The Year We Turned Forty (18 page)

Mona shook her head. “Sleep. Sleep sounds good.”

“Okay,” Claire said, watching as her mom drifted off and pulling the comforter up around her.

Later, Claire and her father sat in the kitchen, the plate with the uneaten burrito resting on the table between them. They'd absentmindedly picked at it with their forks, both of them refusing to discuss how Mona's body was quitting on her.

Since the diagnosis, Claire had been a permanent fixture at her parents' house, her and Emily regularly sleeping side by side on a sofa bed in the guest room, Mason coming by occasionally to take Claire to dinner, but always returning her to her mother's doorstep as if she were sixteen. Each time he kissed her good-bye, she could see him strain to see past her through the slightly ajar front door, knowing he wanted to come inside and have a beer with her dad or say hi to Emily. But things were different this time. Even though there was a strong chemistry between them, she knew they weren't going to end up together. And she needed to focus on the precious little time she had left with her mom. And then there was Emily, who seemed to be rebelling even more than she had the first time they'd lived through this.

More than once, Claire had berated herself for Emily's behavior, usually as she sat in the Los Angeles traffic that refused to move, Claire trapped with her self-degrading thoughts as the cars inched along the 101 freeway. Last time, Claire had shielded Emily from Mona's suffering, partly because she was in denial about the prognosis and hoped she'd make a full recovery, but also because she was afraid Emily wouldn't be able to handle watching her grandmother slowly succumb to the ravages of cancer. She'd often regretted her decision after Mona died. Emily hadn't really understood how dire the prognosis was until the doctors had said things like “make her comfortable”
and “hospice.” So this time she'd involved Emily more, letting her know the truth about her grandmother's disease, hoping it would motivate her to try to connect with her family, but that too seemed to be backfiring. She'd only retreated more.

At first, Claire attributed it to Emily being sad about her grandmother, but the more time that passed, the moodier Emily became, saying she was bored—complaining they didn't even have HBO, that she missed her friends, that she felt like she was being held hostage at an old folks' home. Claire would often catch her having hushed conversations on Mona's home phone, quickly hanging up when she heard her mother enter the room. Claire wondered if she was talking to Anna, whom she'd followed through on banning from Emily's social circle. Emily had also lied about not having homework on several occasions, then Claire had received phone calls from two of her teachers asking why she hadn't turned in not one, but multiple assignments. She had just listened to a voice mail from a teacher today that she needed to return, hesitant to hear the disappointment in her voice that her daughter wasn't delivering academically. Claire had already begged Emily to finish her assignments, to study for her tests. But short of doing the work for her, she didn't know how to form the words that would convince her daughter to care about her grades, especially now that her grandmother was sick. She knew she needed to sit down and talk to her,
really
talk to her, but between taking care of Mona and trying to sell the several houses she had listed, she hadn't had the time or energy for another argument.

•  •  •

“When are we leaving?” Emily's voice broke Claire away from her thoughts and she turned to face her daughter, who was leaning against the archway in the kitchen.

“Not for a while,” Claire said, looking over at her dad, who was staring blankly at the burrito. “I want to be here when she wakes up from her nap.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “I'm hungry.”

“There is a ridiculous amount of food in this house. Help yourself.”

Emily let out a huff and stomped over to the refrigerator, pulling at the handle with much more force than was needed, the contents banging against the door. “There's nothing in there I want,” she stated without even looking at the food inside.

“I guess I could go grab you something,” Claire said, exhaustion creeping into her voice. She swallowed her tears, the small tickle in her throat that had been threatening all week finally getting to her. She avoided her father's eyes now as he watched her from his chair at the kitchen table. Her dad had always been quiet, often letting Mona do the talking for both of them. Claire couldn't count how many conversations with Mona that had begun with,
Your father wanted me to talk to you about.
Ten years ago, he had faded into himself as Mona's condition worsened, almost as if he was trying to figure out how to live life without her before she was gone. After her mother's death, Claire tried to engage him, inviting him over for dinner once a week. But the truth was, she had never really known how to communicate with her father, and her mother's death had only made that more obvious. Claire had thought of how Gabriela's mother's death had bonded her to her father. She wanted the same thing, but didn't know how to achieve it, once admitting to her therapist that she'd been dreading the silence if she stopped at her dad's house on her way home from work so much that she'd deliberately missed the exit. She never dreamed that she'd get a second chance.

