undresses, puts on the gown, and lays back, turning the heating pad on.

She stares at the ceiling, trying not to think. She goes over the topics of the Friday News Roundup. She could get up and grab her phone, browsing through the few apps she has for a game that could be distracting enough.

Claire hates the wait. Even before the examination, she has to begin the visit with anticipating test results that she already knows the answer to. And the cold room. She never understood why gynecologists kept their rooms so cold. Were they trying to make women as uncomfortable as possible? And the attempt to ease the discomfort was just as lazy. Funky contemporary art with yellow walls and white cold floors. It wasn't inviting. It was the place where privacy went to die.

"Hi Claire," Dr. Andrews says kissing her on the cheek.

Their relationship had developed beyond the boundaries of doctor-patient. They were friends. Maybe some people would find it difficult having a relationship with someone who studies your vagina on a regular basis, but Claire found it an odd comfort. Everything was already out there.

"You look great Claire."

"Don't patronize me."

"Okay, you look like hell."

"Thank you."

"What is going on?"

"You haven't heard?"

"Of course I have dear. But I want you to tell me."

"Short version? We are getting a divorce. Irreconcilable differences I believe is the term. The long version requires a drink."

Dr. Andrews giggles and opens the chart.

"So, everything looks good. And you will have to go to the lab for your blood tests."

"Good."

"And we'll need to do an ultrasound."

"An ultrasound?"

"Yes. It's procedure honey. You know that."

"I'm sorry I haven't been exploring the new required procedures in medical journals."

"It's not really new to give a pregnant woman an ultrasound."

Claire stops breathing. Literally, she holds her breath hoping it will jolt her sleeping body into consciousness. And Dr. Andrew's face slowly changes. Her eyes widen and her arm drops to her thigh.

"Claire, I'm sorry. I thought you knew."

And she had every right to make that assumption. Claire was the only patient she had who could actually gave her the last date of menstruation and the last time it had been late. She knew the exact day it had started. She did breast exams monthly. She was the perfect patient who was perfectly aware of her body.

Claire can't move. She has started breathing, noticing her rapid heart rate and sweating.

"Claire, calm down."

Claire isn't sure what is the most unsettling. There is the weight gain, puffy ankles, and mood swings. There is the sleepless nights. There is having a baby. There is having a baby now. There is having a baby whose paternity is uncertain. There is having a baby. There is doing something she had not ever planned to do and decided wasn't a part of her future.

"Fuck!"

That's the only word she can say. The mind of an eloquent writer left paralyzed.

"You didn't plan this?"

"No! I've told you many times I didn't want to have children."

"Seems like God had other plans."

"Fucked up ones. Why can't I stop saying that word?"

"Honey, I just thought that at your age, maybe you and Lewis had tried. Maybe the ticking had become so loud it was all you could hear and you decided to give it a try. But they always say, when you assume, you make an ass of you and me."

Claire doesn't know how to respond. Fuck is still the only word left in her vocabulary.

"Does this change anything between you and Lewis?"

"Why would it?"

"Well, having a child together changes the dynamic of a relationship. It can force two people to try harder to work out their differences for the sake of the family."

"It may not be his," Claire mumbles under her breath. With only a few synapses actually firing, there is no filter or stop sign to keep whatever she is thinking from becoming what she is saying.

"What?" Dr. Andrews asks leaning in.

"It may not be his," she whispers.

And there it is. The look of, "you really did that?" that every proper lady hates to see. It isn't judgment or disappointment. It's just a "well damn" to properly punctuate the moment.

"You had an affair?"

"No! I slept with someone...twice. And had phone sex with him while Lewis was at work. And have been calling him every day since Lewis moved out."

"Wow."

"Just make sure that judgmental tone stays locked up."

"It will. It's just disbelief."

"How do you think I feel?"

"Like an asshole."

"You shouldn't feel this way."

"Please don't go on about how everyone makes mistakes and all of that bullshit."

"Claire..."

"And please don't ask me to talk about it. Or ask me what I'm going to do."

Claire is quiet the rest of the exam. She spreads her legs just like any good patient and takes her mind to another place. Any place where men don't exist and life goes as planned. And even when it is unplanned, the unexpected things are better than she could ever imagine. That's how she wanted it to be.

But it wasn't going to be that way. This unplanned happening would not end well. By the end of the debacle, she will either be an unwanted mother, the typical woman too busy with her career to be a mom, or a true believer in the right of women to choose. None of those options lifted her sprits. None of those seemed like actual choices.

Claire places her feet on the cold floor and slowly dresses. She tries to savor every second before she has to step out of the doors and face her world. Rather, the world. The world that expects her to want to be a mother...especially at her age. The world that would want to touch her stomach and congratulate her on being a new mom. She wondered if her new words to hate would be "awww, congratulations." "Is awww even a word?" she thinks to herself finally slipping on her shirt. When she sits down to put on her shoes, she feels the weight of every choice that led to this moment. She feels heavy from the retreat, the affair, the cruise, the wedding and the death. The death of everything she knows.

She gathers her purse and puts her sunglasses on. Everything is too bright. The fluorescent lighting, the white walls, the old floors and the untouched sterile instruments. And then there is the first sonogram. The first picture of a future she is now obligated to protect and nurture. Or maybe not. Maybe it can be someone else's obligation.

Claire walks out ashamed. Ashamed that in sobriety and with a conscious choice, she had let another man do only what a husband was supposed to do. Explore her depths and see those things she wasn't secure enough to even show her husband.

And there it was. All of the guilt that had been hidden by the overwhelming pleasure and thoughts of happiness. The guilt that she had buried. The guilt that had escaped her mind and heart was now returning like a boomerang. And trailing behind it all of the baggage, worry, pain, sadness, resentment, anger, swelling, bloating, weight gain, nausea and lack of sleep that came with this pregnancy. The broken hearts. And there would be many of them. She doesn't know how she could remain separated if Lewis is the father. John would be ecstatic if the baby were his but disappointed if it isn't.

Maybe she would be a good mother. Maybe she would be caring and concerned. Maybe the only touching her child would feel would be hugs and kisses. And Lewis is nothing like her father. And that statement means more now than it did before. Maybe John will understand why she can't be with him. Or will he be willing to raise another man's child. Would she be willing? Would she put her own happiness before a child being raised primarily by the biological father? That would only be fair.

"So this is my punishment?" she asks herself leaning back in the driver's seat, her hands at 10 and 2.

Chapter 17

Claire was tired of being confused and disoriented. She had nothing to distract her but at the same time, she was tired of avoiding everything. Claire buries herself under her comforter, only leaving her head out in order to watch a movie. Today it had been Hitch. It was just enough romance to remind her that sometimes things worked out and the right amount of humor to temporarily lift her spirits. There was potential that John could be her Will Smith or even her Kevin James. He could sweep her off her feet and help her live the life she didn't know she wanted.

Once the movie ends, Claire is tired. Doing nothing has exhausted her. She could browse through the DVR recordings or pop in a sad drama so at the end, she could say that her life wasn't as bad as it could be. She pulls the covers off, refreshes her face in the bathroom, and heads to her office. There is only one situation she can face right now that doesn't require seeing the reaction on someone else's face.

On her office sits a stack of 7 letters, each from her father. Most of them say they same thing. They beg her forgiveness. They try to explain everything he did. He doesn't try to justify his actions. But instead asks that those actions be forgotten. He asks her to do the impossible.

The letters all say it was an accident. But Claire can't believe that. She can't believe that the violence was just an accident. He had hit them and belittled them. He had done whatever he could to make them feel worthless. He had tried to scrape away every ounce of her confidence. He had tried to teach her that abuse was normal so she would just come to accept it as just part of her life. He wasn't afraid to leave bruises and welts. He treated her like an animal by locking her in the basement. He said that she was ugly and would always be. He said that no one would love her. He said that he was as good as it would get.

These letters tried to combat that. These words tried to be worth more than the actions that preceded them. And she is ready to respond. A normal childhood...or at least a loving one...may have kept her from marrying the wrong person. She could have had something more if she had had something more.

Claire takes out her laptop. She begins writing

Dear asshole

Claire contemplates this greeting. It is completely appropriate. Appropriate to the tone of the letter and appropriate to the person it will be delivered to. She wants him to know how angry she is. She wants him to know how she feels about him.

She changes it.

Dear Father

It is cold. They will never have those experiences that will allow their connection to progress to one that will allow her to call him dad. It is only an empty title and using it will hopefully make him feel guilty. He is a man in prison for taking away the people she loved. It's to hurt him.

She keeps the latter. She can't be that mean. Although he has become simply the contributor of DNA, she can't ignore Claira repeating to always respect her elders, even when it is both unearned and unrequited.

The only problem is that what she is currently thinking will certainly refute the commandment to honor thy father and mother. She is used to having to choose her words carefully but she is sure there is no way to convert these thoughts into something Claira would accept.

"Why do I care what Claira thinks anyway?" she asks herself, remembering that Claira's lie is what has made this written response necessary. She decides to just write what comes to mind and then edit later.

This is your daughter.

That's awful. Who else would be writing him? His mother is dead and I'm sure his sister hasn't thought about anyone other than herself long enough to write him.

This is Claire.I have read some of the letters you wrote for me. And I don't know what to say.

Actually she does know what to say. But she doesn't want to say it. She is inclined not to be cruel.

_You ask me to forgive you. But I'm not capable of that. What you did was unforgivable_.

In time, maybe she will, one day, find the compassion and understanding to absolve him. To pardon him and stop punishing him.

You took away the two people I loved most in the world. Actually three. For a long time you took away my ability to love myself. To accept that anyone could love me. That a man could love me. You took away my ability to trust. You ripped away my sense of security. And you think you deserve my forgiveness?

Claire's eyes begin to swell and her hands shake. She is finding it difficult to steady her hands above the keyboard. She wipes away the water from her face and hangs her head. She has to stop.

Perhaps "Fresh Air" would relax her. Or maybe she could try to remember the meditation skills she learned in college to get through the doctorate program. But she could just go on. With this letter, it Would be prolonging this torment. Taking a break to try to forget something she couldn't would be a waste of time. So she resolves herself to continue.

I don't know if I can believe you love me. I don't know if I believe you feel regret and guilt. Those are human emotions and you have never shown any humanity. I've never seen a loving heart and compassionate soul. You always looked at me with contempt and disgust. And I can't believe that you want me and want to be my father.

Claire begins to think about what her life could have been like if she had actually had a dad. If she had someone to take her to the park and read to her at night. If she had someone to model what she should expect of every man in her life. If she had a father who would protect her from bad things, not perpetrate them. If she had spent her life in the same house. If she didn't have to sleep through nightmares and live through loneliness. If she didn't spend most of her young life searching for something that had been taken.

You took everything from me. Why couldn't you have just killed yourself?

Claire stops herself. She doesn't wish him dead; at least she hopes she doesn't. Making him feel like shit won't make her feel better. But she is tempted to keep the line. To punch him in the gut and make him feel what she has felt for the last thirty-something years, all at once.

You supposedly love me now but why didn't you love me then? And I'm sure there is some reason why you drank yourself into a violent stupor almost every night and blamed us for your deficiencies. But I don't care. I don't care about the reason. Claira tried at one time to tell me about your father. To tell me about his distance and lack of affection. How he taught you what a man is supposed to be and that didn't include sensitivity and affection. He was rough with you. And I sympathize. I really do. But that's not an excuse. At least he loved you enough to not kill Claira and Bonnie. At least he loved you enough not to try to kill you. At least he loved you enough to let Claira be the one to show you how to live. You turned out worse than him. You beat us and tore us down. He had made you feel like nothing so you had to make us feel the same. You didn't know how to be a man so you became a bully. You became a controlling soulless bully.

Claire wants to tell him about Claira. Inform him that his own mother thought I would live a better life believing he was dead. That she would rather have a dead son.

I thought you were dead. Claira told me that you were dead. I can only guess the reasons. The one that makes the most sense is that she would rather me go through life telling people that my father is dead rather than in jail. That he was a victim of a violent crime rather than the architect. And I get it. But now I've discovered the truth and I don't know what to do with it. I know you'd like more than a type written letter explaining why you still cannot see me. But this is all I am capable of at the moment.

Then Claire begins to think about the overwhelming hearsay that has dominated the conversations about her father. If she swallows her pride, she can have the opportunity to find out those details that she has both craved and avoided.

_Maybe one day I'll have the strength to come and ask you those questions that are now beginning to log in my mind. Those questions that only you can answer. Maybe I can look into those eyes and see more than darkness. Maybe one day you will be more than just a figment of my imagination and the poison of my past. Maybe, I will be able to envision more than just a monster_.

And she has to stop there. The anger and injustice of the situation are beginning to rise and bury her sensibilities. Her resentment is beginning to intrude on her ability to write something honest but not hurtful. She has more to say but she has made her point. And these words...this letter...had to leave his nights sleepless and days nagging at him. She wanted him to think of her more now and his daydreams be just as terrorizing as the day he took everything away.

Claire saves what she has and diverts her attention to her email. She had ignored the notification 5 minutes ago in an effort to keep her mind in the place it needed to be to write her father. She becomes nervous when she sees the email from her agent.

Hey Claire,

Your editor just notified me that she sent you some suggestions. She also told me that she wanted you to add another chapter. I hate to tell you this but you have 30 days to do that, get it back to your editor, and get the final draft to me. I know you are preparing for the next semester but this has to get done. And you know how much I hate to put more pressure on you. ;)

Claire pauses just taking in that one emoticon. He loved to put pressure on her. He said that the pressure made her better.

If you need anything just let me know.

Again another contrary statement. If she needed him, she would have to anticipate the issue and make sure she gave him at least two weeks to respond.

I'll be out of town for a week on a business trip.

Business meant a conference in Hawaii where they went to a meeting in the morning and then spent the rest of the day drinking fruity drinks on the beach they would never admit to consuming. They would then gather together at the end of the day to have dinner and explore local bars and clubs for women half their age. Claire wishes that work was that easy for her.

It may take me a while to respond but I'll make sure to check my email.

This statement seemed abundantly redundant. Of course it will take him a while to respond. And he will check his email every half hour but he will only respond to those things he considers urgent. Even emails marked urgent aren't necessarily. Claire has often wondered how she could get him to respond to her emails with earnest. She wanted him to treat her as if he actually cared that she is his client. But she settled for his distant involvement.

I can't wait to read your book. Talk to you soon.

This was a form email. She is certain that he has never read one word of her book and had no intention of doing so. He would buy it of course out of a feeling of obligation but read it? More like skim. He would check to see if he was mentioned on the dedication and thank you page. He would read enough to make sure his clients thought he cared when he actually wanted his 10%. And, of course enough to promote the book and market it to people like him who read maybe one book a year. And that evening spent reading a book was just in desperation to escape boredom that couldn't be eradicated with television, a movie, or a glass of brandy at the cigar bar.

After signing out, Claire closes her laptop and tries to decide which thing deserved her mental focus. Or at least which one would cause the least anguish. She settles for neither and instead spends the next 15 minutes thinking about the things she had wanted to do just a week ago. But everything was different. Now there were things on her to do list that weren't there before. Things could be removed, like extra tampons and birth control pills. "You can't get more pregnant," she thinks to herself making her way to her room.

She wants to spend the next three days not thinking about John. He used to be the bright spot of her conscience but now he had become another complication. She could no longer think about their time together without obsessing over the consequences of it. Or maybe not. And those three words changed everything. Maybe the baby isn't his and she wasn't a whore. If it wasn't his, she would be saved. The distortion between reality and perception would err in her favor. And her affair would be just a moment of stupidity and inconsiderate choices.

Then she begins to think about who she wants the father to be. And if it mattered. She could lie. She could verbalize whatever truth she wanted whatever the scientific result. She doesn't want a reason to have Lewis back in her life in the same capacity. A child would make friendship impossible. He would see what their marriage could be with a girl or boy bridging them together. And he would want to try again.

But John. She couldn't have what she wanted with John if it were his. They couldn't just be. She couldn't experience the wonderful beginnings of something new if there was already a reason to fully commit. They couldn't just lay in bed and be totally present because their future would be predetermined and decided. They had no choice but to begin thinking about being parents. She despised the thought of that more with John than Lewis. John is her no obligation no responsibility fantasy.

She had hopes for this trip. She wanted to lay a foundation for something greater than she could imagine. She wanted to have fun and leave all the questions at home. She didn't want to think about her first divorce meeting. Where the discussion had been abnormally calm and productive. He hadn't gone back on his word, giving her the house. He suggested splitting all of their assets. When they had gotten married, he didn't object to her keeping money in her name and wasn't asking for any of that now. The word alimony was never brought up and there wasn't any yelling or disputes. They shook hands at the end and he kissed her on the cheek. They smiled as if nothing had changed, and in essence, nothing had. The feeling was different when their eyes met and their ring fingers were bare. But they still loved each other. But they didn't want anything to bring them back together. .

Claire retreats to her bedroom. She had intended to avoid packing. She wanted to pick up a book that had been sitting unopened on the small bookshelf in the bedroom. She browsed through the untouched books and read the jackets, hoping to find one that was dramatic enough to provoke relief. But once her head was on the pillow, the only thing her mind wanted to do was submerse itself in REM sleep.

***

Claire had not been able to sleep well. She was frozen in place and when the sun began to rise, it didn't move her. It should have been the beginning of her day but it felt like the end. The worst part was the lack of tiredness. Her eyes didn't droop and her muscles weren't aching for relaxation. She was wide awake; her thoughts had kept her brain starving for more stimulation. Television wasn't enough. The internet wasn't enough. Only her own thoughts could satisfy the hunger. And so she suffered. Her mind couldn't focus on anything else and wouldn't. It wouldn't change its course to the smallest ounce of delight. Perhaps there weren't enough of those to justify the time and effort.

Claire puts her feet on the warm carpet and slowly stands. She turns and looks at the empty space on the other side of the bed and imagines if she had woken up next to John. She pictures his chest moving up and down and his arm laying on his chest. She imagines watching his arm move to her side, searching for her body. Realizing that she is no longer there, he opens his eyes and rolls over. He then sits up but soon relaxes hearing the shower come on. And instead of going back to sleep, he joins her.

She turns her attention to the yard outside, watching the few neighbors walk to the curb for their newspapers and even noticing one young man arriving home from a night shift. The scrubs identify him as a nurse or doctor, and Lewis immediately floods her mind. Anyone she sees with a white coat or scrubs makes her tense. She wonders if the person works with her husband, and if they do, what they think of her. She wonders, if they aren't colleagues, if they had even seen him in passing at a conference or lecture and was now sitting in judgment of the woman who let him get away. The woman who thought he was disposable.

She heads for the bathroom, stepping over half-packed luggage and a sprawl of high heeled stilettos and comfortable flats. She had to have flip flops; Arizona in July, she had to have flip flops. She actually wishes she had not decided on an early afternoon flight. It's like sitting in front of a brand new rollercoaster with a 323 foot first drop over and over again. It's torture and by the time you do it, your heart is about to pop out of your chest.

While in the shower, she goes over the next 6 hours. Yes, 6 hours. There are not enough television shows, coffee or writing to make that time tolerable. And trying to get back to sleep isn't an option. Perhaps a bath instead of shower could relax her and at least allow for a nap. But once she got going, she didn't want to stop. Maybe it had been the nap that had her circadian rhythm in such disarray. The mental exhaustion from responding to a father she didn't know still existed had been enormous. And she had slept for three hours. She had woken up right after her usual dinner time and has not been asleep since.

Claire isn't sure if she had been a victim of Newton's third law of motion, Murphy's Law, or Karma. But no matter what, she simultaneously felt like the victim and the assailant. She had brought this on herself. She had cheated and lied. She had lived her life trying to avoid the effect of emotions and consequently had not considered those of others. She had learned to care more about herself because only one person could care more than she did. And at this point, she was calling that into question.

The heat of the scalding shower had not released the tension in her muscles. She didn't think about her day in confident terms and plan every minute so everything could get done. Oddly it was never stressful. It was strangely exciting to envision her tasks being completed one by one and in less time than anticipated. It usually brought a smile to her face.

So did John. The thought of his arms around her used to bring comfort and security. She had wanted to talk to him and finally enjoyed being alone in the house so she could call him. She had to change her monthly access plan to increase her text messaging. She is sure Lewis thought it abnormal, but she assumed she was answering emails. At least she hopes that's what he was thinking.

Claire goes into her closet, scanning her clothes for the perfect outfit. She has to decide how she wants John to see her. The days of getting dressed up to fly were gone so she doesn't want to appear as if she had stepped back in time and was traveling with Audrey Hepburn. She also didn't want to seem like she was trying too hard. But flip flops, jeans, and t-shirt was too casual; that outfit said "I don't care." And she did more than she cared to admit. She had to find the perfect balance. The outfit that said, "I thought about you this morning," but didn't reek of desperation. Something provocative enough to get his attention but not...well...slutty.

And then there was another factor...traveling to a desert. So she decided on dark jeans and a purple knit sleeveless top. The white cardigan and black modest Nine West pumps would sophisticate the outfit. She had to use the hot rollers and pin it up so that before she leaves the plane, she could take her hair down and soft curls would fall.

She wanted to blend in. She considered moving to coach and be like every other person struggling to make the most of minimal leg room, expensive television and overpriced meals. She sits in first class being treated as a better woman than the people navigating how to make the best of economy. They serve her hot meals and champagne. They greet her with a smile and offer a warm blanket. She has enough room to comfortably cross her legs with her own personal television with 100 unwatchable movies to choose from.

She leans her head back and closes her eyes. She imagines the cliche scene in a movie where the guy is waiting at the gate and arms open with a broad smile ready to embrace her. But that scene had to change, some parts because of TSA and others because it just wasn't realistic to think you could run up to someone without knocking someone over and slapping a young child with a flailing bag.

To pass the time, she takes out her laptop and makes up stories about the other people in first class. She has two intentions. Primarily it is to distract her. Secondly, she wanted to endeavor into the world of fiction. The book had not even been published and she was already tired of non-fiction. Tired of reality. She wanted to finally create, instead of live, the tumultuous life and let a character play out the drama. In a way, she wanted to write the life she had always wanted to have.

"Business suit," is a consultant. She has one of those obscure jobs. When she tells someone what she does for a living, they nod, smile, and tell her that's great, not really knowing what she does. She sits at her laptop, responding to emails sponsored by airplane WiFi. She won't have children. She is gratified by being barely 28 and almost making 6 figures. At the present, that is enough. She doesn't even think about wanting more. There isn't a more.

