62. Claire
sixty-two
I pull into my parents’driveway for my sister-date with a little more excitement than nervous anticipation. I’m taking Harper and Zoey out to the library and to dinner. The hope I have that they’re waiting in the front window and will simply dash out the door and into my car without me having to walk up vanishes when the front door does open, revealing my mother.
Even in her clear state of disarray, she’s got a full face of makeup and stands tall in her Jimmy Choo’s. I’ll give her that.
Taking a breath of resilience, I turn off the car, shove my keys into my pocket, and meet her on the porch.
We stand there in silence. I guess I can’t say I inherited nothing from her—we clearly share stubbornness.
She surprises me when she speaks first.
“The girls are inside getting ready. Do you want to come in?”
Suddenly, the February air is biting, and I nod, following her in.
The house looks like a bomb hit it. Shoes, toys, and clothes are everywhere. Sonny’s toys are dumped in the entryway. Oliver is crying in the living room, and Mom is quick to attend to him. When I get there, she is pointing at the TV in disarray.
“Ollie, buddy, I don’t know what dig-dog means.”
From the anguish on her face, I can tell this isn’t the first time today that they’ve had this conversation. And, from the red hue on Ollie’s cheeks, I can tell this isn’t the first time he’s asked. I approach gently.
“Can I try?”
“Please,” she all but begs.
“You want Mickey Mouse, buddy?”
“Yes!”
The relief that washes over both of them could flood the living room. They collapse onto the couch, Oliver on Mom’s lap. I wonder if they’ll both pass out from sheer exhaustion before I can even queue up his show.
His thumb is in his mouth, head tilted back onto her shoulder, as the theme to Mickey Mouse Clubhouse plays softly. I can hear Zoey and Harper getting ready upstairs, and while I long to grab them and run, something tells me to sit down. It takes us past the Mouseketools to talk.
“How’d you know what ‘dig dog’ meant?” she asks. And for the first time, I can sense vulnerability in my mom.
Glancing to see that Oliver is passed out, I snag the remote and fast-forward to the end where they sing the hot dog song.
“His favorites show is Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. He and Harper fight, because she would rather watch Bluey. I make them play rock-paper-scissors for it, and who ever loses gets to pick first the next time.”
I shrug. This is second nature to me, but to her, it’s like reading a manual in a different language.
Mom’s laugh sighs out of her, then trails into surprise tears.
“I don’t even know him. He’s my baby, and I don’t even know him.”
Part of me flinches. I was her baby once. I don’t know if she’s talking to me or Oliver or herself, but she wraps her arms tightly around Oliver, buries her nose into his hair, and inhales.
“We miss you around here, Claire.”
It’s braided with tears, and while I could go ahead and chalk this all up to the heat of the moment, I give my mom the benefit of the doubt.
“I miss everyone, too.” And then, I think of Nathan. Of how he’d helped me to find my own two feet, and reminded me of everything I deserve. “But I don’t miss being treated like your nanny instead of your daughter.”
Her swallow is audible.
“I understand. You’re just so good at it.”
She laughs humorlessly, and I hear the words that have gone unsaid.
You’re good so I don’t have to be.
If I want any semblance of a repair, I need to be forward with her too. If me leaving wasn’t proof enough of my feelings, maybe direct words will be.
“I am. But I never got the opportunity to be anything else. Zoey gets to be good at school and cello, Michael gets to be good at soccer. Why do I have to be good at parenting my siblings? Why do I have to work for Dad, so that my hours can fit your schedule? It’s like you’ve given me no choice: Do what you ask, or live on the outside of my own family. I’m your daughter, too. Sometimes, I feel like you don’t know me.”
Mom chews on her lip. I notice now that her cheeks flush the same color as mine do when I show emotion. But she nods, slowly, her eyes fixed on the television as Mickey dances on screen. Her next words come out so broken, so soft, I wonder if I’m still talking to my mom.
“You’re right. I guess I don’t.” She sniffles. “Sometimes, I think you’re a better mom to them than I am. It’s just easier to let you?—”
“No, Mom, it’s not. And it can’t be anymore. That’s why I left.”
Our silence times perfectly with the end of the episode. My nerves tingle, both with the newness of standing up for myself, and with the intrinsic worry that I’m talking back to my mom. I override the latter as I turn to face her. She is ashen, silent tears pooling in her eyes.
“Did you ever stop to consider that, while they needed me, I needed you?”
It’s the deadening bullet. Her eyes widen like a deer in headlights. The breath leaves her lungs in a deafening exhale. But Harper and Zoey come bounding down the stairs.
“Claire, can we go to Cabot’s? I want a giant ice cream!”
Harper bounces into my lap, and my heart tugs to see her dinky little braids. She’s been practicing.
“Yeah. Get your shoes and we can head out.”
They each give Mom a parting hug, and I stand to leave, following them to the door, when she calls out after me.
“Claire.” I pause with my hand on the doorway and look at her over my shoulder. “I’d like to finish this conversation. Maybe over coffee?”
She looks terrified. I guess in this case, words might have made a louder impact than actions. I smile tightly.
“I prefer tea, actually.”
Her eyes turn hopeful.
“I can make that happen.”
As soon as I’m in the car, Zoey asks, “Did hell freeze over?”
“Language, Zoey,” I chuckle, looking over my shoulder to back out of the driveway.
“I’ve missed this.”
She says it quietly. I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve ever used the words “quiet” and “Zoey” in the same sentence.
Stopped at a stop sign, I look to my little sister. Headphones out, in the front seat of my car, getting to just be my sister for once. I reach over and ruffle her hair, then reach into the backseat and squeeze Harper’s hand.
“Me too.”