Leave It to Claire (11 page)

I look at my right hand all wrapped up in bandages and I’m trying really hard not to scream bloody murder. I’m sitting in
the passenger side of my van and my daughter is actually driving me home from the hospital, because the pain meds make me
loopy. Too bad they don’t make me loopy enough to stop the fear of my fifteen-year-old daughter’s driving.

I thought I’d be going home yesterday. But the doctor decided to keep me in overnight to watch my vitals. My blood pressure
shot up a couple of times. Another sign I need to lose weight before I have a stroke.

“Careful, honey. There’s a…” I cringe at the bewildered look of a fiftyish man in the passing vehicle we just barely
missed sideswiping. “Car.”

“I
know,
Mom. I saw it.” I know I’m stressing her out with my nervousness. But sheesh, she’s stressing me out with her driving. I’m
just glad the hospital is only five minutes away from the house. I drove myself over yesterday, and Ari took a cab today.
I don’t know why I didn’t agree to Darcy’s offer of a lift.

“I can’t believe you’re being so stubborn about this,” Rick said in his I’m-exasperated-but-I-know-you-won’t-budge tone.

I’m a little ashamed to say that I reminded Rick quite firmly that
he’s
the one who decided his little wife could take my daughter down to the license bureau and get a learner’s permit, so let’s
let her use it already. Now, I’m regretting my hasty choice. I see a red light and my daughter doesn’t appear to be slowing
down.

“Ar—”

“Don’t make me nervous, Mother. I know the difference between red and green, okay?”

“Then how about acting on that knowledge?”

“I’m slowing down,” she spits back just as the light goes green.

Okay, she’s doing fine. I can’t help but pray the rest of the way home, though.

When we arrive in my blessed semicircle driveway with the slightly askew basketball goal hanging from the garage, I am relieved
beyond words. Enough so that I send a “Thank You, Jesus” to heaven and receive a scathing look from Ari.

I step out of the car on wobbly legs—partly from having the surgery, partly from post-traumatic stress disorder due to the
ride home. Darcy’s SUV is parked along the curb in front. “What’s she doing here?” I ask. Irritation rises in me and I fight
to remind myself of my blood pressure.

“She came to help. Be nice to her, Mom.”

Like I really need my fifteen-year-old telling me to be nice. “I’m always nice,” I grumble.

She rolls her eyes. “Sure you are.”

You’d think I could get a little more sympathy and fewer character lectures at a time like this. “I could have died on the
operating table, you know. Then you’d be sorry for being so snotty.”

“There was, what, a million-to-one chance?”

It was a little narrower than that. But she’s close.

We ascend the porch steps and Ari actually thinks to open the door for me. “Mom’s home!” she yells.

The scintillating smell of a pumpkin-scented candle wafts to my nostrils and I feel myself relaxing. Of course not only does
my house smell yummy, it looks fabulous, a direct result of Darcy’s presence, no doubt. I can’t see Ari with a feather duster,
and I know for a fact she’d be lost if I asked her to vacuum.

The boys bound down the steps. Shawn throws his chubby arms around my waist and buries his forehead in my stomach. “What’s
wrong, honey?” I ask.

He looks up at me. “I just missed you.”

I kiss his spiked hair—the angel.

“Can I see your stitches?” Jake asks. He doesn’t turn his gaze from the cast, and I can see his little mind trying to figure
out how he’s going to get it off so he can see the gross stuff underneath. “You bleeding?” His blue eyes widen with hope,
and I get the feeling he’d have been in heaven if the surgeon had invited him into the operating room.

“Not anymore,” I say drily. “And no, you can’t see my stitches.”

Darcy appears from the kitchen just as I’m disengaging from my boys and heading to the couch. “Can I get you anything?”

Yeah, my house without a Darcy in it. Shoot. I hate it when I think truth and feel guilt. Darcy can’t help that her nature
demands she step up to bat for anyone she cares about. Just why she cares about me is beyond my scope, but I will follow Ari’s
advice and be nice to her. “Coffee would be great.”

Darcy’s face lights up. “Oh, good. I put on a fresh pot as soon as I got back from dropping Ari at the hospital.”

I glance at my daughter and scowl. Cab, huh?

She shrugs. “She offered. Why waste five bucks to go half a mile?”

