Little Lovely Things, page 24
Claire opened the folder titled “Radiologic advances in the detection of metastatic cancer” and ran her finger along a bar graph on the first page, stopping at the bold red rectangle that represented the patients responding to her protocol. While there was still much work to be done, the results to date looked promising. She hoped her colleagues and the committee members would see it that way as well.
It was already past noon and Claire needed to be dressed and on her way. The event, scheduled at a hospital in the suburb of Naperville—an hour west of the city—had been chosen for its potential for collaboration. It was only several minutes from her old life in Upton Grove. She grabbed the phone. Dialing, she gathered the materials for her presentation, which included transparencies for an overhead projector. Gretchie whined for a treat. Claire frowned and shook her head. The phone rang on the other end.
C’mon, Howard.
She needed one last bit of assurance before leaving.
An audience would be there. The thought tautened Claire’s gut, dragged her back to that previous experience—the set and stage of Chicago Live at Five! where she still stung from the feeling of being psychologically flayed in public. But now, the only thing that stood between her and success was this final requirement. She’d considered going to Margaret Christner, to plead for a waiver of some sort that would get her out of the presentation. But no. That would feel as though Claire were somehow dishonoring her daughters. In turn, she wondered, would Lily and Andrea, in some small way, be proud of her despite her shortcomings, her stubborn willfulness, her serious flaws?
“Claire?” Howard started midconversation where they had left off last time, his deep tenor booming through the receiver as he discussed last-minute pointers. “Set out the pages in order, and then a quick greeting to the audience…”
Even though this was the hundredth reiteration, it was still reassuring to walk through every detail. She really couldn’t be more prepared, right?
“Wish I could be there,” he said. “Have that damn seminar of my own.”
Claire sensed a twinge of nervous-parent anxiety in Howard’s voice. Sheesh, he wanted this for her as much as she did. She had teased him the last time they met that she was his personal project, like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady.
“Maybe, but I’m not that good-looking Professor Huggins, that’s for sure.”
“It’s Higgins, Howard.”
“Whatever. The point is that I believe in you, ma’am. You will be fine. Just remember to balance as you…”
“I know, I know.” She’d smiled. “As I walk sideways. On walls like a spider.”
She pictured his round face crinkling into a grin even as her brain conjured her tough-minded colleagues with disapproving frowns. What if her presentation went poorly? What if she failed?
“Just stay calm and focused, like we practiced. And where will my dog be this evening?”
Claire eyed Gretchie lounging on her side on the kitchen floor. She hadn’t missed a single appointment with Howard, and it showed in this new belly-paunch from all of his slyly delivered tea biscuits.
“You know she’s going to Glen’s, Howard. I told you a million times.”
“That’s right.”
It wasn’t a necessary arrangement. But St. Mark’s Hospital was only ten minutes from Glen’s house. That’s what Claire was now calling it, as if he alone belonged there. Maybe this was a dry run for custody arrangements, Claire thought wryly. Other than last night, when Claire called him to firm up the plans for today, they had conversed only twice in the month since meeting at the lake. Both spoke in careful clipped sentences, dodging deeper discussion. As if restraints were holding them apart. Yet so far, the divorce papers had remained untouched, as if something else was keeping them bound together, some kind of unseen force.
“I’ll drop her off after three,” Claire had told Glen. He wouldn’t be home yet from work.
“Just let yourself in. She’ll be fine. I haven’t seen Gretchie in so long. I miss her.” He didn’t say he missed Claire. “And when you pick her up, we need to talk.”
There it was. Claire caught her breath and nodded.
She went to her room to wrap up final preparations before leaving. She held up two suits, a light-weight taupe and a wool navy one with extra shoulder padding. She chose the warmer of the two as the weather was turning and there was a discernible chill in the air.
“What do you think, huh, girl?”
Gretchie wrinkled her brow and then dropped into a sphinx pose, with her haunches neatly lined up and forelegs extended.