And that's dangerous. It's dangerous to think that there's nothing more to achieve in life. There's nothing left to strive for. There's nothing left to be. When you have nothing else to live for, you begin to simply exist. You begin to underestimate the monotony of the day; under-appreciate the value of a sunrise, a good breakfast, a job, a retirement account, a career, a comfortable life, a life free of financial worry and more than enough things to try to replace the less than enough love.

Her life has become too fast. She didn't heed her mother's warning that if you go through life too fast, you're going to miss it. She didn't slow down even when she had the time. She is determined to keep going to achieve an unachievable goal of perfection. But not the perfect mother or wife. The perfect defiance of what a woman should be. The perfect contrary to the Beavers and even the Huxtables. She didn't have to be the perfect mother and have a career to have it all. She just had to have everything she wanted. And she believes she is on the path to doing that.

She's not a hoe. But she is indifferent and indiscriminate. She tells her best friends over cocktails at a bar too expensive for half of them, that a woman has needs. And the time it would take to invest in a relationship, she would rather invest in herself.

"Can't you do both?" one of them would ask. "The emptiness will get to you at some point."

But it isn't getting to her now. It isn't keeping her awake at night. She can't hear her biological clock and she doesn't yearn for someone to share her bed with. She likes coming home to an empty home and indulging in her own energy. She didn't have to answer to anyone, even though the feminists of the day had reminded her that being with a man didn't mean she had to be anything less than the woman she wanted to be. Being in a relationship didn't mean she had to lose the one with herself. And she could gain something from being with someone else. She could learn more about herself through someone else's eyes. But right now, she knew all she wanted to know. And right now, she was ahead of every Harvard graduate at her firm for partner.

She doesn't have anything to distract her. And she isn't going to intentionally diminish her choices and obstruct her path. She isn't going to suddenly be the typical woman needing to take two weeks for her honeymoon or 12 weeks for maternity leave. Right now she is shocking them with her disregard for what a woman is supposed to want.

And then there was Too Much Makeup and Sugar Daddy. And they have the perfect relationship. She doesn't have to be herself and he can pretend to be more than he is. His nerdy glasses, bulging beer belly, penguin walk, and feminine laugh are overshadowed by the petite blond subjecting herself to being a trophy.

There weren't any commitments. Well not the typical ones. There weren't promises of fidelity and love. Just sex and money. She is content being a glorified prostitute because in her early 20's, being used was a compliment to her blonde hair, size 2 waist, perfect legs, and high butt and breasts. It was satisfying being objectified and idolized. That's all she currently had. She was at peace taking credit, in the form of cards and cash, for something she wasn't responsible for. For assets she hadn't earned. But justified it with the effort it took to maintain it.

And he doesn't mind paying. A less than attractive man with a beautiful woman only engages people. It turns heads. But they know. They know she wouldn't dare look at him otherwise. They knew he had a stale personality and thought his Bentley and 10,000 square foot home could get him everything he wanted. And it did. He knows the way of the world. He knows money speaks louder than compassion, understanding, love and even intelligence. Money could buy you all of those things if you associated with the right people. And he did.

He doesn't work. They aren't on the plane so he can sit in business meetings or spend 14 hours a day for a week in an office. He isn't on the plane to go greet employees. He is on the plane to go to a fundraiser to listen to people convince him to donate...rather invest...his money. Persuade him that the return will be worth his time. That he will get what he wants and the legislation will make it easier for him to continue to do nothing for his money. Allow him to continue to spend his mornings playing golf, his afternoons drinking brandy, and his evening being in front of the woman who had agreed to always be two steps behind him.

And she smiles. In the back of her mind, she wanted her man to be muscular, tall, broad-shouldered and manly. The typical bad boy that she knew would only be a temporary. But she had needs that she couldn't fulfill herself. And she was minimally ashamed that these needs were superficial. That she only responded to his texts and phone calls when she wanted something. And worse, that he was okay with that. Maybe he was the one being used.

And then there was Little Man, thoroughly enjoying the little things, including his episodes of Spongebob on the portable DVD player. An abnormally well-behaved 8 year old whose mother made everyone else jealous. She wasn't perfect. She was abnormally adept at displaying her humanity without shame. She forgot cookies for bake sales and forgot deadlines before she could extend them. She didn't always have time for the ballet recitals and baseball games. She didn't feel bad about putting an electronic device in his hands to keep him quiet on a plane. She had to do what she had to do to be able to enjoy her book and keep from getting the evil eye when she exited the plane.

He likes school. But he would be the cool nerd. The smart guy who played sports and attended theater performances. The anomaly. The perfect son to an imperfect mother who wasn't afraid to admit her mistakes. Who told her son she loved him everyday and apologized for the things she would miss, even if there weren't any upcoming school plays, recitals or games. She did the same with her teenage daughter. The oldest who didn't expect to be a sibling. Whose father had died. The mom had to learn how to be the only parent and had succeeded. And because she didn't want her son to feel any different than her daughter, she missed part of her life just the same. They knew she couldn't be there for everything.

Little Man is the result of an unwanted pregnancy of a more than wanted relationship. So they got married. And it had been great. The accident had propelled the inevitable and both of them were happy to have a reason to do what they knew they craved sooner than everyone around them expected. Who gets married after 3 months? People who were still being watched by a set of Catholic and a set of Southern Baptist parents. Families where being an adult doesn't supersede the dogma of religion. And they are abnormally and sickenly happy. They still sincerely laugh at each other's jokes and look at each other like the first day they met. They still want to be around each other. They still enjoy sex and have it at least 3 times a week. They are still married because they like being married. It's more than companionship and romance. It's the type of love C.S Lewis talked about.

Little man still respects his parents and isn't old enough to resent them for not allowing him to grow up and be a typical rebellious teenager. He looks at his dad like he wants to be him and his mother like he wants a woman like her when he no longer believes girls have cooties and are icky. He still takes the greatest pleasure in the simple things and is just as easily amused as any child could be. He still wants to be President of the United States and have a big family. He still thinks he can change the world, and even better, he still wants to. He doesn't know how much hope he possesses and the potential to lose it. He can't identify the admiration when people look at him, from mothers who wish their sons were so well-behaved, fathers who wish they had sons, and strangers who wanted the look in his eyes and his fascinating appreciation for the non-electric and less than instant.

Claire is taken from the fantasy of other people's lives when she hears the ding of the seatbelt sign. She quickly obeys the mandates of lifting her tray table, letting her seat up, and putting up all of her devices. She never understood why the last 20 minutes of a flight had to be without entertainment. Now she had to be alone in her thoughts. Now she had to think about the consequence of her getting off that plane and making her way to the baggage claim, searching for her luggage and John.

She felt like she had gotten her exercise for that day by the time she reached him. "Damnit," she says to herself, seeing his smile in the mix of faces. And it had been more enticing than she remembered. He saunters up to her and she is mesmerized by his swagger. He doesn't open his arms broadly for a hug but slowly moves his hands up to capture her face. And without permission, he kisses her. She almost drops her bag. He moves his hand down her back and pulls her in, forgetting where they are or simply not caring. Claire drifts back to their first night together.

She automatically smiles when he pulls away. With her eyes still closed, she asks him to kiss her again. And he does. But it isn't the same. It's better. This time he kisses her like he would on their wedding day. Not an "I miss you," but "I love you so much I can't believe that you are kissing me."

"Wow," Claire says.

"Wow is an understatement," John says grabbing her bag and guiding her to the conveyer belt.

They are quiet. A passionate, indulgent and loving silence where words aren't necessary. Claire isn't speechless; rather she doesn't want to say anything. She doesn't want to ruin this moment with insufficient words. She wants instead to be present in this moment where the absolute truth isn't necessary. Where the honesty of what they feel is enough. And what she had wanted more than anything was to never be anything more or less than what she is right now, a woman in the throws of new love. A cliché.

He put her luggage in the trunk of his car and couldn't keep his hands off her. She willingly gave into his spontaneity. She was happy to have this, before she was forced to tell him about the possibility of being a father again by her annoying guilt. She had this time to be herself with him.

Claire watches him button his shirt as she looks through the fogged windows. She can't stop herself. She sneaks back into the front seat and waits for him to adjust himself. When he finally makes his way to the driver's seat, John leans over and kisses her cheek.

"Thank you," she says running her fingers through his hair.

"For what?" he asks cranking the car.

Chapter 18

"Do you think you want to have more children?"

"Where did this come from?" John asks running his finger down her arm.

"I was just thinking about it."

"But I haven't been."

"What do you mean?" she asks rolling over to face him.

"You've already told me how you feel about children. I'm not going to try to change your mind."

She had spent most of her married life being convinced that her own instinct had been wrong. That her fears were unreasonable. That she could be something she didn't want to be. That she could and would want to sacrifice for what he desperately wanted to believe they wanted. And now there was a man who had taken her at her word. And didn't try to change her mind by subliminally feeding her messages that as a woman, she should want a child.

"I just want to know."

"If I had the opportunity, I would love to have another child."

Claire had to test the waters. She takes a deep breath.

"What if that opportunity were with me?" she asks sitting up and bracing herself.

"You want to have a baby?" he shoots up not wanting to seem too excited but unable to hide his sudden interest in the direction of this conversation.

"I don't know." And that was the truth. She didn't know if she wanted to have a baby with him. There was a difference between having a baby and having his baby.

"What are we talking about?" John asks, sensing that this conversation is about more than just a curious question.

"We are talking about a family."

"Have you changed your mind?"

"No. I'm not saying that."

"Claire, I'm confused."

So is Claire. She is so lost in her own conflict that she can't articulate her thoughts. She glances at the clock, realizing she only had two more hours to decide whether or not tell him. She had wanted to tell him the night before but she didn't want to impose on his restful sleep. And now, in the last moments when she can elegantly reveal she is pregnant, she is choking.

Claire knows that he knows she is hiding something. Reluctant to tell him something he obviously doesn't want to hear. And now he is scared.

"John," she says grabbing his hand.

His heart begins to race and his palms sweat. He squeezes her hand tighter and she smiles feeling the pressure. He quickly posits every possible thing she could say from not having feelings for him anymore to claiming she made a mistake. Or worse...saying that this long weekend had further positioned him as an occasional fling who didn't belong a permanent fixture in her life.

"I'm pregnant."

He is quiet, his facial muscles frozen. Her eyes begin to slowly close and her muscles tense. She tries to tell him, without words, to say something. Anything.

"You're pregnant!" he yells.

Claire leans back.

"You're pregnant," he says whispering and then laughing.

Claire remains silent. The laughter almost sounds wicked and she is unsure of the intent behind it. Then he grabs her and almost smothers her.

"I can't believe this," he says pulling back and wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Are those happy tears?" Claire asks still unsure.

"Of course they are," he says kissing and embracing her. "Why wouldn't I be happy?"

"Because we aren't married."

"And?"

"We aren't even in a relationship."

"So?"

"We don't even live in the same state?"

"You act like none of those things could be changed...if we wanted them to."

"You may not want to change them."

"Why wouldn't I? Having a child with the woman I love isn't exactly devastating news."

Claire wished he had reacted differently. It would have made her choice easier.

"I'm not done."

"What?"

"It may not be yours."

John's stomach drops. He should have expected this. He has never been the only man in her life.

He can't believe he is jealous. How could he not expect her to have sex with her husband? But he didn't. He thought that their moments together had been enough to persuade her of celibacy until they could finally be together. He was willing to do whatever he could to make sure that happened. Even though John was extremely excited that her marriage would end, he now hesitated to imply their lives could be different.

He doesn't want there to be a question of their destiny together. He doesn't want to share her with anyone. But he doesn't want to be an asshole. He doesn't want his face to show the resentment that is beginning to build. He doesn't want her to look into his eyes and see the sudden disappointment. He starts to ask himself what he would do if it weren't his. Could he get over it and still work towards making Claire his? Could he raise another man's child? Would he be upset if Claire decided that paternity was the defining issue and whoever the father meant whoever the only man in her life? What if there wasn't enough he could do?

"You look like someone just punched you in the gut with an iron fist," Claire finally says interrupting the silence.

"I can't pretend to not be upset by this."

"You're upset? I'm the stereotypical pregnant whore."

"Claire, you are nothing like that."

"I can't take that look anymore."

"I'm sorry. How am I looking at you?"

"Like I'm not the woman you fell in love with anymore."

"You need to stop beating yourself up about this. You are still the same woman. I just don't know what to say. I'm not sure how you expected me to react."

"I don't know either."

"Listen, I wish you had not slept with your husband."

"It was a drunken attempt on a cruise I didn't even want to be on. Lewis had talked me into working on our marriage. Really work on our marriage. If it makes you feel better, I was thinking about you the entire time. I desperately wanted to see your face above me."

"That doesn't make me feel better."

"Well damn. I'm sorry."

"Claire, I'm just being honest with you. Would you rather me sit here and pretend to be happy about this situation? I would love to be a parent with you. But this isn't up to me? What if Lewis is the father?"

"Then Lewis is the father."

"Would there be any room for me?"

"Why do you keep asking me questions I don't know the answer to?"

John doesn't respond. He gets off the bed and begins pacing, wanting to expend the energy somehow.

"Way to make me even more nervous."

"Claire, I don't like arguing. I don't want to have an argument right now. But you can't honestly believe that this only affects you."

"If that were the case, it would be easier."

"Okay, I'm just going to say this, get this out, and you can respond or not respond. You can just get on that plane and go back to your life."

Claire leans forward with her hand on her chin like an eager student in her favorite class.

"I love you. And yes, it is insane that we love each other after two weeks of silent and then explosive flirtations. I would feel blessed and lucky to spend the rest of my life with you. I would love your baby to be mine, no matter the construct of his or her DNA. Just know that if you want to be with me, a paternity test will not get in the way of that. We can work it out..."

"If it's his John, I'll have to make the baby easily accessible to him."

"Says who? You are important too Claire. What you want is important. My ex-wife and I were so concerned when we divorced that Ailyn's life would be chaotic and tumultuous. But you should see her. Her parents are happier and therefore she is. She is a more joyful child living in two good homes rather than one bad one."

"I'm talking about the distance."

"I know. But there are planes, trains, and automobiles. And if you are miserable, the baby will be too. And think what you would be teaching your child."

"That you have to take responsibility for your actions and I did whatever I could to make sure she was near her father."

"Does that mean you are going to move here if it's mine?"

Claire is stunned into silence. "If Lewis is the father, I can't move here."

"But that doesn't mean we can't be together. I've said this many times. I can be an attorney anywhere."

"But you can't be a great father anywhere."

"Custody arrangements can be changed. Ailyn would be happy for me that I've found someone to love. Her fucking mother has."

"You didn't tell me that."

"I didn't think it mattered. But ex-wife is already dating someone else. She gets to be happy. Why can't I?"

"You do. But I can't ask you to move so far from your daughter."

"You wouldn't be. I'm a grown man."

No longer possessing the energy to remain up, she leans back against the headboard and looks toward the ceiling. His eyes are tearing her apart. His voice is the only thing she can tolerate without breaking down.

"I've got a proposal."

Claire shoots up.

"Not that kind."

John moves toward the bed again, sitting by her side and taking her hand.

"Why don't we table this discussion until we actually know something? We can't deal with speculations. We can only deal with facts and the facts right now aren't enough to actually make a decision."

"I don't know if I can pretend this conversation never happened."

"I'm not asking you to do that. I'm glad it happened. You know how I feel and I'm almost certain that will play a part in your decision. Just know, whatever that decision, I will support you. Whether that be in the capacity of a friend or more."

Claire kisses him, unable to verbally express the comfort he has graciously bestowed upon her.

"Let's get you packed and go have some breakfast."

Claire nods her head and gets out of bed.

***

" _Claire, don't take that job."_

" _Why not?"_

" _It's not what you really want."_

Claire had been studious and did whatever she could to ensure her future. Yes her love was English, but she knew the chances of her finding a career in English that didn't involve teaching high school would have been slim to none. So she double majored in accounting. But it wasn't her love. She had already applied to graduate school to get her MFA. But true to herself, she had a backup plan. She had applied to accounting firms just in case she didn't get accepted. And now she had an offer. She had an acceptance letter in her hand and an offer from an accounting firm.

Her 4.0 had granted her many opportunities. But now, she was sitting at the dining room table, drinking coffee with Claira, needing her guidance. She knew her choice would change her life. And she couldn't make that decision on her own.

" _But it's a great opportunity. I have to make money Grandma. I want a career."_

" _Doing what will make you money or doing what you love?"_

" _Ultimately both."_

" _Numbers aren't your thing honey. You may be good at it but I don't want you going through life like a zombie. I don't want you to have regrets so early in your life."_

" _I don't either. I don't want to look back on my life and still be eating Ramen noodles for dinner and having to work two part time jobs just to pay my bills."_

" _Why would you have to do that? You know that I will support you."_

" _I'm an adult Grandma."_

" _Really? Says who?"_

" _I'm 22 years old."_

" _That means you've lived 22 years. That doesn't make you an adult."_

" _I want to be one then."_

" _So what does it mean to be an adult?"_

" _It means I can pay my own bills. It means I can support myself and provide for my own life. It means I can do the things I want while still taking care of the things I need."_

" _Being an adult also means having courage and strength."_

" _To make the tough decisions."_

" _To make the right ones."_

" _Claira, I don't know."_

" _Honey, I love what I do. What kind of person do you think I would be if I had just been the nurse or teacher I was expected to be? Do you think I would be happy? What would have happened if I had just taken the first job that was handed to me?"_

" _You wouldn't be happy."_

" _And I wouldn't be where I am today, the VP of a publishing company."_

" _Butterfly effect."_

" _I don't want you to be afraid of taking risks. Because you can't achieve great things unless you do. Do you want to be a writer or an accountant?"_

" _A writer."_

" _Then go to graduate school."_

" _I'm still not sure. What do you think I should do?"_

" _I think you should follow your heart and not let your own expectations get in the way."_

" _I wish what I should do and what I want to do are the same."_

" _That will never happen. Just get prepared for it now."_

Claire goes into the kitchen and refills her cup.

" _Do you have any regrets Claira?"_

" _Plenty of them. Just because I'm grateful doesn't mean there are things I wish I had done differently. All I'm asking is that you don't begin by squashing your dream. It is much harder to achieve it when so much of your life has been consumed by something else."_

" _It sucks when you don't even know what your heart wants."_

" _That's because you are thinking about it too much. All of your thoughts are drowning out the sound of your instinct. Just go back to your apartment and distract yourself. You will just know the best thing to do. When do you have to respond to the job offer?"_

" _They want to know by Tuesday."_

" _I wouldn't suggest mulling over it for three days but you have time. Use it by not using it."_

" _I wish you could just tell me how this would all end."_

" _Only God can tell you that my dear."_

" _Would you speak to Him for me?"_

Claira laughs and grabs her hand. "You don't need to know how it will end. Because it never will. And if it ever appears like it is going to, you need to set a new goal and strive for something better. The moment you are complacent is the moment your life means nothing."

" _Always want more?"_

" _No...always want to be better. Which of these opportunities will help you be better?"_

" _I don't know."_

" _Yes you do."_

" _Crunching numbers all day will bore me to tears."_

" _Then why do what's easy when you can prove how amazing I already know you are by doing what feels right?"_

" _I'm young. Of course I want to do what's easy."_

" _Then be the woman you want to be right now instead of waiting for her to evolve from experience you want but don't yet have."_

" _I hate when you're right."_

" _No you don't."_

" _No I don't," and Claire hugs her neck tight and kisses_ _her on the forehead. "Why are you crying?" she asks noticing Claira's eyes watering as she pulls away._

" _Because you are everything I wanted to be. I am so grateful to be able to finally see what I couldn't be myself."_

" _You grossly underestimate who you are grandma."_

Claira shakes her head, all too aware of her flaws and secrets. Too burdened by them to speak of them. Choosing to remain alone and lonely in order to prevent Claire from ever feeling that way.

" _Grandma, you have always taught me that I will never see myself how you see me. You will never see yourself like I do."_

" _I've made some horrible mistakes," she says grabbing a tissue._

Claire has never seen her grandmother like this. She has never seen her full of so much regret and see that regret flowing from her eyes and making her body shake. She is almost frightened and kneels in front of her.

" _I'm sure I'll make them too. And I'll be just like you. Strong enough to live through them, smart enough to cope with them, and wise enough to learn from them."_

Claire suddenly feels like the elder of the relationship, comforting the insecurities of someone who has no reason to have them. Trying to guarantee certainty and console unexpressed and unexamined feelings. She takes the tissue from her hand and wipes the remaining tears from her face.

" _I love you Grandma."_

" _I love you too my Sunshine."_

***

Claire had sent the letter. She had not changed a word and decided that reading over it one more time would not make a difference. She couldn't improve the words or finesse the sentence structure. She couldn't evoke more meaning or verbalize anymore of her emotions. Each time she reread her words, she became more angered and more skeptical of her intentions. And even before she printed the letter, she had to be assured of those.

She didn't know if she was simply trying to hurt him and if she had any intention of actually working towards resolution and some semblance of a father/daughter relationship. Maybe her desire for the truth was overriding any common sense she had about not diving into the deep end of the pool without knowing how to swim or with floaties on her arms. She would extract the truth from him when he felt his guiltiest and then leave him to wallow in their one meeting for the rest of his life. Maybe she was doing this for Claira. Claira would want her to forgive her son for his transgressions. She would be able to rest peacefully knowing that Claire had at least tried to be more than she imagined. Or maybe she didn't have any motives. This could just have been some attempt at a cathartic exercise and would eventually prove futile.

The only thing that she could be certain of was that she didn't know her motives and that had to be enough. She couldn't let the saved document sit on her computer. It couldn't be something that was just because; meant only for her eyes. She had to be brave and finally say what she meant.

The day she placed it in her mailbox felt like any other day until that afternoon when she watched the post office worker pick it up. She felt like a bitch. She had been unable to rationalize the hurtful words, even if they were the truth and well-deserved. She had done something for herself but at what expense? She decided not to hold in those feelings that were about to erupt. Once on paper, the emotions could rest. They could peacefully exist until provoked. And she knew that was coming, especially if she got a response. Honestly, she didn't think he would have the balls to write something back; the courage to face what he had done to the person he had done it to.

She battled the notion of forgiveness and realizing that the past cannot be changed. There is nothing bright and uplifting about this moment in her life. John had been too understanding and too eager to be a father. She had learned too many truths about herself and the people she had entrusted with her security. She had been forced to look in the rear view mirror but still attempt to keep moving forward without driving off the road or colliding head on with another vehicle. She had to navigate her life with her past grabbing hold of her and trying to pull her back into memories and experiences that couldn't be forgotten but with work, ignored.

