If you are new to Serial Sunday, it is a series in which I publish one chapter a week on Sundays. It is raw, unedited, and totally out of my comfort zone, but so far I love the process. Here is chapter two:
Claire had pinned herself together enough to plough through her day. She acted as if what Sara said was normal. She nodded her head and smiled and said, of course, yes, that is what needs to happen, um hmm, yep, that sounds good. Some time. Right. See someone. Uh huh, sure. No shame. right. Okay. In the end, Sara hugged Clarie and said, “This is going to be the hardest and best journey you have ever gone on, so you should record it. Record it for Grace, because she will be here, in your shoes, if you don’t.
Internally, Claire screamed. She cried, she gasped, she cracked a bit, externally she nodded and smiled a tight smile. She started to say thank you, but before it came, a single tear streaked her make up and Claire’s stitching stretched and pulled. She quickly wiped away her deceiver, but it was done. She looked at Sara and realized with one more breath she was going to completely burst through her designer tags and be a puddle of nothing on the floor…the dirty floor.
So she denied it. She controlled it. She said she’d think about it, gave Sara a hug and pushed her out the door. She:
meet with a new client – Hanson couple
- flat
met with Simon – contractor for Syaid family
return drapes – Barbara Jackson
meet with the Tammy – seamstress for Syaid living room
pick out Syaid furniture
email Conor’s Science teacher
call Greg
pick up kids
dinner
clean up
With each neat check mark behind her tasks, she cleared her screen and started to add to tomorrow’s list. Conor sat with Greg in the dining room working on his science homework, Grace sat on the couch with her laptop toggling between a facebook chat and her research for an English paper. Usually Claire would tell her to shut down the chat, but she didn’t have the strength today. She was too busy second guessing every action she had made in life. Next to Grace remained the apron Claire had thrown haphazardly this morning. It held her gaze.
Isn’t it normal to have mess? Isn’t it normal to have chaos? The quiet in the house caught Claire and she listened to the perfect murmur of life. Grace’s fingers clicking on the keyboard, Greg’s encouraging words as Conor asked questions and desperately worked on focusing. Claire tried to find a time in her memory banks when there was mess, chaos, unplanned fun, but the returns were scarce. When Conor was bor – no, Sara had pooled our clients and bought us a maid service. When Conor was little, he liked mud – so we had a mud station equipped with a routine play, rinse, change. She wandered upstairs to look at the state of the bedrooms, her bed was made tight. Grace’s was too. Conor’s was flung over and a little rumpled because it was the last thing he did before barreling down the stairs every morning, even his routine was scheduled, predictable, ordered.
He is only ten, Claire. Have you given him a childhood? She considered whether her children were their own beings, or a product of her to-do list, and the tears came.
She knew the answer.
She knew her list for tomorrow had to change.
Order had become chaos, and Claire held on as tight as she could, but the flood gates were creaking unable to bear the pressure any longer. Claire slid down the wall, looked at the black and white pictures lining the wall and noticed one off kilter. Instead of fixing it, she let the dam break.
Greg found her, swooped her up and into their bedroom before the kids heard her. He knew she would not want them to see her out of control.
“What is going in with you?” Greg asked. He brought her a warm wash cloth and a box of Kleenex.
“Honestly? I might be cracking up, Greg.” Claire pulled a Kleenex and blew her nose. Greg sat on the chair across from the bed. Claire stared at him. His chest, tight in his dark sweater, contained concern and composure. He smelled of fresh cologne, applied after his shower at the gym. He too was scheduled and focused, which made their marriage a no brainer. She couldn’t remember the last time they had argued or had sex or hugged for that matter. Every night they settled into bed, she on the right, he on the left. He brushed his teeth while she turned down the bed and piled the pillows on the bench at the end of the bed. Then she brushed her teeth and he changed into pajamas and turned on the T.V. while checking email. Claire climbed in on her side, put lotion on her hands, smiled at Greg, read her book, he would turn off the T.V., roll over, kiss Claire on the cheek, mutter good night and fall asleep.
Claire stared at Greg and started to heave again, even their marriage was based on precision. She waved at Greg to come over to the bed. She tired to ignore his tense uncomfortablness as he sat on the edge of the bed. She crawled across the king sized bed and fell on his chest and clutched around his waist. Greg looked, wide-eyed at her. Awkwardly he patted her back.
“We used to have fun, didn’t we?” Claire sobbed. “We were madly in love, right? In college?” Claire pulled her nose across the front of his sweater and left a trail of snot and tears. Claire lifted her head fast and looked wide eyed at Greg. “Our honeymoon! We had all sorts of sex and drank and swam naked in the pools, oh we had a great honeymoon. Want to have sex?” Claire sat back and started to unbutton her blouse. Greg stopped her hand.
“Claire!” he snapped. Claire stopped her frantic movement and stared at him.
“What?”
“We are not having sex right now. Our kids are downstairs. Now tell me what is going on with you.”
Claire stopped and looked at his snotty front and her half unbuttoned shirt and tried to muster the energy to tell him the story, but sighed instead. “I’m not sure, Greg. Are you happy?”
“Of course I am. Look at us, we have two great kids, two successful businesses, a gorgeous house, thanks to you, and good neighbors and friends. Honey, we have a great life.”
“I know.” Claire said and nodded. She had the princess dream, and yet she felt ugly, dirty: like she was living a lie.
“Tell you what. I’ll take care of the kids tonight and you take a bath and unwind. I’ll call you into the spa tomorrow and you just take a day. Okay?”
“Yeah,” she nodded and mustered up a smile, “that sounds good, thanks babe.” Greg smiled and patted her hand like he did with Grace. He rose, kissed her on the top of her head and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Claire sat up straight on the bed. “Okay.” she resolved. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and headed to the bathroom. Perhaps Greg was right, “I just need to relax.” she said aloud to push the looming truth away. “Not now,” she muttered and turned on the water. “Not ever.”
We write, free of editing, for five minutes. I am on my phone though, so I probably will need to edit odd auto correct words here and there. I’m a rebel, I know.
So ten years later and three boys later, one fur and two of the human sort, we are back in puppyhood as the fourth boy came into our world last weekend. He is adorable and puppyish. He makes us all make silly kissy sounds as we vie for his attention. We jump up to find him when he is out of eye sight. We love him and kiss him and hug him and recognize that this moment we blew through with the three previous, so we rest in his tender snores as he naps on our laps and drink in this moment of now.
And I enter the conversation again, and I tell him to go to hell, lift my chin and walk into the winds – and wipe my tears of frustration. I know they are lies. I know they aren’t true. I know at my heart that those words have no place in my world, in my really magical, awesome, full, rich, full of love life. But I am tired.