“Gee, Mom,” Peter said his whole face lighting up. “Look at you go. When did you get so cool?”
“While you weren’t looking, I guess,” Clare declared, quite pleased with herself.
“I like Uncle James,” Julie said with a giggle. “He’s funny sometimes.”
“I like him, too,” Clare told her.
Unfortunately, Richard missed the big event. He called to say he was stuck in a late meeting.
Soon enough, Clare began to think about going back to work. For the past four years, she had been an editor at Thornburgh House, a small but prestigious publishing firm, one of a handful that, some thirty-five years ago, had defied common wisdom about publishing houses needing to be located in New York City and set up shop in Seattle. Although Glenn Thornburgh, the head of the firm, had been more than solicitous, she knew things were piling up, and she also knew she was not indispensable.
Not that Clare had to work. In fact, it was well known to everyone that she did not. She was just not the kind of person who was content to stay at home. She worked because she wanted to.
Her leg and elbow casts were due to come off in another couple of weeks, and although it would be a while before she could get behind the wheel of a car, there were always car services that, for a fee, would be only too happy to take her from Laurelhurst to Pioneer Square and then return her to Laurelhurst each day.
It would be good to get back to work, she decided. It would be good to get involved, to be productive again. It would give her something to think about other than herself.
“I don’t like the way Julie’s acting,” Doreen declared a few days after Clare’s debut at dinner.
“What do you mean?” Clare asked.
“She put up a good front at supper the other night,” the housekeeper said, “but that’s all it was -- a front. If you look closely, you’ll see there’s something very wrong going on inside.”
“Do you know what it is?”
Doreen shrugged. “I don’t know as I can say,” she said. “I know it started right after your accident. And it’s been getting worse since you came home from the hospital.” She opened her mouth as if to say something else, and then changed her mind.
Clare frowned. It was true that she had been pretty self-absorbed since the accident, but if there was something going on with her daughter, she needed to know about it.
It took only a little bit of careful observation to see exactly what Doreen was talking about. Julie seemed to have retreated into herself. Her cheeks were pale and her eyes had a hollow, almost haunted look to them. She hardly laughed anymore, and rarely spoke unless spoken to. At meals, she did little more than push the food around her plate. Like a shadow, she hid in corners and behind doors, watching, waiting, seemingly unwilling to let her mother out of her sight, as though afraid, if she did, something awful would happen.
Now that Clare was paying attention, it was obvious that Julie was well on her way to making herself sick.
“I’m going to be all right,” she assured the twelve-year-old. “What happened on the mountain -- well, you know, things just happen sometimes, and there’s nothing we can do about it. But I’m home now. I’m safe. And I’m getting well. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”
“Yes, I do,” Julie said stubbornly.
Clare put her arms around the girl and pulled her close, holding her as tight as her injuries, and her daughter, would allow.
“I love you very much,” she said. “And you can believe me when I tell you not to worry. Everything is going to be all right. I’m not going to leave you. I promise.”
***
August 29th was Clare’s thirty-eighth birthday. On that morning, her leg casts came off, and she had her first session with the physical therapist that was going to teach her how to walk all over again. That afternoon, Doreen baked a cake, a double chocolate fudge cake, Clare’s favorite, in preparation for a celebratory dinner. That evening, Richard came home from work early.
“Come with me,” he said, tossing away her crutches, sweeping her up in his arms, and carrying her out the front door and down the stone steps. Parked in the curve of the circular driveway was a shiny new red BMW.
“Happy birthday,” he said, setting her down beside it, and breaking into a huge smile.
“Richard, how extravagant,” she exclaimed. Clare knew little about automobiles, but she knew enough to know there was over a hundred thousand dollars sitting in front of her.
“So what?” he said. “You’re only thirty-eight once, you know.”
She didn’t bother to remind him that, although the casts were indeed off now, and her legs technically healed, it was going to be weeks, if not months, before she would be able to drive again. Nor, at that moment, does she think it would be kind to tell him that she really loved the Toyota Camry she had been driving for less than a year, and wasn’t nearly ready to give it up.
“Thank you, darling,” she murmured instead. “It’s beautiful.”
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s take it for a little spin. I’ll drive.” He started to help her into the car, but unaccountably, she stiffened against him. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Does something hurt?” She shook her head. “Well then, come on. We have plenty of time before dinner.”
“If we’re going, why don’t we take the children with us?” she suggested. “I think they’d enjoy it, too.”
“There’ll be plenty of opportunities for that some other day,” he said, his arm tightening around her. “Right now, I think it would be nice for just the two of