And she has to tell Lewis. Which means she has to tell him about the affair. John was easy. She hadn't entered into that relationship under false pretenses. She hadn't pretended it was normal. John knew the totality of her circumstances and so the only discussion revolved around the future potential. With Lewis, they will have to indulge in the past.

Maybe she doesn't need to tell Lewis about the affair. She can just let him believe the child is his until she knows for sure. But wouldn't that hurt worse? Wouldn't it be better for her to just admit from the beginning that she is uncertain? But then he would spend his time agonizing over the answer he wants and the one he may get. He would spend his nights picturing her in the arms of another man. It would break his heart if it were capable of being broken any more. She would stain every good moment of their marriage with her admission.

Their marriage is essentially over and she wants to believe she has no further obligations to tell him anything. And she is truly fooling herself into believing that something that happened during their marriage has no bearing on it afterward. It appears twisted that it was easier to tell the man she had an affair with than it will be to tell the man she married. But of course it would be easier to tell the man she loves and not the man she tried to love.

Claire tries to will herself to have a positive outlook about the future. She tries to imagine one where things will work out the way she wants them to. She wishes she had Claira's faith. She wishes she could believe that things are the way they should be. That things happened for a reason. That all of this will culminate into something greater than any story she could create. That love is the only foundation needed to sustain happiness.

She thinks about being a mother. She tries not to agonize over the weight gain and swollen ankles. She tries to minimize the potential for morning sickness and hormonal rages. Her stride in new Nine West heels transforms into a waddle. She practices smiling when other women look at her, proud that she has finally given into the natural needs of a woman. That she has finally decided to no longer ignore the ticking clock. That she has finally allowed that deep and buried need to rise. And those questioning eyes will turn to gratitude that Claire is finally one of them.

They no longer have to envy her for her strength to go against the status quo. They no longer have to simultaneously pity her for not wanting to make the sacrifice, of body, mind, and career, to do the most selfless thing on the planet. To prove herself more than a man by doing what they are not capable of doing. They no longer have to ask her why she doesn't want to be a mother and then ask themselves why they do. She no longer has to answer them with the simplicity of "I just don't" and then quickly change the subject in order not to have to further explain her own choice.

Claire tries to seek solace in logic. But in today's society, a woman isn't criticized for having a baby outside of marriage; but praised for her independence and willingness to disobey society's dogma in order to fulfill her own need to be a mother. Logic cannot possibly aid in this situation where emotion and instinct are better processes for arriving at the most appropriate and satisfying decision. She isn't used to following her heart. Her brain is typically the source of all reasons for doing or not doing something. But how can she choose whether or not to have or whether or not to keep a child using her mind?

***

"Are you drunk Claire?"

"Maybe."

"You do realize you are pregnant and intelligent enough to know you shouldn't be drinking that much."

"I'm trying to ignore that."

"Ignoring it will not make it go away."

"I know John!" Claire yells, already exhausted from the short-lived conversation.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to criticize."

"I know," she says sinking into the hot water, only her head and hand hovering above the bubbles that took half a bottle of body wash to create. "I'm just so frustrated."

John isn't sure what to say. Reminding her of his loyalty will only aggravate the situation and his advice would only go unheeded and unappreciated.

"John, do you love me?"

This sounded like the question of someone whose current drunken state had lowered her inhibitions and inability to hide her insecurities.

"I love you very much."

"Why?"

"You complete me," John says trying not to giggle. But he couldn't hold it in once Claire started laughing herself.

"For real John."

"That's why I love you Claire. You knew I was joking. You didn't question my motives or get angry. I can be myself with you."

"But I'm horrible."

John knows any attempt to change her mind right now would be frivolous. They would go back and forth between her expressing her beliefs about herself and him trying to refute them, unconvincingly.

"Claire, no matter how you feel about yourself, I care about you and love you. I think you are beautiful, smart, intelligent, kind, generous, and the best lover of my life. No matter what you are thinking of yourself right now, remember I think the highest of you and believe you will make my life more than I could ever imagine."

Claire begins to cry.

"Please don't cry. I'm not there to hold you."

"These are happy tears."

John is relieved at the certain turn around of her current emotional state but is afraid that it could revert at any moment.

"Claire, I want you to finish your bath and go to bed."

"But John..."

"Claire, you need to rest. I want you to call me in the morning okay?"

Claire nods her head as if John can see her.

"Claire?"

"I'll finish my bath and go to bed."

"Try not to think about anything. I know it will be almost impossible but I want you to stop worrying. Worrying gets you nowhere."

"Thanks Yoda."

Claire's smile covers her face as John whispers I love you.

Chapter 19

Lewis did not have the luxury to wake up in the same room he grew up in. Besides their vacation homes, one on each coast and another in Niche, his parents had always rented due to Lewis's father's business obligations. His mother didn't mind. She had resolved herself to be a stay-at-home mom. Admittedly she became especially bored when Lewis began school. There were only so many charity fundraisers, PTA meetings, and church events she could go to. This was before work-from-home was an option and women could choose to both be at home and have careers.

Before Lewis was born, she had been a therapist. She had spent her days avoiding her own problems to help people with theirs. She listened to them divulge their secrets in the strictest confidence and ask her advice that she technically could not give. She got up at 7am every morning and got home by 4. She had a couple of hours to relax before cooking dinner. She was impeccable at leaving her work at her office. Even in the death of children, the abuse of parents, or the betrayal of friends, Grace was able to walk in her home with a smile on her face and her mind free of the emotions her patients tried to impart on her in their attempt to relieve their own stress, anger or guilt.

At least that's the impression she gave. When she became pregnant and discovered a way out of the debilitating grind, she took it. She accepted calls at home until they could start seeing someone else. She remembers that last phone call. She didn't think she would but she cried. She had in mind that once Lewis started Kindergarten, she could start her practice again. Honestly, she believed she wouldn't want to. She couldn't conceive of listening to the types of stories she had been hearing for the last 6 years for the next 30. But she always had a backup plan. She always had the "what if" stored away just in case life forced her back into the workforce.

It only took 2 years for her to realize how much she enjoyed listening to the drama that wasn't her own. It was hard being at home. The most challenging aspect was being nothing more than a mother and wife. She began to feel more obligated to please her husband and coddle her son. They had a maid come in twice a week who they eventually fired just so Grace could have something more to do during the day.

She expressed her restlessness to Carson and he was exactly the opposite of what she had expected. He didn't stake his claim as the man of the house. He didn't become the macho pig who felt emasculated if he didn't make every decision in the house. He told Grace that if she wanted to go back to work she could. He told her he would build her an office attached to their current home so she could see clients here if she wanted to stay close to Lewis. He presented her with every accommodation possible. And she thought those sentiments and gestures would be enough.

She turned out to be right. The thought of having a supportive husband made it easier for her to picture a continuing career. She decided to remain in her current role until Lewis was 5 and then begin building her patient list again. But then Carson came home with news. His company was promoting him. But that meant moving. And not just to another city, or another state, but to the other side of the country. To Portland, Oregon. Grace put on her fake smile and hugged him. Just the thought of the rain and clouds depressed her. But she tried to be there for her husband. She tried to encourage his rise up the corporate ladder. And she succeeded in being the wife and mother she had prescribed herself to be.

She had never been an affectionate woman but Lewis had always been aware of her unconditional love for him. It was always apparent when he excelled and she smiled as if there would never be another moment like the one she was experiencing. Her meals were always well thought out, usually containing at least one of his favorites. Even at her unhappiest with the nonexistent trajectory of her life, she cared for him with perpetual delicacy. She held him tightly when he cried and celebrated even the most minor of accomplishments; when he walked, when he said his first word, and when he could finally recite the entire alphabet without LMNOP becoming one letter.

She had even perfected the skill of remaining at the perfect distance. Not so intimate that Lewis became a mama's boy but not so aloof that he wouldn't form a respectable and psychologically appropriate attachment. She protected him from all of those things she could and left him to resolve those things only accessible through his own experience. She coddled him when necessary. She let him cry when it was necessary for him to develop his independence.

She made mistakes. She had read too many parenting books and tested the theory of too many new breakthrough child psychologists. She thought she had allowed too many strangers into such an intimate process and left un-healing scars. She thought her other 2 children would fair far better because they had not been the recipients of her missteps in experimental parenting. She felt she had overcomplicated parenting and underestimated the viability and correctness of her own instincts. She hadn't learned maternity from her own mother who had died when she was young. She hadn't witnessed that special bond between a mother and child and failed to realize how natural it would be to know how to be a parent.

She was happy, to a certain extent, that she had been wrong. Lewis proved that he could excel beyond flawed parenting styles. His two younger siblings proved to be the average ones, doing just enough to get through high school and college. And then pursuing entrepreneurial dreams together hoping to be the next Bill Gates or Steve Jobs without the skill, ambition or drive. Lewis had spent many hours counseling them on their ill-fated dreams of getting something for nothing, but they didn't listen. And are now living in a small loft apartment with 4 other guys waiting for that brilliant idea that will get them into the office of a venture capitalist.

Grace had given Lewis a lot of attention. She had tried to make up for complicating his upbringing by giving him more than she had given her other sons. And it wasn't until an explosive Thanksgiving dinner that she was made aware of what was lacking in her relationship with her youngest children. So she continues to support their "dreams." She offered encouraging words and 6 months of rent, much to the dismay of her husband. She bought them food and allowed them to sleep in the basement den when a roommate forgot to pay the power bill and it was 100 degrees outside. She thought she had held too tightly onto Lewis so she loosened her grip too much with Andrew and Kenny.

Claire had reminded Lewis of his mom with their distant loving manner and attention to detail. Their strive for an unattainable perfection and their willingness to keep trying even when reason reminded them that they could not live without making mistakes. And so when their marriage ended, he couldn't understand how his mother had managed to stay married for 40 years but theirs couldn't survive 8. How the same stubborn, strong-willed, intelligent and diligent woman that he grew up with could somehow do something better than the one he married. Maybe not better...just follow through. He did not understand, being like his father, how he had not found the perfect woman to marry the first time.

"She's not perfect son."

"I know dad. But she has to be close to put up with you."

Both of them laugh sitting at Carson's poker table playing a game of Texas Hold'em.

Lewis didn't have the reminiscent comfort of a childhood home to help him escape the change of his reality. He didn't have memories of less emotionally stringent times to put him at ease.

"This sucks."

"Of course it does."

"No comforting words for your beloved son?"

"What do you want me to say? There are plenty fish in the sea? Make lemonade? When one door closes? How many clichés is it going to take?"

Lewis smiles and takes a sip of beer.

"I need something dad. My life is falling apart."

"Not your life. Just your marriage."

"My life."

"Really?"

Carson looks at his son but Lewis avoids his gaze.

"Just what I thought."

"What?"

"You cheated."

Lewis chokes on his beer.

"What?!" Lewis yells pretending to be insulted. Insulted that he couldn't hide his indiscretion.

"Don't lie to your father. I know that look. That look of guilt at only giving the least amount of effort possible in making your marriage your life."

"Damnit dad."

"I had the same look."

Lewis leans back in his chair, surprised but that his father had been an adulterer.

"I hope you don't think less of your dad."

"That would be the greatest hypocrisy."

"Yes but it would be natural. You are my son. You do look up to me."

"When?"

"11 years ago."

"Why did you cheat?"

"I was bored. I know 'because I can' is just another typical answer but it was the truth. I was bored and felt like your mother would never give me what I needed."

"Which was?"

"Ego boost. She didn't need me. She still doesn't."

"That's not true."

"She doesn't need me in the way a man wants to be needed."

"That's not true either. She gave up a career to follow you around and take care of us."

"I know it doesn't make sense. But neither does cheating on your wife."

"Does she know?"

"Of course she does."

"Why did she stay?"

"She saw my humanity. And we went to marriage counseling. We still do."

"And how are you now?"

"I think we are fantastic. We are getting ready to buy a home."

"I didn't know that."

"You only skim your mother's emails."

Lewis laughs at the truth of his father's statements. He can't seem to focus on more than one woman in his life.

"So why did you start the affair?" Carson asks.

"Sex."

"Simple answer."

"We hadn't been having sex on a regular basis in a year when I started. And I didn't know why. And when I tried to ask, she would brush it off and give me the speech about sex not being the most important thing in a relationship. I thought if it wasn't so important to her then she wouldn't mind me finding it somewhere else."

"Does she know?"

"Of course...not."

"Are you going to tell her?"

"What's the point now? We are getting divorced and I'm giving her everything."

"Ahhh, the things guilt will make you do."

"It's not just guilt."

"Then what else it?"

"I'm giving her the things that will constantly remind me of my failure as a husband."

"You didn't fail."

"Adultery is failure. Divorce is failure."

"Adultery is the climax. Divorce is the conclusion."

"Of what?"

"Of something that wasn't going to work to begin with."

"How do you know that?"

"Because if you wanted your marriage to work, you would do whatever possible."

"Well I can't do that on my own."

"Then she didn't want to still be married."

If Claire wanted to be his wife, she would work with him to keep that role. She would go to counseling and do regular date nights. She would ask him what he needs and enjoy their intimacy sober. She would invest in their relationship instead of simply blowing it off as a mistake that lasted 7 years.

"That's the worst part."

"Would you have stopped sleeping with..."

"Sasha."

"Exotic. Sasha."

"Yes!"

"Are you sure? Are you sure Claire could give you what this woman gives you."

"A blow job?"

Grace can hear the laughter from upstairs and smiles at the thought of her son and husband behaving as if they are best friends who hadn't seen each other in 5 years. She, on the other hand, wish her son could have graced them with his presence for other reasons than a failed marriage. Lewis was the one who wasn't supposed to come home. Of course he had an apartment and was continuing his life as a respected surgeon, but something would be missing. And she knew one day soon that truth would devastate him and he would be calling on them for comfort and support at 1am when the truth wakes him from his sleep.

"I don't want a relationship with her."

"And from your tone, I'm guessing she does."

"She has told me she loves me."

"What are you going to do about that?"

"I don't know. She knows how I feel. Or better yet how I don't feel."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I'm sensing a delightful hope that I will suddenly change my mind and deepen our relationship once the divorce is final."

"You have to tell her the truth."

"I'm not good at that obviously."

"You have to end it or be prepared for the more intense fallout that will ensue."

"Why don't I just stay here and avoid all responsibility to the people I have chosen to fuck over."

"It will all eventually come and bite you in the ass. And besides, you can't stay here for more than a week."

Lewis had resigned himself to the temporary comfort of being with his parents. He had witnessed the possibilities and spent his nights dreaming of a life of truly 'til death do us part. He felt like he was in high school again, searching for that sweetheart he could spend 50 years with. He covered his body in the comforter like being tucked in at night after a bedtime story. He even thought of a reconciliation; a time and space where this separation was only temporary. She would forgive his indiscretions and they could move forward, doing what his parents had done in their effort to maintain something that was to them the most important.

Lewis wonders why their marriage didn't mean anything to either one of them. They had made their promises and had just as quickly forgotten them. Or at least underestimated their magnitude. They believed marriage would solidify their love for each other and the commitment would make them more eager to be what was expected of them. But neither was cut out for married life with each other and both of them knew that.

Lewis did love her. Lewis wanted to love her for the rest of his life. But it didn't take long for him to realize that her desire to do the same was only her doing her best to act as if that's what she wanted. She only wanted some normalcy. Her life had been full of things no one was really meant to experience and she had desperately wanted to do something of the norm. Something that women dreamed of doing. Something little girls planned and designed when they were in 5th grade and rearranged and adjusted until the day they found the man that would fit into that black tuxedo and be willing to accept that their own opinion was unnecessary and unwelcome.

Lewis had wanted Claire to want to marry him. And he thought the year between the engagement and wedding would be enough time for her to begin to like to idea of having a husband. Of being a wife. And he knew that she had no concept of what that meant. Her childhood had left a destructive imprint that could potentially leave her always searching for happiness and essentially never finding it. He had to admit he took advantage of her. He took advantage of her desperation to be different than her own mother. Not willing to accept anything less than what she deserved. He didn't know that this idea, the determination to be better than her mother would be the very thing that drove them apart and left Claire able to say no and walk away when she wasn't willing to fight. He didn't know that she had found something better but he accepted the possibility that she wanted to. She would rather search and search for the illusive.

It was too lackluster for her. The passion subsided too quickly and since she had never admitted her truth to get the ring, she wasn't going to in an effort to keep it. Lewis feels inadequate. It was discouraging to think that even though violence was the display, Claire thought it at least a sign of deep emotional feeling. He cringed to think that she preferred that. He shuddered at the thought that Claire would rather be hurt by him because at least that showed passion; destructive and manipulative passion but at least it is a display of an intense desire. A deep and irrational desire for someone to only be yours. He knows he isn't enough but he doesn't want to admit it. He doesn't even know what enough would look like. Who would that person be?

Lewis stares at the ceiling, reminding himself of all of the things he is capable of doing. He can get a heart to beat, a lung to contract, remove an appendix and comfort a dying patient. He is determined and compassionate. He is a good son. He thinks he could be a good father. He is punctual. He is a good coworker without a pretentious bone in his body. He never hit Claire. He never even thought about hitting Claire. It was never even a passing thought. He appreciated and loved her intelligence.

But he did cheat. He did lie to her, omitting his desire to be with someone else. He didn't understand her and truly didn't make any effort to. He wanted to change her. He wanted her to give him the attention Sasha did without the mundane and juvenile conversation. He wanted to convince her to have children and be content being pregnant. He wanted her to look upon motherhood the same way she idolized her career. He stopped listening to her. And despite the determination in other aspects of his life, he had not been persistent enough in his marriage to stake his claim as her husband. He had given up on her.

And that, that lingering thought of thinking so less of her, sent him into an internal panic. It wasn't her; it was him. He had allowed his marriage to become nothing. Even if it had become just a formality to Claire, it didn't have to with him. He could have fought to save them. He could have protected the "we" with every fiber of his being. She didn't have to believe in happily ever after. She didn't have to exude perfection and be the satisfied housewife of a doctor. But he did want to be her home. He did want to give her that safe place.

And maybe that motivated him more than love. Was he that typical doctor with the knight in shining armor complex? Did he thrive off of the need to be the savior of the situation? Did he live for those moments where he could come in and rescue her from herself? And why did he want to be someone like that?

He stopped this train of thought before he began to resent Claire for being the woman that fed into his ego and preserved it. He turned on his side facing the room. Looking out the window was psychologically impossible. All he would do is wonder what Claire was doing out there. Whether she was sad or angry. Whether she even cared that she was getting divorced. Whether she felt, like him, that she was too young for divorce and would simply return to their previous union based solely on not wanting to be someone who conceded after only 7 years. But Claire knew when to leave the party. Both literally and figuratively. She could see the drunken transformations before they even materialized. She noticed when the hostess was getting to her breaking point and tired of smiling and laughing at the most ridiculous things. She observed when the walks changed and women wanted to get out of their heels and into flip flops. She knew the perfect amount of time to stay. She knew that look. She knew that look of quiet disdain. She knew when people were saying "get the fuck out of my house" with their eyes. And she felt the sigh of relief of one less guest when she hugged the hostess goodnight.

He was a typical man on his own. He didn't get the hints or see the red flags. He had to be told to leave. He didn't know how to cook. He didn't like cleaning and could go weeks without doing the dishes. He would however clear out the Target of their paper plates, paper towels, and plastic utensils. Along with their frozen meals and pizzas. He didn't know how to be a man anymore. "You get used to being a husband," he thinks to himself trying to distract from his own discontent by taking in the stylish details of an unused guest room.

He could tell it really wasn't supposed to be used. He can't remember a time his mother allowed guests to actually stay in her home. She subtly manipulated them into wanting to stay in a hotel by emphasizing the importance of privacy and the lack of disturbance. She discreetly lied about her own early morning habits. She played the part of the victim hostess, feeling obligated to make beds, cook all meals, clean daily, and serve their every need. Lewis never understood how she could make them feel guilty for even thinking about wanting to save money by staying in a home that obviously had more bedrooms, bathrooms and space in general, than they needed.

The room was too pretty. Lewis felt uncomfortable even putting his luggage on the floor. He didn't want to put his clothes in the pristine closet with its custom organizer. The carpet was the perfect neutral color. The perfect amount of furniture had been arranged in the most functional way; a large dresser with a mirror across from the bed, a small desk on the wall next to the closet, and a reading lamp next to the bed. The bed was in the perfect place. His mother had intentionally placed it along the wall; another signal this room was not supposed to be used. And if it was, no matter your marital or relationship status, she would not make it easy for you to be a couple in it.

Lewis remembered him and Claire's first visit. They did sleep in separate rooms. They didn't get up at the same time just in case his mother was suspect. They didn't dare have sex and when they expressed a desire to get a hotel, for the first time, Grace insisted they stay. She would not indirectly approve and promote fornication. Grace made them breakfast, left them alone for lunch, and they would reunite for dinner. Except their last night. Lewis wanted to take Grace to a romantic dinner. They had been on enough excursions in Seattle to last a lifetime. They had seen everything there is to see in the birthplace of Starbucks. Lewis wanted one night alone with her. And he insisted that they would be partaking in love making even if that meant doing it in the backseat of the car. He would pay for the most expensive hotel for an entire night just for a few hours.

Claire and Grace got along like sisters. Lewis imagined her to be Claire's surrogate mother and make his proposal of marriage more appealing if it meant that Grace would be in her life. But family had become such a disappointing institution that it didn't matter to her whether or not Lewis had a likeable mother or Mommie Dearest.

Yes, she loved him. But she married him to prove she could do those things she wasn't supposed to do. Do those things her trauma was supposed to prevent her from doing. And he thought that her desire to be typical would change into a real desire to be with him.

His parents didn't object. They at least didn't express any apprehensions. They knew about her past. Well the past she told them. And they comforted her and Grace combined her motherly and psychiatric methods of support to help her find some peace. Lewis thought that was the turning point. The point which Claire learned that through this marriage, she could find the thing she had never had before. The connection that would dissolve all of those hard feelings about losing the one she had with her own mother. The one she never had with her father.

Lewis would have to accept that nothing would have been enough. There was nothing to be said or done to change the inevitable. Their marriage had to end but for him, there is no thought of finding something better. There is no hope of finding someone else to love. Right now he has to grieve the loss of what he wanted. He has to mourn the loss of what he never had. All of his work had come to nothing.

