46. Claire
forty-six
I haven’t been homesince I moved in with Penelope. It’s only been a few weeks, but this is weird.
From the outside looking in, everything just seems off. The winding curves of the neighborhood seem more jagged, the colors of the houses more muted. Even the Christmas decorations seem haphazard. It’s like I’ve stepped into an alternate reality where this is still the house I grew up in, and yet, everything’s a little to the left.
I approach the front door and hesitate.
What’s the protocol here? Do I knock? I still have a key. I know the garage code. I shift the large tote of gifts for my siblings and the cookies I baked fresh last night and rap my knuckles softly three times against the front door. After a minute or two, it swings open.
When Michael opens the door, clad in Christmas pajamas I haven’t seen before, something in me relaxes. I know that the tension was in anticipation of seeing my parents. It only wanes a little.
“Oh. Hey. We’re eating cinnamon rolls.”
That’s all I get. He presses the door open, then glances down at his phone as he heads into the kitchen.
I check the time on the hallway clock. I’m ten minutes early for the time my mom set.
They started without me.
I swallow a lump the size of Texas, adjust the bag on my shoulder, take a deep breath, and follow my brother inside. In the kitchen is a picturesque scene that I hesitate to disturb.
A family in matching Christmas pajamas, frosting cinnamon rolls while they share laughter and the holiday spirit. For a moment, my chest tightens, breath catching in fear that I don’t belong here anymore.
But then Harper lifts her head from where she’s devouring her cinnamon roll, her chipmunk cheeks tinted pink, and stares at me wide eyed before darting from her chair.
“Claire’s here!”
The chair topples over, and she slips on her too-long plaid pants, but scurries into my awaiting arms. A torrent of emotions rushes up my throat, clogging it briefly as I make a futile attempt not to cry. But as soon as she says I missed you, I can’t stop it. Tears stream into her cute little bob, and I squeeze her tightly, only releasing her when I feel the brute impact of Ryan slamming into me with a hug. I welcome him in and kiss the top of his head, responding to his, Hiya, Claire, with a tearfully smiley, I missed you, buddy.
Ryan leaves first, returning enthusiastically to his cinnamon roll, and is quickly replaced by a toddling Oliver. My little man. I scoop him into my arms and inhale the still lingering toddler shampoo scent. When I pull back, he squeezes my cheeks in his chubby fists and says, “We go to the library, Cwaire?”
“Not today, buddy. Santa came! Should we finish your cinnamon roll and open presents?”
At the mention of cinnamon rolls and Santa, he hoists himself off my lap and returns to his booster seat. Harper, still propped on my thigh, plays with my hair, twisting two pieces around one another.
Because I told her that I’d teach her to braid, but then I left.
“Can we go to the library soon, Claire? Mommy can’t take us.”
The quietness of her words echoes, like she knows too young that this should be kept between us.
Can’t, or won’t?
It echoes loudly, guilt clogging my heart as I carefully take the snarls of my hair from her fingers, part it into three, and braid the strand hand over hand while I answer.
“I’d love to take you to the library, Harps. I’ll see what I can do.”
We finish the quick braid, and I kiss her forehead right over her bangs, help her stand, and then stand myself, brushing crumbs from my leggings as I go.
Luckily, there’s still a few cinnamon rolls left by the time I bend to hug my father, kiss my mother’s cheek, and take the seat that was once mine at the kitchen table. I’m not sure if it still is. I sit mechanically, wondering if this chair will swallow me whole.
“We’re about ready to start opening gifts,” Mom says, taking empty plates to the counter. I have to will the muscle memory to stop me from helping.
“But Claire’s gotta finish her cimmamin roll!” Ryan insists. Bless him, because I sure don’t have the guts to say it.
“Claire can join us when she’s finished.”
I don’t miss her pointed stare, the condemnation that comes down her nose from where she directs her gaze.
“Okay. I’m gonna sit with Claire.”
