Chapter 18
Claire wakes the morning after Jackie’s rapid departure to an empty driveway next door, and it stays empty for a stretch of days that start to feel endless.
Claire tries calling, though she knows the house is vacant. She peers over the fence—Jackie’s soda bottle is still on the patio table, next to the sunblock. She even goes so far as to peep through Jackie’s living room window.
Jackie is nowhere to be seen.
The car is still gone, and the house is dark. Claire starts to worry after the first morning, and she keeps worrying as the days stretch into a week.
Jackie could be anywhere. She didn’t so much as leave a note. What if she got in some sort of car accident? What if she was kidnapped? Claire’s fevered brain invents all sorts of horrific scenarios, each worse than the last, with no way to confirm one way or the other.
Claire can’t shake the feeling that Jackie’s absence is her fault.
She did something that day in the pool, showed a hint of what her mind has been circling around.
She’d almost kissed Jackie. On the lips.
And clearly Jackie was disgusted by it. There’s no other explanation for her sudden mood change, and her rapid departure.
The only thing to do is put her mind to other things. Claire throws herself into housework. She puts extra effort into meals, so much so that Pete actually makes note when she serves him a perfect lamb crown roast.
“Is it our anniversary?” Pete says, diving into the meal enthusiastically.
“Our anniversary was in March, dear,” Claire says.
Pete chortles. “Well, it’s nice to see some initiative in this house. Walt says that even Martha is falling behind lately.”
Claire frowns. “Falling behind?”
“Not keeping up with things. Walt says the house is going to hell,” Pete says with his mouth full of mashed potatoes. “He had to fix his own dinner the other night. Can you believe that?”
“She has a baby to take care of now,” Claire reasons. “Newborns are a lot of work.”
Pete scoffs, sawing his lamb off the bone. “Doesn’t mean she should stop taking care of her husband. She should be able to manage her time. I really thought Martha would do better.”
Claire pushes her potatoes around on her plate.
She would never have imagined that Martha might be struggling. She’s been so excited to be a mother, so perfectly put-together all throughout her pregnancy, and now that the baby is here Claire assumed that she would be thriving.
They might have fought the last time they talked, but the idea that Martha has been suffering alone makes Claire uneasy.
~ ~ ~
The following morning, Claire knocks on Martha’s door with a Tupperware full of baked goods.
She gets no answer. When Claire leans close, she can hear the distant sound of a baby crying. She knocks again; this time, she hears movement beyond the door. A muted thump, like something has been tripped over, and Martha’s voice swearing.
Claire blinks in the bright sunlight. Martha doesn’t swear.
“Martha?” Claire calls.
From what Claire can guess is the den, she hears a muffled voice. “I don’t have time to entertain today.”
“You don’t need to entertain me,” Claire says, shifting from foot to foot on the stoop. “Will you let me in?”
“I’m busy,” Martha says. Her voice sounds hoarse, even behind the door.
“I’m here to help.”
“I don’t need your help!” Martha says shrilly. “Why don’t you go have tea with your real best friend?”
Claire sighs. She shifts the Tupperware to her hip. “I’d like to visit with you.”
Martha stays quiet. The baby is still crying. Slowly, in the window to the right of the door, Claire sees a curtain shift.
Claire holds the container up to the gap like a peace offering. “I have blueberry muffins.”
The curtains flutter back into place. After a few long beats, the door opens a crack. Even through the sliver Claire can see that Martha’s eye is bloodshot and puffy.
“The house isn’t fit for company,” Martha says.
“Mine never is, according to your standards.”
The crack widens a little, and then shrinks again, as if Martha is going to shut it on her.
“Please let me in, Martha,” Claire says softly. “I don’t care about your house.”
After a few beats, the door creaks slowly open. Claire steps inside; when she finally takes in the state of the place, she has to stifle a gasp.
The den is a mess. Blankets stained with spit-up are strewn all about, and it clearly hasn’t been dusted in at least a week. Martha herself looks absolutely exhausted. Her red hair is limp and unkempt, and there are dark bags under her eyes.
Daniel continues to cry in his portable crib near the couch.
“Everything is just fine. Just fine,” Martha says before Claire can ask, hurriedly tidying up. She grabs at a collection of baby bottles, knocking them all about in her hurry. “You can’t stay long, though. It’s time for Danny’s nap.”
The baby’s cries reach an ear-splitting volume.
