Cracks in the Sidewalk(23)

Three weeks after Jeffrey had stormed out of the hospital, when she could no longer stand by and listen to her daughter pleading to see her children, Claire began telephoning the Caruthers house. She called early in the morning, too early for Jeffrey to have left for work. She called throughout the afternoon and at dinnertime. Her final call was at ten o’clock in the evening, a time when all three children should have been tucked in their beds. Not once did Jeffrey answer the telephone. Eventually she tried calling the store.

“Caruthers Couture,” a woman’s voice chimed.

Claire, taken aback by the feminine voice, asked, “Is this Caruthers Couture?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is Jeffrey Caruthers there?”

“Yeah, sure, hold on a sec.” The woman sounded young. And happy.

As she waited, Claire heard the woman say, “Honey, you’ve got a phone call.”

Honey? What kind of employee calls the boss honey? Claire wanted to ask JT that question but never got the chance. After a giggly conversation at the other end, a conversation too muted for her to catch, someone hung up the receiver.

Claire called back twice, but no one answered either time.

The next morning before heading to the hospital, Claire drove to the Caruthers house. She parked her car in the driveway, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. She heard a flurry of footsteps and whispered voices inside, but no one answered the door. Claire slipped around to the side of the house and peeked into the garage window. JT’s car stood there, and a red Nissan sat alongside it. More determined than ever, Claire returned to the front door and continued ringing the doorbell.

After almost twenty minutes, she knew JT wouldn’t answer. She returned to her car and headed for Saint Barnabas. On the way she stopped at the bakery and bought a dozen of the Neapolitan cookies that Liz loved.





Charlie McDermott


I realize Elizabeth is no longer a child. She’s a woman with three children of her own. But as far as I’m concerned, she’s still my little girl. I’m her father, so of course I feel protective. Any father would feel the same way. How can they not?

We grow up understanding that fathers are the protectors, the ones who slay the dragon to keep their family safe from harm. Let me tell you, I’d trade this insidious monster inside Liz’s head for a good, old-fashioned dragon any day. I look at her lying in that hospital bed and see my own inadequacies. I’m her father; I should be able to do something. Instead I fumble around, helpless as a baby. The money, that’s nothing. I’d give everything I own to buy back Elizabeth’s health.

Thank God for Claire; she’s a tower of strength. Somehow she can move past the fact that Elizabeth is practically paralyzed and focus on pleasantries. She’ll start talking about something of no importance whatsoever and next thing you know she has Liz laughing at the silliest things, like a bird pecking at the window or the long hair that stuck out of some doctor’s ear. To watch her you might think Claire doesn’t realize how serious the situation is, but I hear her crying at night and asking God to find a cure for Elizabeth.

I wish I could be more like Claire. When I’m visiting Elizabeth, I stand there with my hands stuffed inside my pockets. I ache to say something, but what can I say to make things better? A father should have all the answers, should take care of his child. All I can do is stand there, looking useless. To escape my own inadequacy, I go to work and let my share of the responsibility fall on Claire’s shoulders. How cowardly is that?

For most of Elizabeth’s life, I was there whenever she needed me. I was somebody to keep her safe from harm, ease whatever hurts came her way. She was a colicky baby who’d scream and carry on until you’d swear she’d have a convulsion. Even Claire couldn’t stop her crying. But I could. I’d cuddle her and walk the floor for hours until she finally drifted off to sleep, her tiny little body curled up against my chest. I lost a lot of sleep, but what I got in return was well worth it.

I taught her how to ride a two-wheel bike, even though falling terrified her. I ran alongside her and steadied the seat until she got enough confidence to ride on her own. That’s what a father does, keep his daughter safe—safe from falling, safe from getting hurt. I did all those things for Elizabeth, but God forgive me, I also gave her to Jeffrey Caruthers.

The day they were married, Elizabeth looked like an angel floating on a cloud. She was so happy and so in love. I got caught up in her happiness and when Pastor Howell asked, “Who gives this woman?” I answered, “I do,” without considering all the reservations I had.

Jeffrey wasn’t much more than sixteen when he started dating Liz, so I wasn’t concerned about the seriousness of their relationship. I figured he was just some gawky kid scratching the itch of puppy love. Most every night he was sprawled out on our living room floor, and I watched how he followed Elizabeth everywhere she went. He hung on to her like she was a blue ribbon show dog, but still I didn’t worry.

I should have, because that was the time to set things straight. Once she came home with a diamond ring on her finger, it was too late to start voicing my concerns. That diamond was way too big for someone of his age to have afforded. I wondered where he got the money for it, but Claire warned me against asking.

All the signs were there, I simply didn’t pay attention. It was my responsibility to take care of Elizabeth, and I didn’t. I allowed her to marry someone I had serious misgivings about, giving them my blessing and a good part of the down payment on their house.