His parents had suggested that he start dating again. Two months and they had already decided that he should move on. Maybe they knew something he didn't.

"Mom, are you serious?"

"Why not?"

"It's only been two months. I need to show a little respect for the ending of my marriage. For Claire."

"I'm not telling you to go rub it in her face."

"No."

"Son, two months or two years, it doesn't matter. It's over. No matter how hard you try to hold onto what never was, it's over."

Lewis gets up from the dinner table and goes to grab a beer.

"Are you sure you want that? It's your 3rd one."

"Yes mother, I'm sure."

Grace's face suddenly changes. "Mother" was never a good sign.

"I'm sorry Lewis. I'm sorry," she says touching his hand and smiling like only a mother could.

"It's okay," Lewis says kissing it and returning his attention to his Sam Adams.

When Lewis looks up, he notices his parents communicating with each other. But not with words. With facial expressions, arms, and eye movements. He understood it all.

"What is it?" Lewis says, no longer wanting to be excluded from the conversation.

"I didn't want to bring this up..."

"Oh here we go. What is it mom?"

"But I had a feeling this would happen."

And his feelings had been confirmed. His parents had kept their objections quiet in order to preserve his own perception of what was happening between him and Claire. Lewis begins to eat faster, hoping the sound of the food in between his teeth will drown out the sound of his mother about to display the therapeutic skills that had not disappeared even remaining dormant for 20 years.

"I know she had a terrible childhood but she didn't look at you the same way you looked at her. I sensed that she didn't want your relationship to be more than it was at that moment."

"And how did you know that?"

"I just did. I made a career out of knowing these things."

"I'm not a patient mom. I need more than that."

"There was hardly any physical affection."

"And? Some people don't like public displays of affection."

"So there was physical intimacy?"

"Mom!"

Lewis was not going to discuss his sex life with his mom. With anyone.

"Mom, our sex life was great."

"Was?"

"Dad..."

"I'm staying out of this. I didn't want her to bring this up in the first place."

"Carson, could you please back me up here."

He shakes his head. "Like I said, I'm staying out of this."

"Mom, don't you think it's inappropriate to talk to your son about this?"

"Lewis, I'm just trying to give you some comfort. Let you know that I don't think it was you. I don't think you did anything wrong. It was just a matter of when."

"Stab me in the heart why don't you."

"You are a great man Lewis. When I look at you, I see the best of me and your father. I don't think Claire was the right one."

"We both made mistakes mom."

"I'm sure you did. But the first one was getting married."

Lewis had become used to his mother's honesty. She just lacked the tact for timing.

"Why are you telling me this now? Why didn't you tell me then so I wouldn't have wasted the last 5 years?"

"You are a grown man. You wouldn't have listened to me anyway. I wanted you to be happy and I really wanted your marriage to last. And the last 5 years weren't a waste."

"Because I learned something, right?"

"Because you loved her. And loving someone is never a waste of time."

Lewis had not expected that response. And he had to admit she was right. He would not have listened. He was in love. He would have married Claire no matter their sensible protests, just to prove they were wrong. And he knew she was sincere in her longing for her eldest son to be happy; she had made the misguided assumption that he had never really been.

"Mom, I'm just a little lost right now."

"I know dear. But you will find your way."

"And dating will not help me do that."

"I just don't want you to be alone. You aren't good at alone."

Another honest statement he didn't want to hear. Lewis had spent his dating years going from one woman to the next. Not like a player. But like someone who has to be in a relationship. Grace didn't know where he got that from. Where he developed this need to always be needed. His choices in women only exacerbated Grace's concern. Before Claire, he had always gone for the semi-ditzy girl with the perfect body who wanted world peace and to adopt as many stray dogs as possible. The ones that wanted to be the trophy wife of a doctor. And maybe Grace had to admit that because Claire had been such the opposite of his usual choice in women, she was willing to overlook the relationship deficiencies and dwell only on the hope of something everlasting.

"Maybe I should be alone."

"He has a good point," Carson finally interjects.

Carson had witnessed the wavering boundaries between them and did his best to help re-establish them.

"Our son is a man. He has to figure out what kind he wants to be."

"I know what kind of man I want to be."

"No you don't," Grace says reclaiming her place as the leader of this conversation.

"Mom, I'm in my late 30's. I know the kind of man I want to be. I'm just not him yet."

Grace leans back in her chair, trying not to feel what her son is feeling. But it's almost impossible. When she looks into his eyes, everything has changed. She doesn't recognize what she sees anymore. Then she is suddenly surprised by her own anger. The swelling anger. At Claire. The protectiveness. The yearning to hurt her for hurting her son. And it didn't matter what he did in the relationship. It didn't matter what mistakes he made. She wanted to bash her head in. And she had to get up from the table and collect the empty plates and refill empty glasses to help squash the irrational thoughts. She had never felt this way.

"Anyone want dessert?" she asks.

"Anyone want to change the subject?" Lewis asks.

"It would be welcomed."

Grace had lost. There weren't any noticeable epiphanies. Her son would leave the table in the same emotional state. And she had wanted so much for the slightest resemblance of her son to return.

"Why don't you all come visit Birmingham?"

"Is there anything to do?" Grace asks. Carson and Lewis look at each other in astonishment and laugh.

"Yes mom. We have paved roads and traffic lights."

"Allright smartass," she responds giggling. Even though it had only been two days, she had missed that sound. And could only give into her own enjoyment after hearing it again.

Chapter 20

Claire has been occupying her time with creating two syllabi, one for her Fiction Workshop class and one for Intro to Creative Writing that she had been roped into teaching by the charming department head that played the game perfectly by exaggerating her talents, probing about her upcoming delayed publishing, and then begging forgiveness for the imposition. Claire didn't just concede, she negotiated. She negotiated a longer sabbatical that included the summer. This was her way to ensure she had the maternity leave she needed. When she returned to her office that day, it finally hit her that she had acted like a mother. She had made a career decision based on her future role as a mother. And yet she still didn't understand why she was still hesitant to tell her colleagues.

The decision had practically been made for her. She had spent so much time thinking about what to do that she had missed the 12 week threshold. And once the morning sickness began to diminish, she hated to admit she began to enjoy being pregnant. She began to connect with the baby. She had been buying baby books on her Nook and writing down baby names.

And all of this surprised her. Just two months ago she had been dreading the effects of pregnancy on her body, her mind, her emotional state and career. Now, as if a subconscious shift, her pregnancy became the most important thing in her life. The future of her child had overwhelmed her own. She would rub her stomach and whisper sweet nothings encouraging a strong and safe growth.

She had returned to her ob/gyn desperately wanting to avoid the discussion of paternity. She knew it could now be determined and so did John. He had texted and called. He had left eager and apologetic voicemails. What made it worse was his compassion and understanding. When she didn't answer, he didn't press her to pick up. He didn't get angry about her unwillingness to speak to him. He just expressed his regret, his continued affection and hung up. And he didn't do the repeated call; he didn't call everyday. He gave her the space she needed and that made her decision more difficult and her guilt more intense.

She did have to admit to her own obsession. She had become the Facebook stalker. She would save some of his sweetest voicemails and was glad that new smartphones were able to store thousands of text messages. She could only find the strength for two or three responses and then put her phone on silent so if he inquired, she had an excuse. An insubstantial one, but it sufficed more than "I'm intentionally ignoring you." And it was less of a blow to his heart.

She hated that she was breaking it. His affections hadn't dwindled. His love hadn't diminished. If nothing else, he made sure to remind her his feelings had not changed at least three times a week. He knew more than that would overwhelm her already fragile emotional condition. She had incorrectly expected that distance would lessen her desire for him. That if she distracted herself with those things that didn't concern love, the feeling would simply dissipate. But she missed him. She missed his voice. And when her doctor finally brought up the issue of performing a paternity test, she knew she had to finally consult him on the issue. For a moment, she had wished that not telling a father about his child was actually the moral and ethical thing to do.

And that was something else. During the ultrasound that day, Dr. Andrews asked if she wanted to know the sex of the baby. She nodded her head but said no

"Which is it dear?" she asked again.

"If I don't know, I can truthfully deny knowing."

"And why would you want probable deniability."

"John."

"And Lewis?"

Claire turns her head away and closes her eyes.

"I'm guessing you haven't told him yet."

Claire shakes her head.

"I'm not getting involved."

"Good."

"But..."

Claire glares at her friend.

"I don't care how you look at me. I'm going to say my piece."

"Fine."

"You need to tell him soon. You can't just make up who the father is."

"Couldn't I?"

"Claire, I'm not going to even justify that with a response."

"I know. I know. I'm being ridiculous."

"Yes."

After saying once again that she didn't want to know the sex, Claire got dressed and quietly left her appointment with another ultrasound picture in hand. She inspected herself out of curiosity but because she lacked the proper training, couldn't make a determination herself. She spent the entire car ride home, constructing her speech. He was going to be angry that she kept this from him. Even angrier that it may not be his. He would probably assume she would want him to help her raise the child. He would assume the man she would have an affair with was the bartender at her favorite hotel bar or a young of-age student.

She wondered what would happen if she didn't get a paternity test. If she just told Lewis and let him think it was his. Would John then take the step of fighting for custody? Would she be willing to give up a potential relationship with him just to keep from doing the right thing? Wouldn't the truth come out eventually? John wouldn't be the type of person to just give up the opportunity to be a father. He loved her but not that much.

Where to tell him? She could just invite him over to the house. But there was so much tension resting in those walls. They could meet at his new apartment but Claire was not interested in his new life. She had already imagined a new Bachelor livelihood where his colleagues were always over watching sports and grilling on the patio. Where he was free from trying to please an unsatisfying wife and pleading to have the family he had wanted. He would be happy and smiling. He would be indulging in the trend of doctors sleeping with nurses in the on-call room and then quickly pretending it didn't happen. She had created this entire fiction that did everything but ease the pain of being alone in a place that never really felt like home.

She could invite him to dinner. A restaurant would be a neutral zone and the public venue would keep them from escalating the conversation and transforming their inside voices into a screaming match. She had considered just talking about it at mediation the next week. But she didn't know if she could wait. She had been so afraid to tell him and now the information had begun festering, blistering and bubbling. She had to tell him or she would disintegrate from the inside out. What she had previously wanted to wait forever to tell she could no longer wait to say. And she thought mediation was so impersonal. But it could be the perfect situation. Why give up the opportunity to actually have a mediator. Someone trained to resolve difficult conflicts? She owed him this. She owed him the truth. She thought he deserved it after...

"Hi Lewis, it's me."

"Hi Claire."

Claire thinks she already sounds stupid. Of course he knows it's her.

"We need to talk."

Claire immediately regrets saying that. Everyone knows that nothing good ever comes after someone says that. And if it is good, it's only good for the person saying it.

"Yes?"

"Not now. Over dinner."

Many things run through Lewis' mind. Did she want to get back together? Was she going to ask for something else in the divorce? Did she know about his infidelity? Lewis tries to calm down, afraid that Claire can hear his heart beating through the phone.

"Is it bad?"

"Yes!" Claire screams in her head. But she remains composed. "Um...I don't know."

And that is the truth. In the end, this could be a great situation for Lewis. He could finally get what he wants.

"Okay?" Lewis says with uncertainty. "When?"

"How about tonight?"

Claire wished she had not said that. She wishes she had given herself more time to compose the perfect monologue.

"I'm free tonight."

Claire had not expected him to say that. The fiction she had created had been proven a product of her imagination.

"Oh, ok?"

Lewis is aware of her surprise. He knows what she thought his life was like now. And it didn't include a week at home with his parents just to cope with the changes in his life.

"Let's meet at J.Alexanders."

"Too many memories," Lewis says without thinking.

Claire is surprised by his response. She had only made the suggestion wanting them to go somewhere they would feel comfortable.

"Okay. You pick."

Claire is relieved to be in a situation where she could reasonably pass the responsibility to someone else, even if it is simply choosing where to have dinner.

"How about we meet at Cheesecake Factory?"

"Allright. What time?"

"6...before they get too crowded."

"It's Tuesday. I don't think too many people are going out to eat."

"Would you rather it be later?"

"No, 6 is fine," Claire says noticing the 2 hours she had left to prepare.

"Good. I'll see you then."

Unsure how to end this short but substantially awkward conversation, Claire simply hangs up. She throws her phone in her purse, relieved to be around the corner from her house so she could get out and finally breathe.

"What am I going to do?" she asks herself "No matter the words, the impact will be the same. No amount of tact will soften the blow. Claire's instinct is to head straight for the red wine but getting drunk before dinner would be bad form. So she heads for the bedroom to get lost in reruns of the Golden Girls. Usually the two hours would be spent preparing for dinner, but this isn't exactly a loving reunion. She intentionally doesn't spend her typical two hours of grooming. The less times she spends preparing, the less significant the conversation.

***

Lewis had done the opposite, making sure he had the perfect outfit for receiving any type of news. He had shaved the beard that had grown while he was visiting his parents. He put on cologne and wore the Italian leather shoes she bought him while they were on vacation. He had done those things that Claire spent their marriage trying to get him to do on a regular basis that he had refused based on the excuse of not having time as a respected and busy surgeon.

When he pulled into a parking space, he took a deep breath. Claire would already be there. She made it a habit to be 10 minutes early for everything, even in those situations where she knew she would have to wait at least 20 more. He straightened his neutral tie and immediately regretted his choice. "Maybe I should have gone for something more vibrant. She would have chosen something else." Despite his compliance with the divorce and understanding of the need for one, her instruction was still in the back of his mind. More than it had been before. He had stopped wearing sandals with socks around the apartment. He didn't tuck in his polo shirts anymore. He bought fashionable flip flops that didn't come from the discount bin at Old Navy. He shaved every other day and wore his contacts more days than not. He made the bed in the morning, or the afternoon, or the evening; he made it whenever he got up. He put the toilet seat down. He wiped out the sink after brushing his teeth to keep from having soap scum. He kept the shower curtain closed with the lining actually inside the tub while he was showering. He did the dishes more than once a week and vacuumed. He bought a Swiffer. He used the Swiffer. He maintained a clean apartment, free from fingerprints on glass and stains on the kitchen counter. He remembered to turn the alarm on when he got out of the car and went grocery shopping on a regular basis...with a list. Without Claire, he had become the man of habits that she had wanted. And it bothered him that it took being without her to realize the benefit of her rituals.

He is amazed at the simplicity of her beauty. The 6 inches had been replaced by 4. The makeup was subtle and beautiful, with only the hint of mascara and a smoky eye. She had worn a simple black dress and her hair flowed like she had done nothing to it. The truth was that she had gotten so involved in the lives of the women she would eventually become that she lost track of time. But Lewis admired the seemingly effortless presentation.

"Hi Lewis," Claire says going in a for a gentle hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"You look beautiful."

"Thank you."

Claire can't help but notice the leftovers from their marriage.

"You look great Lewis."

And he did. Lewis had never lacked in the looks department. He had always been devastatingly handsome. Too handsome to be a doctor she admitted on their first date and she reveled in the blushing that occurred afterward.

It had been a slow night and they were actually seated in a booth in the back that would provide more privacy. Claire maintained the small talk as much as she could and was pleased when Lewis had so much to talk about due to his visit home.

"How do they feel about our divorce?" Claire asks not really wanting to know. Lewis didn't really want to tell her.

"They are disappointed but understand."

Claire knew Lewis and his mother enough to know his statement was just a small piece of a complicated and elaborate conversation. But she didn't probe for more information. She had come to appreciate the bliss of ignorance.

The light conversation continued until the food was brought to the table and Claire had finally found her courage.

"So, what did you need to talk about?"

Claire always waited until the food came. She felt it provided some security. Silence could be blamed on chewing and a contorted face could be blamed on an odd combination of spices and flavors. And a response could always be delayed. And Lewis knew that about her.

"Well..." Claire begins.

Again, another bad sign. That preface was the preface of death. It was that second of time to prepare the speaker for what they are about to say. And Claire really didn't know what to say first. She had always been of the camp of telling the bad news first. But she couldn't decide which was the good news and if there was any.

"I'm pregnant."

And it just comes out, like spewing water from her mouth after someone says something shocking. Lewis smiles and she hates herself. And she has to tell him the rest of the story before he begins creating one in his head.

"But..."

"You aren't going to keep it? You don't want it?"

"No that's not it."

"You're going to have an abortion?"

"No Lewis. Would you please let me finish?"

"Go on."

"I had an affair while I was on the writer's retreat and it may not be yours."

Claire drinks the rest of the water in her glass and places it softly on the table, not making eye contact. She wishes she could have a drink. The alcohol was bravery, not to tell him the answers to all of the questions that would certainly arise, but bravery to listen to what he had to say about her. She just knows he is calling her a slut or a harlot or a whore in his head. She knows every derogatory word that he can't say is right on the tip of his tongue.

If she had been looking at him, she would have noticed a sorrowful peace about him. A lifting of guilt. A still anger but not rage. He wasn't pissed off. He couldn't be. He did the same thing. But he was still disappointed. He had wanted to be a father and it was like she was dangling a piece of meat in front a newly converted vegetarian. He was showing him what he could have but maybe not with her.

"Say something please."

"Fuck."

"I am so sorry Lewis. I am so sorry for being a cheating wife."

"And..."

"And being stupid enough to get pregnant."

"And..."

"And for telling you."

Lewis leans back in the booth and is silent. This is where he is supposed to divulge his own indiscretions but he wants her to feel bad. He wants her to wallow in her own mistakes.

"So now you want to be a mother?"

"Well..."

"Now that we are getting divorced. Maybe it was about me?"

"Lewis, this was an accident."

"But you had options. You could have terminated. You could have started the adoption process. But you didn't. You want this child."

"I've gotten used to the idea."

"Who is the guy?"

Lewis can feel the level of hypocrisy rising and rising. And he knows that when he finally does tell her, it will not end well. They will remain composed while in the presence of people who love nothing more than judging the doctor and his wife. But an angry conversation over the phone will follow.

"Can we not talk about him please?"

"Why not? He may be the father of the child I've always wanted."

Lewis begins to feel like an asshole. He knows he is punishing her but he can't stop himself. He won't feel as bad if she feels worse.

"Lewis, I know you're hurt. I know you always wanted a family. But I didn't want this..."

"I had an affair too."

Claire drops her fork.

"What?"

"I had one for over a year."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Her name is..."

"Don't tell me her name. You let me sit here and feel like a piece of shit for having sex with a guy maybe 8 times when you had a year long affair?"

"Well..."

"Well what Lewis? Damnit."

"I know."

Claire leans back in the booth.

"I've lost my appetite."

"Looks like we're both adulterers."

"A year Lewis? A year? Nurse?"

"No."

"At least you weren't being cliché."

They both giggle.

"Why?"

"Do you really want to know why Claire?"

"Yes. This marriage is over anyway. I might as well know what I couldn't give to you."

"She boosted my ego. And she enjoyed having sex with me."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"So if I had done all of those things, you wouldn't have cheated?"

"Probably."

Even in this unexpected situation, Claire could appreciate the honesty.

"Why did you?" Lewis asks. "What did he give you?"

"Anonymity."

Lewis doesn't immediately respond.

"He didn't know about my past and therefore had no expectations of who or what I should be. So I could be myself. I could forget my story."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"I could never give you that. Does he know though?"

"He knows. But I was able to tell him on my terms and in my way. He hadn't already read it in a newspaper or heard about it from a neighbor. I could own what happened to me. And it was like he forgot. We never talk about it."

"Talk...as in the present."

"We still talk."

"You must like him."

Claire nods her head.

Lewis is jealous. He doesn't have that with Sasha. He doesn't have that with anyone.

"How far along are you?"

"15 weeks."

"Shouldn't that information tell you who it is?"

"No."

"No?"

"Less than a week after we had sex the last time, I had sex with him."

"You're a trollop."

Claire smiles. She knew it wasn't meant to be the harsh insult that it seemed.

"I need you to take a paternity test."

"And what if isn't mine?"

"John wants to raise the child as a family."

"John huh?"

"He wants me to move to Arizona."

"What?"

"I don't know if I would do it. But he wants all of us to be a family that includes his own daughter."

Claire feels like she has said too much.

"He has a family and still wants mine."

"He's divorced. Has been for a while. Anyway, that's none of your concern."

"And what if it is mine?"

"Then we'll work out joint custody, I'll stay in the house or get a smaller one, and we'll co-parent."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It's not."

"What about John?"

"What do you mean?"

"You obviously like this guy. What if you stay here for our child?"

"I'll deal with that. Again, none of your concern."

"Yes it is."

"How?"

"Because Claire, even though we are getting a divorce, I still want you to be happy. And this guy obviously makes you happy if you are considering moving across the country to be with him."

Claire hasn't really had the time to think about the impact on her relationship with John. She can't be consumed with the future.

"This child would need a father more than I need a new relationship."

"More than you need to be happy?"

***

" _What's wrong with the men in our family?" Claire asks plopping down on the couch, her gray jogging pants twisting as she adjusted herself into the most comfortable position._

" _What do you mean?"_

" _I mean your husband. I mean my father. What is wrong with the men in this family? Couldn't they have been more like you?"_

Claira laughs at the idea of a male version of herself.

" _Dear, I don't have an answer for that."_

" _They don't know how to love."_

" _Maybe they weren't taught well. Your grandfather was exactly like his father. The problem was I wasn't like his mother."_

" _What do you mean?"_

" _Well, he thought that after we got married, I would give up on wanting a career for myself and become a housewife. My only job was to support his ambitions and to forget my own."_

" _And you refused."_

" _I refused with a passion."_

Claire sits up, now completely involved in the conversation. She watches her grandmother sip her coffee slowly and tirelessly. Claire puts the remote back onto the coffee table forgetting her original intention of becoming that woman who took a week off from work just to watch soap operas. Claira gets up from the table and joins her in the living room, taking her place in the oversized armchair across from Claire.

" _Your great grandmother was a pistol. She didn't take shit from anyone. But she knew when to back down. And she decided that her life was good. It wasn't great. It wasn't completely fulfilled. But she was content and she loved her husband. That argument wasn't worth having. She didn't want everything. She just wanted to be something. So she was a wife and mother."_

" _I don't think I could do that."_

" _No you couldn't Claire. You've grown up in a different world. A world where women are CEO's and Senators and run for President of the United States. You hold tightly to your ability and right to choose. My generation was different. My mother's generation was different. It takes time. It took us time to realize that this wasn't a man's world. It was ours. We just hadn't realized it yet."_

" _How did your marriage last so long with so many concessions?"_

" _It didn't."_

" _But you were married until he died."_

" _Honey, that was just a piece of paper. Your grandfather slept in the basement for the last 15 years of his life. He spent his nights drinking and watching television. He went bowling with his league and went to bars afterward to find a young lady looking for an older man to call daddy."_

Claire shudders. She had always hated that expression.

