***
Clara plopped down on the couch that evening shrouded in darkness save for the few candles on the coffee table that emitted a soft glow. She felt restless as she watched Beatrice complete her homework, her sister’s little face screwed up in concentration as she worked the math problems on her practice sheet.
“Did you finish your novel today, Clara?” Beatrice asked feeling Clara’s eyes on her.
“Huh?” Clara replied distracted.
“Your novel. The one you’ve been reading,” Beatrice clarified as her pencil moved over the paper.
Clara pulled her mass of damp hair to the side over her right shoulder and ran her fingers through it. “Yeah.”
“And did it end happily?” Beatrice asked finishing her last problem, folding the paper, and sticking it in her math book.
“All of Thomas Hardy’s books end happily,” Clara said. “That’s why I read them.”
Beatrice considered this. “Clara?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think we live an unhappy life?”
Clara felt the bullet sear her heart. She lost her breath momentarily.
“No,” she breathed. She could barely get the word out. She tried again. “No,” she said more firmly. “We live a very happy life, Bea. It’s happy because you’re in it.”
Beatrice smiled. “I was going to say that it’s happy because you’re in it.”
Clara couldn’t hold it in. “I want a boyfriend, though,” she blurted out, and then in a whisper added, “I’m lonely for one.”
“I know Clara,” Beatrice replied. She lay down flat on her back on the living room floor looking at the dark ceiling.
Clara felt the sting of tears in her eyes. “And it’s terrible because I like somebody at school that I have no business liking.”
“Why?” Beatrice asked.
“Because he’s too cool for me,” Clara said sulkily.
“Clara, there’s nobody in the world who’s too cool for you,” Beatrice replied. “You just need some more confidence. You’re smart and pretty and funny, but you don’t think you’re any of those things. You get that from Mom, you know.”
Another bullet to the heart. How could Beatrice be so perceptive at ten years old? She was always telling Clara the things she didn’t want to hear but knew were true. Beatrice was too wise for her age, and her wisdom pierced Clara’s heart. Clara was like their mother, she had to admit. All of the insecurities came from her mother who was so beautiful and wild and passionate when she wasn’t sad. Beatrice inherited the passion. Clara was afraid she inherited all of the bad things—the sad heart, the lack of self-confidence. But Clara also knew that she wouldn’t deal with those challenges the way her mother did. She refused to sink down into depression. She refused to touch alcohol. Never in her whole life would she touch alcohol. She would never be like her mother that way.
“What’s his name?” Beatrice asked after a time.
“Who?”
“The boy you like at school?” Beatrice clarified.
“Oh.” Clara sat silent for a moment. “It doesn’t matter,” she said and leaned over to blow out the candles.
Chapter 5
Clara flew out of bed in a panic at the sound of a loud knock on the front door early Saturday morning. She bumped into Beatrice in the hallway who also jumped out of bed in a hurry.
“Are they here?” Beatrice whispered. She didn’t have to specify. She knew Clara understood that “they” meant Child Protective Services. The fear pervaded her voice.
“I don’t know,” Clara said. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
Another loud knock, and Beatrice grabbed Clara around the waist.
“It’s okay,” Clara said smoothing her sister’s hair. She gently peeled Beatrice’s arms from around her body. “I want you to go back into your room for just a minute.”
Beatrice shook her head violently.
“Please, Beatrice,” Clara said. “I’ll be right in.”
Beatrice walked back to her room grudgingly, turning back to look at Clara once. Clara had never seen Beatrice look so terrified, and she never wanted to see it again. She turned to the front door when a third knock sounded.
Very carefully, Clara pulled back the dusty curtain that hung over a horizontal window running the width of the top of the door. She pulled it back a fraction and was just tall enough to see outside if she stood on her tiptoes. She let out a sigh of relief.
It was Ms. Debbie from across the street.
“It’s okay, Bea!” Clara called. “You can come out!”
Beatrice was already by Clara’s side as she opened the door for their neighbor.
Ms. Debbie was a formidable lady, dressed in a housecoat, hair in curlers as she pushed past the girls into the living room. She took a seat on the couch and waved the girls over. Clara shut the door and walked with Beatrice into the living room. They settled themselves on the floor in front of Ms. Debbie.
“Girls, you can’t fool me,” Ms. Debbie began. “Lord in heaven, it’s hot as hell in here!” She pulled at the collar of her housecoat.
“Ms. Debbie, I don’t know what you mean,” Clara replied. She swallowed.
“Clara, give me a break,” Ms. Debbie said flatly. “I haven’t seen your deadbeat mom in a month! Where is she?”
Clara and Beatrice remained silent.
“Where is she?” Ms. Debbie pressed.
“We don’t know,” Beatrice said quietly. In that moment she felt like it were her fault that their mother disappeared. Ms. Debbie watched as Beatrice’s face fell.
“It’s not your fault your mother is gone, honey,” she said gently. “She has . . . issues. Let’s just put it that way.” She considered the girls. “Where are the lights?”
“We don’t have any at the moment,” Clara replied. “Our electricity was turned off because Mom hadn’t paid the bill for the past three months.”
Ms. Debbie growled. “How have you been eating?”
“Sandwiches. And we use the wood stove to cook even though it’s really hot,” Clara explained.
“Good God,” Ms. Debbie replied crossing herself. “And washing?”