Oh, gee, because I said so, maybe? But who am I? I’m just the mom around here. In pain. Unappreciated. Disobeyed. Good grief,
the medicine must be making me melodramatic. Reminds me of when Rick and I were first married and I was put on birth control
pills that were way too strong for me. Talk about whacked-out hormones!

I flop down on my nice, overstuffed cranberry-colored couch and stretch out like it’s my leg that just got operated on instead
of my arm. Darcy appears carrying a tray with—get this—a mug I presume is holding coffee, a little plate with a sandwich (please,
God, don’t let it be cucumber), and a tiny vase sprouting a single yellow wildflower, which she most likely picked herself
from the little patch of growth next to the fence in the backyard.

She sets it down across my lap. The little legs fit around me, which is a miracle. A pleased smile tips her mouth. “There
you go,” she practically sings. “I know you must be hungry. Hospital food, ugh.” She sticks her finger into her mouth in the
classic “Gag me” motion. Lovely.

“What kind is it?” I ask, nodding toward the sandwich.

“Peanut butter and jelly.”

Relief washes over me. At least she didn’t attempt anything fancy. I couldn’t have stomached it. And look, she even removed
the crusts. I don’t have the heart to tell her I happen to be in that American minority who love bread crusts. Oh, well. “Thanks,”
I murmur, embarrassed to be waited on this way, but knowing she’s doing it out of the kindness of her heart. And really, it
does feel sort of cozy. Wonder how long I can milk it? Through dinner? “That was really sweet of you.”

“It’s my pleasure.” She is wearing my apron that says, “On the eighth day Eve made chocolate.” Resentment creeps through me.
Not that she is wearing it, but because she has to wrap the tie around twice and there’s still give in it. I’m not even going
to mention whether I have to wrap it around me more than once. The comparison is getting monotonous.

“Well, I’m going to go fold some laundry,” Darcy says.

“Okeydokey, Alice,” I say, knowing there’s no point in arguing.

“Who?”

If she’s too young to know who Alice is . . .

“Three words,” I say a little snippily. “Nick at Nite.” I mean, I watched them all in syndication, too. I’m not
that
old.

She nods as understanding dawns. “Oh, from
The Brady Bunch
?”

Whew!

She giggles. “I’ll be back. Just holler if you need something. Boys, how about helping me with the laundry?” I’m about to
laugh at the ludicrous suggestion. Like my boys are really going to stop playing Xbox and just—

I watch with jaw-dropping disbelief as the dirty, traitorous rats follow her like she’s playing a flute through town. I reach
for my crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwich, feeling like a ten-year-old with a cold. As I chew the comfort food, I
have to admit Darcy definitely has that mothering instinct. Even my kids respond to her style.

My mind suddenly fills with a thought just as I try to swallow. Peanut butter gets stuck on the way down, and I start to cough.
For three minutes, I focus on not dying by peanut butter strangulation, until finally some hot coffee dissolves the goo, oxygen
returns to my brain, and the images flood me once again. Darcy’s young. She’s going to want children. Rick’s children. Siblings
for my kids.

My stomach hurts. I set the tray aside, maneuvering carefully with my one good hand. For the first time in as long as I can
remember, I have no appetite. I lay back, fighting tears, and close my eyes. Exhaustion overcomes me, and I feel myself drifting
to the sound of muffled voices coming from the laundry room.

Claire?”

Rick’s voice is not the first thing I want to hear when I’m waking up from a dream whereby Greg is serenading me at our wedding.
Mine and Greg’s—
not
mine and Rick’s. That would be a nightmare.

“Ummm,” I say and turn over. “Ouch!” I rolled onto my wrist. Not smart.

“Wake up, Claire. I need to ask you something.”

“Ask someone else.” I’m tired, in pain, and don’t feel like getting along.

“I can’t.”

I slowly open my eyes and try to sit up. Only I can’t push myself up with my wrist. And my other arm is awkwardly positioned.

“Here, let me help.” I’d rather feed my eyes to hungry vultures. But I have no choice but to accept because he’s already gotten
hold of me around my waist and is pulling me up. The gesture feels familiar and yet unsettling. It’s too close. Besides, my
waist is decidedly thicker since the last time hands were anywhere near me.

“I can get it the rest of the way,” I say, pushing at him. He backs off and I wiggle from side to side in what I’m sure looks
like a floor show. Finally, slightly out of breath, I nod. “What do you want?”

“I thought I’d take the kids for a few days while you recover. Is that okay with you?”

