After Claire (eBook)

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

“Did Mommy go to heaven right away, or only just now?”

Allie’s question surprised me out of a trance of disbelief. Claire had just been lowered into the ground and a large part of my mind was still trying to go back to the week before, when she was still alive.

I had no idea how to answer my daughter. But there was something urgent in her voice, and in her eyes. I drew her close with a hand on her shoulder. “Right away,” I whispered. “Sometimes, I can almost see her face in the clouds.”

Allie took a brief, furtive glance toward the sky, her blue eyes lit with a momentary flicker of light. Then she looked down at the carefully manicured ground, her features slackening. “Can we go home now?” she asked, her voice so frail I wanted to take her in my arms.

But how could I offer her comfort when it was I who had taken Claire from her? From us.

I asked Allie if she wanted to cast a handful of dirt into the grave as some were doing—Claire’s parents, Claire’s sister, a few friends and colleagues where Claire had taught high school math. Allie looked up at me, her straw-colored hair ruffling in the breeze. “No. I just want to go home.”

Going home suited me, too. Everyone at the graveside, everyone except Allie that is, knew exactly how Claire had died; knew about the citation I’d gotten for reckless driving. On the way to the funeral that morning, I’d hoped someone might let me know—with a word or touch or kind regard—that they understood my grief was different than theirs, that the pain in my heart was accompanied by near suffocating guilt. No one had. By the time Allie was ready to leave, the collective judgement of everyone present, communicated with downcast eyes and furrowed brows, had pissed me off to the point where I thought about going up to Claire’s mother and telling her I hadn’t meant to kill Claire.

I didn’t do that, of course, It was my own shame, much more than Marge’s disapproval, that held me in its punishing grip, and to confront Marge in such a ridiculous way would only feed its fury.

I took Allie’s hand and we left together, Allie walking gracefully in spite of what she must be feeling, in spite of being so tall for her age and too thin, both of us returning to a home where we would have to learn how to live all over again. From scratch, as they say. And as we walked toward the car, a question burned in my mind like the smoldering underbrush of a fire I feared might consume us both.

What would happen between us when Allie learned the precise circumstances of her mother’s death?

•••

Weeks later I walked into Allie’s bedroom to wake her for school. Her hair was golden in the early morning light, her forehead and cheeks smooth and untroubled. I was tempted to leave her to her dreams; it was Claire’s birthday after all, and I feared what heartbreak this day might bring. Allie stirred in the bed. The way the bridge of her nose gave way to closely spaced eyes reminded me so much of Claire I had to look away. It occurred to me then that Claire would be forever there in Allie’s face. And in her hands, the way her littlest finger bent inward at the tip, just like Claire’s

I’d never before imagined that the genetic imprint a parent left on a child could be so painful.

“Time to get up, Daddy?” Allie’s small, high voice startled me out of my thoughts.

“Yes it is, Sweetpea. The sun’s come up again, after all.” I’d meant this as a joke, but Allie grimaced her disapproval, and it hurt.

The day before, Allie had overheard two older girls talking about how one day the sun will burn itself out. She’d asked her fourth-grade teacher if this was true and the teacher confirmed it. When Allie told me later that day what she’d learned, how one day even the sun will die, her voice had risen to a frantic pitch. “When that happens, Daddy, there’ll be no more everything.”

I couldn’t stand the pain she was in and stupidly tried to explain that the sun wouldn’t burn out for a very long time—long after she and her children and even her grandchildren’s grandchildren were dead and gone. I’d meant this to be reassuring, but all this talk of death only upset her more. “Stop talking, Daddy,” she’d said, covering her ears with her hands the way she used to do when she was four or five. So I stopped, helpless in the face of her burgeoning grief.

Now, Allie pulled the covers up over her head and made herself into a wriggly lump under the pink blanket. “Do I have to go to school today?” she asked.

She’d said this with such refreshing and surprising humor, I was glad to play along. “No, but if you don’t go to school, you’ll have to stay in bed all day long.”