This time, Claire had inserted herself firmly into her father's
quiet, retired world. Sometimes the relationship felt more like it was Claire who was the parent, her dad the sullen teenager, reluctant to share. She'd ask him to tell her stories about Mona while she was in the other room sleeping off the poison streaming through her body—discovering more about her father in the last six months than she had in her entire life, a fact that made her both deliriously happy and somewhat sad.
What else had she missed last time?

“Your mother is tired,” her dad said to Emily. “Eat something here.”

Claire smiled shyly at her dad. They had slowly formed a united front since Mona's diagnosis. Against Emily's bad behavior. Against the insurance companies that were constantly trying to deny their claims. Against the cancer that was consuming not just Mona, but their entire family.

“Grandpa, all you have is leftover junk that even Grandma doesn't want to eat. It's gross.”

Claire's phone rang before she could deal with Emily and she recognized the number as Sandy, a needy client to whom she had just presented an offer on her house. Claire held one finger up to Emily and walked into the other room to take the call. Sandy hadn't received the counteroffer that Claire had faxed before meeting her mom at the infusion center. “Goddamn fax machines!” she said under her breath, wondering how the hell she got any business done before she started using DocuSign, a program that allowed her clients to receive and sign all documents electronically. She wished she could invent it while she was here, but Blair had been very specific about what they had the power to do, and she was pretty sure making millions from stealing someone else's idea wasn't included in the deal. “I need to head over to the office to grab a contract,” she announced as
she stepped back into the kitchen, Emily standing against the counter, her hip jutted out.

“Good, let's get out of here,” Emily said as she began to round up her books and folders and shove them haphazardly into her backpack.

“Hold on a minute.” Emily's lack of compassion toward what was happening right in front of her made Claire furious. Couldn't she see how much pain her grandmother was in, the same woman who had given so much of her time to help raise her? She caught her father's eye, and like a lightning bolt had hit her, she suddenly knew what Emily needed. What had been missing for so many years. What Claire, even though she had it in spades herself, had never instilled in her daughter.

Empathy.

“You're staying here. I'll be back in under an hour.”

“What? No! I'm coming with you!” Emily cried, throwing her bag on the floor, the contents splaying across the tile, Claire instantly flashing to Emily as a three-year-old when she'd done the same with a box of crayons at a restaurant.

“Tell you what, Em. I'll grab you In-N-Out on my way back. But on one condition.” Claire hoped that dangling Emily's favorite hamburger place in front of her would make her more amenable to her idea.

Emily crossed her arms tightly over her chest, blocking the words silk-screened across her pale blue sweatshirt: As If. Claire almost laughed out loud at the symbolism and made a note to throw it out next time she did laundry. “What?”

“You stay here and sit with Grandma,” Claire said softly. She pointed at Gabriela's latest book sitting on the counter, remembering how Gabriela had pressed a copy signed for Mona into Claire's hand as she was leaving the event, Claire fighting back
the tears as Gabriela wrapped her arms around her, the hug saying more than words ever could. “Can you read that to her when she wakes up? We're on chapter ten, and it's getting really good.”

Emily's eyes shot to the doorway of Mona's bedroom. Suddenly she wasn't twelve with long hair and braces. Her cheeks were soft and round, her wispy strands of hair sticking to her face, her tiny arms wrapped around her favorite doll. She was scared, Claire thought, and still a little girl in so many ways.

“Please,” Claire pleaded. “I can't do this without you. Grandma needs you,” she said, and watched Emily soften.

