Part 11:
“I might have some control issues when it comes to organization.” I would never have guessed, Clara said dryly, gesturing at the precisely labeled spice rack on the wall. Ryan laughed. Sarah used to say I treated our kitchen like a military operation, but Emma likes routine, so it works out. It was the first time he’d mentioned Sarah directly, and Clara saw something flicker across his face.
Old grief, worn, soft, but still present. She wanted to say something, but Emma came bouncing back into the kitchen. Done. Can we eat now? I’m starving. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut. Emma. Ryan looked horrified. Where did you hear that phrase? Uncle Mike said it at Thanksgiving. You laughed. Ryan rubbed his face with his flower dusted hand, making the smudge on his jaw worse.
We’re having a talk with Uncle Mike. Dinner was chaotic and wonderful and completely unlike any meal Clara had eaten in years. They didn’t talk about business or politics or any of the topics that dominated her usual dinner conversations. Instead, Emma quizzed Clara on Saturn’s moons. Ryan told stories about the worst maintenance calls he’d ever received.
And Clara found herself laughing, really laughing, until her cheeks hurt. “There was this guy on the 23rd floor,” Ryan said, pouring the expensive wine Clara had brought into mismatched glasses. called maintenance because he insisted his office was haunted. Said he kept hearing voices when no one was there. “Was it haunted?” Emma asked, eyes wide.
“It was his phone.” He’d accidentally turned on some podcast app and it was playing in his desk drawer. Took me 20 minutes to figure that out while he stood there insisting it was ghosts. Clara nearly choked on her wine. “You’re joking.” I wish. The best part? After I showed him the phone, he still seemed disappointed, like he’d been hoping for ghosts.
“Maybe ghosts would have been more interesting than his job,” Clara suggested. Ryan looked at her thoughtfully. “You ever feel like that? Like maybe ghosts would be more interesting?” The question hit closer than he probably meant it to. Clara took another sip of wine, considering her answer. “Sometimes. Sometimes I sit in board meetings and think about how much more exciting it would be if the walls suddenly started bleeding or something.
Clara, Emma gasped. That’s scary. You’re right. I’m sorry. That would be very scary. Clara caught Ryan’s eye across the table and saw understanding there. Saw him recognize the darkness she usually kept hidden beneath her polished exterior. After dinner, Emma insisted on showing Clara her room. They climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor.
Emma’s hand warm in Clara’s, chattering about every picture and toy and memory attached to the house. Emma’s room was exactly what Clara would have expected. Walls painted sky blue, glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, shelves overflowing with books about space and science and adventure. But what caught Clara’s attention was a photograph on the nightstand.
Ryan and Sarah and baby Emma. All three of them laughing at something outside the frame. Sarah was beautiful. Dark hair, warm eyes, the kind of woman who looked like she knew how to make a house a home. That’s my mommy, Emma said, following Clara’s gaze. She died when I was three, so I don’t remember her super well, but Daddy tells me stories about her all the time.
Clara felt her heart crack a little. She looks like she was wonderful. Daddy says she was the best person he ever knew. He says, “I have her smile and her stubbornness.” Emma climbed onto her bed, hugging a stuffed astronaut. Do you have a mommy? I do. She’s alive, but we’re not very close. Clara sat carefully on the edge of Emma’s bed.
We don’t really understand each other. That’s sad. Everyone should understand their mommy. Emma tilted her head, studying Clara with those serious gray eyes that looked so much like Ryan’s. Daddy said you’re lonely sometimes, that you work a lot because you don’t have people to go home to. Clara felt exposed, stripped bare by a six-year-old’s casual honesty.
He said that he says it’s hard to be a grown-up sometimes. That sometimes grown-ups forget how to have friends because they’re too busy being important. Emma scooted closer. Are you too busy being important? I used to be, Clara said slowly. But I’m trying to change that. Good, because daddy’s really nice and he doesn’t have enough friends either.
He works and takes care of me and that’s all he does. Uncle Mike says he needs to start living again, but Daddy says he is living. He’s living for me. Emma’s face scrunched up with concentration. I think you both need more friends. Maybe you could be friends with each other. Then you’d both have at least one friend.
Clara felt tears prick at her eyes. I think you might be right. You’re very smart. You know that I know Mrs. Patterson says I’m gifted. Emma said it matterof factly without pride or embarrassment. Will you come back after tonight or is this just a one-time thing because you felt bad for us? The question was so direct, so vulnerable that Clara had to take a moment to compose herself.
Emma, I’m here because I like your dad very much and because I like you very much, not because I feel bad for anyone. You don’t need anyone’s pity. You have something most people spend their whole lives searching for. You have love. Real love. The kind that shows up in lucky socks and bedtime stories and spaghetti carbonara on Friday nights.
