Condemn Me Not (18 page)

Claire
didn’t want to cry, the tears depleting as they flowed.  She wanted to be
happy, positive.  She wanted to be willful and strong.  But she couldn’t help
it.  Thinking of Rebecca so far away hurt her heart.

Was
Simone right
? 
Was Claire staring down a future of emptiness and regret?  Would she be
banished to a land of “why didn’t I?”

Not
that she regretted marrying Jim—she didn’t.  But to be honest, there were days
it felt like she spent so much time listening to him and the kids that she might
as well have dissolved into the wallpaper becoming one more daisy in the sunny
repetitive pattern of daily life.  It wasn’t as if Jim didn’t listen to her, he
did.  One hundred percent focus, one hundred percent of his ear.  Claire knew
she had one hundred percent of his heart.  But her primary role in the family
was one of support.  She supported him and the business.  She supported the
kids and their endeavors.  She supported the family unit as a whole.

What
if she had been out working?  What if she had been designing or painting, or
displaying Sarah’s photographs within her very own gallery?  Was it too much to
believe her family would have stood behind her, supported her the way Mitchell
and Mariah supported Simone?  And Mariah did support her mother.  For all the grief
she dumped on Simone, Claire understood that the girl loved her, admired her—in
fact, craved her approval.  Theirs was a rocky relationship, but only because
the two boasted horns and tempers most bulls would envy.  They were doers,
fighters; yet their hearts remained doggedly in the right place.  Both ached to
achieve, ached to be recognized.  Their biggest fear was going unnoticed.

Claire
sniffled heartily as she took a deep breath, the action stress-relieving in and
of itself.  She brought Sarah’s picture to rest against her breast, the hard
lines of the wooden frame comforting next to her heart.  Life was about
choices.  She and Simone only diverged on how one went about securing
achievement, recognition.

Bowing
her head, Claire closed her eyes.  She had no doubt that Simone and Mariah
would get through this rough spot.  They would tumble and argue, push and pull,
toss and turn, but ultimately they would grab hold of one another and chase
that rainbow together.  It was part of life’s beauty.  It didn’t look the same
for any two people.  It didn’t assume the same path, the same tone.  Where
Simone chose career, Claire chose family.

In
retrospect, Claire believed hers was the right choice.  She’d always wanted to
have children and with that choice came another—stay home and care for her
family or add a career outside the home to the mix.  In her book, both were
work—the former more stressful than the latter.  Those first few years on the
job as a designer taught her that a career involved stress, yes, chocked full
of deadlines and competition.  But at the end of the day, the career woman came
home to house full of peace and quiet.  She came home to clear her mind, change
channels and reconnect with those she loved.

Claire
lifted her head.  As a stay-at-home mom, she didn’t have that luxury.  And living
in the two-story house of her dreams, surrounded by tasteful furnishings didn’t
change those facts.  Claire never left her job.  She never traded space, never
left her workplace.  The landscape of her life never changed.  The early days
had been most difficult.  Back then, she would have given anything for a break,
a reprieve from the constant reach of her young children.  Arms clinging, lungs
wailing, kids provided an existence of never-ending demands that needed to be
met.

It
was stressful.  Claire continually reminded herself that no job was perfect,
that all entailed positives and negatives, but the stress was still brutal.  As
the kids grew up, the load eased, but the threat of burnout remained.  She paused
on the notion. 
Did every woman feel the fatigue of her work as much as she
had
? 
Home or office, did the pressure of stress feel any different
?

She
had to believe the answer was
yes
to the first,
no
to the second. 
Whether a woman worked inside the home or out, the common word was “work.” 
Simone worked and Claire worked.  Children grew up and left, just like Mariah
and Rebecca.  As did sisters, daughters.  Claire hugged the photograph to her
body.  Sarah left.  Rebecca was leaving.  And where it felt like the end,
Claire understood it was only the beginning.  For Sarah it had been a new life
and a new love.  She chose Will and Europe, and where it had opened new doors
for her, it closed others.  She and Claire grew apart, the relationship became
distant.