" _He had an affair?"_

" _Many."_

" _And you put up with that?"_

" _What was I supposed to do? I grew up in a conservative Catholic home where the word divorce connected directly to the word hell."_

" _Didn't it hurt you?"_

" _Well I wasn't exactly innocent either. We just had an understanding. Expectations destroy relationships."_

" _So he felt emasculated because you wanted to contribute to the household?"_

" _He felt emasculated because I contributed more. If I wanted to help take care of children, be a teacher or a nurse, he would have been fine. He still could be the breadwinner. But when I decided I wanted to climb the corporate ladder without him holding it, that was the end of it."_

" _Did my father want to be like him?"_

" _Every son wants to be like his father to a certain extent. Or be so dramatically unlike him. Your father was caught in something...well...confusing. He saw this man who was supposed to epitomize what a husband was supposed to do. But then he saw how unhappy I was when I wasn't paying attention. He never knew how to be a good husband. I think he never learned how to be."_

" _I don't have one good memory of that man."_

" _You wouldn't. But I do. I have plenty. Give the memory of your father a break. He went through a lot."_

Claire wishes she hadn't begun this conversation. Or at least not let the topic waver from her grandmother to her. She was content thinking her father was the greatest disappointment that ever existed. She didn't want to paint a different picture. She had gotten used to this one.

" _I wish you had known the man that was at the hospital the day you were born. Your mother wasn't like you. All she ever wanted to be was a wife and especially a mother. So the day you were born, she felt like her life was being completed. And your father felt the same way. "_

Claire can't help but smile. The thought of her father loving her and showing it had affected her more than she realized. No matter how angry she had become, she still longed for that.

" _I remember calling him when he was at work. You know we only had pay phones back then."_

" _I know what a pay phone is grandma. I've used one."_

" _Well anyway, he didn't even hang it up. He told me when he arrived that he just dropped it, ran out of work and drove straight to the hospital. He was nervous and excited to see his baby girl."_

" _I'm sure he wanted a boy."_

" _Yes of course he would. He already had one girl and he thought that was enough. He knew more about football than ruffles. But the idea of having another daddy's little girl just made him so proud. He was so happy to finally have you in this world."_

Claire tries to roll her eyes at the sentiments. She tries to block the intimate feelings she begins to have for this man she never knew.

" _When he got there, I had my head down and my eyes were closed. Your mother had already been in labor 2 hours."_

" _Who was with her?"_

" _Your grandfather. Anyway, all I remember is waking up from this rush of cold air."_

" _My father."_

" _Yes. He had been running so fast he didn't see me. I opened my eyes and there he was at the nurse's station, talking fast, asking questions, and finding it impossible to stay still. I just calmly got up and put my hand on his shoulder as he was waiting for the nurse to return with your mom's room information."_

" _Was he scared?"_

" _Shitless."_

" _I can't imagine my father scared of anything. He was usually the person making us feel that way."_

" _Claire."_

" _What?"_

" _Can we just have this moment? Can you remain in this for me?"_

Claire nods her head.

" _It was a long labor. About 22 hours. But when your father brought you out to see me, he glowed. I had never seen a man with such joy at the idea of being a father to two girls. He even asked me if it would be okay to go ahead and buy a shotgun since you were so beautiful. And we laughed at the idea of him introducing himself to your dates with a rifle in his hand. He asked if I wanted to hold you but I could tell that he didn't want to let go. So I didn't let him. I just watched my son admire his daughter."_

" _Where was my sister in all of this?"_

" _With your neighbors. I'm telling you. That was the cutest thing I had ever seen. Her holding you the first time. She was only 2 but she thought she was a big girl. And we had to put her on the couch, sit her up, and then put you on her lap with a person on each side. It was so adorable."_

This brings on a genuine smile. "Even at 2, Lucy thought she could do everything to protect me."

" _And she did."_

Claire begins to cry. "I hate this. I hate this is my life."

" _It's your past dear."_

" _I don't want it to be."_

" _Well tough shit."_

" _Grandma!"_

" _I'm serious. If you let your past determine who you are and will be, that is of your own doing."_

" _It's hard to forget."_

" _I know it is. But he was my son. People are a product of their environment. Don't you think it's hard for me too?"_

" _Don't blame yourself."_

" _Easier said than done."_

" _He was a grown man"_

" _Who grew up with a hell of a father. You know, that's when he began to change. When his dad died."_

" _I thought grandpa wasn't good to the family?"_

" _He was a lousy husband but a good father. It's just children learn more from what we do than what we teach them."_

" _So he isn't to blame for how he treated us?"_

" _Of course he is. But have some respect for the dead."_

Claira had become impressed with her ability to believe her own lie.

" _That's going to take a while."_

" _At least try to forgive him. After your grandpa died, he lost his job."_

" _And that was the beginning of the end."_

Claira doesn't know how to respond and instead goes to refill her coffee. She had her own guilt to contend with. The guilt of not being able to see the warning signs of an abused son turning into his abusive father. The guilt of not protecting her grandchildren from his fury. The guilt of not being able to let her way of showing love outshine her husbands.

" _Just answer one more question for me and my interrogation will be over."_

" _I doubt it but go on."_

" _If he loved me so much, why did he hit me? Where did the love go?"_

***

The first letter Claire got from the prison she threw away. The second, third and fourth suffered the same fate. She had refused to participate in an exchange that she had instigated. And she knew the absurdity of the situation. She found herself rehashing bad ideas from previous classes. Her creative writing students had been carrying an incomplete syllabus for four weeks now. She would come home, stare at a letter for days and then go outside to the grill and burn it. She would ask herself why she sent him a letter if she didn't want a response. It wasn't like a card or a gift for a special occasion that didn't require a response. A letter filled with questions demanded answers. But she was afraid to have them.

***

Both DNA samples had been submitted and now she was worried about the results.

"Stop worrying about it"

"How?"

"Idk :)"

"I can't plan for something and I don't know what I'm planning for"

"Can't we just deal with the results when they get here"

"What if that means we can't be together?"

"We'll work somthing out"

"*something"

"What if we can't?"

"You are always so focused on the bad"

"Yes And?"

"Lol"

"This is not funny"

"Yes it is. You are worrying with nothing to worry about"

"Yet"

"Every problem that is running through your head right now has a solution. It may not be pretty but there is one. Can you take some relief in that?"

"I will try"

"For me?"

"Anything"

"Now go have some fun in class. Call me later tonight and we'll have a real conversation"

"Okay"

"I love you"

"I love you too"

Now she has something to look forward to and her decision to resume regular conversations with John was born of that necessity. Her own over-analysis had led to too many sleepless and restless nights and a level of anxiety that began to interfere with her teaching. She had to do something. And she felt the best thing she could do, at least what her therapist said would be the best thing, is confide in someone. And she felt John was all she had left. I mean, she had made friends at the retreat but what happened to them happens to everyone. You forget about your friends because all you can do is remember how to get through day to day life. She had not spoken to Robyn in weeks but Robyn had not gestured a reconnection. She knew the time was coming but right now, John was the only person she could trust not to judge her misgivings as a sort of statement about her character.

When Claire gets home, all she can think about is calling John. She could think of nothing else. Teaching the art of semantic expression had become tedious. And she wished that she would know everything she needed to know soon so she could get back to at least enjoying one thing in her life. Looking through the mail, she sees the fifth letter. It had occurred to her that part of her anxiety rested with not knowing what her father had to say. But what she didn't know, she didn't have to deal with.

"It's here."

"What's there?"

"Another letter."

"Don't you think you should read this one?"

"I should but I don't want to."

"Yes you do."

"What?"

"Yes you do. You just don't know if you're ready for what it has to say."

"I'm not."

"Then why did you write to him in the first place?"

"I thought I wanted to know exactly what happened that day."

"Now you don't?"

"What's the point of knowing? What's the point of knowing the details? I know he killed them. That should be enough."

"But it's not?"

"I'm trying to convince myself it is."

"I think there's something else you're trying to convince yourself."

John is the only person Claire allows to tell her what she's thinking.

"What is that John?"

"That you don't want a relationship with him."

"I don't. Why would I? How could I? This man took everything away from me."

"Not everything."

"You know what I mean."

"Do you?"

"John I called for support not a lecture."

"I'm not trying to lecture you sweetheart. I just want you to realize your true motives in contacting him. Grandma Claira is dead. Your marriage is over. You are searching for the last resemblance of a familial relationship you could have."

Claire begins to cry. She puts the phone down and puts her hand to her face. She can hear John calling her name muffled by the sofa cushion.

"I'm here," she says clearing her voice.

"You know, you don't have to put the phone down just because you are crying."

"Yes I do."

"You don't have to be strong for me. I already know you are. It takes more strength to admit you are vulnerable than to pretend you aren't."

"You're like a regular Dahli Lama."

"I try."

John asks Claire if she wants him to stay on the phone while she reads the letter but she insists on wanting to be completely alone.

"I have to do this on my own."

"No you don't."

"I know what you're getting at but it's not like that. I really do feel like, for the moment, this needs to be between me and him."

"I understand."

"But I promise to call if I need to talk."

"At least talk to your therapist."

"That was kind of random."

"Not really. If you don't feel like you can talk to someone so close then talk to her. You would probably need some objectivity."

"Okay."

"Just don't sit and brood over what it says."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Claire hangs up the phone, making her way to her office and sits on the loveseat. She has to at least give him credit for having the balls to respond. But she didn't know if he deserved her reading and understanding what he had to say. She did, however, deserve to know what happened to her family.

Dearest Claire,

I didn't know how to respond to your letter. I didn't know if I should. For a day I thought maybe you were just venting but certainly didn't want to hear from me. Especially since you could just do a little research and find out what I did. I was surprised and happy to hear from you. I have so much to say and not enough time to say them.

I'm sorry about Claira. I couldn't have asked for a better mother. Despite everything, she still came to see me in jail once a month. She still wrote me letters. She still claimed me as her son even though I didn't deserve it. And I was heartbroken to hear of her death. I felt worse I couldn't attend her funeral. But I did get a final letter from her.

You know, she didn't think I deserved to be your father anymore. I'm glad you found the letters I wrote you. At least they compelled you to write me. She wrote that she left you a final letter explaining her actions. I encourage you to read it. Her last letter to me changed how I saw the situation. I finally understood why she lied to you. Why she kept you away from me. It was for you.

I would like to tell you what happened but I don't want to tell you in a letter. I would like to call you. I want to speak to you. I have to admit my selfish motives. I want to hear your voice. Even if that means you are yelling at me. This could be the only chance I will have to hear my daughter as an adult and I want to take advantage of that. Also, I don't want to write it down. It's too real. I know you don't care about how writing it would make me feel. But I'm asking you for this favor. This one favor. This one thing you can do for me. You can still hate me and accept my phone call.

Thank you for writing me. Thank you for letting me know that you are okay. Thank you for acknowledging my existence. Thank you for calling me your father.

I love you,

Dad

Claire is furious. Too angry to pick up the phone and vent to John. She had desperately wanted to know what happened and now she was being asked to wait. Not only that, but he had the nerve to ask a favor of her. He called her dearest as if they had some former loving and affectionate relationship to build on. He wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to speak to her. And he wanted to tell her what happened on his terms. And she was angry that he could even ask her of anything, even if it was just to pick up the phone.

She didn't care about how he felt. She didn't care about what he wanted. And this letter only pointed out his own selfishness. His own need to suddenly be a father since he now had the opportunity.

"At least he admitted it."

"So the fuck what. I was expecting so much more. I wanted this to end today. I wanted to know, agonize over the facts, and move forward."

"You mean agonize over the truth."

"Yes..."

The phone is quiet. But Claire isn't crying. She refuses to shed a tear for anything related to him.

"I don't want to wait anymore."

"But could you live with not knowing? Could you just stop this process you have already started?"

"I don't know John."

"You are going to hurt Claire. And it may be really bad. But you would have finally been able to let something go. Don't you want to let it go...finally?"

"I would love to. But it's not that easy. Knowing isn't always better."

"It might be for you. But I can't make that call."

"I just can't believe he had the nerve to ask something of me."

"Can you look at it as a compromise?"

"With me doing all the compromising?"

"Just hear me out. He had probably spent this time trying to forget what he did. It probably took him decades not to relive what he did over and over again all day everyday. And he's probably gotten to the point where he only thinks about it twice a day. Talking to you would probably make him feel worse. Would make those memories more real. But he wants to do it just to hear your voice. He gets to hear your voice and you get the answers you need."

"I don't know if I want to hear his voice. Written words are so much easier to deal with?"

"Are they? It's much harder to forget something you've read. And you wouldn't throw it away. You would just read it over and over again."

"I hate you know me so well. And you shouldn't."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"We've only known each other 4 months."

"So?"

"I just want everything to be over."

"I hate to tell you this but it will never be over. Closure is just an illusion. Resolution is the only real things possible."

"You are not making me feel better."

"Do you want to feel better or do you want the truth?"

"Couldn't they be the same thing for once in my life?"

"Yes. I love you. That makes you feel better and it's the truth."

Claire smiles.

"I feel like that's all I have left."

"Well that's going to have to be enough for now."

"But I want more."

"What do you want?"

Claire sits silently thinking. With all of the less than ideal circumstances, she had never really considered what she wanted to come of all of this. John had made suggestions but she thought it better for her mind that she dismiss them and not continue to think about them.

"I want a lot of things."

"I'm listening."

"I want to punish him. I want to make him feel what I've been feeling since the age of 5. I want him to know what he did to me."

"Why?"

"Because he deserves it."

"And you think he doesn't already know?"

"No."

"I have a feeling he does. But more importantly, how will it help you to punish him?"

"I don't know."

"You know it won't help you at all. You won't feel better. Considering who you are, you would probably feel like crap."

"Don't tell me that. You're right but I don't want to hear it."

"You need someone like me. Someone who sees you to remind you."

"Remind me that I'm not a vengeful bitch."

"Yes. You aren't that person and never will be. Besides, I have a feeling that beneath that hard exterior, you want a relationship with him. Not the one you could have had but you want something."

"I could just have a family with you."

"I'm guessing that's another thing on your list."

"It's the only thing left I don't have. And well an easy and simple divorce."

"Divorce is never simple and easy, especially if a child is involved."

"Another thing weighing on me."

"I'm about to go all philosophical on you again so be prepared."

"I'm ready."

"We can't control what happens to us but we can control how we react to them. And that is the most important thing."

"Where did you get all of this wisdom?"

"My daughter. She reminds me the best way to handle situations. Children don't let anything bother them for too long. Something happens, they react, and then they go on to something else. It's enlightening. It's almost brave. It's easier to stand still than force yourself to move forward."

Chapter 21

Although it may have been better to read Claira's letter first, Claire decided its truth may be easier to handle after hearing what she had actually lied about. It could change her perspective and possibly elucidate the necessity of the lie itself. After speaking with John and actually listening, she had reluctantly agreed to speak with her father. She decided that it wasn't sympathy that guided her but rather a need, want and deserving to know the truth. She had also convinced herself that she wasn't doing it to torture him; he had volunteered to verbally rehash the doings of his past. She is simply taking part in an exchange. She didn't know how 20 minutes would be enough. How he was supposed to provide her sufficient explanation in such a limited time. And so she doesn't expect all of her answers but would be content with the right ones.

Claire receives one last inspirational text from John and waits by the phone for her father's call. She thinks about how his voice had changed and if his southern colloquialisms had somehow morphed due to the lack of daily country music. She wondered if he had taken advantage of his access to beautiful literature and learned to speak with eloquence or at least with grammatical correctness. She contemplated whether or not he would be able to articulate the depth of his wrong doing and give her some satisfaction. As usual, she prepared herself for the worst. Had opened a new box of tissues and saved her voice for at least one angry rant. She had a premeditated response to any attempt to apologize and extort forgiveness. She had even written a letter just in case it became too much and the conversation would have to take place at a later date. Every possible scenario, at least the ones she could think of, had crossed her mind and an appropriate response had been decided.

But she was learning that life wasn't something you could prepare for. You could only react to it, especially when it concerned the actions of someone else. And her father had always been unpredictable. She understood the nonsensical nature of her thoughts and behavior preceding this phone call. But it had always been in her nature, because of him, to make sure that she could protect herself in any given circumstance.

"Claire?"

"Hi..."

Claire hesitates to call him father or dad. She doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of hearing her identify him as anything more than a stranger that ruined any possibility of normalcy.

"Hi," she repeats.

He immediately begins to cry. She had not expected this outpouring of emotion. Maybe it was her opinion of him that had manifested itself into this cold man whose heart had been hardened. She tried to control herself and not react to his humanity.

"I'm sorry. It's just so good to hear your voice."

"Uh-huh."

Claire cannot believe her own bitter reaction to something that seems sincere.

"How are you doing?" he asks pulling himself together.

"I'm fine."

Short, brief and emotionless had been her plan. She didn't want to prolong the conversation any longer than she had to or initiate some beginning of a new relationship. She wanted the non-media version of what happened and then slowly forget that they were related.

"Could we not partake in small talk? As of right now, you don't deserve to know any details of my life. None."

"Fair enough."

Claire wondered if he know what a horrible person he was?

"I only agreed to this to hear what happened to my family."

This statement had been carefully constructed as to intentionally leave him out of the paradigm.

"Okay Claire."

John had persuaded her to consider her father's feelings in her own endeavor to hear the truth about her past. She reached for some of that compassion now. She didn't want to be cold and distant. She didn't want to be him.

"I was having a bad day," he begins.

"Are you really starting this story with that? So the premise of your brutality rests on you having a bad day?"

"Please Claire, let me finish before you judge me."

He is asking for something impossible of her again.

"I was angry at everyone. I didn't get a job that would have allowed me to take care of the family and your mother could stop working again. The credit cards were maxed out and the checking account overdrawn. We were about to have to leave the house because I couldn't provide enough income for maintenance and bills. You may not understand but I felt less than a man. I felt like nothing. And what could nothing do?"

Claire had always been sensitive to people's circumstances. But even now, she didn't know if she would ever understand the gravity of his.

"I know now that I wanted to destroy my life. After much counseling and much spiritual awakening, I discovered that I wanted to destroy my life."

"Why didn't you? Why didn't you just destroy your own? Why didn't you just kill yourself?"

Claire is taken aback by her statement. That had been beyond hurtful.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that," she says quickly.

The worst guilt came from knowing that she did.

"Yes you did. And you have every right to feel that way. You all were my life. I thought if I took that away, I could stop trying. I could stop trying to be more than I was. I would be the ultimate miserable asshole. And I was a coward Claire. I was too much of a coward to take my own life. So I decided that I would just let the state do it for me. Who knew they would have compassion on my soul."

"Wait...wait. We were your life? You certainly didn't act like it. You certainly didn't treat us like we meant anything to you."

"Typical displays of insecurity honey."

"Don't call me that."

"I'm sorry. I needed to make someone else feel worse to make myself feel better. And the people you love hurt you the most. Therefore I could cause you all the most pain. More pain than I was feeling. You know she was trying to leave me right?"

"My mother?"

"Yes, that day. She was getting ready to leave me. I thought she was leaving because I wasn't being a man. It never occurred to me she was leaving because I wasn't being a husband. And I just couldn't handle it. I couldn't handle, once again, someone telling me that I wasn't good enough. That I couldn't be loved. That I didn't know how to love. What kind of man would I be if my wife left me? If I couldn't take care of my children? So I did something stupid. I let my resentment and anger towards myself be the driving force. I thought I was taking control of everything that was slipping from my reach. I was determined to be a man."

Claire takes a deep breath.

"Your mother was in the kitchen fixing lunch for you two. And I tell you, she was brave. She could have snuck out while I was gone or left in the middle of the night. But she wanted to confront me. Not only that, she thought I deserved to know what was going on. She was a much better person than I could hope to be."

Claire holds her breath and she begins to pace her office.

"You know how men talk about snapping and how they don't remember. I wish I didn't remember. We started to argue. I didn't want her to leave me. And the first time I punched her in the face, I justified it by saying she wasn't listening to me. She didn't care about me so why should I care about her."

Claire begins to cry herself and he hears her.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No. Just finish telling me."

"I told her I loved her."

"Really?"

"I did love her Claire. Just not in the right way. Just not in the way any husband should love his wife. Anyway, I begged her not to leave me. And when she said no. When she denied me the privilege of being better than someone and having someone who felt less than a human being than I did, I couldn't stop hitting her. I don't know how many times I punched her. I was sitting over her. I wanted to make her feel just as bad as I did in that moment."

"Oh my God."

He begins to cry again.

"Then your sister came down. She heard your mother screaming and wanted to know what was going on. And I remember the look on her face. She was horrified. And for a split second, I felt like a person again. I felt like a father. And I thought about stopping."

"Why didn't you?"

"I felt threatened. She ran over and started yelling at me to get off your mother."

"Then I came down."

"Then you were there. Your innocence written all over your face. I remember almost crying. Feeling like I had a chance to feel something if I would just...feel something. If I could only contemplate the real consequences of what I was doing. If I could only think about daughters without their mother."

"She told me to run."

"She did. I hated it. That infuriated me. That little girl was more brave than me, a big strong man. She had done more to protect you with those few words than I had done your entire life."

"So that's why you hurt her too?"

"In all honesty, I didn't mean to kill your sister. I didn't mean to kill either one of them."

"You just meant to hurt them."

"I just meant to hurt them."

The phone is silent. Claire begins to remember that day. Remember seeing her sister standing by her father and yelling for her to leave the house. She didn't see her mother on the floor. There was so much chaos in the room she didn't know what she was looking for. She didn't know what to focus on. She just had done what she was told.

"There were days when I wish I hadn't run."

"Why Claire?"

"I wanted to be with them."

"Claire, you did exactly what they wanted you to do. You were the baby."

"What happened to Lucy?"

"The door swung shut and Lucy tried to pull me off your mom. She tried to push me away and grab the phone to call 911. I panicked. I was a selfish piece of shit. So I picked her up and threw her. She hit the wall. I didn't even know I had thrown her with all of my strength. I only found out later that she was just unconscious, but her brain was bleeding. So she just slowly died on the floor. I didn't know your mother was dead either. It was so quiet Claire. It wasn't until there wasn't any noise to distract me from what I was doing that I realized what I had done. And I just sat there on the floor leaning against the cabinets."