Harper shrugs, scooting her chair closer to mine. I’ll tell her one day, how her childlike simplicity was a unity I didn’t know I needed until it was offered to me. One by one, my siblings agree. My mother’s gaze narrows, meeting my father’s for support. But he’s too wrapped up in his iPad to care, to notice that she’s attempting to go to war.
I eat as quickly as I can, then carry Harper on one hip and Oliver on the other to the living room like they insist. I expected the tension, but it still doesn’t make it any easier to cope, as we all sit in front of the blazing fireplace with our stockings. My siblings all look to me for an answer. No one quite knows what to do. I motion toward Oliver, as the youngest.
“Go ahead, Ollie. Open it.”
He tears in with a huge smile, and the rest follow. Stockings have always been toothbrushes and underwear and socks and a little bit of candy. At least that normalcy remains. I open mine delicately, repackaging it after I’ve quietly thanked my mother. She’s perched on the edge of the couch, arms crossed, giving the Grinch a run for his money.
One by one, my siblings begin tearing into their presents. I watch, missing them so much that my Christmas gift could simply be the joy on their faces and nothing more. Brand name shoes and clothes, new iPads for the older two, and a Power Wheels truck for the little ones. There is no lack of wanting in this house. Not on Christmas or otherwise.
“Claire, what’d you get?” Harper asks. With a new American Girl doll in hand, she settles into my lap, already attempting to braid the doll’s hair. I snag her hands to guide her again.
“I’m not sure. I wanted to watch you guys open your gifts first.”
“I’ll go get you one,” Ryan insists. He sets down his new remote controlled car and rummages through the remaining gifts, shoving them aside as he looks for my name. There are two bags with my name on them.
“Momma, why did Santa bring Claire toilet stuff?” Ryan asks as I pull a sleek looking toilet brush contraption and a bottle of cleaner from the first bag. Poking around, I notice several other cleaning supplies, but keep that to myself.
“She moved into a new house! Maybe Santa knew that she would need things to keep it clean.”
I am mortified. But I swallow my pride and open the second gift.
“Claire loves books!” Harper says, her spirits lifted by the thick hardcover that I lug out of the second bag. “What’s it about?”
“It’s called a coffee table book,” I say, flipping through the pages of the farmhouse HGTV couple. Despite everything in me telling me to fight back, I lift my heavy head, paint on a tense smile, and look my mother in the eye as I say a concise, “Thank you.”
Her spiteful smirk sparkles in victory. My father, for the first time, looks up from his iPad. It’s a sidelong glance to my mother that shifts slowly to me and back to her. Wondering which one of us will cross the battle lines first.
“These are weird presents,” Harper says, digging through the bag of cleaning supplies to find a Scrub Daddy sponge. She makes a face. “Why didn’t Santa bring Claire good stuff? She wasn’t bad.”
“It seems that, since she doesn’t live here anymore, Santa didn’t know what to get her.”
It hurts. But in the same sense, I don’t want anything from them. From her. I can’t afford to be in their debt any longer. Maybe it was better this way.
It’s Zoey who makes the stand.
“Seriously?” One look at her snarled expression tells me she’s starting to see through the bullshit, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. “I’m pretty sure a mythical being who can see you when you’re both sleeping and awake could figure out a change of address, Mom.”
My dad chokes on his coffee, eyes widening as his gaze shifts from Mom to Zoey. Mom’s gaze narrows to a serpent’s, her tongue running over her teeth in contemplation.
“That’s beside the point, Zoey.”
It’s not about the presents. Not in the slightest. It’s the punch to my heart that tells me I did the absolute best thing I ever could have done for myself by leaving.
But in the same moment, guilt overflows. Because I’ve left my siblings here alone, unprotected, to face the same.
“We still have one more gift, but it’s not inside.”
She does a one-eighty, eyes sparkling like you’d expect a loving mother to on a Christmas morning where she wasn’t trying to teach her first born a lesson. We all follow her out to the garage. She takes Michael by the hand, and as she flips on the light, my stomach plummets to my shoes.
