8. Seismic Silence
CHAPTER EIGHT
SEISMIC SILENCE
Claire
We’re deep into rewriting resident safety protocols when a muffled voice drifts from the hallway. I glance up, my focus fracturing. Is that Ellie? The door eases open, and there she is with Ethan, her face glowing in the dim light.
“We brought you dinner,” she says, holding up a brown takeout bag, its paper crinkling. The scent of roasted chicken wafts into the air.
My expression softens, and I walk over and give her a hug. “Oh, my favorite.”
Then my gaze shifts behind me to the people waiting patiently around the conference room table. “I’m so sorry. We’re in the middle of something.”
Ellie goes still before speaking. “O—Kay.”
“No, it’s just—”
Ethan glances down at the table before meeting my eyes. “We can wait,” he offers, his voice a low rumble.
I glance at the wall clock, its second hand sweeping with an almost audible tick. “I honestly don’t know how long this is going to take.”
“We brought all your favorites,” Ellie says.
“Thank you, honey. I’m so sorry about this.”
“It’s fine,” she replies, but the flatness in her tone tells me it’s not.
“Ellie—” I say.
“It’s okay. You’re busy.” She turns abruptly, her footsteps tapping a flat, unhurried rhythm on the polished floor as she disappears.
“Ethan—” I say as I follow him into the hallway.
“No.” The word comes out like a brittle snap.
My eyes widen. “No?”
He lowers his voice, the sound like gravel. “Don’t apologize to me.”
“I’m working. It’s important.”
“I know.”
“We received a time-sensitive request this afternoon from the Mayor’s office.”
The only sound in the hall is the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system.
“We just wanted to bring you dinner, Claire. Maybe see you for a few minutes.”
My eyes drop to the takeout bag, now a forlorn brown lump. “You think I don’t want that?”
“It’s already after hours. You’ve put in over ten hours today.”
“I don’t have time for this right now. That room full of people is waiting for me so they can also go home and eat.” I gesture behind me.
A humorless laugh eludes him. “That’s kind of my point, Claire. You don’t have time. You never have time unless it’s about work.” He doesn’t say another word as he turns and walks away, his footsteps resolute.
I follow closely, the cold air from the hallway chilling my skin. When we reach the front entrance, Ellie is waiting beside the glass door with her back to us.
As they pull out of the parking lot, the red glow of their taillights recedes into the damp darkness. I stand framed in the harsh light of the entrance, watching them leave. The automatic doors slide shut with a soft hiss, sealing me in.
The next day, I decide work can wait. I stop by to visit Heidi before heading to the office. I arrive to find her in a small, sun-drenched courtyard. She’s been through a few weeks of therapy sessions and evaluations, but with painstakingly slow progress.
She’s surrounded by flowering shrubs in a neatly maintained garden smelling strongly of jasmine. She’s sitting on a bench reading a book with her knees pulled to her chest, looking like the frightened girl who first arrived at Juniper House, shoulders drawn in, making herself as small as possible.
“You’re late,” she says.
I smile as I take the empty wrought-iron chair beside her. “I’m never early.”
A small grin tugs at the corner of her mouth. “That’s true.”
For the next hour, we talk about everything and nothing: school, books, and the terrible quality of institutional food. She tells me about the therapy dog that visits every Wednesday and has better attendance than some patients. I don’t ask questions she isn’t ready to answer.
Before I leave, she grows subdued, her gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the courtyard walls. “You know I wasn’t trying to die, right?”
The words are so soft I almost miss them.
“I just wanted everything to stop for a little while.” I listen to her talk until it’s time for her counseling session. I pull her into a hug and promise to be back soon.
As I sit in my car, the scent of jasmine clings heavily to my clothes. The conversation with Heidi replays in my head, but it’s Ellie’s disappointed face that surfaces. I’ve spent the entire morning focused on someone else’s child. Maybe it’s time to focus on my own.
Before I talk myself out of it, I pull into a small deli around the corner. The bell on the front door chimes and I breathe in the aroma of fresh bread.
Arriving at her school, I cross the parking lot and head toward the front door juggling two sandwiches, chips, and a giant chocolate chip cookie.
The receptionist looks up from her desk. Her computer screen casts a pale glow on her face. “Forgotten lunch?”
I shake my head. “No. This one is intentional.”
Five minutes later, the office door opens with a soft click. Ellie walks in looking confused, her backpack slung over one shoulder. When she sees me, her eyes widen. “Mom?”
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“What are you doing here?”
I hold up the takeout bag, the scent of the food wafting between us. “I was hoping you’d have lunch with me.”
“Seriously?”
Her smile is worth every delayed email and missed phone call. “You’re skipping work?”
I nod in response, and we head toward the outdoor lunch tables.
“I prefer to think of it as strategic time management.”
She laughs, “That sounds like something Dad would say.”
We settle onto a shaded picnic table overlooking the athletic fields. Sunlight hits the worn wooden planks. Where we sit, the tree above offers some shade. Students fill the courtyard with laughter and shouted conversations.
It’s pleasant, and I don’t feel pulled in a dozen directions.
For forty-five minutes, it’s just us. Ellie tells me about an upcoming geography assignment, an argument in her math class, and the latest drama in her friend group.
I tell her about Heidi’s progress, without sharing details that aren’t mine to share.
We share a giant, crumbly chocolate chip cookie and argue good-naturedly about who deserves the bigger half. At one point, she pauses, a sprinkle of cookie on her chin. “You know, you didn’t have to do this.”
I set down my sandwich on the crinkly wax paper. “I wanted to.”
Halfway through a story about Mona’s latest romantic entanglement, my phone buzzes against the wood of the table. I don’t have to look to know it’s work. I’m conditioned to recognize the feeling. It vibrates twice more across the table.
She notices the shift in my expression. “You should answer that,” she says, already starting to gather the wrappers from our lunch. She doesn’t look at me, already assuming how this ends.
I glance down at the screen, three missed calls and a text from Marisol.
Nothing specific, just enough to make my mind race. Every instinct tells me to answer the phone, but I turn it face down instead.
Her eyebrows lift. “You aren’t answering it?”
“No.” The word surprising both of us with its firmness.
“What if it’s important?”
I look across the table and hold her gaze. “Nothing is more important than lunch with my daughter.”
A smile spreads across her face. The phone vibrates again, and I ignore it again, and her smile grows a little wider. She launches back into her story. “So, Mona broke up with him, but they were never actually dating.”
“That sounds complicated,” I say, laughing.
“It’s seventh grade, Mom. Everything is complicated.”
For once, I’m just listening, following the intricate map of her social life. Eventually, we move on to discussing whether Dad’s performance as Romeo qualifies as public humiliation.
She slows down and takes a bite of her sandwich. “This is nice.”
“What is?”
A faint blush rising on her cheeks. “This. Having lunch together.”
“I agree. It is nice.”
Returning to her chips, she launches into another story when a warning bell signals that lunch is over. Students gather backpacks and discard trash. “I should get to class.”
“Yeah, I don’t want you to be late.”
She stands and collects her belongings. I expect her to head back inside when she steps forward and wraps her arms around me, catching me by surprise. “Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for having lunch with me,” I reply, my voice a little thick. She grins and heads toward the school building. Halfway across the courtyard, she turns and waves.
I remain seated after she’s gone and pick up my phone to review the missed messages. A new message from Marisol sits at the top of the screen, stark against the white background.
Marisol: Crisis averted. We handled it.