“You are right.” Claire nodded. “Pumps and the navy suit it is.”
She struggled into the shoes, which pinched her toes—like strapping angry crustaceans onto her feet. She caught G’s eye and pointed to them.
“You have no idea how lucky you are to be a dog.”
She looked closely in a full-length mirror propped against the wall. Her stomach was flat—no, concave, as if she’d never carried babies. She still wasn’t eating right. It was more about taste now. As if her ability to take pleasure in food had gone dormant.
Returning to the kitchen, Claire stuffed items into Gretchie’s tote—in went her favorite canned food, and a new chewy, a complicated contraption with a braided rope and a rawhide bone. Not that she needed it. There were plenty of dog toys at Glen’s house.
“No biscuits, sorry! Let’s go, girl!”
Once on the road, Gretchie stretched out on the seat next to her. The vibration of the car soon soothed her into a sleepy trance. But she jumped up when they pulled down Crestview and sniffed the air greedily, her tail taut with anticipation. Claire’s response was the opposite; her whole body tensed up.
It seemed like forever since this house had been her home. As she waited for the engine to settle completely before getting out of the car, she scanned the front of the simple brick bungalow—the nondescript brown shutters, the stiff angular hedge of yews.
On the porch, Claire unlocked the back door and entered. Gretchie remained outside, keenly nosing the perimeter of the backyard. In the small hallway leading to the kitchen, she encountered the parakeet cage and Butkus plumped up. Upon seeing Claire, he squawked. She couldn’t help but laugh. How she missed that sound!
“You miserable, sweet tyrant of a bird.”
The house was midafternoon dark. Part of Claire felt like an intruder, another part like a guest. She drifted throughout the rooms, noting that many things were now changed: ocean-blue walls in the living room, faux-leather furniture. And in the kitchen, the teapot wallpaper was gone, replaced by spackled patches awaiting a sanding and fresh coat of paint. The girls’ room remained the same. Glen was true to his word to leave it untouched. Entering, she roved, exploring every nook with heightened senses. This room, Claire knew, was the one perfect thing that stitched her broken world together. Could just knowing it was here be enough?
Jay’s dream catcher remained suspended over the crib. Claire leaned against the rail and examined the delicate weave before blowing a stream of air. It spun slowly. Lily would’ve loved such an item. Looking around again, Claire had a small revelation. She really had remarkable children. Lily, the very definition of sweetness, clearly took after Glen. And Andrea’s huge personality had filled the room ever since she was a newborn, straightening her legs and kicking off her covers as if she needed to be on the move. And, man, could she yell. When she was hungry or needed to be changed. I’m here, world, make room!
For the first time, Claire allowed a sliver of forgiveness for having expected so much of herself. It was quite simply, how she was wired. So much like Andrea, her binary soul.
The sound of Andrea calling from beneath the water surfaced in Claire’s mind. Why was Lily never in the dream? She squeezed her eyes shut. So much frozen in her memory shifted like polar ice in the spring. She needed to be careful or the images beginning to whir through her head might consume her.
“Count the clouds, one, two, three,” she sang softly. “See the birdie in the tree…”
“If he has a broken wing…” A gentle masculine voice joined her own from the doorway. “He will never sing, sing, sing.”
Glen! He entered the room. Fine wrinkles ran along his hairline. The gift of perpetual astonishment was still evident in his soft hazel eyes. She could smell his body wash, his damp masculinity. She could’ve doubled over from the ache deep inside.
“Hello, Claire.”
She stepped back. Glen touched her arm to steer her away from backing into the rocker, the one covered with Mother Goose characters still blotched with stains from infant formula and dribbled pain reliever. Claire jumped at the contact and they both pulled back. A confused expression filled Glen’s face and he looked away.
She was ashamed of herself. He must think I don’t want him near. In truth, she was no longer used to the feel of soft touch on her skin.
He cleared his throat. “Tell me about your presentation.”
