Leave It to Claire (3 page)

Great, now I’m depressed.

The phone rings just as I position my fingers on the keyboard. But I can’t complain this time; I don’t turn the ringer off
or unplug from the jack when my kids are at their dad’s. You never know when the cell phone might go dead or something. I
need backup.

We have three phone lines in the house—one in my office (I used to use it for dial-up before wireless. Thank You, God, for
inspiring that one), one in the kitchen, and another in Ari’s room. And Ari and I each own a cell.

I answer the ringing, and my ten-year-old son’s voice washes all over me like a warm rain. “Hi, Mom.”

My Shawny. The child who makes me exhale. I love all of my kids the same. Honest. But Shawn is the one who gets me. He always
notices when I lose ten pounds. Never mentions when I gain it back. He loves music the way I do. And loves to come to my office
and sit quietly just to be near me. And no, he’s not a wimp like my older son says. He’s just sensitive. And sweet. There’s
nothing wrong with that.

Kicking off my fuzzy slippers, I smile and lean back in my black-leather desk chair. “Hi, angel baby. Having fun? Did Dad
pick you up on time?”

“Yeah, he was sitting right there in the car when I came out of the school.”

I know a question like that might sound moot since Rick obviously got the kid home safe and sound, but my irresponsible ex
did
arrive at the school late once, and no one was left but the janitors and my four kids. It scared me half to death when I
found out about it the next day. Hindsight fear can be just as bad as on-the-spot fear. Especially where your kids are concerned.
Thinking about what
could
have been has kept me awake more than one night.

“Guess what?” Shawn asks, bringing me back from the black hole of what-ifs.

“What?”

“Daddy took us to eat pizza.”

Pizza. Now I’m thinking about that box on the counter again.

“That’s what we ate, too.”

He hesitates, probably trying to come up with something to say. “I miss you, Mommy.”

I melt like microwaved butter. “I miss you, too, Shawn.”

“I like going for pizza with you better.”

Oh, baby, my heart cries. Don’t try to fix me.

“Honey, I’m sure you like going with both of us, don’t you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and I know I’ve hurt his feelings. He was just trying to make me feel special. He’s sensitive
that way—my ten-year-old boy. But I have to make him understand that he doesn’t have to choose. I’m not threatened by his
love for his dad. Not much, anyway.

“You know what? When you come home on Sunday, I’ll take you out for pizza again, how’s that sound?”

“Great! I gotta go take a bath now. Darcy says I smell like a pig farm. It was only a joke, though. She wasn’t being mean
or anything.”

“I know.” I
am,
however, threatened by his affection for Darcy, his new stepmother. A woman ten years my junior. And a good fifty pounds lighter.
“Be good and have fun.”

“Okay. Here’s Tank.”

I can tell by the muffled argument on the other end of the line that the last thing Tank wants to do is talk to me.

My thirteen-year-old, Tommy, has recently changed his name to Tank and wants a lip ring. I’ll humor him with the name, but
he can just forget about the hole in his lip. I shudder just thinking about it. Last night we had a very long and loud “discussion”
about the subject, ending with my telling him to go to his room and think about the effects of piercing—such as lockjaw from
rusty needles, or worse. He stomped off, but not before expressing his opinion of my mothering skills and informing me of
his well-thought-out decision to never speak to me again. He did, however, allow me to fry him two eggs (over easy—not too
runny, not too hard) this morning, and a couple of slices of bacon. Sweet of him, huh? Thinking back on it, I probably should
have made him eat oatmeal.

“What up, Dogg?” he asks.

Dogg? “Yeah, that’s not going to work. Try again.”

I hear him say, “Whatever” under his breath, but he loses a bit of the attitude before coming back to the conversation. “What’s
up, Mom?”

“Just got back from dropping Ari at the game. How come you’re not going?”

“Football’s stupid.”

“You didn’t think so last year.” Or the other twelve years of his life.

“Things change.”

Yeah, they sure do. Like last year his dad got remarried. Rick and I have been divorced for five years, and I honestly thought
the kids had dealt with it. But when he announced his engagement to Darcy, I realized by the outcry that they’d honestly believed
we’d get back together someday.

