Condemn Me Not (15 page)

“Don’t
worry.”  Simone patted Claire’s knee, then lightly touched the curls of hair
falling around her face.  “Technology has really improved.  I’ve seen wigs I
would’ve sworn were the woman’s natural hair.  If you do need one, we’ll get
you a wig that feels soft and looks like your current style.  No one will ever
even know the difference.”

“Actually,”
Claire said.  “I was thinking about wearing scarves if I lose my hair.  It may
only thin, I’m not sure.  Besides, I’m not interested in hiding my illness.”

Simone
cocked her head, skepticism circulating in a whir of thought.  “We’ll see.  But
with your facial structure and soft features, you could pull it off.”

“My
soft features?”

“You
always were the pretty one,” Simone replied, matter-of-fact.  “Big brown eyes,
high cheekbones, shapely full lips and nice square jaw...”  Admiration snapped in
her eyes, pulling a smile onto her face.  “You’re as photogenic as they come.”

Claire
laughed and gathered the unaddressed envelopes into a pile.  “I don’t know
about that, but thanks for the compliment.  I’ll take them when I can get
them.”  Which was fewer and far between as she got older.  Unlike Simone, whose
body was sculpted by dedicated gym attendance, her curves had only grown more generous. 
Apparently vacuuming and dusting weren’t contenders for the Olympic lineup.

Which
was fine with her.  She collected the invitations and tapped them into an even
stack, placing them beside the envelopes.  Jim loved her just the way she was. 
Claire didn’t need compliments from anyone else.  Her gaze sharpened on the
woman sitting before her.  She reached for Simone’s hands and gave them a light
squeeze—glad her friend was here, glad they had abandoned their petty fight
after shopping with Teresa, glad they had made amends.  Though it was par for
the course.  She and Simone always had been a stormy pair, and nothing riled
them up faster than talk of raising their kids.

“So
what’s next?”  Simone asked.

“Chemotherapy. 
Dr. Sorenson said the first step is more blood tests, to determine the extent
of the damage to my liver and kidneys.  My treatment will depend on how far the
disease has already progressed.  Once we know what we’re up against, we attack it
with every tool in the arsenal.”  She sighed.  “And then we wait.”

Simone
recoiled.  “Wait?  We can’t wait, we have to
fight
.  Aren’t there things
you can do, foods you can eat?”  Her intensity ratcheted up a notch as she
pushed, “Should you exercise more—what?  There has to be something you can do
other than wait.”

“You’re
so predictable,” Claire said, affection swelling warmly within her breast. 
Wait
was a four letter word in Simone’s dictionary.  The woman needed marching
papers, action—and lots of it.  “The doctor said I’ll need to eat right and get
plenty of sleep, but then we’ll have to wait and see.  It depends on how my
body reacts to the medicine before we’ll know what we’re up against.”

“What
about your art?  Wouldn’t it be good to take up painting again?  You know, as a
hobby,” she added, but Claire caught the nuance behind the statement, the
inference that art wasn’t her job, but a hobby, an idle pastime.  “I’ve read
that doing what you love lends well to the healing process.  It worked for
Todd.”

“I
remember,” Claire said.  She remembered his battle with cancer, but Simone’s inference
to her painting cut her mood a degree.  Where she didn’t come out and say as
much, Claire couldn’t help but feel the slight. 
Art is your hobby, because
you didn’t make it your career
.

“Seriously,
Claire.  I think it will be good for you,” Simone continued.  “You haven’t
picked up a brush in years.  Don’t you miss it?”

Of
course she missed it, but between kids, school, housework, Jim and the business,
she didn’t have time.  When was she supposed to paint—in between dishes and her
dash to the school pickup line?  While she vacuumed, folded the laundry?  How
about a Picasso-inspired self-portrait made from tomato sauce?

Claire
wasn’t painting, because it wasn’t realistic for her lifestyle.  Torn between
desire and defense, she looked at Simone.  “I do miss it...  But my job is at
home, focusing on the house, the kids.  I don’t have time to paint.”

