Chapter 19
Numbness becomes a comfort in the days that follow.
To distract from the conversation that keeps playing in her head like a scratched record, Claire throws herself back into her old patterns.
The house has never been more sparkling clean.
She scrubs every inch of the bathroom and kitchen until her fingers are raw.
She cooks, and she cleans, and she hardly eats a morsel.
Pete has seemed relieved by the change. He hasn’t noticed Claire’s weariness, or her dissatisfaction.
He hasn’t noticed that she’s dropped almost a full dress size from her already thin frame, or that she’s always filling her hands with some kind of activity to keep herself from thinking too hard. He seems pleased, in fact.
Even the things Claire used to enjoy are harder than they were before.
Working in the gardens to curb the summer plants and encourage autumn growth used to be one of the household tasks she didn’t dread.
Now she’s elbow-deep in mulch, ignoring the soreness in her body as she tears out weeds and prunes flowers, and all she can think about is Jackie.
There’s an empty place inside her, now. She’s gotten so used to having Jackie as a break in her long days that it feels impossible to go back to a Jackie-less world.
It must have been that day in the pool that made Jackie push her away.
Claire goes over and over it in her head as she resists the urge to look over the fence, dissecting every detail.
They’d been having fun, hadn’t they? Jackie had been so close, and then she’d been running for the hills.
Claire knows empirically that there’s no chance Jackie could have actually read the strange thoughts Claire has been having, the dreams and the unexplainable urges, but they still fill Claire with shame.
This must be Claire’s fault. Her unnatural feelings have driven Jackie away. Unless Jackie suddenly decided Claire truly wasn’t worth all the trouble. But then why did she run away so suddenly? Wouldn’t she have—
Claire hardly feels the wasp land until she looks down to see the stinger buried in her hand.
It buzzes away, apparently satisfied with its work.
Claire can see the spot starting to swell up already, but the pain feels strange.
It seeps up her arm, radiating to each of her fingers, but it’s as if the sharp throbbing has sliced through the numbness she’s been suspended in.
The wasp’s venom seeps into her bloodstream, casting smoky pulses of pain through her nerves, and for the first time this week it feels like Claire can breathe.
How strange.
The back door opens and closes somewhere behind her. Pete has been out this afternoon doing some kind of errand he wouldn’t explain, and Claire couldn’t start dinner until he got back, lest it get cold.
“Come on inside and get cleaned up, hon,” Pete calls. “I’ve got a surprise.”
Claire stands. She leaves the gardens in their chaotic state, following Pete inside.
She turns the bathroom tap as hot as it can go, viciously scrubbing the dirt from under her fingernails with an old cleaning toothbrush.
It’s only when she’s dried them on a towel that she sees the state of her hands.
They’re an alarming mix of pale skin and crimson splotches.
The skin between her knuckles is dry and cracking.
When she clenches her fists, she can see the fault lines filling with red.
Her nail beds are chewed beyond recognition, and both of her palms are a minefield of scabbed nail-marks.
The wasp sting on the back of her hand has swollen to the size of a quarter.
She’s reaching in the medicine cabinet for some ointment when Pete calls for her again.
“Are you coming?”
Claire’s arm drops. She swallows down whatever the wasp sting has released, and she joins Pete in the living room.
Pete is grinning ear to ear. There’s a box next to him on the carpet, wrapped in brown paper.
“What’s this?” Claire says.
Pete is puffing hard. The most exercise he usually gets is mowing the lawn, so carrying the box inside seems to have taxed him. “A present.”
“For who?”
“For you!” Pete slaps the top of the box—standing upright, it reaches his hip. “Call it a birthday gift. Open it, go on.”
Claire’s curiosity stirs. It might be several months late, but Pete hasn’t gotten her anything for her birthday in recent memory. This is a nice step in the right direction. Maybe he really has noticed all the work she’s been doing.
Claire reaches for the paper, but Pete is too excited—before she can open it he’s already torn the wrapping off, presenting the gift like it’s a shiny NASA rocket.
Claire tilts her head to read the box. Electrolux: Luxomatic, Model 1205.
It’s a new vacuum cleaner.
“See all the attachments?” Pete says, popping the box open to pull the thing out. It’s a pale blue that reminds Claire painfully of Jackie’s Mustang. “This way you can get all the nooks and crannies you usually miss. And it has different settings, see?”
