Chapter 10 Claire
Claire
Pushing open the door, I call out to my parents that I’m here.
It’s always weird announcing myself in the house I lived in for eighteen years, but God forbid I scare my parents by arriving on time for the dinner we eat together every week.
If I had a dollar for every “Heaven’s sake, Claire!
" I’ve gotten, I’d be loaded. So much in fact, that I may be saved from the current problem at hand.
I’ve spent the last few days reeling from Chloe’s little charade. When I asked her on the car ride home what her intentions were, she assured me that it was important that you remind men that you exist.
I then said something along the lines of “I’m pretty sure if I have to remind a man that I am alive, that’s probably not a great sign of compatibility,” to which she replied, “Claire, you highly underestimate the stupidity of men.”
Regardless, if any part of her wanted to solidify my unhealthy obsession with a man I barely know, she was extremely successful.
It’s like he was an itch I couldn’t scratch that’s now threatening to kill me.
Like when you’re starving so you eat a snack only to realize now you’re even hungrier than before, that one small taste only deepening the need.
“In here!” Mom calls from the kitchen. I hear her chopping lettuce for a salad. Dad’s voice comes muffled through his office door, which tells me he’s on a late call, as usual.
“Hello, Mother.” I quip, offering her a kiss and a box with Whisk! written across the top. “Your favorite.”
“You’re sinful,” she says teasingly, holding the blondies from the nearby bakery.
Bringing the box to her nose she breathes deeply before setting it off to the side.
She sweeps the lettuce into a bowl and begins slicing up a cucumber.
I take the first slice and pop it in my mouth as I make my way to the other side of the island for a stool.
“You know, Margie from church told me her grandson is starting at your school in the fall. Sixth grade! Isn’t that something?”
“Sure is,” I say, swiping another cucumber.
“Do you think you’ll have him in one of your classes?”
“No idea. They don’t put out the schedules until later so…” I attempt a subject change. “Dad working?”
“You know him. He said he just had to finish some things up for a file and he’d be right out.” She glances over. “Speak of the devil himself.” Mom throws a wink towards the office door as my dad steps through it.
Dad always seems to be working. When I was younger, he tried his best to make all my silly, school concerts and little, dance recitals despite his busy schedule.
He may have snuck in the back a time or two, but he caught at least most of them.
He knew what it was like to feel overlooked, so despite the demands of his job, he did his best with the time that he had.
That being said, that time was often short.
It helps that Mom, on the other hand, would come early, with bright eyes and a big smile, and sit with whoever she knew at that event, cheering me on, front and center. She never seemed to mind bearing the load of doing almost everything else, as long as he showed up for the big things.
"Your father makes the money Claire!" she used to say. "I make the magic." And although she was teasing, she was right. She was the one leaving little notes in my lunches or decorating my door for birthdays, but Dad kept the family afloat in the quiet ways — the ways kids never seem to notice.
“Hey, Claire Bear. Ooh, you brought blondies.” Dad per usual heads straight for dessert and tries cracking open the box, as Mom, per usual, smacks his hand simultaneously. “Worth a shot,” he says, rounding the island and kissing the top of my head before taking the stool next to mine.
“Claire and I were just talking about Margie’s grandson going to Jefferson this year, weren’t we Claire.”
“Mhmm, sure were," I say spinning my stool away from the counter. "I’ll set the table!” Leaving no room for argument, I grab three dishes from the cabinet and head towards the dining room.
“Don’t forget the napkins!” my father calls after me, shrugging only to my mom.
I successfully avoid talking about this upcoming school year until dessert when Dad says, “I bet you’re anxious to get your normal routine back aren’t ya, Bear?”
“Well, it’s only been a few weeks, but so far I’m enjoying the summer. I’ve had a lot of extra time to run and work on my writing. I kind of wish I had more time to do both all year round.” I play with the crumbs on my plate waiting for what’s coming.
“Those are fun hobbies, sure, but you have to make a living!” He chuckles, wiping first his mouth and then his hands with his napkin.
“Well, although I’m not so sure about the running,” I take a sip of water, my throat suddenly dry, “You can make a decent living off of writing, you know? There are journalists and bloggers,” I pause to take another sip. “Authors.”
I’ve approached this topic before, casually dropping bait to see if he’d bite. “Oh, you remember so and so? They write for a food blog now” or “Blah blah who went to high school with me, she was published in a magazine.” Every time it’s the same response as the one he gives now.
“Sure, those jobs exist but they’re for people who didn’t get a real degree like you!
” Of course, this is wildly untrue, which is the one thing Dad chooses not to be factual about.
In this case, I think his opinion on the topic clouds his otherwise factual mentality.
His opinion being that I was born to be a teacher and so a teacher is what I'll be. So, despite that millions of successful authors do exist and make a living through this “hobby,” there’s no convincing him that I could possibly want to be one of them.
He reaches for the box of dessert, but Mom pulls it away. “I’m just saying Claire, you’re in a respectable profession.”
“Amen!” Mom chimes cheerfully. Always the cheerleader.
“Those kids are lucky to have you!” he says.
“And so are we!” Mom ends the conversation, collecting our plates, taking with her two very important things — the blondies and my dream.