Chapter 5
Clara
The lake house was going to feel like home.
That’s what I kept telling myself.
Home wasn't meant to be a place where you counted the hours until your husband returned.
It was not supposed to be the place where your son would ask, “Is Daddy coming home tonight?" and you learned to grin before you talked.”
It wasn’t intended to be so lonely.
I was in the middle of the living room, looking at the crooked decoration over the window.
A wooden sailboat swung on a fading blue ribbon, but one side had broken apart.
“Perfect,” I said.
The sailboat had been there from the time Alexander’s grandfather bought the house. Noah was all about that.
I could repair it.
There was one thing in this house that might be mended.
I pulled the little ladder under the window and stepped up to the second rung.
My pride, wounded though it was, was nothing to my will.
I got the ribbon.
Close.
“Come on…
I brushed with my fingers.
The ladder moved.
I stopped.
For one terrible moment everything seemed to move in slow motion.
Then the ladder slipped sideways.
I grabbed for the window frame.
Missed.
And hit the floor.
Tough.
Pain erupted through my wrist.
I gasped.
For several seconds, I couldn't breathe.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, my heart thumping against my ribs.
“Clara?”
Noah's voice sounded from the hallway.
I forced myself upright.
“I'm okay.”
That was a lie.
A very awful one.
Noah ran inside the room.
“Mom!”
“I'm fine.” I tried to grin.
He stared at my wrist.
“You're not fine.”
Kids were annoying perceptive.
“I think I’ve hurt it.”
His small features grew wan.
“Shall I call Daddy?”
The question was harder than the fall.
I glanced at my phone on the table.
Alexander M.
My hubby.
The man who was meant to come when I rang.
“Yup,” I said. “Tell Daddy."
Noah picked up the phone.
I restrained him.
'No. I'll do it.'
I telephoned Alexander.
One time.
It chimed.
And rang.
No response.
I called once more.
Nothing.
My stomach heaved for the third time.
By the fourth time I gave up waiting for him to reply.
It went to voice mail.
I stared at the monitor.
Alexander set to work.
He was, of course.
He was always at work.
I could have been bleeding on the kitchen floor, and part of me would still wonder if calling him was an inconvenience.
Noah sat next to me.
“Daddy didn't answer?”
I swallowed.
“No.”
“Is he coming?”
I looked at my son.
Then I looked at my swollen wrist.
Then back at the phone.
“I don't know.”
That was the first time I realised how weary I was of saying those words.
I don't know.
I didn't know when Alexander would come home.
I didn't know when he'd remember Noah's school events.
I didn't know when he'd look at me and actually see me.
And now I didn't know whether my husband would come when I needed him.
Five days passed.
Five.
By then, my wrist was wrapped and braced.
The doctor had confirmed a fracture.
I'd learnt how to cook with one hand.
How to dress with one hand.
How to help Noah with his homework while pretending the throbbing pain wasn't keeping me awake at night.
Alexander hadn't called.
Not once.
Then, on the fifth evening, the front door opened.
Alexander walked in.
His suit was immaculate.
His expression was exhausted.
His phone was already in his hand.
“I've been dealing with a disaster at the office,” he said, walking past me. “The board nearly forced a vote, and if I hadn't”
I stared at him.
He kept talking.
He told me about investors.
Contracts.
There was a merger.
There was a problem with one of his executives.
I listened.
Or pretended to.
Because the man who hadn't answered four calls from his wife was standing three feet away, explaining how difficult his week had been.
He didn't ask how mine was.
He didn't ask about Noah.
He didn't ask why I was wearing a wrist brace.
He didn't even look at it.
For nearly two hours, Alexander talked about his crisis.
And I said almost nothing.
At some point, he poured himself a drink.
“How's Noah?” he asked casually.
“Fine.”
“Good.”
That was it.
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because if I didn't laugh, I might cry.
He finally looked at me.
His eyes dropped to my wrist.
“What happened?”
The room went completely silent.
I looked down at the brace.
Then back at him.
“You noticed.”
His brow furrowed.
“Your wrist.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
I studied his face.
There was anxiety there now.
Late worry.
Convenient concern.
“I fell off the ladder.”
His expression changed.
“You fell?”
“Five days ago.”
His jaw stiffened.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
I stared at him.
“I did.”
He said nothing.
“I called you four times.”
Alexander's face went still.
“I was in meetings.”
“I know.”
“I did not see the calls.”
I know.
“I would have come if I'd known.”
Something inside me cracked.
Not loudly.
Not in an obvious way.
Just enough for me to finally understand.
I had spent years translating his absence into excuses.
Work.
Pressure
Responsibility.
Business.
Family.
There was always something.
There would always be something.
I looked at the man I had married and asked quietly,
“Would you have noticed if it had been worse?”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
For once, Alexander Vale had no answer.
I nodded slowly.
The silence was my answer.
That night, when Alexander went upstairs, I stayed alone in the bedroom.
I glanced at my wedding ring.
Six years.
Six years of waiting.
Six years of hoping.
Six years of convincing myself that someday he would look at me and see the woman who loved him.
But suddenly, I was utterly exhausted.
Tired of asking.
Tired of waiting.
Tired of accepting crumbs and calling them love.
I slid the ring from my finger.
I didn't throw it away.
I simply placed it on the nightstand.
Tomorrow, I would still be Clara.
I would still be Noah's mother.
I would still have a life.
But I would no longer beg my husband to give me what he should have wanted to give freely.
I looked at the closed bedroom door.
Alexander thought I was still waiting for him.
He was wrong.
I had finally determined to quit begging for bits of affection.