“How
dare you want to spend time away from your kids, Mrs. Atkins,” Simone said,
tongue in cheek evident, but then she jabbed a stiff forefinger to the table
top, the diamonds on her wedding band sparkling beneath the bright overhead
lighting.  “You need to make time.  If this illness teaches you anything, it
should teach you that life is short.”  Simone grew serious.  “You need to make
time for the things you love.”

Life
is short.  Was there an echo lingering in her house she didn’t know about? 
First Rob and now Simone. 
Life is short
. 
Life moves fast
. 
Carpe
diem
.  “But I am doing the things I love,” she said.

“Cooking
and cleaning?”  Simone’s brow gathered in disapproval.  “I mean it, Claire.” 
She pushed back from the table.  “You need to do something for you.  Life
doesn’t have to be about your family all the time.  It can be about you, too,
you know.  You’re allowed to have a life outside of them.”

“I
know that,” Claire said, anger stirring at the insinuation that she had no
life.  Now Simone sounded like Rebecca.  She peered at the red and white
invitations, thought of the task she had been performing when Simone arrived.  “And
I do things for myself.”

“Name
one.”

The
haughty tone grated on her.  “Cooking.  Like Mitchell, I enjoy creating dishes,
trying new things.”

“Name
another,” she said, unimpressed.

“I
read.”

“What
else.”

“How
many more do I need?”  Irritation crackled through Claire.  “I cook, I read, I take
care of my kids.  I enjoy my life, Simone, even if you can’t understand it.  I
find joy in caring for my family.  They are what gives me strength,
particularly
important
at the moment,” she emphasized.  “I’m making time
for the
people
I love, not things.”

“What
are you going to do when they move out?  Ultimately your kids will leave—then
what?  What are your plans?”

Claire
caught the added question lingering in Simone’s eyes. 
Do you have any
? 
Glowing, heated, the unspoken words demanded response.

Claire
looked away.  She had three more years before the twins moved out and she
wasn’t going to rush into painting simply because Simone deemed it the answer. 
She’d do it on her terms, not Simone’s.

“C’mon,
Claire.”  Simone’s interrogation mellowed.  “I’m not trying to cause trouble,
but it kills me to see you sacrifice everything for the good of the family and leave
nothing for yourself.”

“You
act as though I’m unhappy.”  Tears welled.  “I’m not.  I’m quite the opposite.”

“Are
you okay then, with Rebecca leaving?”

“That’s
not fair.”

“But
it is,” Simone returned firmly.  “You’re so wrapped up in your kids, you can’t
let go of them.  You fear if they leave, go too far, you’ll have nothing in
their place.  You’ve built nothing to sustain you, nothing to carry you through
the years.  I see so many women who grow old, because they’ve forgotten how to
live.  I don’t want to see that happen to you.”

“I
won’t be left with nothing to live for,” Claire declared.

“Won’t
you?”

“No.”

“Then
why are you upset over Rebecca’s move?  And don’t tell me it’s about her safety,
because Providence is a big city, too.  Paris is a phenomenal opportunity for
her.  She’ll run with her own crowd, stick near the university.  She’ll be
fine.”

Claire
hated being backed into a corner, especially by Simone.  “We can’t afford it,”
she said.  “We can’t afford the travel expenses and once more, is it worth
never seeing my child?  I don’t want to be relegated to bi-annual visits.” 
Besides, Simone didn’t know the half of it.  She had no idea of Rebecca’s
intention to travel. 
Stay near the university
.  She’d be lucky if the
girl remained in the same country, let alone the immediate vicinity!

“You’re
going to face an empty nest in a few years and you need to have a plan.  You’re
only forty-two.  You still have forty good years in you to work, to live, to
have that gallery you’ve always dreamed of.  You missed the opportunity once. 
Are you telling me you’re willing to forego it again?”

“I
didn’t miss the opportunity,” Claire defended.  “I chose to stay home and raise
a family.  There’s a big difference between having kids and raising kids.  I
chose the latter,” she thrust, unable to contain her temper.

Simone
screwed her expression in displeasure. “And I chose the former?”

“Didn’t
you?”