"You didn't call 911?"

"No I didn't. I just shifted my gaze from your mother to your sister."

"You probably could have saved them."

"I didn't want to. Why not be in a better place? Why have to grow up with me as a husband or father?"

"So you were being generous?"

"I was in shock."

"Who called 911?"

"I eventually did. I confessed."

"At least you had the balls to do that."

"That wasn't balls. That wasn't courage. That was just being tired. I didn't have the energy to run. I didn't have the energy to lie. So I just turned myself in."

"What did Claira do?"

"I try not to think about the look on her face when she saw me being escorted into the police car with handcuffs. It's that look of disappointment that only a mother can give. It's a look of horrible disbelief. A look that says "you're not my son."

"Did you talk to her before you got to the police station?"

"No. She just stood there. She stood there and looked at me as if I wasn't the boy she raised. I wasn't the man she wanted me to be. I thought I was going to die."

"Did she come see you in lock up?"

"Yes, after I wrote my confession. She asked me all of the typical questions including one I couldn't answer. Why. Why did I do it? Why did I let it get that bad? Why didn't I ask for help? Why didn't I stop? Why didn't I call for an ambulance? She had gone to see them at the morgue. She told me identifying the dead bodies of two people that you love more than life itself is one of the hardest things you have to do. She said the second was learning it was your son who caused that devastation."

"But you said she still came to see you?"

"She did. She never forgave me but she understood me. I was my father. She knew how to handle that."

"Did you know..."

"I've only got 5 minutes left."

"Okay. Did you know she didn't tell me?"

"I did. And it was devastating. I thought you would forget the horrible monster you saw that day. I thought you would be so young that you would never have to relive those seconds."

"I never forgot."

"I know and I am sorry. I am so sorry."

"Stop apologizing damnit!!! That is not enough. It will never be enough."

Claire pauses to compose herself. 2 minutes left.

"Just tell me why she did it."

"I can't. You know, she would bring me pictures but I wouldn't look at them. I didn't want to know how well you were doing without me."

"Why can't you tell me?"

"Because it's not my place. There is a letter in those boxes that explains everything."

Claire is disappointed but not surprised.

"Just do me one favor Claire?"

"You're asking something of me again?"

"Yes. Forgive her. She deserves it. And so do you."

***

Claire could have turned her cell phone off but she wanted to know how many times John would call just because he cared even if she didn't want to answer. She was oddly comforted every time she saw his name on her caller ID even without speaking to him. She didn't even respond to the texts.

Claire is stuck in emotional limbo. She had practically begged for answers but now she has a full picture. She can no longer fill in the bits and pieces with events conjured by her imagination. She had seen the whole movie and couldn't just create a story from the trailers.

***

"Isn't that what you wanted?"

"But it wasn't what I was expecting?"

"Nothing ever is."

"I wish I hadn't even wrote that damn letter."

Dr. Wilcox straightens her glasses. She hated to admit but Claire had become one of her more frustrating clients. Not because she didn't know what she wanted. But that when she got it, no matter what life had taught her, she was always disappointed.

"Claire, no you're not. Which is worse? Hearing it or never hearing it?"

"I don't know."

"I'm just going to assume, based on what I have learned about you, that not knowing would have been worse. You would spend more days worrying about what could have happened than you will thinking about what did."

"This too shall pass?"

"No."

"Great," Claire says sarcastically.

"It will never pass."

"Not want I want to hear."

"Not my job."

When Claire had started visiting Dr. Wilcox, she had immediately regretted her tough love attitude. She wasn't the one to coddle but many people close to her, including Lewis, had convinced her that someone like Dr. Wilcox was what she needed.

"I just don't know what to do with this."

"Really? A writer and professor doesn't know what to do with this?"

Claire hated when people pointed out the obvious, especially when she didn't see it.

"Okay, I could write about it. Then what? What am I supposed to do about my father?"

"What was he like on the phone?"

"Well, he seemed sincere in his regret and guilt. He even cried. What makes it worse is that he didn't ask me to forgive him, talk to him again, or come see him."

"Why is that worse?"

"Because a man in jail for the rest of his life for killing his wife and daughter is supposed to want redemption."

"And if he had done that, you would have a reason to remain mad at him."

"I'll always be mad at him. But at least him being inconsiderate and selfish would have made it easier to sustain the anger."

"Why are you so determined to not forgive him?"

"He ruined my life!"

"How?"

"I can't believe you asked me that. He took away my mother and sister."

"But he didn't take away everything."

"He took away my ability to trust...especially men. He made it hard for me to love."

"Claire, it is perfectly normal for you to want to protect yourself. But you don't have a reason to do that anymore."

"Yes I do."

"He isn't the same man."

"I don't know that."

"Yes you do and that scares you. You don't have a reason to stay away from this man. You just want to. But at the same time, you want to be someone's daughter."

"He didn't push me. But that's all I remember of him. Him pushing me, physically and emotionally. I don't know how to interact with this man. I don't think I could. And besides, I don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he could do something so disgusting and still say some Hail Mary's, pray for a few decades, and have what he doesn't deserve."

"So how long are you going to punish him?"

"Until it makes me feel better."

"You know as well as I do that it never will."

"Can't I just believe the lie for a few seconds?"

"Forgiving him is for you, not for him. You don't even have to tell him that you have. How long are you willing to let this control your life?"

Claire is silent. She had always thought of herself as a smart and independent woman. She had reached out when she thought she needed support and handled situations that she thought she had the courage and strength to do alone. She had never considered that she wasn't the one in control. That in her efforts to suppress her memories, reject her father and keep her emotions in check, she had actually accelerated the loss of power in her own life.

"How is forgiving him going to help me?"

Claire begins to think about those early Sundays in Church where the Priest talked about the power of forgiveness. That none of us were perfect and therefore none of us had the right to impart that goal of perfection on anyone else. That forgiveness was a gift to ourselves. Every self-help guru and talk-show host had an opinion about it. Forgiveness was letting go of the idea that you can somehow change the past. Letting go of the idea that you can change what has already happened. Letting go of the need and desire for life to be different than it is.

"Because you will finally stop fighting what was. You will stop fighting your own experience. You will stop pretending that your life could have and should have been different," Dr. Wilcox responds.

And something happens. Something inside Claire shifts. And she wails. She doesn't want to fight herself anymore. She doesn't want to be the victim of her own stubbornness. She doesn't want her story to be her truth. Dr. Wilcox hands her the box of tissues and sits quietly. She watches Claire double over. She watches Claire let go of everything she wanted to hold onto in the hopes that holding on would keep her grounded. Would allow her to never forget what he had done and therefore never forget the lessons learned from the tragedy of her past.

Claire tries to push everything out. She even thought about how this could be good for her child. She had read that her baby feels everything she does and she didn't want to burden her child with the same emotions she couldn't seem to manage. Claire is surprised by the volume of her crying and the newness of being vulnerable in front of someone else and not just pretending to be. The intimacy of expressing the most dire emotions. The progress of no longer being ashamed of them.

And then there is silence. She has used all of her energy. She has owned and disposed of every tangible emotion.

"I don't want that."

"What Claire?"

"I don't want what happened to me to have happened to me. I wish it had happened to someone else."

Dr. Wilcox begins to feel the urge to be a comforting sibling or nurturing mother. Usually she fights this, afraid to cross boundaries, but in this case, she knows it is exactly what Claire needs.

"I do too Claire. I wish your past hadn't been filled with so many things no person should have to suffer through. I wish it hadn't been contained with so many lies. I wish there had been more trust and honesty. I wish you didn't have to live with survivor's guilt. I wish Claira hadn't died and left you alone to deal with those things she seemed to be protecting you from. I wish you had experienced more stability and love. I wish your mother and father had given you what you wanted. What you needed. I wish you didn't need me. I wish you could trust yourself to love with all of your heart. I wish it hadn't taken so long for you to get to this place. I wish you hadn't lost."

Claire looks up at Dr. Wilcox and smiles.

"I can't live in the hypothetical can I?"

"That's not living. That's dreaming. Do you want to spend your life in a constant dream state where what's real is never enough?"

"Sometimes I don't think what I have is."

"There will always be something more Claire. You will never stop encountering situations where you wish the outcome had been different. You may want your salary to be higher or your child to finally sleep through the night. You may want your class of Freshman to at least act like their interested or your study to be in a more prestigious journal. Your life is this way and there is nothing you can do about what led you here. But you can change it now. And you can appreciate what you have."

"What do I have?"

"Do you really have to ask me that? This is going to take longer than I thought."

Claire laughs. She has always known her personality wasn't conducive to the necessities of fully appreciating the benefits of psychoanalysis. And sometimes she just liked giving the therapist a hard time.

"I have John. I have Lewis. I have a great career. I have the basic necessities of life. I'm having a baby."

"And you have one less thing to think about."

"I have one less thing to think about."

"What's the problem?" Dr. Wilcox asks noticing the lack of resolve on Claire's face.

"It just seems that when one issue is resolved, something else comes up."

"Things wouldn't move forward if they didn't. Things wouldn't get better."

***

Getting better had been a novel concept. Claire replays the therapist appointment 24 hours ago that was supposed to change her life. It was supposed to open her heart and allow her to openly claim her emotions. But she isn't ready yet. She wasn't prepared before she walked into that office to have a breakthrough. She didn't really believe in them. It takes time to be a different person. And although the Claire that has existed for over three decades has been a self-destructive woman who was intent on living the kind of life she believed a person with her past should live, she couldn't dismiss that woman in an hour. She couldn't just let her go as if she is an unloved stranger. She had to own her. She had to accept the flaws as part of herself. The only difference between today and yesterday is an acknowledgment of the problem. There's no preparedness for a plan or a willingness to take action.

Claire sits in her leather ergonomically correct work chair. She tries to grade papers, line after line of beginner's poetry. She hates to admit its unmoving nature. It's superficial description of experiences limited to those who haven't experienced anything at all. She restrains her comments, trying to be the encouraging professor who fosters creativity. But she can't be the one congratulating a student for a writing a poem about a frat party and attempting to make it a metaphor for life.

Life. Something they know nothing about. Most of them trying to describe emotional tragedies they have never imagined. Not understanding the actual event that would present the need for such a reaction. Claire begins to resent them. She begins to resent their innocence. She hears Claira telling her that she doesn't know what people are going through and shouldn't pretend or believe that her life has been more of a struggle than anyone else's.

She begins to feel pity. She begins to pray that none of them grow to be like her. Feeling but unable to admit it. She wishes she didn't know her own story. She wishes she hadn't discovered the truth. She could have lived her life believing her father was dead. Not knowing that he had stripped her of the opportunity to grow up surrounded by the most love possible in the most impossible situation. She may have lived her life trapped but she wouldn't have known it. "The truth shall set you free" now appeared the most destructive cliché. She had undergone drastic revelations over the last few months and there was no resulting freedom. There wasn't a lifting of a burden but rather her existence became more laborious and heavy. She had always carried this around but she is now aware of that baggage.

When she pulls into the driveway, she suddenly feels like she doesn't belong. This home had been built on false and misleading ideals of a life that she wasn't meant to have. Or at least that's what she thinks. So many things in this house had gone underused. The beautiful pool, the oven, the living room, the formal dining room, the basement den, the guest room, the treadmill, the cable and their bed. Claire begins to think about all of the things that had not been done in their bedroom as she walks through the front door. And the things that had been constantly used had been those things that represented nothing, except a need to keep an orderly life.

The life where you put your keys in a bowl on top of a bookshelf no more than two feet from the entrance. Where you always hang up your jacket on a rack nailed to the wall. Dishes didn't sit overnight in the sink and the television was always turned off before you went to bed. All the doors were locked and the alarm set by the last person to retire to the bedroom. Sometimes that required one of them to walk into the other's study to see if they truly were the last person awake. A home where the bed was made every morning and the thermostat turned off while no one was home. Groceries were purchased on Saturday and the week planned on Sunday. Each spouse informed the other of their schedule for the week at Sunday brunch or lunch or dinner. Full disclosure. A home with two separate bank accounts and a joint one just for bills. A home where that was okay. Claire began to think that maybe that had been the problem. Maybe she had created a relationship with Lewis that had been too structured, as if he were a child that needed to learn the benefits of discipline. A relationship that had been based on only sharing some things.

Claire puts her purse on the kitchen island and leaves it there. She sits in the family room with a caffeine free diet coke, facing the kitchen and her eyes glaze over. She stares at those things intentionally left out of place. Her eyes move to her jacket that had been thrown on the stair rail and her shoes still in the middle of the floor. Maybe this is the first step towards letting go; letting go of those things that seemed easier to let go of. She turns on the television searching for some primetime show either stupid or surprisingly witty enough to distract her from her rising compulsion to "fix" things.

"Why can't I do this?" Claire asks herself, wondering why these material things not being how she thinks they should be could bother her so much. These are just things. These are just items that, at their core, don't have a prescribed place to rest. And she knew these feelings didn't come from a place of just wanting a clean and organized home. It comes from a place of wanting and maintaining control. Of wanting and having power over something. Of being able to have something that wouldn't change. Something in her home that would be as it is now and would always be that way.

Claire is happy she doesn't have to spend another 150 dollars to reach this aha moment. And with this realization, she immediately wants to destroy it. She desires nothing more than to wreck her reality in rebellion of her constant seeking of a false sense of stability. She knows making sure her bed is made and her keys in the bowl, besides it practicality, does not provide real stability. It only provides the illusion. And she is tired of the illusion. She is tired of settling for that which isn't real just to avoid that which is. She is exhausted with pretending that her life gives her the comfort and support necessary to live beyond her past. To be more than what has happened to her.

She takes her drink to her office. The letter from Claira had been sitting in her desk drawer for weeks. Unread. Words unseen. She had been afraid to try to comprehend Claira's reasoning and intentions. And she didn't want to have to apologize. She didn't want to have to go back to that cemetery and apologize for jumping to the wrong conclusions or assuming her intentions had been anything but good. Claire decides that this is the truth she wants to deal with now. The hospital had been calling daily advising her that the paternity results had come in and she felt confronting her past would be necessary in order to plan a new life as a mother.

Claire smiles as she looks at the envelope. Even when handing a letter for someone in person, Claira taped it up as if it were a top secret document for the CIA. Whatever she gave a person, no matter a birthday card or check, had to be protected. Claire carefully pulls up the tape. She takes out the paper, and before unfolding it, takes a large gulp of wine.

"Dearest Claire"

Claire quickly gets up from the chair and makes her way to the loveseat. She needed to be as comfortable as possible in this moment. This moment that could further destroy the image of Claira. An image that had already become stained. A relationship, that even in death, had become strained. She places her glass on the side table. She unfolds the paper and moves her eyes beyond her own name.

Dearest Claire

I know you are upset with me. I know you feel betrayed. I lied to you. For most of your life, I lied to you. I perpetuated a horrible lie and deprived you of something that I didn't think he deserved. You have probably cursed at my grave by now or at least yelled at me in your mind. You have obsessively thought about all of those moments and nightmares that stemmed from the story I told you about the end of Debra and Lucy's lives. I remember you coming to my room at night, alternating between fear of your father and fear of a stranger breaking into our home and killing us. And I hated that I had done that to you. I hated that I had caused this unnatural and unnecessary fear. And I am sorry. I am so sorry. But I want to tell you why I did this. I want to let you know my true motives in misleading you for so long.

I knew you would find out the truth. I knew you would clean my house after I died and find the letters. I could have burned them. I could have let you continue to live thinking your family had perished. But I didn't want that for you and I was too much of a coward to tell you myself. I'm sure I thought about it on my death bed. I'm sure I thought about finally absolving myself. But that wouldn't have been fair to you. Relieving my guilt before my death would have ultimately hurt you. I wouldn't have been able to prepare you for it. I wouldn't have been able to slowly ease into the conversation. And I wouldn't have been able to ultimately provide the long-term support you would need. So I resorted to the thing both of us are the most comfortable with...the written word.

So I guess I should start with the how. The logistics are uninteresting and boring and the least important so I want to get it over with. You were 5 years old when it happened so it was easy to convince neighbors not to talk about it. I told them that you were so young it would be best not to talk to you about it. And when they did, they always said your father was away. It would have been reasonable for you to think they didn't want to use the word dead around a young child. It appeared I was just being a protective grandmother. I prayed that you would always trust me. I prayed you would never question the story I told you and you wouldn't explore the newspaper articles. You were already an exceptional reader so I went to the trouble of cancelling our newspaper subscription. I don't know if you remember but I wouldn't let you watch television unless I was around until the sentencing phase was over and the town had turned its attention to the next big story.

I was relieved to find that you trusted me completely. You believed every word I said. I knew at such a young age you didn't have a reason not to believe me but I knew that would change. But it didn't. I felt so guilty. I felt like a piece of crap thinking that I had become such a good liar that even in your increasing intelligence, you didn't question my explanations. And then there's the funeral. You only asked me a few times why there were only two caskets. And each time, I told you that I didn't want to bury your dad with the rest of the family considering what he had done. And you accepted my lies. My words had been so believable that you never considered questioning them. You never thought I would lie to you. And because they had become such a part of your being, when you grew up, I expected you to express your curiosity. To explore the truth on your own. And you didn't. Which made my life easier but weighed on my heart.

So that is the how. I didn't have to lie that much. I just had to lie enough and so well that you never wanted to not believe me. I got Bonnie to agree to keep her mouth shut. I'm sure you think ill of your Aunt Bonnie considering she didn't visit a lot and she only seemed to appear out of nowhere when she needed money. But that's how it was. I had asked her to spend her life lying to you for me so I indulged her and said yes when she asked for anything. It was my payment for her burden.

I did what I did for many reasons. I can't even admit I'm a liar now. I love you. I want you to know that first. And my lie originated in a place of love. I didn't want you to go through your life having to say your father is in jail. I thought it would be better that he were dead. And I have to say, I'm glad you grew up in a different time where information wasn't at your fingertips and your peers could know things about you just by clicking a few buttons. I prayed none of the other students would pick on you. Would call you names because they had heard their mommies and daddies talk about what your father did and the kind of man he was. I was happy that parents had decorum and didn't involve their children in things children shouldn't be involved in.

Some part of me thought I was protecting my son but at the same time punishing him. I thought I was protecting his image. I knew of his abuse but the only thing that could have further destroyed your memories of him was knowing that he did something worse than hitting you. He did something worse than forgetting how to be a father. He would forever be an abuser in your mind but not a murderer. And perhaps you would imagine him trying to save the family. Fighting the burglar and trying to protect them. Maybe you would picture his last moments as heroic. And therefore you could truly believe in the love he didn't show.

But he couldn't get off easy. He couldn't live his life continuing to be your father. So I took that away from him. He didn't deserve to see you. Of course I came to regret my decision and started to bring him pictures of you. But he didn't want them. He had come to appreciate the benefits of living in the lie I had created. I wrote him too. I apologized for the tragedy of not allowing him the opportunity to be better. To do better.

Claire, I honestly thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was creating a foundation for a better life. And everyday, when I looked in your eyes, I wanted to tell you. But I couldn't. It would have been like a writer destroying a book at the last chapter. I couldn't stop the lies.

I love you. I hope one day you understand that my intentions were good. I intended to give you a better story. I intended to give you a greater opportunity for a better life. I thought, with all of my heart, that I was protecting you. But could never pinpoint what exactly I was protecting you from. Eventually, I should have realized that you could handle the truth. I should have trusted your own capabilities. I should have known how strong you were. How strong you are. I shouldn't have let you build your life based on lies.

I'm not going to ask you to forgive me. I'm just going to ask that you decide for yourself, finally, what you want in your life and how you want to live it.

I love you my dearest heart. You have always been the love of my life and the reason for my existence.

Grandma Claira

Chapter 22

Accepting what was and what is had always been complicated for Claire. And now, with her eyes drought from crying and her mind scrambled, she has been forced to acknowledge the truth that good people do bad things. And this doesn't necessarily make them bad people. The road to hell had been paved with good intentions but at least Claira's had ended. At least she was at rest. And Claire is now left with the pieces of her past strewn across the table in an unrecognizable pattern.

She thought she had been done with the stages of grief but was now, in this moment, experiencing them all. Denial had become her favorite and most reliable defense mechanism but she is now finding it impossible to remain in the comfort of denying reality. She was angry but she didn't know why. Most people might have an immediate sense of understanding. Everything she wrote made sense. Maybe part of it was that she wrote it. It would have been better to have said it. To give Claire the satisfaction of being able to respond and ask more questions. But this was final. She had been stripped of her right to ask for more. And she hadn't been given the real chance to have her reaction validated.

Claira's explanation had been thorough and loving. She had apologized. She had given Claire all of her reasons without restraint. But it isn't enough. Claire isn't satisfied. But that could simply stem from her own belief, before she even read the letter, that she would remain that way.

Claire's desire not to be burdened with this had led to bargaining. But she isn't bargaining with God. She is bargaining with herself. Making a deal that if she could just quickly move past this, her life would be better. That the sooner she found the strength to forgive her grandmother, the more peaceful her existence would be. She could go on to face the other conflicts currently present in her life and give them her full focus.

Then she is sad. Her Claira was not the woman she thought she was. She didn't trust her with the truth. She had made mistakes and couldn't admit to them when it would have made a bigger difference. In Claira's encouragement of being an independent woman and enforcing Claire's ability to make decisions for herself, she had made a decision for her. She had determined the course of her life without consulting her first.

But Claire quickly admits that's all people can be expected to do. No one truly knows the full consequence of their actions. You slam on your brakes to avoid hitting a dog crossing the street which causes the person behind you to slam on theirs. You cause a chain reaction that leads to an accident a quarter of a mile back that you don't even know about. And you never hear about it. They don't talk about it on the news. There aren't any fatalities. But even in your good intentions, you caused a series of actions that led to a minor offense.

The last stage isn't one that can be achieved in a moment. It isn't a state of being that is easily accessed, especially in Claire's current situation. Claire knew that the smartest people on this planet admit they don't know anything and spend their lives seeking knowledge, desperately wanting to know more. But Claire didn't want to be this ignorant of her own life. In the past, she had just accepted what she was told. If it had been anyone else, she would have questioned them. She would have sought her own truth instead of simply accepting what was told to her. She would have explored her own natural curiosity.

