Thursdays at Eight. Debbie Macomber
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was painful to hear. She swallowed and said, “Alex, you’re my son, but you’re also your father’s.”
“I can’t forgive him for what he did.”
“I know,” Clare whispered. She sipped her Coke in order to hide the trembling in her voice, although she was fairly certain Alex had noticed.
Her son glanced at his watch, did a startled double-take and bolted out of the chair. “I’m late for soccer practice.”
“Go on,” she said, waving toward the door.
“Dad said he might start coming to my games,” Alex said, the words rushed as he hurried to the back door.
“Alex—”
“Sorry, Mom, gotta go.”
Oh, great! Now she had to worry about running into her ex at their son’s soccer games. And what about his girlfriend—was she going, too? If Alex chose to have a relationship with his father, that was one thing, but Clare couldn’t, wouldn’t, be anywhere in Michael’s vicinity when he was with Miranda.
The anger inside her remained deep and real, and Clare didn’t trust herself to control it. But under no circumstances would she embarrass her teenage son, and if that meant not attending the games, then so be it. Almost immediately, the resentment sprang up, as strong as the day Michael had left her. He’d already taken so much! How dared he steal the pleasure she derived from watching Alex play soccer? How dared he!
For a long time she sat mulling over her conversation with Alex. She knew how relieved he was to have this out in the open. Alex had been on edge for a while now, and she’d attributed his tension to the upcoming SATs. But it wasn’t the tests that were bothering him, or his relationship with his girlfriend or even his part-time job. It was Michael. Clare was positive of that.
Once again her ex-husband had gone behind her back.
January 15th
I got the job! There was never any doubt I’d be hired. Dan Murphy nearly leaped across the desk when he realized what he had. He gave me everything I wanted, including the part-time hours I requested. He’ll go ahead and hire a full-time manager and I’ll be more of a consultant.
Damn, it feels good. I’ve never experienced this kind of spiteful satisfaction before—and I do recognize it for what it is. Until these last two years, I had no idea I could be so vindictive. I don’t like this part of me, but I can’t seem to help myself.
Chapter Two
LIZ KENYON
“The teeth are smiling, but is the heart?”
—Congolese proverb
January 1st
For the first time in my fifty-seven years I spent New Year’s Eve alone. I ordered in Chinese, ate my chicken hot-sauce noodles in front of the television and watched a 1940s movie starring Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. They sure don’t make films like that anymore. Then at midnight, I brought in the New Year sipping champagne all by myself. I was in bed a few minutes after twelve, my thoughts full of Steve.
After six years the memories aren’t as painful as they were in the beginning. What continues to haunt me are the last minutes of my husband’s life. I wonder what went through his mind when he realized the huge semi had crossed the yellow line and was headed straight toward him. I wonder obsessively if his last thoughts were of the children or me, or if in those split seconds there’d been time to feel anything but panic and fear. I keep imagining his absolute terror when he knew he was about to be hit. Witnesses said he’d done everything possible to avoid the collision. At the last second, he must have faced the gut-wrenching horror of knowing there was nothing he could do. I’ve lived through my husband’s final minutes a thousand times. The sound of the impact—crunching metal and shattering glass—the screeching tires, his scream.
I thank God he died instantly.
As I lay in bed, I remembered our last morning together, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday instead of six years ago. April twentieth was an ordinary day, like so many others. We both got up and dressed for work. He helped me fasten my necklace and took the opportunity to slip his hand beneath my sweater. While I made breakfast, Steve shaved. We sat across from one another and chatted about the morning news, then he kissed me goodbye as I left for the hospital. I remember he said he had a staff meeting that afternoon and might be late for dinner.
An hour later my high-school sweetheart and husband of thirty-one years was dead. My life hasn’t been the same since; it’ll never be the same again. I’m still trying to accept the fact that Steve won’t come bursting through the front door wearing his sexy grin. Even now, I sleep on the far right side of the bed. Steve’s half remains undisturbed.
The last three months have been hard. I knew when Amy phoned to tell me Jack had been transferred to Tulsa that being separated from my daughter and grandchildren was going to be difficult. What I didn’t realize was how difficult. Spending time with Andrew and Annie was what kept me sane after losing Steve. I miss them so much! And then, as if my daughter and her family moving to another state wasn’t bad enough, Brian had to go and move out on his own. My son always did display impeccable timing.
He got a great job offer and I don’t begrudge his taking it for a minute. And yet I have to admit I wish it hadn’t happened quite so soon. It was hard to let him go and keep a smile on my face. I’m glad he’s happy, though, and adjusting to life in Orange County. At the same time, I’m sorry he’s living so far from Willow Grove. A couple of hours doesn’t sound like much, but I know my son and he’s far more interested in his social life than in visiting his widowed mother. That’s the way it should be, I suppose, only I can’t help feeling abandoned. First Amy, Jack and the grandkids, then Brian—and all at once I’m alone. Really alone.
I understand why I went to bed with thoughts of Steve. All my distractions have moved away. Even with the champagne, I couldn’t sleep. After an hour I gave up trying. I sat in the dark with an afghan wrapped around my legs and contemplated my future. During the holidays I put on a brave front, acting as though I’m okay about being alone. I didn’t want the kids to know how wretched I was feeling. Brian was here for Christmas, but he has friends he wanted to see and there’s a new girl in his life. I wonder if that son of mine is ever going to settle down. I guess he’s one step closer now, living on his own; at least that’s what I tell myself. Amy and I talked, but she phoned me and I know that with a single income and a large mortgage, they’re on a tight budget, so the conversation was short. Normally I would’ve called back but it sounded so hectic there with the kids opening their gifts and all the craziness of Christmas morning. I put phoning off until later and then just didn’t.
As for New Year’s Eve, spending it alone was my choice. Sean Jamison casually suggested we get together for dinner. The problem with this doctor is that outside of his work, everything’s casual with him. I’m not going to make the mistake of getting involved with a man who has a reputation as a womanizer (although I readily admit his interest flatters my ego). Besides, I’m older than he is. Not by much, six years, maybe seven, just enough to make me a little uncomfortable…not that I’d seriously consider dating him, anyway. My major complaint, in addition to the age difference, is that he’s the exact opposite of Steve, who was genuine and unassuming. The good doctor is stuck on himself.
Still, he’s obviously an interesting man. I wouldn’t mind talking to him on a strictly-friends basis. Nothing romantic or sexual. Just conversation, maybe over coffee or a drink. After all, everyone can use another friend.
Speaking of friends, when Clare, Julia, Karen and I met after our last journal-writing class, we decided to continue the friendship by meeting for breakfast every Thursday. I came up with the suggestion that we should each take a word for the year. A word to live by, to help us focus our thoughts. A word to reflect what’s happening in our lives and what we want to do and be. I’m not sure where