Never Too Late (6 page)

“Tell her about Roger, Maggie,” Clare said. “She'll get a kick out of it.”

“Roger's falling apart,” Maggie said.

“Really?” Sarah asked, leaning forward.

“I went to see him about getting Clare back in her house and caught him drinking in the early afternoon. He's miserable. He's greasy and wrinkled and pathetic.”

Sarah grinned. “What's he pathetic about? Can't he get a date?”

“He wants to take care of Clare,” Maggie said.

Sarah sipped her wine and leaned back on the sofa.
“Tell him to stick it up his ass. We can take care of Clare.”

“Sarah!” Maggie said, laughing.

This, Clare thought, was why she loved her sisters so. Because they were dedicated, irreverent and sometimes hilarious. What more could a crippled, almost-forty-year-old, almost divorcée need?

When Maggie had gone and Sarah was busy in the kitchen, Clare crutched her way to Jason's room and tapped on the door.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” he said.

She found him lying on the bed with a Game Boy hovering over his face.

“I need to talk to you,” she said.

“As long as it's not about him,” he returned, his eyes glued to the game.

Clare entered slowly, careful not to get a crutch snagged on something left on the floor—clothes, shoes, books. She could get around pretty well now and was using the crutches only to give herself assistance, to keep the pressure off her pelvis. Walking no longer caused horrid pain but the ache crept back in as the day wore on.

She slowly lowered herself to his bed and he moved his long legs over to accommodate her, but he stayed focused on his game. She gently pulled it out of his hands. He released it and sat up, leaning against the headboard. “It's about him. I need a favor.”

“Aww.”

“Jason, the accident—it not only shook up my body, it shook up my mind. I can see that I need to make
changes in my life, big changes. I have to heal my body, and also I have to heal my spirit. I have to get a life. And I need you to lighten up. I know you're mad. I'm not going to try to talk you out of it—you can work out those issues with your counselor. But I can't get better while I'm constantly faced with your rage. I can't move on. Understand?”

“But don't
you
hate him?”

“Actually, I don't,” she said. She didn't even have to reach for the answer. “I'm really mad at him. Who wouldn't be? But Jason—he's the one who's losing out here. He had his last chance with me and it's over. He lost a good wife. And, I fear, a wonderful son. You have no idea how much hurt this is causing him. You have to trust me.”

Remarkably, tears gathered in Jason's eyes. “You should hate him,” he said, but he didn't say it in rage, he said it with pain.

“There was a time I did,” she said, reaching out and threading some of that thick, floppy blond hair across his brow. “But I'm just too busy now. Healing is like a full-time job. And the second I'm better, I have to think about our own house, a good job and getting on with my life. My life with you.”

“Sometimes I just can't take it,” he said.

“Take what?” He shook his head in misery, looking down. “What, Jason?”

He looked up and a tear spilled over. Even though he was at that ragged and vulnerable age, seeing him cry was rare. “He's like his dad was, right?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I guess so.” She wasn't sure of the details of Roger's family. He never bitched about his father. His mother, a widow for some time
now, complained about what her life had been like, married to a man who was greedy and unfaithful and left her virtually penniless, but Roger's father had been dead for a long time and Roger took good care of his mother. Clare had met Roger's father, but couldn't say she knew him.

Just when you think your kid isn't paying attention. Apparently Jason had heard everything that spilled out of his grandmother's mouth.

“So? What if I'm like
him?
”

“Oh, Jason.”

“Well? I
look
like him!”

True. When he filled out, gained some muscle, survived the pimples, he would be as handsome as his father. “It could be worse, Jason. You could be like me.”

“That'd be okay!”

“Oh yeah?” she laughed. “Wishy-washy, do anything to please, passive-aggressive?”

“Passive what?” he asked, brushing impatiently at a tear.

“Passive-aggressive. I punish people by being late, by not speaking. Instead of being direct.” Not giving sex, being coolly cooperative, acting like I'm back in the marriage when I'm really just counting the days or weeks or months 'til the next confrontation.

“You're not that way.”

She was that way with Roger, and she knew it. That's why it was better for everyone if that cycle finally came to an end. “Or,” she said to her son, “you could be like yourself. You could be exactly the kind of man you want to be.”

“Didn't he see his own dad being a jerk to his mother and want to be better?”

“Can't answer that,” she shrugged. “I don't know if he saw it, don't know if he wanted to be different.”

“So what if you can't help it? What if I grow up to be a crappy husband?”

“Jason, if you don't want to be like that, you won't. Everyone has a choice about how they act.”

“You think that?”

“I
know
that. Look, you can be mad, you can hate him if you want, but at the end of the day, you are who you want to be. You're in charge of your own life. Period. You don't have to waste one second worrying that you'll be anything but what you want to be. I swear.”

Looking down into his lap, he nodded weakly.

She lifted his chin and looked into his eyes. “Jason, you should dump all this rage and fear of being a bad husband on your counselor. He's getting eighty bucks an hour—he went to school forever to learn how to help people deal with stuff like this. He might be able to help you move on, you know.”

“Yeah, well, you're wasting your money as far as I'm concerned.”

She smiled conspiratorially. “It's your dad's money. Knock yourself out.”