Claire stares uncomprehendingly as Pete points out the new-fangled features.
He holds up the hose and various attachments as if they’re everything she could have ever wanted, the perfect gift for his old lady.
His ball and chain. He’s talking animatedly, but the words aren’t quite registering in Claire’s brain.
The wasp sting throbs.
Claire thanks him with a kiss on the cheek.
She makes him a gin and tonic, cutting lemon slices with numbed fingers.
The juice stings in her mangled nail beds.
She pushes her tuna casserole around on her plate at dinnertime and cleans up the dishes while he turns on the evening news.
Then she climbs the stairs, and shuts herself in their darkening bedroom.
The evening has turned cloudy. It looks like it might rain again, and Claire sits in the dim room as the last minutes of dusk cast shadows across the floor.
The walls feel too close. The duvet is too scratchy.
The room smells like Pete’s cologne. And the whole room is Pete’s, really, isn’t it?
Claire’s vanity is in the corner, but the room is laid out the way Pete likes it.
The photos on the walls are of his family.
Even Claire’s clothes hanging in the closet are from his mother.
Where is Claire, in this house? Is she in the book on her nightstand, the next novel chosen by Martha for book club?
Is she in her new vacuum cleaner? Everything that’s hers is hidden away.
The outfit Jackie bought for her. Her sketches, her paintings, her photos with Jackie.
Every night before she goes to sleep, she’s been taking the photos out of their hiding place in her vanity drawer, just to feel something.
Now she feels too much. She feels so much that it won’t fit inside her. It fills every space in her body.
The low tones of the television drift up from downstairs. Rain is starting to patter on the window. There’s a knot in Claire’s chest, growing bigger by the moment. She’s digging her nails in so hard that her hands are numb.
Grasping desperately across the bed, she presses her face into the nearest pillow and screams.
It’s maybe the loudest sound she’s ever made, and yet the pillow muffles it to all but her own ears.
She screams until her throat is hoarse. It wrenches loose the knot in her chest, but when her breath finally runs out it leaves her feeling completely hollowed.
It isn’t just her hand that hurts, now—it’s everything. Her stomach. Her throat. Her heart.
She can feel a sob coming. It’s rising in her throat, making her eyes sting—
“Claire, honey?” Pete calls, just barely audible from downstairs. “Another drink?”
With a heaving effort, Claire chokes it back. She grits her teeth, wipes her eyes, re-applies her mascara, and somehow wills her hands to stop shaking as she fixes Pete his drink.
~ ~ ~
Claire had held out some hope that book club would be a welcome respite, but it hardly helps at all.
It’s at Dorothy’s house this time, Martha having finally loosened her grip on being the only host, and for once Claire is glad that it always devolves into gossip.
She’s been so distracted lately that she didn’t finish the book, and the quick sidetrack into the usual chitchat is welcome.
“I haven’t seen Susan Wilson here for a few meetings,” Dorothy is saying, raising her eyebrows as she refills everyone’s teacups. “Do you think she’s decided she’s not a fan of literature after all?”
Martha shakes her head. Her little Daniel is in the crook of her arm, and she’s having trouble balancing him as she sips her tea. “I’m not sure. I’ve sent the invitations, but she hasn’t shown up since the spring.”
“I heard she’s having troubles with her husband,” Louise says.
The baby makes a squeaky kind of noise, and Martha readjusts his swaddle. “And where did you hear that?”
“The Wilsons live a few doors down from me,” Louise says. There’s a smugness to her voice—she’s clearly relishing being the first to reveal a new and juicy piece of information. “I heard that he’s swung a bit too far, if you know what I mean.”
“You’re not saying they’re…” Dorothy says, making a vague gesture with her hands.
Louise grins. “Like a saloon door, from what I hear. And Susan is no saint, either. Did you hear about what happened at that big housewarming party, back in March?”
Claire’s head snaps up. She’d barely been following the conversation, but her attention is lassoed effectively with just a few words. “Jackie’s party? What about it?”
“What I heard is that Susan and the hostess were very preoccupied,” Louise says.
Claire scoffs, sitting up a little straighter. “Preoccupied with who? Mr. Wilson? Don’t be ridiculous.”