An Unfinished Story(89)

As those lonely months had passed by, as their desperate attempts failed, one after another, Claire remembered losing touch with who she was. That sadness had turned to anger and defeat. When they’d signed the first papers moving forward with adoption, she hadn’t been excited like many potential parents might be. She’d already pushed herself back under the water for the last time, sealing her fate.

Claire had missed the most important part. He’d had dreams too. Of being a father. Of raising a child. Of being a young one’s hero. Of giving a little one the tools with which to take on the world. Little did she know she’d been holding him under the water too.

After they’d hit the first snag with their adoption process, she’d told him to let it go. She couldn’t keep trying. Another fail would have ended her.

Ended them.

She’d barely considered what he’d been going through. How could she hate him for keeping Oliver from her when it was her own selfishness that had led them to a childless life? They could have adopted! As she now understood, there were so many children who needed them.

Curled up on the bed with Willy in her bungalow on the beach, Claire cried and cried, and could feel her lungs filling with water, almost as if her body were gasping for its last breaths.

And only after her body and soul were dried up did she fall into a sad sleep. She woke hours later to a thunderstorm, fed Willy dinner, drank a glass of water, and returned to bed. While she settled back into her brokenhearted coma, her phone rang in her purse in the living room. She didn’t bother. The phone kept ringing and dinging with calls and texts as lightning flashed through the windows.

At daybreak, Claire felt the sun splash through the window onto her bare back. The sun had no right to shine today. She closed the blinds, shutting out the world, and crawled back into the bed, wallowing in despair.

Then a knock on the door. And several more. She heard Whitaker calling her name.

All cried out by now, she stared at the white of the ceiling and waited for him to stop knocking. To leave her alone. To let her find her own way back.

Sometime later, she climbed out of bed and went toward the porch. She needed to see the sun, to breathe the salt breeze.

Whitaker was sitting in a rocking chair reading The Good Earth. The ground was wet and lush from the rain the night before.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, pressing open the screen door to the porch, wiping her eyes, wishing away the darkness covering her face.

One-Eyed Willy slipped past her and jumped onto Whitaker’s lap.

Whitaker put down the book and gave the cat some attention. “Checking on you.”

“How long have you been here?”

“All morning. Didn’t you hear me knocking?”

Whitaker set Willy and the book on the table and stood and hugged her. “I know this is tough, but please don’t shut me out,” he whispered.

Silence. He had no idea how tough this was.

“What can I do for you?” He took her hand and met her eyes.

Claire turned her head toward the street. An old VW van with a paddleboard on top crept by. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“I tried to call you last night. I talked to Oliver’s foster mom. She said he was free this afternoon at three. I texted you the address.”

Claire nodded, biting down on a bitter rising cry. “I can’t. Not right now.”

“What do you mean you can’t? Claire, we found him. Don’t you want to talk to him?”

“Yes, of course. But not today.” She started inside, holding the door for him, indicating for him to follow.

“I’m not going to see him without you.”

Claire pivoted and faced him in the center of the living room. Whitaker was being gentle, but she felt a red rage on the verge of eruption, the kind of anger that didn’t care where it was pointed. She crossed her arms. “Why do you need to go see him? So you can finish the book? So you can go and get famous again—off David’s story this time?”

He side-eyed her. “How could you say that? Forget the damn story. I’m invested in Oliver. And apparently I’m the only one.”

“How dare you!” she snapped. How dare he assume anything about her. He had no idea what it was like to experience your partner die. To open the door to a policeman with red eyes and the saddest news in the world. The only struggle he’d ever known was his privileged little fight to be a writer, to chase his calling.

Whitaker moved to her and opened his arms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Well aware of her irrationality, she turned away. When he tried to touch her, she shook him off. “You will never understand. Honestly, you need to leave. It will only get worse from here.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Just go, Whitaker.”

“Claire,” he said, stepping away from her, “it’s not about you.” He talked to her back. “I’m sorry to be a jerk, but it’s not. Not anymore. I am so sorry you lost your husband. I can’t imagine. But don’t you see there’s something larger at play here than your loss? David was doing something special. He gave hope to a boy that didn’t have any. He showed him what it was like to be loved. I can say this to you because I’m just as guilty most of the time: stop thinking about yourself and think about Oliver. Think about all the good your husband did for this boy. Stop thinking about how your husband lied to you. He was trying to find his own happiness while protecting you at the same time. He was trying to do good. He didn’t tell you because you might not have been able to handle it. He didn’t tell you because he loved you.”