“Of course, you won’t be able to drive it until you get your license, but Merry Christmas, Mikey!”
A brand new Range Rover, fit with one of those big, commercial bows to the hood, takes up the spot in the garage where my used Accord once sat.
The one I purchased on my own, with money I’d saved, because when I’d asked for help acquiring my own vehicle, my parents reminded me that they’d gotten the minivan for me.
“Stand in front of it so I can get a photo!”
Mom ushers Michael into place, and I know that this will be on Facebook for all of her friends to see within the hour, probably with #blessed and a bunch of emojis. I wonder if Michael notices, or cares at all.
“Why?”
It’s the only syllable to make it through the barrage of questions I have. I leave my mother to interpret its meaning. And maybe that was my first mistake. Her Cheshire smile curls upward like an evil sorceress as she strikes her killing blow.
“Why not? Michael has always done his best. He absolutely deserves it.”
I flee.
Dropping the hands of Ryan and Oliver, who had insisted on anchoring to me, I make my exit through the attached door, snag my purse at the entryway, and push out the front door without making sure it closes.
It’s hard to catch my breath once I’m in the front seat of my own car. I’m shaking, that word deserve choking the breath from my lungs. The grief is inescapable. I briefly wonder if this is what drowning feels like, before the door opens, slams closed, and a hand clenches over mine.
“That was freaking shitty.”
The squeeze of my unapologetically apathetic sister’s hand releases enough of my tension to allow me to breathe. It takes me a few minutes to calm my racing heart, but with my head tipped back against the headrest, I finally crack a smile.
“Language, Zoey.”
“Okay, but it was!” she erupts. “She has no right to punish you for wanting to be an adult.”
I toss her a sad smile, laughing sarcastically at the ceiling.
“And yet, here we are. Christmas morning, and she couldn’t even keep the peace.”
“At least she got you underwear.” Zoey rolls her eyes, and damn do I miss my little sister.
“I left them inside.”
“Want me to go back for them?”
I shake my head. “They were probably granny panties anyway. Have things gotten any better?”
“No.” She shakes her head, then wipes the back of her hand beneath her nose defiantly. “She was going to miss wine night with her friends or something to take me to cello, and flipped out about it. Michael was late to soccer again, and they had a fight because he told her to stop yelling at the coach when it was her fault. She can’t cook for crap, Claire.”
My heart tears. When was the last time my mother actually had to mother?
“You’re never coming back, are you?”
A noose tightens around my heart. I shake my head in a slow tilt, shoving down the brokenness in my sister’s voice.
“No. Not to live with them anyway.”
She blinks. Breathes in shortly, out shortly, and closes her eyes. They flutter against her porcelain skin. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Zo this vulnerable.
“What about for us?”
The slow rising guilt finally overflows. The bite against the inside of my cheek is fruitless to the tears that burst over the shattered dam.
“Oh, Zo.” I run my hand over her tight curls, tugging one to watch it spring back into place before I cup her cheek.
I fear for a moment that I’m about to lose her, but she says, “I get it. You can’t let her treat you like that anymore.”
The fear I’ve always held, that my siblings would be forced to grow up too fast, resonates in front of me. Zoey already knows too much.
“Can we have a library date soon? Mom refuses to take us because it ‘cuts into her social time,’ and once Michael gets his license, I’m sure he’ll be too busy making out with all of his girlfriends in the back of that ugly car to care about us anymore.”
I giggle past the claim she’s made against Michael—my other fear, the disassociation, has likely already taken him captive. “It is ugly, isn’t it?”
My sister huffs a laugh. A sob stutters in my chest and I suppress it long enough to cross the center console and hug her tightly.
“You’d better get back inside,” I say, ruffling her hair.
She nods, the recognition clawing at me.
“You’ll be okay today?”
“I always have been.”
She offers me a tight smile and climbs out of my car, and I don’t start the engine until I see the front door snick shut. When I do, my car routes itself in his direction all on its own.