38. Undetected Damage
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
UNDETECTED DAMAGE
Claire
I pause outside the room Ellie has claimed as hers. She’s sitting cross-legged on the rainbow bedspread we brought from her room, headphones resting around her neck and her script spread across the comforter.
She glances up when my knuckles tap lightly against the doorframe.
“Hey, can I come in?”
She nods, and I cross the room to sit beside her. I take a slow breath.
“I think we need to talk.”
The color drains from her face. “Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
“Then why do you sound so funny?”
Because my heart is breaking. Because I’m about to shatter part of the world you thought was permanent.
I give her a reassuring hug. “Your dad and I are going through something difficult right now.”
She looks down, picking at a spot on the rumpled duvet. “Duh, we aren’t living at home.”
“If I could keep this from hurting you, I would.”
She twists the sleeve of her shirt, a nervous habit, the fabric stretching and then snapping back. “Is this about why we’re staying here?”
“Partly.”
Then, finally, she asks the question she’s clearly been carrying, her words soft but weighted. “Are you getting divorced?”
“I don’t know. Your dad and I have decided to live separately right now. I know this is painful and confusing, and you have a lot of questions. What I need you to know is that none of this is because of you. We both love you very much, and we will always be your parents.”
“What happened?”
“A lot of it is just between your dad and me. You might hear people talking, and I don’t want you getting hurt by gossip. Please know that what’s happening is our problem, not yours to fix. He’s still your dad, he loves you, and you never have to choose between us.”
She looks away, her gaze fixed beyond my shoulder. The silence is thick, punctuated only by the click of the heating unit. A tear slips down her cheek.
“You should’ve told me sooner.”
I absorb her words, feeling a dull ache for having shut her out. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ve been struggling with how to tell you.”
She shrugs, and I pull her into my arms. She collapses against me, small and vulnerable, looking every bit her age. The soft scent of strawberry shampoo fills my lungs.
“What’s going to happen now?” she asks, voice muffled against my shoulder.
“I wish I knew.”
“How long will we stay here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will I still see Dad?”
I pull back, hands resting gently on her shoulders. “Of course, sweetheart. Whenever you want.”
She nods, eyes still a little red, then asks, “Do you think we’ll ever be a normal family again?”
“I think we’ll find a new normal.”
When I pull into the middle school parking lot, every instinct tells me to turn the car around. But the play opens in a week, and nearly thirty students are counting on me.
I drop my bag in the front row, the soft thud absorbed by the plush velvet seats, and begin flipping through notes. “All right, everyone, let’s get started,” I call out.
A handful of students scramble into position, while others continue talking. I narrow my eyes, a silent command that cuts through the noise, finally getting their attention.
The familiar rhythm of rehearsal settles for a little while. Then the auditorium doors burst open with a sudden crash, making everyone jump.
Every head turns to see Sloane stumble through the doorway, her silhouette framed by the light of the hallway.
A bright pink tape measure hangs around her neck, and she’s wearing a decorative scarf, massive sunglasses, and ridiculously high heels.
She’s balancing a cardboard box on top of a teetering tower of massive storage bins.
She makes it exactly three triumphant steps before the stack tilts dangerously.
“Oh no,” she says, with a panicked squeak.
The words leave her mouth before the top container slides sideways. The box bursts open, vomiting its contents across the floor in a technicolor explosion: feather boas, rolling hats, fabric scraps, and an entire elephant costume that unfurls with a comical flop of its ears.
The theater falls silent, and dawning amusement spreads across her face.
“I’d like everyone to know,” she announces, “that this looked incredibly professional in the parking lot.”
Students scatter to gather the fallen items, darting in every direction, while Sloane, hands on her hips, surveys the scene with a theatrical sigh.
Lucy enters, pushing a squeaky garment rack, and a weary expression on her face that speaks volumes. “I told you to make two trips.”
Sloane points to the floor with a dramatic gesture. “And miss this entrance?”
“You dropped more than half the contents,” Lucy says, retrieving a sparkly fedora from beneath a seat.
“I prefer to think I distributed them.”
A cast member retrieves an oversized feathered hat with plumes a riot of color. Sloane gasps, a hand flying to her chest. “Protect the feathers! Whatever happens, protect the feathers!”
He grins, clutching the hat like a precious artifact. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re encouraging her,” Lucy mutters, rolling her eyes.
“The youth recognize greatness when they see it,” she says, puffing out her chest.
“The youth are laughing at you.”
“Still counts as recognition.”
Sloane turns to me, her expression softening as the humor fades from her eyes, replaced by something quieter before her familiar grin slips back into place.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, a small smile playing on my lips.
“Excellent question,” Sloane replies.
“That wasn’t rhetorical.”
She sets her stuff on the floor with a clatter. “Lucy and I have officially joined the production.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I look at Lucy, whose weary sigh is audible. “She volunteered us.”
“I absolutely volunteered us,” Sloane says.
“You didn’t ask me.”
“I knew you’d say yes.”
“You didn’t know that.”
Within twenty minutes, they’ve seamlessly integrated themselves into rehearsal.
Lucy takes charge of costume organization with military efficiency. The rustle of fabric accompanies her precise instructions.
Sloane, meanwhile, launches herself into the role of assistant director. At one point, I find her holding a clipboard upside down while dispensing acting advice to three bewildered teens, their expressions a mixture of confusion and awe.
Later, I find Sloane trying to fix a prop with a hot glue gun, the sharp smell of melting plastic wafting through the theater.
“Why do you have a glue gun?” I ask.
“I think the more important question is why you don’t have a glue gun.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It answers my question.”
Within the second hour, Sloane has convinced half the cast she once turned down a Broadway contract. The story grows more elaborate with each retelling.
Lucy finally intervenes, announcing, “She has never been to Broadway.”
Sloane shrugs, a defiant grin playing on her lips. “I saw Hamilton.”
“On TV. That doesn’t count.”
“I feel it counts spiritually.”
The students adore both of them. Before I know it, the evening has passed much more quickly than my first night as director. I focus on scene transitions and missed cues.
As I gather my notes at the end of rehearsal, I hear someone call my name.
“Claire?”
I look up to find Jennifer Starling approaching. Mona stands several feet behind her, talking animatedly with Ellie.
She offers a small, hesitant smile. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.”
She glances toward the girls, then lowers her voice. “I heard what happened.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that the news is already spreading, but I believed I had a few more days.
Her expression fills with concern. “I’m sorry,” she says, her tone leaving no doubt.
“Thank you.”
“I kept going back and forth about whether to say anything. After our conversation at the grocery store, pretending I didn’t know just didn’t feel right.”
And I understand that completely. “I’m glad you did.”
She folds her arms loosely across her chest and glances toward Mona and Ellie, a fond smile touching her lips.
“They’re great kids.”
“They are.”
“Mona’s been worried about Ellie. She doesn’t know anything other than that you guys moved out.”
My heart tightens. “Ellie is trying to be brave.”
“That sounds like her.”
“It is.”
She squeezes my arm. “If you need help, call me. Anything. Rides, sleepovers, taking them for ice cream, keeping them busy—whatever you need.”
Emotion catches in my throat. “That’s very generous.”
She smiles. “It’s not generosity. It’s what moms do.” Then, with an even wider grin, she continues, “And for the record, you’re handling this much better than I would. My husband knows I’d already be digging a hole somewhere. So, when you figure out what you need, call me first.”