“He has colic, you see,” Martha says, over the noise. Her eyes are watering. Her voice shakes as she chases one of the fallen bottles under the coffee table. “The doctor says it should clear up by twelve weeks. But until then—”
It’s as if the baby doesn’t need to breathe. He cries and cries, and Martha’s shoulders start to shake.
Claire leans down, grabbing the fallen bottle and helping Martha to her feet. “Walter isn’t helping, is he?”
“Why would he? He’s the head of the household. This is my job,” Martha says fiercely. “Taking care of the house and the baby is my job, and I—” Martha’s voice finally cracks open into a sob.
Claire should feel some kind of satisfaction, maybe, that Martha is getting a comeuppance for her recent behavior. That her facade of perfection is breaking apart. But she doesn’t. She pities her. She wraps her arms around Martha, and lets her cry.
“He never sleeps,” Martha sobs into Claire’s shoulder. “He’s up at all hours, and he cries constantly, and when he does sleep I have so—so much to do around the house that I can’t—and Walt keeps saying—”
“To hell with Walter,” Claire says loudly.
Martha reels back. She seems momentarily shocked out of her tears, blinking up at Claire, and Claire takes her by the shoulders.
“Go try to put Daniel down for his nap. I’ll clean up down here,” Claire says firmly.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. It’s my job. I’ll get caught up. I could never—”
“Martha,” Claire says, interrupting firmly. “Let me help you.”
She feels rather like Jackie right now. Calm and in control. Jackie has talked her out of tears before, and now apparently Claire knows how to do it for someone else. It makes Claire’s chest ache a little with missing her.
Claire manages to get the living room tidied, the kitchen cleaned, the dishes done, and the ingredients for a decent supper gathered together by the time Martha comes back. She looks a little more put-together—she’s changed into clean clothes, and her hair is gathered into a tidier bun.
“He’s finally down, for now,” Martha says quietly. “Thank you.” She takes a seat at the kitchen table opposite Claire, and for a time they sit in silence.
This whole house feels like some kind of horrible vision into Claire’s future.
The crying baby, and Martha’s exhaustion, and Walter’s lack of care for the whole situation.
She can see Pete being just the same. Raising the baby will be Claire’s duty, along with all else.
While Claire suffers trying to give him what he wants, he’ll be complaining to Walter about how she isn’t meeting his expectations.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Martha says suddenly.
“Nothing is wrong with you,” Claire says, automatically.
“I should be living the happiest days of my life, you know,” Martha continues. Her voice is getting shriller. “I have a good husband and a nice house, and a beautiful, healthy little boy. But I’m—it’s as if I—oh, I don’t know how to describe it.”
“You feel like you should be grateful for what you have,” Claire says. The words come without much thought. “You have everything you should want. But you feel broken. And that makes you feel like a monster. A failure.”
Martha’s shoulders fall. “Yes,” she says, grasping at Claire’s hands.
The contact is strange—it reminds her of Jackie, in a way, but it feels so different. So much less fraught.
“Yes, exactly. I feel as if—as if everything good about my life has gone away. I look at my baby and I feel nothing, Claire. I’m so very tired.”
“You aren’t broken, Martha,” Claire says. She squeezes Martha’s hands, as Jackie sometimes does for her, and Martha clings to them. “You’re doing the best you can. It’s not fair that all this pressure is on your shoulders.”
“I should be doing better.”
“Walter should be helping you,” Claire cuts in.
“Why is it that he doesn’t notice your suffering at all?
That he gets to just keep on living his life happily, while you break your back to make up for everything he doesn’t do?
How is that fair?” Claire is almost shouting by the end.
She’s surprised by her own vigor, and it’s clear as Martha blinks at her with wide eyes that perhaps Claire isn’t only talking to her friend.
“What else do you expect?” Martha says, wiping at her eyes. “We grin and bear it, don’t we?”
Claire shakes her head. That phrase has been somewhat of a comfort between them for a long time, but it feels hollow now. “Maybe we shouldn’t. Maybe we deserve more.”
“What more is there, Claire?” Martha says tiredly. She rests an elbow on the table, setting her chin in her palm. Her eyes drift closed. If Claire stays quiet for long enough, maybe Martha might actually get some sleep.
A few months ago, Claire would have agreed with Martha’s assessment. What more is there? There was nothing, then. Just the life she had, the routines, the dissatisfaction. But knowing Jackie has changed things. Jackie’s life is more. She proves that it can be done.