She began awkwardly by describing the careful dosing regimen she’d worked out for patients. But emotion rose in her voice as she finished with how her research might provide hope for desperate patients, hope for their families.
“Listen to you, Claire. I just knew you’d make a terrific doctor.”
Her eyes began to glisten. Hearing this from her husband—quite possibly her soon-to-be ex-husband, the one she still loved—hurt so much.
“Glen, I’m afraid.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Terrified, actually,” she continued, “of this event.”
He would get it, right? What a big deal it was for her to share that with him, her unspoken vulnerability?
“You will be great.”
She appreciated that he said this, but wished he’d offered to come. As support.
Claire’s gaze landed on the dresser top and the ziplock baggie that contained Jumpers’s carrot. Against police procedure, Detective Hearns had arranged that they be allowed to keep it once the case was finalized on Andrea’s death. Glen had brushed the ochre earth away and soaked it gently in dish detergent. The sight of it, restored to its bright orange, brought definition to their prolonged grief, their unspoken desperation.
Glen started to say something, and then stopped. He went into the living room.
She followed. They stood quietly for a moment, as awkward in each other’s presence as adolescents on a date. He gestured toward the new furniture.
“I hope you don’t mind, that old sofa was…”
“God-awful?”
He smiled. “Yes, and the chair…”
“That was G’s chair!”
“I would never get rid of that. Just moved it. In the master bedroom now.”
Outside, Gretchie yapped at a hapless squirrel. One that had probably grown accustomed to a dog-free backyard. Claire checked her watch.
“I need to go.” She headed to the front door. “Glen,” Claire said before leaving. “Take good care of my girl, huh?” A silly request since she’d only be gone a few hours.
Still, Glen smiled. “I will, Claire. You know that, right?”
“Yes.”
“See you in a few.” That simple phrase felt so strange and yet powerful. It would be nice to be with Glen again so soon.
She left, already missing Gretchie, even though she was in good hands, and grateful that she and Glen had reestablished what felt like feelings of generosity toward each other.
Bright lights illuminated the stage of St. Mark’s Hospital auditorium. Claire stood at the lectern next to the overhead projector. Copies of the presentation had been distributed to the audience. She shivered at the chilly emptiness surrounding her and searched the faces frantically for anything that might resemble familiarity, but they melted into one shapeless mass. Finally, she met eyes with Margaret in the first row who nodded encouragingly. Claire flipped on the overhead projector and waited a moment before speaking.
“Thank you for coming.” The mic squeaked, then boomed.
She pulled the carefully arranged stack of transparencies from a folder.
“I’m Dr. Claire Rawlings.” Her voice expanded into the rows and people sat up attentively as she set the first plastic sheet on the projector. Uh-oh. The title page from a supporting paper. Okay. Simple mistake. She went on to the next one and then the next, fumbling through the entire pile.
My God, they’re all the wrong ones!
“Shit,” Claire mumbled too close to the mic. There were a few chuckles followed by restless crowd energy. She wiped her upper lip with the back of her hand and then reached down reflexively to touch her dog. There was, of course, only empty space.
“Um…”
Audible sighs from the audience.
Claire’s blouse was beginning to cling under her arms and across her chest. She shuffled the sheets again as if they’d magically reassemble into the proper presentation—the one she realized that she’d left in a neat pile on the table at her town house. Two people slipped out the double doors in the back. She followed them with her eyes, imagining them disappearing down the flight of stairs on the other side. Downward, the same direction her stomach was heading. The door closed with a definitive thump. She couldn’t allow this to happen. Not after everything. All the loss. All the shutting of doors in her life. She’d overcome so much to get this far.
“I’m just going to”—she cleared her throat—“walk through this with you.”
She began slowly, desperate to regain footing, and then consciously raised the volume of her voice, to infuse it with what might sound like confidence. It took a minute, but the audience finally settled a bit. Making reference to the handouts, she sketched versions of graphs on each blank transparency while speaking, careful to emphasize key moments in the data.