“What
about all those women who don’t have a choice in the matter?  The women who
have to work, through no fault of their own?  You’re telling me they’re
screwing up their kids, too?”  It was a valid question, but before Claire could
respond, Simone shook the notion aside.  “It’s nothing but psycho-babble.  What’s
the goal, if it isn’t to send an independent adult out into the world, one who
doesn’t need you for every little thing because they can make their own decisions,
handle it on their own?  Mitchell and I have raised our daughter, a young woman
who is ready to head out on her own, same as any parent.  But in the same space
of time, we’ve managed two careers, a house, a retirement fund, and now have a
full and rewarding future to look forward to.”

Simone
winced.  “Damn it, I didn’t want to be having this conversation, but maybe it’s
for the best,” she said, gold-brown eyes blazing in passionate rebuttal.  “You
need something to fight for, not wither away and die when the kids are gone.”  At
the word die, Simone immediately realized her error and reached for Claire’s
hand.  “I’m sorry.  That’s not what I meant.”

A
wall of tears shoved behind Claire’s eyes.  She knew she didn’t.  But she hated
that Simone was right, had nailed her to the core. 
What was she going to do
? 
She’d thought about it often enough.  Help Jim with the business?  Doing what? 
She wasn’t any good with handling the accounting, and she certainly couldn’t
contribute to the repair side.  Was she going to answer phones all day?

The
mere thought was disheartening.  Four years at Brown University only to end up
a secretary and only
that
because her husband owned the shop.  It was a discouraging
prospect.  But how could she use her art degree now?  As Simone had pointed out
many times before, she’d taken herself out of the work force.  She’d lost her
marketable skills.  Granted, she hadn’t lost her talent, but who wanted to hire
a forty-something artist when they could have a twenty-something just as
qualified?  The younger would expect less, produce more...  The only down side
was that a younger person might want maternity leave, but like Teresa so aptly
pointed out, the company would hold her spot until she returned,
as many
times as she chose to take it
.  How could Claire compete with that?

Simone
interrupted her thoughts.  “It’s worth considering,” she counseled.  “Under the
circumstances, it may be just the remedy you need.”

Claire
ruminated on the conversation long after Simone’s departure.  Wiping the
counter that didn’t need wiping, she mulled over her past, her future, and
every choice in between.  Was Simone right?  Had Claire made a mistake?

Putting
off her career until after the kids left home now seemed a daunting proposition. 
Suppose she wanted to open that gallery she’d always dreamed of owning...  Where
would she get the money?  Could she paint and sell enough of her work to open a
small place in the city?  Rinsing the cloth beneath warm water, she wrung it
dry.  She could always work for someone else.  She could “man” their shop, so
to speak, and make their gallery the success that hers might have been.

Claire
slumped against the sink.  Tears threatened, and too exhausted to fight them,
she allowed the moisture to gather within her lashes.  Maybe she should have
painted over the years.  If she had, she could have built up a collection, a
ready-made profit center from which to begin the next chapter in her life.  Maybe
she should have worked a part-time job to keep herself current—at least set
some money aside.  Jim made enough for the family.  Couldn’t she have worked
while the kids were in school, saved up her money, sketched out a plan for the
future?  An outline at minimum?  An idea?

She
shot a teary gaze toward the ceiling, and the pain spilled free; hot, heavy
tears of regret streamed down her cheeks, her failings moving like strangers in
the dark.  She wasn’t used to thinking of herself in such negative terms, yet
here she stood, forty-two years old with no money and no artwork to sell.  She
couldn’t even lease a tiny space to begin.  Not staring down three college
tuitions, she couldn’t.

Alone
and overwhelmed, Claire surveyed her tidy kitchen.  She had designed the space many
years ago and still adored it, from the sunny floral pattern to the bright blue
gingham chair cushions, the blond wood table, its surface worn to a dull patina
from years of use.  This was where her energy and focus had been.  This, where
she spent her thoughts and her time.  Not once had she considered planning
ahead.  Not once had she thought to prepare for a career after the kids moved
out.  She had been present in their lives, invested every ounce of herself
within this space.  But rather than the warm haven of joy she believed it to
be, the four walls suddenly felt like a prison cell.