Claire feels gullible and deceived. She feels stupid and naïve. She feels all of those things of anyone would experience who has just found out that someone they love has been hiding something right in front of their noses. Like the case where the man puts the murder weapon back in with the other steak knives in the kitchen. "Love truly is blind," Claire says to herself as she makes her way back to the kitchen needing more courage.

And maybe she is partly to blame. Maybe she was so closed to any other experience that Claira never felt the opportunity to tell the truth. She never thought she could. It's like telling a child Santa Clause doesn't exist. How can you so nonchalantly destroy something they so deeply believe in and cling to? Claire begins to contemplate all of the things she could have done to sabotage her own journey. The things she could have said or done to make Claira think that she would never want to know what really happened. That she would be okay settling for a fictional past. What were those signals that women are so good at analyzing that led to Claira's insistence on being the gatekeeper of her past?

She once again wishes she could consume enough alcohol to help her forget. Claire's mistake was that she wasn't like most people. She didn't find relief in this verbal display of honesty and love. Instead she over-analyzed the cause and need for the deception. She examined her own motives for insisting on continuing on this path of discovery. Could she have been just as guilty as Claira in her own reluctance to examine what was really there instead of ignoring it in search of a more pleasant reality?

She tries to think what her therapist would say in this situation. What calming words would she use to bring her down from the height of her immediate reaction? But there is certainly a problem with attempting to be your own therapist. Trying to be objective when you're stuck in your own perception. She tells herself that Claira's motives will be more important than the action. That the means will have more power than the end.

***

"You aren't relieved?"

"I don't know what I am John. And I mean that in the truest sense."

"That letter just sounds like...just sounds like too much."

"It's a little overwhelming. She said everything I wanted her to say. Claira wrote beautiful and powerful words."

"Then why are you so upset?"

"I don't know."

The phone is silent. The only thing they can hear is the sound of each other's breath, Claire's labored and heavy. John's soft like a whisper. Claire begins to think that her initial reaction had been irrational. But they often are. Those initial emotions are typically the most uncomfortable. The ones that cause the deepest pain. And once we come back to a state of calm, we are supposed to explore the emotion. Identify its root cause and subdue its power from there. Claire has reached out to John to find that place. That place of complete surrender. That place of feeling safe and secure.

He doesn't know how much she is asking of him. But she is tired of being alone in every struggle and every obstacle. She is tired of being strong. She wants someone else to hold her up and cradle her insecurities. And it scares her. It makes her uneasy to think that she is willing to give up her independence. Willing to forget what she has told herself. How she has defined herself. "I can do this on my own" she would repeat to herself in order to build that confidence and strength to pursue without the need of someone else. She has made herself okay with being alone.

And now here she is, on the phone, being needy. Wishing that this man can save her from herself.

"This is a new feeling."

"What?"

"Feeling like I need someone."

"I'm sure you've felt that way before."

"I'm also certain I ignored it. Claira's death was the instigator. I didn't know how much I needed her until she was no longer there. I also didn't realize how much I didn't need my husband. I honestly can't believe we got through 7 years."

"I can. You are one of the most determined women I've known. You wanted to make it work. The only problem was that you made that decision based on what you should do and not what you wanted."

"I still don't know exactly what I want."

"Do you have to figure that out now? Can't you just enjoy how things are?"

Claire has always found more comfort in how things could be. Every night, she lies in bed imagining tomorrow, next week, next month or next year. She focuses on where she wants to be; she calls it motivation. Claire never put anything off. She could never be accused of procrastination. And when something needed to be done, she got it done as soon as feasibly possible. Even if that meant 5 hours of sleep, not taking a lunch, sleeping in her office or cancelling dinner with her husband.

"I can't sit still," Claire says.

"I know."

"I have to keep moving."

"I know."

"I don't know how to stop."

Relationships hadn't been her anchor. Love hadn't been the thing that she found herself escaping to when life became too much. Intimacy had never been easy for her. At least not with another person. She often joked she was in love with her work; the truth is usually the funniest punchlines.

"What will make you stop? What will help you understand the beauty of the present?" John asks.

"Someone making me?"

"What about me? Would you slow down if I ask you to?"

"Maybe."

"You would. I know you Claire. What I want you to do is do something for yourself."

"I thought I had the opposite problem. I thought I spent all of my life focusing on myself not giving a shit about anyone else."

"Why did you tell me you got married?"

"Because I didn't want to hurt him. I didn't want to embarrass him in front of his peers. It was expected of me. He is a doctor. He is a good man. Claira loved him. Claira would want me to marry him."

"Nothing you just said had anything to do with you."

Silence befalls the cellular connection. Claire quickly goes through all of the major decisions in her life and tries to pinpoint her reasons for making her choices. Find the true rationale or incentive for deciding that particular path. Were her desires the number one motivation for going left instead of right or turning around when she desperately needed to move forward?

"I haven't been present in my own life?"

"I wouldn't go that far. Look at us?"

Claire smiles. She thinks about the hours she has been with John. The honesty in their relationship. She yielded to his advances because he didn't know her and now he became the only person she felt comfortable exposing her true self to.

"Claire, when you were with me in Vermont, we talked about our past but we didn't obsess over it. You didn't care about the consequences. You just let yourself go."

"Your environment can change everything."

"And you have."

"How? I'm still in this house. I still have the same job. I'm still in the same place without Claira. And now I have a father."

"But you aren't married anymore. You got out of something you know isn't enough. You love your job. And yes, Claira has passed away but she isn't dead."

"And my father?"

"That's up in the air. You have to decide how you want to proceed. But you are under no obligation to do anything. Don't think you would honor Claira by building a relationship with him or by continuing to remain disconnected. Own it. Own your power to dictate your own life."

"I don't know..."

John becomes frustrated. He wants to love Claire. He wants to help her. He wants to be a partner in her life. But he knows that all of these "I don't knows" are really just a learned response when she does know but doesn't want to admit what it is. She is afraid of what he will think. She is afraid of how his perception will change. She is afraid that if she says what she wants, it will never be important and she will end up in a more disappointed place. She will have to watch those things she craves most in her life pushed aside for bigger and better things. Denial defended her against those thoughts and feelings she could never escape as the parent-less victim. In her denial, she has been denying herself.

"Claire, you know it damnit. You just don't want to tell me. You don't want me to suddenly stop loving you because you have told yourself there are these flaws...that I will not accept. That are dealbreakers."

Claire begins to cry.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine."

"When did what other people think of you become more important than what you think of yourself?"

"It's always been. I played the part of the victim of a crime. Then the survivor of one. A survivor has to act and be a certain way."

"Says who?"

Claire is silent. She tries to remember who taught her the code of conduct. But the only expectations running through her mind had been her own. Claira didn't expect anything. Lewis didn't expect anything. John doesn't expect anything. Of course she had responsibilities. She had things her career depended on but even her career didn't provide expectations of who she should be but only how she should perform.

"Me."

Claire takes a deep breath.

"What am I going to do?" she continues.

"You're going to stop thinking. Stop the analysis. Stop working and just be."

"I don't know how to do that."

"I can help you."

"I never knew how lost I was."

"And it's going to take time for you to get back to where you want to be."

"There isn't a magic pill? An hour or two of therapy?"

"Change takes action. Change is a process."

"I need to change who I am."

"No, you need to change who you think you are."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"I don't...for loving me."

"Yes! Breakthrough number one. You just admitted you need me to love you. Nothing wrong with that. I feel the same way."

"Would you like to be my therapist? You're free and a lot more fun."

John laughs.

"I can be your partner."

They sit in silence. Claire tries to appreciate this moment. She doesn't think about their potential. She doesn't think about how they began or where or if they will end. But as soon as she is able to be present, she is shaken by reality. She could only stay there for a few seconds.

"When will we know the results of the paternity test?" John asks, hating that he had to ruin this moment with what he needed to know.

"They have come back."

"And?"

Claire can hear him take a deep breath. She can feel his heart begin to pound and his silent prayers to have another child.

"I haven't...talked to the doctor."

John breathes heavily into the phone. He doesn't need to ask why.

"Honey, I know you are scared. I know you think those results will determine the rest of your life. But they won't. And you have to remember, in this case, it's not just about you. You have three other lives to consider. Lewis and I deserve to know the results, but we don't deserve to dictate what you do with them."

Claire begins to imagine her life with John. She could be with him. But she can't stop the "what ifs". She can't stop the questions. She can't stop worrying that whatever she chooses, will be the wrong thing. For a few seconds, Claire considers letting the baby be Johns. No matter the result, claiming John as the father and beginning the life she wanted 7 years ago. But she soon recognizes she isn't capable of that. She isn't capable of being a liar. She has suffered from the hands of unfairness and she can't be the perpetrator of that same hurt. She can't perpetuate that same sense of inadequacy. She can't teach her child that life isn't fair before he/she is really able to live it.

"I'll go pick up the results tomorrow."

"You don't sound so excited."

"I'm not."

"You have to think of all of the wonderful possibilities."

"I want to be with you."

"If Lewis is the father, that won't change."

"But again, I won't get what I want."

"Again, says who? Things can be negotiated. Circumstances can be changed. It will just be harder if he is the father. That doesn't mean it's impossible."

"I'm so tired of trying. I'm so tired of fighting."

"What are you fighting?"

"That's all I know. I've spent my life doing what I couldn't as a little girl. I couldn't fight my father. I couldn't keep him from hitting me. I couldn't stop him from looking at me like I embodied every bad thought and feeling he ever had. Every misery that he had experienced and imagined he would. So when he was gone, I learned how to fight so I wouldn't have to endure those things ever again. I learned so I could imagine a different childhood when I fell asleep. One where the first time he hit me, I broke his hand. The second time, I would make him incapable of ever having another child. The third, and last, I would break his legs. And then he would be afraid of me."

John is speechless and feeling so many things at once. What should he say? What can he say? This is truly a woman with a fucked up past trying so hard not to have a fucked up past. He isn't frightened by her issues. He is frightened by the idea that he may never be able to help her. That their relationship will never be enough...for her.

"Claire..."

"You don't have to say anything."

"I feel like I need to."

"Usually when people feel the need to speak, it's to relieve their own anxieties, not for the benefit of the other person."

"What do you want from me then?"

"Just to listen. Just keep listening."

And then she is quiet. John has finally been given instruction to listen with nothing to listen to except her shallow breathing. He resists the urge to inquire how she is feeling or ask a question. He ignores his own curiosity. He takes a mental step back from the situation and gathers his own thoughts before refocusing his attention.

"I'm not sure what I want to do."

"About?"

"In general."

"Well you have time to figure it out."

"Not a lot. 5 and a half months at the least."

"What about your father."

"I don't have the energy to deal with him. I heard the story. I reacted to it. I finally reached the point where I wasn't willing to go visit and choke him to death while I was there. And now I just want to push it aside. This," she continues touching her stomach, "is more important. This life has more value to me than his will ever have."

John smiles, the image of Claire holding his daughter or son etched in his mind.

"John?"

"Yes? I'm sorry. Just daydreaming."

"Sex."

"What?"

"Are you daydreaming about sex?"

"No."

"Oh."

"Are you?"

"Well...yes. I'm horny...all of the time. Lewis and I rarely had sex. The last 2 years were a perpetual sexual drought. Now that I don't have a husband obligated to fulfill my sexual needs, I'm horny all of the time."

"You can take care of it yourself."

"It's not the same."

"It's better than a random dude in a bar."

"Not better than you."

"The best I can do is my voice."

Claire stops for a moment, wondering how the conversation could turn so quickly. It's as if her body had signaled its emotional exhaustion by rehashing thoughts about their intimate time together. Her own mind had saved itself. She didn't have to think about it. She didn't have to do anything. Her body, her heart, her soul...would preserve her. Would give her everything she needed in terms of protection in order to survive. She begins to question why she had been fighting so hard in the first place. Why she didn't trust her own instincts. Why she always needed more. Needed the best. Needed to know why and how when none of it would actually make her life better.

"I find it difficult to trust myself. Look at Lewis. Look at Claira."

"Why wouldn't you trust yourself?"

"Look at the tragedy of those relationships. I didn't choose the right husband. And the person I trusted most in this world spent my entire life lying to me...on purpose. I didn't even notice."

"You didn't have any reason not to trust Claira. And you loved Lewis right?"

"Not in the way I needed to. Not in the way that he deserved."

"There had to be some good years."

"There were. I guess I had such low expectations of a marriage that I thought that anyone better than my father would lead to a good outcome. Yes, he had an affair but..."

"Wow."

"Yeah...I'm over it. Nothing really to get over."

"Really? Nothing?"

"He explained everything to my satisfaction."

"You forgave him just like that?"

"Yes. I was guilty of my own indiscretions."

"I've never heard a woman admit her husband had an affair with such calm."

"I think part of me expected it. I wasn't having sex with him. What did I think he was going to do?"

John doesn't respond.

"So you weren't angry?"

"Of course I was angry. You can feel like a victim even when you are also a perpetrator."

"How did the conversation end?"

"It ended."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, neither of us was angry and neither of us sought to bring it up in our divorce mediation. It just seemed to be how it is without any further implications. It was odd."

"Odd?"

"I'm not used to the past simply remaining in the past."

"No one is."

"We just decided that we both sinned but no penance was required."

"So you got what you wanted...absolution."

***

Claire never understood how someone could simply lay in bed or sit on a couch or pew and talk to someone they have lost. She needed a point of reference...at least until she could wrap her head around Claira being present in her heart. All she could think about were the string of bad horror movies about ghosts and spirits haunting a house. She didn't think anything good could come of acknowledging Claira's spirit in her bedroom. And the thought of her in the bathroom made her cringe. The thought of her in the kitchen aroused guilt that she would forever be in a room that was hardly used. Really never used. The kitchen had been a pass through to or from a bottle of wine. To or from a frozen dinner. And in the last year, to and from grieving guests.

The cemetery had changed since the last time she visited. The grass had begun to die and the minimal trees were beginning to replace their quiet color for vibrant reds, oranges and yellows. Claire always marveled at nature and its pattern of signifying an upcoming death with dazzling and vivid indications. Death was supposed to be pale and subtle. It was supposed to take a quiet and unsuspecting path until it had finished its job. Until it had been done stealing that which it feeds on. And its havoc reaches far beyond those moments when the person no longer has the strength to fight the inevitable. The guarantee of a better place; assuring that the world they are leaving is hell.

Claire winds her way through the tombstones and headstones, trying to remember the route to her grandmother's grave. It couldn't have been more than 70 days, but each turn and corner begins to look the same. "Is this what cemeteries are supposed to be?" she asks herself stopping at a stop sign. Claire begins to think about the consistent imagery of this place. Was it supposed to be a comfort that it all looked the same? Support for those grieving that no death was more significant than another and that the end of everyone's life looked the same. You weren't born alone...not really. And you wouldn't spend death alone.

And it provided solace to the not yet dead. To the person who finds this blatant display of death uneasy. To the person who grieves for their loss but is also struggling to admit that they will have the same fate. They primarily come to visit a grave, to try to hold onto the idea that this person isn't necessarily gone. They make that third and fourth visit to prepare themselves. To try to get used to the idea of joining that person. It was also an equalizer. For some, death is a consolation. No matter what has happened in their lives, it won't matter. You will still die, you will still have a headstone or marker, you will still have a funeral or memorial, and it will all end. The stress, the heartache, the problems, the frustrations...it will all end. But sitting amongst these remembrances, Claire isn't certain she wants it to. Even the negative emotions are a sign that she is still alive. That she retains her humanity by feeling everything.

As she rounds the same turn for the third time, she sees "Samantha Treadmill." She remembers that name and the thoughts that ensued. What kind of obligations did she have with that last name? She had to constantly move and it must have been the thing that allowed her to have such a long life. 1905-2001. Refusing to be still had kept her alive long enough to almost reach that goal of being a centenarian. Claire fixates on the names, finding her way to Claira through their lives. "Charles Stein." "Shouldn't he be in a Jewish cemetery?" Claire asks herself for the third time. "Betsy Robbins" and "Richard Greene" reminds her that she is getting close. And "Daniel 'Danny' Borden" reminds her that she could have already been there. Only ten years separated his birth from death. Claire begins to cry, thinking about what ailment or accident could have taken such a young life. Whatever the cause, she still thought it was unfair. She thought his parents shouldn't be punished, no matter their crimes, with watching their child die. She notices a small red firetruck that had not been there the last time. The thought of this young boy not able to grow up to be a fireman heavies her heart. She suddenly begins to appreciate the hell she has been going through. At least she can draw the breath necessary to experience these things.

She feels relief when she finally finds the grave she has spent the last 15 minutes searching for. She wishes she had thought about the previous night's rain when she got dressed this morning, regretting even the small 3 inch heels she has on her feet. Walking requires more effort as she tries to remain on her toes so she won't sink into the ground. Settling into the ground at a cemetery had a creepy feel, as if she would be getting closer to death with her steps.

She keeps her eyes forward, finally eyeing Claira. She smiles at the thought of the change in conversation. Last time, she had been upset and overwhelmed with betrayal. She doesn't feel those to the same extent anymore. Her feeling of being loved had returned and she no longer felt like the red-headed stepchild excluded from knowing a juicy family secret or a horrible story about Uncle Joe's past. Now, she can rewrite her own story. She can forgive. But not for noble reasons. Admittedly, she has decided to forgive because there is no one to grudge. There isn't anyone to ignore or give the silent treatment. There isn't anyone to now practice a cold and distant relationship. There's no sadistic benefit to not forgiving. So she concedes.

Claire stands on her grandmother's feet. She contemplates picking up the leaves that had settled on and around her abdomen. She had to throw away the flowers that had died and essentially rotted by her head. She ran her eyes over the grass to make sure it had been cut to her liking. She brushes off the headstone and runs her fingers over Claira's name. She is happy that she had spent her tears on a stranger so she could remain composed and treat Claira as if she were sitting across from her at the dining room table. She didn't want Claira to see her still crying over her death. She is then saddened. And then she begins to choke up. She feels her heart stirring.

"Oh Claira..."

Chapter 23

"You have 30 days Claire. 30 days...that's it. They already gave you more time considering their own request for a change and your occupation and the death of your muse. But one month is as far as their generosity will go."

"I'll get it done."

"I hope so. I hate to fire you."

"Fire me?"

"Yes. I'm an agent. I'm only interested in those who will make me money."

"Oh...my...gosh."

"You know I care about your career Claira. I'm the one fighting for you. They've wanted to just give up and move on many times."

"And what kind of excuses did you give?"

"I don't know if the truth is an excuse."

"It can be."

"I told them the truth if you had been listening. I told them about your grandmother and the start of the new semester."

"Thank you."

"That doesn't sound sincere."

"It isn't."

"Did I do something?"

"No...really...thank you. I appreciate you getting me all of these extensions."

"You're welcome. Was that so hard?"

"Yes. It's against a writer's nature to thank an agent."

"You don't have to again."

Claire has been avoiding that rewrite, despite the simplicity of the request. Simply to change the ending. Include some flaws and mistakes. Make Claira something people can truly relate to. No one can relate to subjective perfection. Claire has finally found some purpose to these obstacles. Some subversive meaning to the struggles that seemed to be one after the other. This was the ending. This was the humanity people were not only seeking in Claira, but in her.

***

Things I Learned From Grandma Claira

My Truth

My story had been given to me. Had been written and rewritten and read to me at bedtime. Had been recited to me over and over again. It had been the prologue to my story without my knowing its true nature. Without knowing that this tale had been a fictional construct to attempt to prevent certain emotions and thoughts from arising. It had been a supposed display of love and affection. A notion of concern. Something I could carry with me for eternity. A myth that was theoretically intended to be better and more sustainable than reality. And perhaps it could have been. Perhaps I would have been happy with the lie. But now I know. And I know the source.

I have spent the last 163 pages describing a woman that I love and loved me. A woman who did everything she could to protect me from those things she believed I needed protection from. The biggest insult was that everyone knew but me. No one in my family was surprised when I told them the truth I had just heard. So not only was I left out of the depiction of my own life, but everyone else was allowed to be involved. Everyone else was allowed to have an opinion. Everyone else was allowed to pity me because they knew what I didn't know. And they could lie to me. It was okay to lie to me.

Claira couldn't have anything but good intentions. She couldn't want anything but the best for me. If she lied, it was for a noble and selfless reason.

But I didn't think so. When I heard that thing I wasn't supposed to hear, I thought I had been a victim. A victim of someone else thinking for me and deciding what was best for me when I believed I was clearly equipped with the tools to handle anything.Yes, I had been broken down but I was still here. I got up after the hits and punches. I believed in myself despite the insults and harsh words. I believed I had a family even when evidence was to the contrary.

This is where I admit to what I have learned versus what I was told. This is where I admit that I never asked questions. I never wanted to know more or needed to know. Maybe I didn't want to hear more. Maybe I knew just enough. It was tangible but I didn't have to hold onto it and carry it around with me. Through this, I discovered my determination to remain strong had become my weakness. It became the thing that kept me stuck. I could never leave it in the past. I wanted to transcend what had happened to me. But I never treated it as something that had happened. It was something that was still happening. Something I had to fight everyday to escape. Something I intentionally kept in the back of my mind, lingering in my subconscious, as motivation.

I didn't know how to focus on the courage it took for me to get up everyday and pretend like everything was okay. I had forgotten how I would spend hours every night with Lucy and we would talk about how we were feeling. We would strategize. We would plan escape routes and try to calculate how much time it would take to get to Claira's house when we decided enough was enough. I used to tell people things.

I wasn't afraid to feel anything. When I should have done what I could to numb the pain, I didn't. I was more afraid of the cause of the pain than the pain itself. I don't know when the fear shifted and I began focusing on trying to exert too much energy on changing a cause, which essentially I have no control rather than simply trying to control my reaction to it.

I can at least remind you what I was told. Give you the fiction with ease. Claira spent years calming my anxieties about the boogeyman. This is what happens when you are told that a stranger came into your home and killed your family. That it was a burglary gone wrong. Neighbors didn't talk to me about it. Family didn't discuss it in front of me. I remember asking why there were only two caskets if my family was killed. She had an answer for that. I felt relieved when I thought he was dead; I didn't have to worry about his hands. His hands that had spent 8 hours a day, 5 days a week lifting, tugging and pulling. They were strong and the most frightening part of his body. Even his eyes, that widened with anger, weren't as intimidating; they were empty. They weren't those of a strong man; a man who was secure. There was no depth. There was no deep seated root of his anger. It was just the only way he knew how to be. But he knew how to channel everything into his fists. And he could do anything he wanted to me with those.