Somehow, Dr. Claire Rawlings proceeded through her forty-five-minute seminar flawlessly. At least with no clearly detectable flaws. For a brief shining slice of time she felt as if the universe was on her side, and she wrapped up with a flourish. The immediate silence of her colleagues indicated they were impressed.
Once the Q&A section was completed, Claire stepped from the platform, drained and exhilarated, daring to believe she’d actually done a good job. Her relief was stupendous. Looking over the sea of colleagues, she spotted the back of a familiar head among the milling crowd heading toward the double doors. Glen. He must’ve felt her gaze because he turned and smiled.
She wanted to move toward him, but within minutes, she was surrounded.
“Excellent work, Dr. Rawlings.” This compliment came from a white-haired gentleman next to a beaming Margaret. Claire couldn’t recall his name but remembered he was a co-chair of the grant committee. Other presenters and audience members mulled and conversed. It was close to seven before everything wrapped up.
“Walk with me, Claire?” Margaret offered. “I want to show you something.”
Margaret led Claire past the main lobby and through two corridors to a newly constructed ward. A gleaming radiology unit was off to one side, private rooms to another.
“This wing is where patients might be treated with your protocol someday.”
Just then an intern approached to engage Margaret. “Dr. Christner?”
Claire wandered to a large window where the lights of the suburb twinkled beyond the parking lot. She sighed, taking in the newness around her—the shiny floor, the smell of construction—and then ran her hand along the wall and smiled thinking of Howard. Spurred by the presentation, she’d indeed made one tentative step sideways along these walls.
A sudden disturbance in the vertical blinds startled Claire. A moth with wings shaped like a small pair of flat lungs fluttered weakly from a gap in the folds. Seeing this creature alive, beyond its season, momentarily took her breath away. Admiring its gypsum-white body, she drew close and whispered. “How on earth did you get here?”
The creature wavered toward the window and then disappeared back into the folded blind. Like a magician’s trick.
Margaret was still engrossed in conversation. Waving, Claire mouthed her thanks. She left the hospital and was at the Upton Grove house in minutes. Gretchie galloped in ever-tightening circles around Claire. Glen stood near.
“You were amazing, Dr. Rawlings.”
“You surprised me, Glen. By being there. Thank you.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
The room was suddenly filled with the perfect tone of Glen’s presence.
“Thank you again for coming.” Claire’s voice wavered. “For being there for me.”
“I knew you’d be nervous if I told you.”
“Ha! Like that was avoidable.”
“Well, more nervous. I have a frozen pizza in the oven. Sit. Have a glass of wine.”
“I have to drive.”
Ignoring Claire, Glen disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with two ridiculously oversize glasses they had received as a wedding gift.
“Just one,” Glen said. “You deserve it.”
Claire sank into the new couch. It was really quite comfortable. They drank quickly, leaving a red velvety film in the goblets.
“They look lonely.” Claire pointed to the empty glasses.
Glen poured more wine, which they once again both drained. He then grabbed another bottle from the kitchen and opened it unsteadily over the cocktail table in the living room.
“Careful.” Claire cupped her hands as if to catch a spill.
He settled in the recliner across from Claire. “Do you know what I miss?”
She shook her head.
“Mr. Bubble.”
Claire looked at him, startled.
“I bought a bottle once,” Glen continued. “Just to smell it again.”
Claire’s heart caught in her chest. It was one of her favorite products in the world. She closed her eyes and was suddenly swirling a stream of it into water roiling from the faucet during Lily and Andrea’s bath time. The frothy bubbles covered the water like insulation from which the girls, with Claire’s help, constructed beards on their chins and then added bikini tops to their gleaming chests. Two little old men in girlie bathing suits. Eager to see themselves in the mirror, they often tried to stand while Claire admonished them: Sit safely, ladies, puh-lease! The whole time Gretchie snorfed through their soiled laundry with her flat nose, looking for dried tidbits of food.
