Chapter 2 Claire
CLAIRE
At first glance, Little Red Wagon Preschool is a well-maintained brick building. As I speed-walk past the playground, it feels like a judgment zone. A group of moms is clustered around one of the picnic tables, all of them dressed in down coats and cashmere hats.
I smile and wave as I hurry past, pretending not to notice the pursed lips as they survey the Siege windbreaker and track pants I’m wearing. The February wind is rapidly destroying what little remains of my messy ponytail, so my hair looks even less put together than my outfit.
Almost there. I yank the front door open so wide that I have to play tug-of-war with a gust of wind to get it shut again. The sudden blast of heat once I do makes my eyes water.
Tommy is the last kid left in the classroom, carefully stacking a pile of wooden blocks on the desk attached to his assigned seat.
I mouth a hasty, Sorry, to Mrs. Combs, who’s seated at the front of the classroom, sorting papers.
Her nod is understanding, but I note the worry creased in her forehead and tightening the corners of her mouth. If I could assure her this would never happen again, I would.
I clap my hands together once. “Tommy boy!”
He glances over, excitement erasing the seriousness that was settled on his face. “Claire!”
Tommy abandons his blocks to hurtle toward me as fast as his four-year-old legs allow. I bend down and scoop him up, spinning him around. He shrieks with uninhibited glee, kicking his feet like he does during swim lessons.
My shoulders feel lighter as I listen to the happy sound.
“Can I go to work with you?” Tommy asks eagerly, tugging the drawstring of my teal windbreaker before I set him down.
“Not today,” I reply. “I’m finished with training.”
He frowns. “When?”
“Soon. The season is about to start, so we’ll start playing games.”
His whole face lights up at that last word. “And I can go?”
I ruffle his hair, the same cinnamon shade as mine. His is a little curly too. “You sure can.”
His grin dims a little, like a cloud passing over the sun, as he blinks at me. “You promise?”
A lump expands in my esophagus. I have to clear my throat twice before I can answer. “Yeah. I promise. Go get your things and say goodbye to Mrs. Combs.”
“Bye, Mrs. Combs!” Tommy calls, waving at his teacher as he rushes toward his decorated cubby.
“Bye, Tommy,” she answers, standing from her desk and approaching. To me, she says gently but firmly, “Dismissal is at three p.m., Claire.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.” I shift my weight from foot to foot, jitters lending fresh energy to exhausted muscles. “I wasn’t supposed to pick up today, and I wasn’t able to check my phone during practice, and—” I swallow hard. “I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Tommy’s a wonderful boy, and I’m happy to help out. But I can’t make a habit of staying late for one student.”
“I understand. Thank you for staying with him.”
“Ready!” Tommy announces, reappearing at my side with his coat and backpack on. His little hand slips inside of mine, squeezing tight.
I say goodbye to Mrs. Combs, and then we head outside.
The moms are still chatting. Their preschoolers are tackling each other in the six inches of snow that was dumped on Boston on Sunday evening, coating parts of the playground.
“Do you want to play for a bit?” I ask Tommy.
He shakes his head, walking faster and tugging me toward my car by our joined hands.
“Are you sure?”
He doesn’t answer, just pulls harder.
What I know about kids is fairly superficial. Second-guessing during crucial moments has always been one of my biggest weaknesses as a player, and as far as I can tell, parenting involves plenty.
I’m not sure if I should ask Tommy why he doesn’t want to play with the other kids or pretend that’s entirely normal.
Before I can decide, he begins bombarding me with questions about soccer.
One thing I have learned about kids: they’re curious.
I’m not sure if Tommy inherited the athlete gene that skipped over every Caldwell except me or if he’s realized it’s the one topic I can talk endlessly about, but he’s a never-ending source of sports inquiries.
Of my few fans, he’s by far the most enthusiastic.
Explaining the format of the upcoming season takes the whole drive home.
“How many games do we play in the regular season?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how many the league decided on.”
“Why?”
“Because they just did.”
“But why?”
On and on and on. Why is Tommy’s favorite word.
Cassidy calls as I’m pulling into the driveway. I ignore the buzzing, parking and grabbing my duffel and Tommy’s backpack while he climbs out of his booster seat.
Salt crunches under my sneakers as we head up the brick walk that leads to the Tudor-style home my parents purchased as newlyweds. I still think of it as my parents’ house in my head, even though my father hasn’t lived here for years and I do—again.
I unlock the front door, hastily shutting it when the whiff of smoke in the air registers.
“Mom? Lydia?” I call out, attempting to squash the panic out of my voice. Aware of Tommy’s footsteps following me down the narrow hallway, walls decorated with framed photographs of simpler times.
“In here!” Lydia’s cheerful voice replies.
I relax in response to her tone as we round the doorway that leads into the kitchen.
Our next-door neighbor and my mom are seated at the table, a half-completed puzzle spread between them. Mom’s typing; Lydia’s knitting.