 

Three weeks in the hospital, six weeks at George's, at least another two before Roger, who was not cooperating quickly by finding his own place, but Clare was beginning to think that someday—within a few weeks—she would be living a life without crutches and pain meds. Right now she was moving around with all the speed of bureaucracy. But moving around, at least.

During the two-and-a-half months since the accident, Sam Jankowski had called a few times, asking
how she was feeling, interested in the progression of her recovery. She found that when she heard his voice on the phone, it pleased her. He was so friendly and solicitous, wondering if there was anything he could do, anything she needed.

Today was no different. He called and asked how it was going, and she told him about her three trips a week to physical therapy, how many pain pills she was popping a day, how long it was taking Roger to get out of the house. “But I'm afraid I've never been very patient,” she told him.

“Slow going, is it?”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“Getting out much?” he asked.

“Not getting out at all—except for physical therapy. But the worst of it is, I have no privacy. I am so grateful to my family for their help—I'd be doomed without it, but you can't imagine what it's like living with your father and sister after you've been on your own for years.”

“Must be a little crowded there, huh?”

“The house is definitely shrinking. I'm having a brief reprieve. School's finally out and Jason grows inches a day, so I sent him with Dotty to do some shopping. I gave her strict orders not to try to dress him—he gets to pick his own clothes, however crazy they seem.”

“He's gotta appreciate that,” Sam said. Then, “Hang on one second, Clare.” Slightly muffled, she heard him order an iced latte with whipped cream. “Okay,” he said, coming back to her.

“That sounded good,” she said. And she thought, it would be nice to get out for a coffee. With Sam or anyone.

“But tell me—how are you really feeling? Physically? You sound better every time I talk to you.”

“I might be impatient with my progress—but the doctor says I'm doing great. And I have to admit, I feel just a little better every day. I get around without crutches most of the time and it's only after being up all day and tiring out that I have to rely on them. Not only that—I'm not all that sorry that I've dropped a couple of pounds, even if I wouldn't recommend the diet. And despite all my bitching, I think my housing situation is going to improve soon. It looks like by the middle of June I'll get to go home. I'll have to stay on the ground floor, of course. I still can't manage the stairs.”

“Clare, how long have you been separated, if you don't mind the question?”

“Not at all. Going on six months. I would have filed for divorce by now, but it's a bad time to shake up all the health benefits, et cetera. And—should Roger be a pain in the butt about all the particulars, I have to be a bit stronger to deal with him.”

“Are you sure this is final for you?”

“Absolutely. Not only is it almost six months now—it's the fourth time in ten years. I may be a slow learner, but I'm steady.”

“Is it…Was it for the reason you gave me when I caught you speeding?”

“Unfortunately. Roger is a tomcat. Can't help himself. It'll never change. And even if it does, I'm moving on. Are you married? Single? Divorced?”

He laughed softly. “Clare, if I were married, I doubt my wife would be happy about how often I've called you.”

“Oh, it's nice of you to check on me,” she said. “Thoughtful. Sensitive.”

“Single,” he answered.

The doorbell rang. “Oh damn,” she said. “Someone's here.”

“You don't have to answer the door if you're not feeling up to it. No excuses necessary.”

She groaned a little as she got to her feet. “No, I'm up to it. I'd just rather finish this conversation is all. Maybe I could call you back? I hear the radio in the background so I know you're on duty. But you could let me see who this is and maybe you could call me back?” She opened the door and there stood Sam, squad car in the drive, Starbucks bag in his hand. She smiled and clicked off the phone. “Or you could come in and bring that coffee with you.”

“If you're sure I'm not imposing.”

“You're not. I know I don't look very good. I haven't even—”

“You look great,” he said, coming into the house.

“You knew where I lived? Where my dad lives?”

“Little things like that aren't very difficult to find out. I hope you like iced latte.”

“Sam, you're a very nice young man. Let's go sit on the back patio. And don't run.”

He let her slowly lead the way and from just a pace behind her said, “No crutches. That's a good sign, isn't it?”

“Steady as she goes. Right out here.”

Sam stepped through the opened French doors onto the patio and whistled. The yard was lush and vine draped, a couple of chaise lounges beside a redwood table. There was a shallow, rock-filled stream that wound around the yard and opened into shallow pools in two different spots. A waterfall gurgled and at the far corner of the yard stood a ceramic birdbath and a gazebo.

“Clare, this is awesome!”

“My dad's pride and joy. He says the climate and fertile valley get the credit, but he's a master builder, and great with flowers. I'd take you out to the gazebo, but I'm afraid this is as far as I go today—I'm so sore. But go look around if you like.”

“Just a glance,” he said, leaving her to sit on one of the lounge chairs while he stepped off the patio and took the rock path along the man-made brook. “There are fish in here!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” she laughed. As he wandered back to where she sat, she said, “It's a little paradise, isn't it?”

“I think it's the most beautiful yard I've ever seen. Is your dad in landscaping or something?”

“No. He owns a hardware store on Granger.”

“He's that McCarthy? I know George. Helluva nice guy.”

“That's George. So, in all the weeks you've been kind enough to call and check on my progress, I haven't learned much about you. What's your story, Sam? Always wanted to be a cop?”

He answered easily. “That was an accident, a fortuitous one. I needed a good job with decent benefits and they were testing. I wasn't sure until I got into the academy. I have a daughter, Molly. My mom helps me raise her.”