When I believed his hands had been buried, I didn't have to be scared of him anymore. Yes, a stranger coming into your home and threatening your family is devastating. But there is an element of uncertainty. When I got home from school, I knew what was coming and I knew he would try to break me. After their deaths, I still had nightmares. But it was about something strange to me. Something outside the familiar. I was worried about something coming in from the outside and tearing my family once again. Thinking the terror evolved from some outside force made it easier to cope. Made it easy to remember the nightmares were just dreams.

He never said he loved me. When I would ask my mother why he hated me, she would explain that things that had nothing to do with me motivated him to dispose of his anger upon me. I never understood. Even as an adult, I don't completely understand misplacing emotions. Why did he need to use this particular defense mechanism? Denial may have been more appropriate. Or regression. These would have resulted in more self-inflicted pain that wouldn't have transferred to us, the bearers of his burdens. The people subjected to the inadequacies he had as a father. If he didn't have a wife and children, he would have nothing to prove.

Back to love. I've asked therapists. Priests, friends, lovers, Claira...to describe love. To make it palpable. To describe its expectations and rules. To help me understand. I wanted to understand whether my father possessed a healthy love for us or his anger and resentment enveloped all other positive emotions. I wanted to know what real love looked like. Was it a sunset of purples, yellows, oranges and pinks falling behind the soft waves of the Pacific? What did it smell like? Was it fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, homemade popcorn, the smell of Cuban cigars or old books? What did it feel like? I imagined a nail file...one of the cubed ones with multiple sides. Some sides were smooth to make the nail glow. Another side was rough to file the nail and smooth its edges. And still another side is somewhere in between. Not soft but not brittle. It buffed the nail, getting rid of dead cells. I wanted to believe love was like that...a variety of experiences packed into one emotion. All of which you could easily handle with the right teachable tools.

What did it taste like? Was it like those Sour Patch Kids Watermelons. When you put them in your mouth, they are initially sour. Put if you give it time, they are suddenly sweet and pleasant. And although they take time to chew, it is worth the time. Or maybe they are like the Starburst sour gummies. When you put them in your mouth, they are initially saccharine but with hardly any effort at all, they are suddenly almost unbearably tart. You wish the sweetness would return. You crave its comfort and the serotonin it would release. You wish you had something to balance the flavor once again. But the only way to change it is to eat another one and the cycle starts again. It repeats forever.

What did it sound like? Was it loud and steady like the sound of an ambulance hurrying to a hospital to prevent the inevitability of death? Was it loud but sporadic, like the buzzers at a sporting event. Was it silent? Undisturbing and hushed. Mute and unassuming. Wanting nothing but to remain in that unspoken and voiceless space. Close enough to provide the required peace of some moments. Comforting in its unwillingness to declare its existence. Always there when it is needed and desiring nothing more than to leave the room when someone actually prefers the noise of life. Was it a whisper? Occasionally communicating. Speaking only when necessary but still loud enough for you to hear. But what was said was just between the two of you. A secret between two souls. Sometimes it made you laugh and other times, it elicited tears. The reaction was always unexpected but appropriate. It doesn't want to have a strong presence but be present enough to feel. Or maybe it was a normal and sustaining octave. It spoke gently but with power. It never raised its voice or resided in the meekness of uncertainty. It had the perfect tone, consoling and never confrontational. It spoke with sincerity and was honest, but never blunt. Never hurtful. Direct but never mean or hateful. Just the perfect balance of what one needs and what one wants.

I thought Claira would teach me these things. I thought she would be the perfect example of love's manifestations. Maybe she still was. Maybe I needed too much. Maybe I thought I deserved perfection. Deserved to be loved without restraint. Perhaps my father never learned that skill. My life was based on everything she said. I didn't do my own investigations. I didn't ask probing questions, despite knowing that not only would it be expected but potentially welcomed. She was probably waiting. Waiting for the moment I would inquire about my past and she could finally release the weight she had voluntarily carried for years under the guise of my best interest. I could have saved myself the trouble. I had been curious about everything except my own journey...until now.

After completing this book, I was told that Claira's portrayal had been too milk and cookies. It had been too unrealistic that I would never have a problem with her. I did. Adolescents brought on the typical rebellions, just never to the extent of staying out until 4am, sneaking into clubs designed for those old enough to actually handle the consequences of being in a public place that served alcohol and promoted inhibitions. I never did drugs...well beyond the normal endeavor into the oddness of being high from marijuana. I was never arrested and cannabis was as far as my law-breaking went. But we argued. We disputed my curfew and my need to exert my independence when I didn't truly know what that entailed. I missed my family and resented her for being the only person left. I explored the interactions of the opposite sex, and honestly found them less than satisfying. But I still let some inexperienced 17 year old change my sexual status. And I wondered if that was what everyone was talking about and why they made such a big deal out of your first time. If that was it...I didn't understand my peers.

During the editing and re-reading process of this book, I realized that Claira had been this picture of a perfect woman. A woman who performed every parental duty flawlessly and could have written the textbook on being both father and mother to an orphaned child. I knew it wasn't that way. But I didn't understand why I wanted to present that ideal to an audience. An audience that would walk away from my words feeling robbed of a real experience. Feeling betrayed by someone whose life couldn't evolve from tragedy without some speed bumps and complications. My agent and editor had been right. I couldn't deprive the reader or myself of the real story. I couldn't lie to them. I couldn't let them believe that it only took the right person to correct all of the wrongs. I couldn't make them feel their life was more troublesome and devastating than mine when that was farther from the truth. I had made my life unrelatable. I didn't want to relate to other victims. I didn't want to be the survivor of anything. And now I'm trying to unravel the impression I wanted to give.

I think I called Claira a bitch. And many other things. But that seemed to be the worst. And there wasn't one moment of revelation; it happened in steps. And I was forced to be patient. Admittedly some things took time due to my own resistance. Even though I told others it was imperative to my existence that I be allowed to hear the truth. I was afraid of what that was. And I had a reason to be hesitant.

The whole story of my family's demise had been fabricated. It had been fictionalized by my grandmother who believed what actually happened would have been too much for a 5 year old. Then a 10 year old. Then at 15, she had begun to believe it. Than at 20, 25, 30. She took no opportunities. She always believed what she had told me was the best option. Better a stranger than my father. Better he be dead than in jail. Better an accident than intentional.

I feel inclined to describe the process first. After Claira died, I had the task of cleaning out her home and dispersing the items as I saw fit and keeping those things that had minimal sentimental value. While going through her closet, and already feeling the emotion draining from my body, I came across shoeboxes. When I opened one of the boxes, it was filled with envelopes. I questioned whether to open it, afraid that even in death, I would be invading her privacy. But that was the point of this responsibility. Only those with the stomach and resilience to become a part of those things people wish to keep private could successfully achieve the end of erasing all indicators of their existence; so the people left behind can be left with fewer things to ignite debilitating memories.

I picked up the envelope on top and initially noticed Claira's name. I have to admit I got lost in it. I ran my fingers over her name as if she would suddenly appear. Then my eyes moved to the return address...which was a correctional facility. My first question, already in denial without even knowing the reason for this letter's existence, was who Claira knew in jail. I immediately went to a place of compassion; writing a prisoner in jail who wanted guidance. I didn't open it. Instead, I held it, trying to bring her closer to me, and lay in her bed on my side. And I fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, I saw it on the bed next to me. And in my rush, just picked it up, grabbed the rest of the shoeboxes and drove home, running late for that day's obligations.

It would be some time before I read the letter. Life had distracted me. I had to finish cleaning the house and try to sell it or rent it. I had my career. I had this book. I had research. There were so many things that seemed more important. I had put one of the letters in my purse but it was just pushed aside in an effort to find my cell phone, black book or wallet. The letters were forgotten. Forgotten until I returned from a writing retreat and they were sitting in my office. Lewis had taken them out of my trunk two weeks prior when I left and now...here they were...refusing to be ignored.

And with a glass of wine, I opened the letter and read it. The author of the letter called her mom. "An uncle" was my first thought. People would assume, that due to my beginnings, worst case scenario would be most likely. But even then, it never occurred to me to think this letter was evidence of a sordid lie. A conspiracy of sorts to keep me in the dark; supposedly hidden from bad news.

Red wine had become my close friend after Claira's death but I still didn't feel the need to participate in its numbing effects. I called my aunt. My selfish, self-serving angry of a woman aunt. By this time I had read multiple letters. And was finally in a place where I needed answers. Well more of them. Lewis had already told me that the son in the letters was my father. I was devastated of course. For so much of my life I thought he was dead and was happy that he was. Relieved that the source of all terrible things in my life had succumb to the perfection of Karma.

Lewis promised Claira he wouldn't tell me. It angered me more that he knew something about my life that I didn't, more than the actual lying. Than the actual betrayal. But I accepted his comfort as much as I could and went searching for more information. He wouldn't give me more. He told me Claira had written me a letter that was among the many explaining her reasons and rationalities. I didn't expect them to suffice. He wouldn't even tell me why my father was in jail.

This is where my aunt Bonnie comes into play; the defendant's sister. I had to bribe her with promises of sharing money left to me by Claira. Bonnie spent her life basically stealing from Claira. Not keeping a job for more than 6 months and choosing to be a dependent child until Claira said no more. There are reasons for Claira's continued financial support, most of which revolve around guilt, but they aren't relevant to this story. What is relevant is that a woman that I never got along with. A woman who resented me for my relationship with her mother. A woman who hated me was the one to first tell me that my father killed my mother and sister.

I know...shocking. Nowadays, if you just Google your name, every ounce of information about you will appear on a computer screen and you can selectively scan them for pertinent information. I don't presently have the words to describe how I felt in that moment. Honestly, I don't know. 30 plus years of believing something about yourself had suddenly become nothing but a lie. A lie told to me by someone I thought I could trust. Someone I thought had confidence in me. Someone who would, at least when I became an adult, trust me with this information and believe in the resilience she had instilled in me.

There are many reasons I was angry. Number one? The image was gone. When someone you love dies, your mind disposes of those things that could potentially destroy the happiness associated with them. It's the process of grief to only remember the good things as time passes. But for me, the difficulties didn't persist. The trials and struggles of living with someone so traditionally Catholic had been filed away into the unreachable area of the brain. What was left was this flawless woman who had been the greatest substitute mother. Whose maternal and nurturing skills hadn't faded with the aging of her own children. A gracious and generous woman that didn't hesitate to take me in and raise me as her own. And yes she was all of those things; nurturing, gracious and generous. But she wasn't without fault, or sin as she would say. But survival demanded I not dwell on those things.

She was intentionally dishonest despite not intending to hurt me. She colluded with others against my own right to know what happened to the people I loved. She never tried to tell me, at least not that I remember. And she never would have accepted the same behavior from me.

Number two? She stole from me. She stole my life from me. Every purposeful step I took in my life was in response to that. I based my actions on trying not to be a victim of a stranger's choices. Thanking him under my breath for taking my father and simultaneously cursing him for ripping Debra and Lucy from my life. When you fuck with one aspect of the plot, you ruin the rest of the story. I had accepted it as the tragic beginnings of the next chapter of my life. And knew one day I could turn it into my strength. Now I would have to grieve again for the same end with a different cause.

I didn't want to do that again. I had spent over 30 years doing it. You never get over that. Anyone who tells you differently is lying. I didn't want to think about the thoughts running through their heads as they realized this man, who had been husband and father, would end their lives. It comforted me to think maybe they didn't know. Maybe it was quick. Perhaps they didn't suffer. Later, I came to know I was half right. My mother suffered greatly being punched into unconsciousness. My sister didn't; with one swing he had sent her into a restful state until her eventual death.

I could have been coping with this truth my entire life and wouldn't have had to repeat the process. The scars would have been deeper but I wouldn't be endeavoring a healing process I thought I had already begun. It's a terrible feeling to think you are close to a more functional state to have to start over because the rules of the road have been changed.

Number three? I didn't expect her to fabricate such a lie. I think the more accurate truth is that I didn't want her to be so comfortable in such a lie. She wouldn't be the type of woman to keep something so important to herself. She was insightful and knew the outreaching ramifications of our actions and inactions. She knew the potential consequences of perpetuating such a deceit. And I am honestly impressed with her preparation. She wrote a letter for God's sake. She knew I would find the letters. She knew I would have questions. She knew I wouldn't let go. And so she created the trail of breadcrumbs to lead me to the answers.

Number four? I just didn't want to deal with this. I didn't want to experience another tragedy as if I were being pushed from one Shakespearian play to another. When Claira could finally rest in peace, I sought the same thing. I pursued the same feeling. It was a relief to no longer have to think about someone I love worrying about me and whether or not I would grow up with some minimum of mental health. I wanted at least some weeks to relax. Some time after the funeral to be...just be. I wanted to simply exist. I wanted to breathe. And as soon as the pain began to diminish, a different kind rose again. I had to grieve another loss but this time, it was a part of me.

And so the journey began to rewrite my story. But I had to get all the pieces of the plot first. I spoke to my father. I initially wrote him a letter demanding answers. And in return, he requested to hear my voice. So I satisfied his parental desires to get the answers I needed. I read the letter Claira had prepared. I read it more than once. And in between the lines of explanations and reasons and perhaps excuses were remnants of love. Her motives and intentions weren't sinister and selfish. She wanted nothing but the best for me. She just wasn't sure how I would react. No one is. My emotional responses are like a crap shoot. Most of the time I don't even know and have to identify the emotion after it arises. Perhaps she did believe I would react this way; but was confident I had the coping skills and would make the best of it like I had done my entire life.

I've just begun this insanity. And it is insanity. No one should have to deal with this. This drama should be limited to soap operas and reality shows. But this is reality and I think the first thought of my readers would be their own intellectual decision that maybe this is fiction. You are putting yourself in my shoes and wondering how I survived. What if your father abused you? What if the relationship with your mother suddenly changed and she no longer smiled. She no longer wanted outings with you. What if you were told a stranger came into your home and killed your parents? And then you found out that your father killed your mother and sister. That the foundation of your house is cracked and it is about to collapse. Everything you have spent your life building is eroding brick by brick and plank by plank. Like a tornado is just hovering over your house.

I should be happy to rewrite my history. As a writer, I should be happy with another story to tell. Another twist in the plot. Another gasp by the reader. Another dun- dun-dun. This would be the thing that made what I had to say more interesting. Would make you reread what I have written just to notice the red flags that I missed. The plot indicators that something just isn't right. That things couldn't be this perfect. And you breathe a huge sigh of relief that they aren't. You are no longer ashamed of your own existence and the people responsible for it. You no longer think that your parents are somehow the exception. That the perfect parent exists and I had the perfect one.

I didn't. She wasn't perfect. She made mistakes, many at my expense. She did what she thought was right knowing the potential results. But she honestly believed she was doing the right thing. She says she did it out of love. And I believe her.

I wish I could say this is the end of the journey. I wish I could tell you a happy ending. You know the one where I forgive her for lying and prayerfully tell her I completely understand her whys. The one where I take the steps necessary to rebuild a relationship with my father. But I can't tell you either of those things. I can't promise to forgive her within any prescribed amount of time.

But I've learned a lot. A lifetime of lessons. The most important that real love doesn't necessitate always making the right choices. And when someone you love and trust does something...something almost unforgivable. Something you can't believe. Something seemingly outside of their character. It doesn't devalue their love. It doesn't make them less compassionate and understanding. It doesn't mean they aren't sympathetic to the potential devastation. It is a reflection of their humanity. And Claira's memory deserves truth and honesty. Her mistakes don't make her life any less beautiful. More beautiful in fact. It is more amazing that she is human. I didn't think I would ever say that. And I'm not sure if I 100% believe it. But I want to.

I want to because I've made my own. I've made bad decisions and had distorted perceptions. I've done things I shouldn't have feeling obliged to. I've made the wrong choices based on what I thought people expected of me. I've had good motives and watched it turn to shit...like my marriage. But you could not convince me otherwise that I had anything but good intentions. I believed everything would just work out. So I can't expect anything more from Claira. Maybe this is more of a reflection of myself. Of what I believe love is. Claira was supposed to be better than me and therefore wouldn't make the same mistakes.

Everyone is doing the best they can. They are making decisions based on the knowledge they have. Claira didn't know exactly what would happen but she had faith. She had faith in her intentions, in God and in me. She believed in me. And that was the most comforting fact. And something it took me a long time to realize. Well not too long. If it had taken too long, I may be in a more destructive place. I may be an emotional mess. I may have fallen off the rollercoaster instead of still riding it. I had to somehow adopt how Claira saw me. See the courage. See the beautiful essence. See how exquisite it is to mess up and somehow put it back together. Elicit peace from the chaos.

I'm trying to end this and as you can tell, I'm having difficulty. I don't know how. I don't how to give this discovery justice. How to explain my new desire to know more about myself instead of hiding it with tales and untruths about how I'm okay and have coped extremely well with what has happened in my life. I thought I could handle the multitude of sentiments careening through my body alone. I wanted to conquer those insecurities alone.

It's much easier to begin something versus ending it. But you have to end it well. You have to leave the listener or reader with enough information to leave the words satisfied but not too much that they can't construct their own "and then what." The success or failure of the story depends on the neat little bow or the wreckage. Or perhaps the unanswered questions that lead to frustration. The ones that make you never want to contemplate the next part of the journey or the complications of the process.

I guess I truly can't end this because nothing that began in Chapter 1 has concluded. Nothing has been resolved. Each action to restore some sense of normalcy and settle internal disputes only led to more questions. Each answer leads to another question which leads to another answer which leads to another question. I guess it's the reason why we get up in the morning and decide to live another day. To try to answer the previous day's questions. To make sense of things that didn't immediately make sense. To find our truth. And decide which of those truths are essential to our story. Which ones will keep us wanting more, even if they are of the most superficial honesty. Even if they only scratch the surface. Even if we know we should listen but agree only to hear.

***

People wait differently when the topic of conversation has been predetermined. The anxiety is heightened. You have decided the answer you want to hear and you are hoping beyond reason that you hear it. You prepare yourself for the worst. You expect it. If something bad can happen, it will. Sometimes you want it to. Some of us thrive on the drama. One on hand we crave control and power. On the other, we relinquish it. We willingly give it up so we don't have to confront those things we could control that could have led to a better outcome.

Claire is tired of living without command over her own existence. Without authority of her own future. And she is willing to do whatever necessary to ensure that she finally has what she wants. That her own voice isn't drowned out by expectations. That her voice isn't replaced by them. And in order to have something resembling what she now imagines for herself, she has to stop trying to maintain something that can't and shouldn't be maintained. She shouldn't try to build on quicksand. She has to let go...let go of their relationship. For both of them. Their futures are based on their essential separation, distinct from their failed marriage. Independent of the hope of "death do us part."

For the 20 seconds Claire looks at Lewis, he checks his watch twice. He had already ordered a drink. Dark liquor...most likely Brandy. He had loosened his tie so he could stop feeling his worry and doubt strangling him. His Blackberry is sitting on the table to distract himself at a moment's notice. Claire sees his foot twitching, sticking out from under the table. She watches him scan the restaurant and take a large gulp of his drink.

Claire begins to take on his anxiety. Begins to feel his uneasiness. But she tries to hide it. She begins to walk towards the table, trying to calm her racing heart. She feels the weight of her body in her stiletto heels and almost loses her balance. She calms herself and puts her clutch under her arms. She straightens her back and attempts to make eye contact. Perhaps the familiarity will bring a smile to his face. But she can see that he is concentrating on easing his own apprehension.

He is rethinking the decision to say yes. He looks like he wants to run. His eyes focus on the emergency exit and he leans in that direction. And then he shifts his weight. And then he can't escape. Claire smiles when he finally notices her approach. And he stands. She knows that he rather be standing to walk out the door. He rather Claire have not shown up or sent a text that something had come up. He wishes she had been a coward so he had a reason to be one.

Claire kisses him on the cheek, softly taking in the smell of faded cologne and the soft scent of aftershave. He hopes she doesn't notice him taking in the fragrance of her shampoo. Claire is pleased with her choice to remain demure in her dress and presentation. She had the news in mind when she chose her black pumps, pencil skirt, soft pink knit sweater and the soft wavy hair. She had decided that every decision would be deliberate. Nothing would be done without a purpose and a reason.

"Claire, you look beautiful."

"Thank you Lewis. You look handsome. Unaffected by a hard days work."

Lewis smiles nervously. He tries to perform the uncomfortable small talk dance.Claire knows him well enough to realize he is doing his best to remain composed. Forcing himself not to edge the conversation closer to the reason why he showed up in the first place. He is begging. Not with his words. But with his body; with his eyes. He is asking her to bring it up without uttering one question. And so she decides to take him out of his misery and no longer torture him with her own hesitance.

"So..."

"So..." Lewis says straightening in his chair and taking a sip of his second drink.

"You know why we are here."

Lewis doesn't respond but releases lungs full of air, indicating his impatience.

"It's not yours."

Neither can believe she said it so bluntly. There was no verbal preparation. No indicators of what she is going to say. No compassionate buffer to ease the effect of the statement. She just said it.

Lewis leans his head into his hands, overwhelmed by all of the things he is feeling. He is disappointed that he won't be a father. A little sad that he no longer has a reason to keep Claire in his life. No reason to motivate her to try again...make it work. Fighting this sadness is the joy of no longer being tied to something that will never work. And having to add another complication to the divorce. It will be a simpler process. He is elated to have the possibility of finally having his family with a woman who can give him what he needs. What he wants.

"I know this isn't what you wanted."

"I'm not sure what I wanted. I'm sure this is what you wanted."

"Why do you say that?"

"You didn't want an incentive to stay in that house. You didn't want to continue to see me on a regular basis. I am the embodiment of everything you think you did wrong. A rationale to say no to John."

"I would have loved the latter. Through all of this supposed self-discovery, I think I would have still welcomed an excuse not to take a risk."

"But now you have to?"

"Now I have to."

About the Author

Adrienne Baldwin, 29, was born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama. She has been writing since fifth grade. She graduated from Birmingham Southern College with a Bachelor's degree in English and has recently received her Master's in Social Work from the University of Alabama. She is currently working towards her doctorate in Social Work at Arizona State University. Her experiences as a social worker have inspired her novels and allowed her to gain insight into humanity. She wants to present a story that celebrates people's joys and accomplishments, as well as their flaws and mistakes. She believes that by presenting the whole of a person, she is able to connect with readers with relatable characters in life's most complex situations.

Connect with me online:

Email: jmichele83@gmail.com

Twitter: abetterwriter

Discover other titles by Adrienne Baldwin at Smashwords.com

Even They Have Secrets