Of
course their mother never looked at it quite in those terms.  She was happy for
Sarah, even if it meant reducing their relationship to pen and paper.  And
where her mother and Sarah seemed sustained, Claire was not.  She wanted Sarah
close.  She wanted Rebecca close.  The ache to her side was quick and sharp.  Epiphany
seeped into her body. 
Was she the problem
? 
Had she ended their
connection because it couldn’t continue in the flesh, in person
?

Pulling
the photograph away from her chest, Claire peered into the face of her younger sister. 
Immersing herself in the image, the memories, she allowed the idea to sink in. 
Did Sarah feel let down by her older sister
?

It
felt like she’d just found the missing piece to the puzzle.  Sarah wrote, but
Claire was late to respond.  She called, but Claire was consistently indisposed,
blaming it on family, obligations.  The kids were bickering, the house was a
wreck, meat was thawing and the laundry needed folding.  All of which was true,
but none of which could have prevented a conversation, had her heart been
interested.

But
it wasn’t.  Claire didn’t want to talk on the phone.  She didn’t want to be pen
pals.  She wanted her sister home.

The
grandfather clock in the front hall chimed, once, twice, three times, echoing
throughout the empty rooms.  Claire thrust her teary gaze out back, her patio
neat but empty.  Planters devoid of flowers, metal chairs lacking cushions...the
space was barren.

Had
she purposely severed the tie
?

Struggling
to absorb the hit, she wondered why.  Why would she do such a thing?  Anger? 
Envy?

Claire
eased forward and returned the photograph to its place on the table.  She wiped
the tears from her cheeks.  As though on a mission, she surveyed the room.  From
the beige Berber carpet to the plaid upholstery, the gorgeous Chippendale
furniture to the porcelain collectibles encased in her china cabinet, Claire’s furnishings
felt ordinary.  Boring.

Where
were all her pieces of art
? 
Sarah’s
?

She
glanced absently about her living room.  Her home should be filled with them. 
It should be a showcase of gallery quality.  There should be textured fabric, and
deep, rich hues embellishing her walls.  Instead, they were run-of-the-mill
green.  Her upholstery should be striking in pattern, not your ordinary plaid
done in earth tones.  And her carpet.  Her carpet was beige.  Beige, for God’s
sake!

Claire
struggled with the realization. 
How did an artist, an interior designer end
up with beige carpet
? 
How utterly bland had she become
?  Lamps and
vases should be interesting pieces, conversation starters.  But they weren’t. 
They were humdrum, everyday items that could be found in anyone’s home.

Exhaustion
wound through her body.  She needed time to think.  Time to sort through her
feelings.  Adjusting the photograph of Sarah so her smiling face looked out
over the living room, Claire wiped at her eyes.  She needed time, but time was
the one thing she didn’t have.  The kids would be home soon.  Dinner wasn’t started.

With
considerable effort, she rose and headed for the kitchen.  Dr. Sorenson said
she should take it easy, get some rest.  Well, Dr. Sorenson didn’t understand
the life of wife and mother.  It was an existence that absorbed every ounce of
her being, threaded her every fiber.  Claire wondered what Sarah was doing
right now.  It would be evening in Scotland.  Would she be eating dinner?  Had
she already dined?  Was she even in Scotland, or perhaps jetting over the
countryside to the south of France?

They
traveled there often.  The Earlthrops had a home on the coast.  They had
several homes, but that was Sarah’s favorite.  Her photographic study of the
landscape told why.  Harbor and city were cloistered between mountains and sea. 
Yachts were extravagant, buildings colorful, the Mediterranean a palette of
varying degrees of blue.  Monaco was Sarah’s kind of place.  Bold and
beautiful, classic and exciting—it represented her lust for life.