“Hi, Lydia! Hi, Grandma!” Tommy says, waving at them.
“Hello, Tommy!” Lydia waves a needle back at him.
“I’m on deadline,” Mom says. “No distractions.”
I swallow hard, my smile threatening to slip. “Hungry, Tommy boy?” I ask, turning toward the sink to wash my hands.
“Ants on a log! Ants on a log!” he chants, struggling to pull himself up onto one of the stools that line the island.
“You got it,” I say, staring at the soggy, charred remains of what I think was a grilled cheese for a few seconds before spinning toward the fridge to grab the peanut butter and celery.
“I had a client run late,” Lydia tells me, coming to stand nearby as I search the cabinets for raisins. She drapes the red scarf she’s working on over my left shoulder, judging the length. “I couldn’t get over here until two, and she tried to make lunch …”
“Thank you so much for staying with her.” I stab the peanut butter with a knife, trying to gather enough to spread.
“I just wish I could do more.” Lydia frets, casting a quick glance at Mom’s bent back.
She’s oblivious, lost in a world of her own creation.
“You’re already doing too much,” I say, speaking one of my niggling worries.
Having Lydia come over a few times during the day used to be a solution. But it’s becoming increasingly obvious that needs to change.
“Honey, I’m not doing half as much as you.” This time, Lydia looks at Tommy, patiently waiting for his snack.
I set the plate in front of him. “Do you mind staying for a few more minutes? I need to make a quick phone call.”
“Not at all,” Lydia answers, ambling back toward the table with her knitting. “You’re so tall. I need to add another foot to this scarf.”
“Thanks, Lydia.”
“Of course, honey.”
I hustle upstairs, taking two steps at a time and ignoring my protesting calves.
My bedroom’s a mess, but cleaning is going to have to wait until tomorrow. I kick a shin guard closer to one corner before sinking down in the chair at my desk, toeing the door closed with my left foot. While the outgoing call rings, I finally fix my ponytail.
“Why didn’t you pick up earlier?” is how my older sister answers the phone.
When Cassidy can’t reach me, she considers it a personal affront. Never mind that I’m the one with a job. With two jobs actually. At least through tonight.
I told Blake, the manager of Paul Rebeer’s, that this would be my final shift. I can’t juggle bartending during the season.
“I’d just gotten home,” I tell Cassidy. “I had to check in with Lydia.”
“You picked up Tommy?”
“Yeah, I did. Next time, more than an hour’s notice would be nice.”
Predictably, Cassidy bristles. “If you’re not able to pick him up, just say that, Claire.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, releasing a long, frustrated exhale. I’m too tired to say anything that will spark an argument I don’t have the energy to participate in. “It’s not that. I was at practice. I wasn’t checking my phone. Today was your day.”
“They pushed the interview time. I’m a shitty mother for prioritizing employment?”
I twirl the end of my ponytail, surveying my messy room. “I’ve never called you a shitty mother. And you know you’re not one. I just had a long day. Tommy’s fine. He’s eating a snack in the kitchen.”
Cassidy sighs. “I’m sorry. I had a long day too. Thank you…thank you for picking him up.”
I wait a beat before tentatively asking, “How did the interview go?”
“Not great. They wanted a reference from my last job.”
That seems…standard? But things are rarely typical with my sister. We’re opposites in nearly every way.
“Okay?” I say carefully.
“Well, it wasn’t entirely my decision to stop working there.”
I knew—or at least, I suspected—when Cassidy showed up a month ago, saying she wanted to help take care of Mom and for Tommy to be around family as he got older, that there was more to the story than altruistic intentions. But I hoped I was wrong.
“What part wasn’t your decision?”
“It was Drake’s fault,” she says defensively. “And mostly a misunderstanding.”
I don’t doubt Cassidy’s most recent ex contributed to whatever got her fired. I liked Drake marginally more than her previous boyfriend—the winner who took off right after Tommy was born, never to be seen or pay child support again—but not by much.
I glance at the clock, deciding to table this discussion for later. “Are you almost home?”
“Why?”
“Because I have to leave for work in thirty minutes.”
“What? I thought you were finished bartending.”
“I am. After tonight.”
Silence.
“It’s on the calendar,” I add, an edge creeping into my tone.
“I’m still downtown,” Cassidy tells me. “With traffic, I probably won’t be home for another hour.”
“You’re still downtown,” I repeat. “Why?”
“I, uh, I met Josh for coffee after the interview.”
My annoyance grows. The interview time changing is nothing Cassidy could control. But meeting her high school sweetheart for coffee? Entirely unnecessary.
She reads my silence correctly. “We were talking about job leads.”
“Get home as soon as you can,” I grit out, then end the call and toss my phone on the desk. It hits the wood with a clatter, knocking over my deodorant in the process.
One more thing to fix.