“Darcy’s idea?”

His face goes red, but he gives a little smile. “Yes.”

“It’s really not necessary, Rick. I can get by fine. It’s not brain surgery, after all.”

He stoops down, eyelevel. “Okay. Here’s the thing. If you don’t let those kids come home with me, my wife is not going to
budge from this house until she’s convinced you’re not going to overdo.”

My lips quirk at the panic setting in on his face. “Might have to fix your own dinner?”

His eyes are serious as he replies. “I need her home. I miss her too much when she isn’t there. She
is
home to me.”

Okay, this is an awkward moment. And made even more so by the fact that during the last eight years of our eleven-year marriage,
he never wanted to be home with me, and we are both thinking that very thing. Well, at least I assume we are.

“Sure, Rick. They can go.”

A smile spreads across his face. I’m surprised to notice the lines around his mouth. I haven’t looked at Rick—I mean really
looked at him—since he walked out. Then, he was tall, well-muscled, fair, gorgeous, and young—like a Nordic god. But from
this close proximity, I really can’t help but notice how his features have matured. The gray at his temples. The hair in his
nostrils.
Ew.
Well, another sign of age. I can be nice enough not to mention it, for a little while, but in order to keep that resolve,
he’ll have to get out of my personal space pretty quickly because I’m starting to feel claustrophobic.

“You two having a powwow?” Darcy’s voice brings welcome relief to the tension I’m feeling.

“Yeah,” I say. “Looks like you’re going to have the kids for a few days.”

“You know, I was thinking about that.” A little frown creases the area just above her nose. When I frown I look like Andy
Rooney. Darcy looks like a cute, petulant child. Shirley Temple.

Rick is on his feet now. I avert my gaze as he slides his hand possessively around her tiny waist. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“I’m just worried that Claire might need help and no one will be here.”

“Oh, please,” I say quickly. “It’s only one hand. I’ll order finger foods for dinner.”

“I don’t know… Oh, wait.” She snaps her fingers. “I have it.” Her eyes brighten and I feel dread coming on. I am not
going to like this suggestion at all. I can tell.

“Claire needs to come and stay in our guest room. That way, I can look after everyone under one roof.”

Rick’s face blanches. Zero to 60 in a split second. The look of utter shock and horror, combined with the suggestion in the
first place, strikes me as funny. And I start to laugh. I can’t help it. I know Darcy is feeling stupid about now, but I can’t
stop. “I’m so-rry, D-d-dar-cy.” I’m gasping for air. Why do I find this so hilarious? Maybe it’s the painkillers.

“It was just a suggestion,” she mutters.

“I know. But come on. Think about how ridiculous it is.”

She shrugs and snatches at the string of her apron, lifting the whole thing from her head. “I thought it was a good idea.
Still do. But I can’t force you. I’ll just go tell the kids to get some clothes together.”

We watch her leave and Rick turns on me, his eyes dark. “Why do you have to make her feel so stupid?”

“Okay. First of all, get over yourself. We’re not married. Second, if that wasn’t a dumb-blonde suggestion, I don’t know what
is. And third, you just stood there looking like you’d been run over by a truck instead of taking care of the situation yourself.
One of us had to speak up.”

“Darcy is far from a ‘dumb blonde,’” he says, totally blowing off the part of my answer where I made reference to his own
responsibility in the situation—typical. “And if you had any discernment about people, you’d know that instead of always giving
her a hard time.”

Okay, now I’m spitting mad. “If I had any discernment about people, I would never have married a two-timing jerk like you
in the first place, let alone wasted eleven years of my life!”

“Oh, gee. Thanks, Mom. Nice to know you think we’re all a big mistake.”

I turn to find Ari nonchalantly leaning against the kitchen door, totally eavesdropping on her parents. Her expression is
a cocky let-me-just-cause-a-little-trouble-for-Mom look.

Rick folds his arms across his chest. He gives a smug lift of his eyebrows.

I shoot up from the couch, then am forced to regroup as dizziness swarms my head. But I refuse to be taken down by my traitorous
daughter or her father. “She knows darn well that’s not what I meant.”

Jake picks that moment to bebop through the room holding his Game Boy and never bothering to look up. “That’s a euphemism,
Mom.” And then, to my utter horror, he proceeds to tell his father, not only the definition of
euphemism,
but the word for which
darn
is one.