Читать книгу Once A Liar - A.F. Brady - Страница 17

After Claire had returned from work, she spent the evening running up and down the townhouse preparing for Jamie’s arrival. She had gone to sleep past midnight, her hair wrapped in a polka-dot handkerchief like the ghost of Rosie the Riveter. I went to the office before she woke up but left her a note on a piece of Rhodes & Caine letterhead, something that I thought she might find special: Now you get to be a mother. I signed the bottom of the page with my favorite Montblanc pen. I knew using the word mother would have a deep effect on her.

Claire had always wanted to have children of her own. She looked after her three little sisters as if she were their mother when their own mother was no longer able to care for them. She used to put her sisters to bed, and then listen at the top of the stairs while her parents fought. She heard her father gaslighting her mother—convincing her that she was losing her mind, imagining the things she clearly saw. He destroyed her with his cheating and lies. When her father got angry, especially when he was caught in a lie or left evidence of another woman, he would turn completely cold. He wouldn’t speak to Claire’s mother, not even a word, for days at a time.

Claire invented stories for her sisters to help get through it—her only outlet to deal with what she was witnessing—and she would call the stories the Princess and the Ice Man. In the stories, the Princess always managed to escape the clutches of the Ice Man and lived happily ever after with her three little fairies.

In reality, Claire’s mother found a different kind of escape; she jumped in front of a northbound R train.

Claire had begged me for years to have children, but I was finished. Jamie would be my only child, and I made it clear to Claire that if she wanted children of her own, it wouldn’t be with me. In our arguments about having children, she told me she dreamed of having the chance to do it better. To be the kind of mother she never had. The kind who stands up to a philandering husband. The kind who won’t allow herself to be destroyed.

Now that Juliette is gone and Jamie needs a mother, he is her opportunity to be the parent she always wanted to be. It’s almost too perfect—Claire gets to be a mother, and I don’t have to deal with a teenager I hardly know.

I can’t be bothered to pick Jamie up and bring him to my house, so instead I send an embarrassingly large limousine. Katherine’s staff will be sure to help him load his belongings into the limo. Of course, I’m hoping to not be home when he pulls up in front of the house on Twenty-First Street. I called home earlier and instructed the housekeeper to welcome Jamie and apologize that I won’t be there. I told her to make up whatever story she wanted about my absence, forgetting that Claire would be home from client meetings by the time Jamie arrived. Claire could have managed a suitable lie with no problem.

As it turns out, I mistime my return home, and I see from the corner of Twenty-First Street that his limo is just pulling up as I’m making my way toward the townhouse. I duck behind a boxwood topiary in front of an apartment building and watch Jamie exit the car. The driver pulls his suitcases one by one from the trunk, arranges them on the curb and carries them up the steps with Jamie lumbering behind.

Claire answers the door almost immediately and embraces him as he stands at the top of the stoop, pinning his arms at his sides. They walk inside, and I decide to head to a bar I go to when I’m not ready to play house.

I never wanted to have children so playing the dad role is always a burden. Juliette had wanted to be a mother, as I find most women do, and she and her father pressured me into it.

It seemed my family-man role mediated my professional reputation; clients often told us that they admired my ability to create a work-life balance. Little did they know I balanced nothing. After Marcus died and Juliette and I got divorced, no one was around to insist I play daddy, and it’s not like I couldn’t afford the child support payments. Jamie existed, and so did I, and until today, I hardly had to know about him.

I check my watch—6:43 p.m. I throw a fifty on the bar and trudge east toward my house. On my way up to my bedroom, I find Jamie and Claire sitting in the living room together, a room I hardly ever go into. They both startle and jump to attention when they notice me in the doorway.

“Don’t leap, I’m not a monster,” I say, attempting to soothe their fright with a joke.

“Hi, honey,” Claire squeals as she walks over to me. Jamie nervously tugs at the hem of his shirt, looking down at his sneakers, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Claire wraps her arm around my shoulders and kisses my cheek. This isn’t normally how she greets me, and although I’m not sure why she’s chosen to put on a show for Jamie, I’m all the more relieved that she’d rather fake it than face the awkwardness of the situation.

“Did you have a good ride over here?” I ask Jamie, not knowing what to say to him.

“Uh, yeah, thanks for sending the limo.” Jamie peers up at me to respond, and then quickly returns his gaze to the floor.

“Sit down, Jamie. You can relax in my house. I mean, in your house.”

“Our home,” Claire corrects. “You should feel comfortable in our home.” She returns to her seat and makes a display of taking off her shoes and kicking her feet up onto the couch. They both have twitchy, uneasy eyes. They’re looking at me like children with their hands in the cookie jar, and I can’t see any reason for either of them to behave like this.

“Is anything wrong?” I ask, although I couldn’t care less about their responses.

“I thought you’d be home earlier,” Claire softly confesses.

“Yes, so did I, but I got stuck at work. Had to go over a million depositions for this trial I have coming up,” I lie.

Neither of them responds. As I stare hard at Jamie, I see his eyes dart up at me and a flush coming over his cheeks. He knows I’m lying. I look into his face, trying to feel something. Trying to see if the presence of my son in my home will stir up any emotions.

I once again can’t reach down far enough inside myself to pull up anything more than insensitivity. Jamie knows I’m lying, and I just don’t care.