By the time the wedding took place, my son’s personality had done a one-eighty. He looks different, acts different, hangs
out with a different crowd. And I don’t mean “different” just because they’re not the same kids. I mean “different” as in
weird. All this Goth black look. It’s creepy, and I don’t like my kid being one of them. I want back the clean-cut child I
once knew. It’s what I’m pushing for. “Well, maybe you’ll go to Homecoming.”

“I doubt it. Later, dude, I gotta go.”

“Then put Jakey on the phone, will you? And don’t call me dude.” I’m stinging a little from his take-me-or-leave-me attitude.
He doesn’t say good-bye, just drops the phone (I guess he dropped it anyway, judging from the clatter in my ear). “Hey brat,”
he yells, and I swear he does it just so I can hear him call Jakey a brat without being able to fuss at him for doing it.
“Mom wants to talk to you.”

“Okay, I’ll be there when I finish this round,” my six-year-old calls back.

“Whatever, dude. You’re the one she’s gonna yell at.”

I want to shake the phone. Jakey is addicted to video games. Day and night, that’s all he thinks about. But I thought he’d
at least want to tell me good night.

I wait. I glance at the clock and wait some more. Irritation creeps through my veins. Those kids! I’m definitely having a
talk with Tommy about his phone etiquette. And I’m cutting Jakey off from Nintendo. Totally! Just as soon as I get this book
off to my editor.

A minute later I realize no one remembers I’m on the phone. I’m just about to hang up when I hear Darcy say (in a testy tone
that raises my hackles), “Who left the phone on the floor?” She drops her volume and mutters, “I swear, those kids.”

My maternal indignation rises. Who is she to say “those kids” about my kids? She should be so lucky to someday have kids as
great as mine!

The phone clicks off, and I sit there holding the receiver in my hand, looking like a dope, before I finally press the off
button.

Kids. They never live up to the idealistic expectations young parents have. When that first precious offspring, that flesh
of your flesh, comes along, all you can do is ooh and ahh and dream of its future. You are determined that you will not make
the mistakes of generations past. Oh no. The family curses stop right here.

You kiss all ten toes and all ten fingers of your tiny, sleeping miracle and think nothing about this wonderful creature could
possibly induce you to raise your voice, bang your head against the wall, or run crying into the bathroom for ten minutes
of peace—like your own mother did on occasion when you were growing up.

Yeah, then a week later, you realize it’s time to amend your lofty ideals from envisioning your prideful self attending your
son’s—or better yet, daughter’s—presidential inauguration to simply making it through one more week with no sleep, no time
for a shower, and for-the-love-of-Pete-will-those-stitches-ever-stop-itching?

By the time two weeks have gone by, you’ve adjusted somewhat to the foggy lack of sleep, and your mind turns to other things—like
getting out of the house, which by now has the distinct odor of the not-so-cuddly things babies can smell like.

You burn the maternity rags and head for the prebaby wardrobe. Then moments later you sit on the floor and sob as reality
bites you on your size 18 rear end. After nine months of dreaming of wearing the size 8 (okay, size 10) jeans again, you realize
you didn’t miraculously shed the fifty-five pounds you gained while carrying a seven-pound baby. But being the trouper you
are, you wipe away the tears and cuddle your infant close and try to convince yourself that she’s worth every busted-out zipper,
all the hours of labor, and yes, even the cellulite and stretch marks (although that doesn’t stop you from slathering gobs
of cocoa butter on your stomach and thighs just in case it really does cause them to fade—which it doesn’t).

I stare at the phone, reliving that so-called conversation with my boys, not so sure they’re worth it after all. Swallowing
down a lump of disappointment, I stare at the screen, fully aware that Blaine is still mid-pucker and Esmeralda is most likely
about to get fed up with him and make a pass at Raoul. I want to help them out, but all the fire to write God’s masterpiece
has fled.

Suddenly, the weirdest feeling overtakes me: I want my mother.

Apologetically, I glance at the computer screen, mentally asking Blaine to be patient for just a little while longer. I will
get to that kiss, but first things first.

Mom picks up in two rings. She must be sitting in her recliner with the cordless in her lap. She does that so she doesn’t
have to get up during her TV shows if someone calls. I told her she should just turn off the phone during her programs and
check her voice mail afterward. Pointedly, she said it was rude to turn off your phone unless you were going to sleep. Ouch.