“She does?” Emily asked. Claire had never directly said those words until now, wanting to protect Emily from the day-to-day realities of cancer—the emotional roller coaster they had ridden last time, one that often left Claire feeling dizzy herself. But looking into her daughter's eyes now, she realized she might have finally struck the right chord. Everyone wanted to be needed.

“Of course. You know how much she loves you.” Mona had always been the one person who understood how to walk Emily's tightrope, balancing discipline and love with such ease that Claire often wondered why Mona had never done the same with her. She had confessed to Claire, days before she died, when Claire had finally worked up the courage to ask. “I'll tell you a secret,” she had rasped, Claire leaning in closer to hear, the machines in her hospital room threatening to drown out the words Claire had waited so long to hear. “You make all your mistakes with your own children, so by the time your grandchildren arrive, you know how to get it right. Plus, once you turn fifty, you kind of stop giving a shit what others think,” she said, laughing weakly. Claire thought about her mother's words, and how horrible it was that she was finally ready to hear her mom's advice now that she was almost out of time to give it.

Emily took Gabriela's novel off the counter and flipped through it. “There aren't any R-rated scenes in here, are there?” She half smiled and walked into Mona's room, sat in the chair beside her grandmother's bed, and began to read as she waited for Mona to stir. Her voice was strong, a stark contrast to Mona's fragile one. Claire picked up her keys and headed toward the door. It was a small victory, but she'd take it.

As she drove to the office, Claire was feeling optimistic. Emily could help take care of Mona, and maybe doing so was just what she needed. And she hoped Emily would gain some perspective. Maybe she'd start being kinder. More understanding. Maybe.

She rolled down the window slightly, letting the warm Santa Ana wind blow through her car, and returned the call to Emily's teacher.

“Mrs. Marks. Hi, it's Claire Harris. I'm so sorry you had to call, but I wanted to let you know I'm going to make sure she turns in whatever assignments are missing.”

Mrs. Marks cleared her throat. “I'm sorry, did Mr. Randall not talk with you yet?”

Claire struggled to conjure an image of a stout man with a comb-over. “The vice principal?”

“Yes, he said he was going to fill you in on what's happened.”

“What do you mean on
what's happened
?” Claire asked, turning on her blinker as she exited the freeway.

“Well, this would probably be better discussed in person,” Mrs. Marks said tentatively. “Can you come by the school first thing tomorrow and we can talk about the situation?”

Claire knew herself. She wasn't going to be able to wait until the morning to find out what the
situation
was. “We recently found out my mother has cancer and we're all struggling a little
right now, so do you think you could give me more information tonight? You've got me worried here.” Claire felt terrible playing the cancer card, but her heart clenched as she wondered what had happened to Emily.

“I'm so sorry to hear that.” Mrs. Marks paused. “I can tell you there's been a serious incident involving bullying.”

“Oh my God,” Claire said as she imagined Emily pinned up against a locker or worse. Was that why she'd been so upset, so reclusive lately? Claire's stomach contracted—she had been too hard on her. “What happened to Emily? Who's been bullying her?”

Claire heard Mrs. Marks exhale. “I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but you've got it mixed up. Nothing has happened
to
Emily. It's actually your daughter who's been the perpetrator.”

Perpetrator?
Emily definitely had an attitude problem, but she was also almost a teenager, going through puberty and navigating middle school—the trifecta of hardships for any adolescent. Not to mention her grandmother was dying. Claire pulled her car into the parking lot and turned the engine off. Emily wasn't a mean girl.

Was she?

Jessie watched Lucas as he rocked back and forth on his knees, the blanket gathering beneath him and his face full of marked determination as he tried to move his body forward into a crawl. As he blew bubbles through his tiny pink lips, she smiled, remembering the day she was leaving for the fiftieth birthday trip to Vegas, when Grant came to pick him up, how long his legs looked as he cascaded down the stairs. She'd wondered where the years went as he wriggled from her grasp when she tried to kiss him good-bye.