Claire
walked into the pantry.  Locating a box of pasta, she went to the stove.  Maybe
she should call Sarah.  As she opened one of the long boxes, Claire was buoyed
by the thought.  Yes, maybe she should make the move and call Sarah.  After
all, phone calls and letters were something she was going to have to get used to
if Rebecca were to live in Paris.  Claire pulled out a large pot and filled it
with water.  And while it pained her to admit she had let her sister down,
allowed their relationship to wither in the wind of bygones and apathy, there
was no way she could do the same with her daughter.  None.  Life was about
choices, yes.  But more importantly, life was about reaction.  Whether it was her
sister’s move, her daughter’s, or the disease flowing through her veins, life
was about action and reaction.  We choose, we live, we react—and live anew. 
It’s the cycle of nature, a cycle of harmony.

Or
the contrary.

Turning
the gas to high, Claire wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her before.  How did
she lose sight of the bigger picture?  Adverse circumstances come and go, but
our choices define who we are, how we live.  They might take the form of
someone else’s choice—like a move, a divorce—or they might come in the form of
unexpected illness or hardship, but either way, how we choose to react holds the
key.  Claire stood idle, and stared at her pot of water.  She would not let
this diagnosis of leukemia stop her from living.  There wasn’t a single brain
cell that allowed for such outcome.  She would fight and she would win. 
Why
had she let Sarah’s move stop her from loving
?

She
wouldn’t.  Not anymore.

MOTHERS
AND DAUGHTERS

Simone
stood at the doorway to Mariah’s bedroom.  Leaning against the doorjamb, she
watched as her daughter deposited book after book into the cobalt blue Vera
Bradley backpack, stoically ignoring her mother’s presence.  Thick textbooks,
spiral notebooks, a laptop computer fitting snug in between—Simone forever
worried the weight of it all would throw out Mariah’s back.  With today’s
technology the students should be using e-readers instead of hardcover, submitting
homework online instead of physically turning in page after page of loose leaf. 
Revolutionizing the way schools operated should be a no-brainer.  But the
education system wasn’t responsible for the uncustomary angst in Simone’s belly.

Watching
Mariah pack her bag gave rise to a different kind of fear—the permanent kind. 
The kind that didn’t dissipate after a cooling-off period but penetrated deep
into the bones like the chill of a Chicago winter.  It felt like Mariah was packing
for a big move, one that would take her far from home.  Her daughter was moving
away from her, not only changing her address but changing her heart.  This
business venture of hers was coming between them, wedged like a fork in the
road.  At the moment, they still stood side by side, contemplating the way
ahead.  They could choose a single direction and walk it together, or they
could choose separate paths, never to meet up again.

Could
Simone really bid farewell to her child?  Could she really let Mariah venture
off without guidance, without support?  Let her walk toward the horizon of a
life that didn’t include her mother?  As Mariah zipped the bag closed, Simone
asked, “Do you really want to be so different from me?” 
Am I that awful
?
she added silently, unable to voice the same for fear of the answer she’d
receive.

Mariah
stopped mid-motion and looked at her for the first time since she’d been
standing by her door.  Her daughter seemed a lonesome figure in a brightly lit
room, a room of aqua and yellow, pink and lavender.  Green eyes swam with unease
as Mariah took her mother in, frowning, as though she were actually pondering
the question.  Simone took heart in the hesitation.  Maybe there was hope yet. 
“All I ever wanted was what’s best for you,” she said, her voice quiet,
tentative.  “And if sometimes I seem overzealous and controlling ... well, I
can’t help it.  It’s who I am.”  Why admitting as much should make her feel
ashamed, Simone did not know.  She was proud of who she was, and always had
been.  She never expected others to be like her, agree with her one hundred
percent of the time—only that they accept her decisions.

The
thought gave her pause.  Staring at her only child, the navy-clad figure silhouetted
against the pale aquamarine walls of her bedroom, the polka-dot bedspread, a shimmery
burnt-orange sky outlined trees and buildings in the window behind her, Simone inhaled
deeply.  She filled her lungs with air and slowly released. 
Wasn’t that all
Mariah was asking of her
?