“Hi, Mom.”

“What’s wrong, honey?” I hear the TV volume go from blasting to mute in a millisecond. Mom can always tell when I’m distressed.
Guilt sort of wiggles through me when I remember that I had the phone unplugged all day. What if she had fallen and couldn’t
get up? Or what if a robber had broken in and tied her up and left her on the floor?

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” I say. It’s a little lie. I really only called to talk about me and my feelings.
But now that I hear her voice, I do care. As long as she makes it quick so we can get to my dilemma.

“Oh, I’m fine. Joan and I went to the Center.” (Translation: old-folks hangout.) I think the only reason Mom goes is because
she’s the youngest person there by a good six years, looks even younger, and has all the old men drooling over her.

“Josie cheated at bridge, so we decided not to let her play anymore.”

“Josie cheats every week, and you always say the same thing until you need another player.”

“Well, today was the straw that broke the camel’s back. She won the penny pile, and that’s practically the same thing as stealing.
So why did you really call? Are the kids okay?”

“Yes. It’s Friday. They’re at Rick’s.”

“Oh, that’s right. Why aren’t you writing? That editor of yours isn’t going to wait forever without docking your pay.”

Mother knows way too much about the process. I roll my eyes (which I’d never have the guts to do in person). “I wrote a lot
today. Almost done.”

“Did you send it to me?” I smile. Mom’s my number one fan. I have to e-mail every rough-draft chapter to her. She oohs and
ahhs and loves every word. Thank God for a mom like her.

Did I actually think that?

My mind and eyes wander to the computer where Blaine and Esmeralda are still waiting. “Not yet,” I say to Mom. “I’m wrapping
up the chapter now.” I hesitate, remembering my incident with Ari, then the boys, and wish I could find a way to confide without
it sounding like I’m a big baby. Or, heaven forbid, like I’m soliciting advice.

“All right. When you get it finished, you send it to me. Are you sure nothing is wrong?”

I blow out a frustrated breath, knowing I’m about to spill my guts, and that in all likelihood, I’ll regret that decision
a second and a half after I finish. Still, that knowledge does nothing to prevent my mouth from spewing forth my discontent.
So much for knowledge being power.

I tell her all about her spoiled, ungrateful grandchildren. And then the diatribe escalates and I cover all the bases. I’m
lonely, while Rick (who clearly doesn’t deserve to be happy) has Darcy. And now, to top it off, Rick just started being an
usher at church.
My
church.

Six months ago, Shawn invited them to the Easter program where he played “Angry man in crowd.” His awe-inspiring dialogue—“Crucify
Him!”—sent chills down my spine. Apparently it did to Rick and Darcy as well because they both bawled their way to the front
during the after-play altar call and haven’t missed a service since.

I’m so outraged that I raise my voice a little. “Rick never darkened the doorstep of a church until six months ago. Now he’s
an
usher
?”

“So what?” Mom’s tone leads me to believe she just shrugged her bony little shoulders. “Why do you care if he’s an usher or
not?”

Okay, that is
not
the reaction I was looking for. She sounds sort of distant, anyway, and I’ll bet she’s reading the closed-captioned words
on the screen instead of really listening to me. That’s probably why she isn’t getting my point. So I decide to give her another
chance to respond in a proper manner before I make my excuses, hang up, and go tackle the rest of that pizza.

“Well, I’m just thinking maybe he’s not ready to serve in the house of the Lord just yet.” Cringe. Even I’m not buying that
one. No way will she be able to pass up the opportunity to kick it into “advice” mode.

“Honey, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but maybe your frustration isn’t anyone else’s fault but your own. Besides, you
don’t even go to church half the time anymore.”

I sniff. Glad you don’t want to hurt my feelings. Clearly, it was a
huge
mistake confiding in her. Pepperoni is calling my name. “Well, Mom, I gotta—”

“Oh, don’t hang up just because I said something you don’t want to hear. I need to tell you something else—about me. I’ve
been trying to call you all day, but you know how you always turn off your phone.”

Feeling like a swatted kid, I squirm in my seat. “I only live three doors down, Ma,” I remind her. “And my phone hasn’t been
off
all
the time. What do you need to tell me?”