She brought her head out from under the covers. “What if I need to pee?”

“You can pee tomorrow.”

Allie flung the covers aside and did a slow roll out of bed. “I have to pee now.”

“Get dressed,” I said, giving her a swat on the butt. “While I start the french toast.”

The french toast held a certain significance. Before Claire died, I’d made it only on Sundays. A special treat. Now, I made it every weekday morning in a lame attempt to make each day seem special. On Sundays, I took Allie to the local Einstein’s, where she ordered something different every time. On our last trip, she’d ordered a plain bagel, toasted, with butter and capers, no lox. No cream cheese. She claimed it was delicious but said so with such a blank face and narrowed eyes I couldn’t tell if she meant it or was pulling my leg.

It wasn’t only at Einstein’s that Allie was intent on change. One time, she wanted her hot chocolate with marshmallows, the next with little cinnamon hearts, and then with tiny pieces of cut up Tootsie Roll; each time something new. It was hard to watch, these meaningless little changes, this senseless variety. I felt it had to do with her grief—distracting herself from it with one new thing after another.

At first, I’d tried to keep Claire’s memory alive by talking about her. “Claire would be so proud of you, Sweetpea. All A’s and B’s this time.” Or, “Your mother loved the way you look in that dress. You know that, right?” But whenever I mentioned Claire, Allie would become mute and withdraw into herself. Once, while Allie was on the sofa reading a magazine, I’d sat next to her. “You don’t like to talk about Mom?” I’d asked. Allie shook her head and I could tell she was holding back tears. “It makes me sad to talk about her, too,” I said. “But I’m even sadder when we don’t. Know what I mean?”

“No,” she said, quickly and with surprising anger. “It makes me sadder when we do talk about her.”

I gave her a moment. “But don’t we have to talk about her sometime?”

“Not today.” Allie said this as though issuing a command.

“You’ll let me know when you’re ready?”

Allie nodded almost imperceptibly, then picked up her magazine and resumed reading.

•••

In the kitchen, bright with light flooding through a trio of high windows, I gathered eggs and milk from the refrigerator, started the electric griddle and opened a new loaf of bread. True to her penchant for post-Claire variety, Allie liked to experiment with different kinds of bread for her french toast. This morning it would be sourdough. I broke eggs and mixed them with milk and cinnamon and dunked two pieces of bread in the eggy mixture, feeling happy to do so. Making breakfast for Allie was a way to make a little bit of difference in her life, hopefully for the better. As I set the sodden bread on the griddle, Allie walked into the adjoining room and threw her backpack on the table. She was dressed neatly in blue jeans and a light blue shirt that matched the highlights in the darker blue of her eyes. Her blonde hair, which just reached her shoulders, was expertly parted in the middle. “I’m ready,” she announced.

I was smitten and let her know it with a smile. But I was also sad for Allie. Before the accident, Claire had helped her dress every morning. I’d observed the ritual often enough to know it had been an intimate time—Claire picking out a pair of blouses or slacks or shoes for Allie to choose from, holding them up against her own tall, thin frame. Letting Allie know how pretty she was. How could Allie not miss those girly, chatty, irreplaceable moments? I certainly did.

When the french toast was ready—light brown on top and bottom with the sweet, peppery scent of cinnamon—I put it on a plate I’d warmed in the oven and took it out to her along with my own bowl of cereal. She didn’t thank me, which was okay; I liked that she took my care for granted. I sat across from her, watching her type something into her phone between bites of french toast. The phone was new; I’d splurged for it on her ninth birthday two months before. Claire would not have approved; she’d have thought Allie too young for a cellphone. But Allie had been delighted and I didn’t regret the purchase.

As she was finishing the last few bites of toast, Allie’s forehead wrinkled and a dark veil of worry came into her eyes. “I wish I didn’t know about the sun dying,” she said, looking at me with an expression so forlorn I felt a rush of irritation toward the older girl who’d presented her with this unnecessary bit of knowledge. “It makes things seem…pointless. You...