Honeysuckle Love

She felt a surge of anger at her father, remembering the way he looked at the woman, wondering absurdly if that was the woman he left her mother for. She ripped the picture in half and her anger eased. But it wasn’t enough. She strode to the living room and threw the pieces in the fire watching as they curled up into themselves until they disappeared. She didn’t know witchcraft, but she hoped her father could feel his face burning. She hoped he was crying out in pain.

 

She sank down beside the flames shivering violently. She could not make sense of it, of him. She never could. Once she was old enough to see what he was doing—his eyes constantly darting all around him—she felt nothing but confusion. Her mother was beautiful. The most beautiful woman Clara had ever seen. She was clever and vivacious and spontaneous. She was creative. She was smart. She was capable and independent. Why was she not enough for him?

 

And then Clara considered the unsettling idea that perhaps she was too much for him. Maybe because she could do everything he felt useless. Maybe he was jealous of her and wanted someone who depended on him. Someone who was lost without him. Clara snorted. If only he knew how much she did need him. He wasn’t around to see the aftermath. Her slow and steady descent into depression. The tears she shed for him. She did need him—had always needed him—and she was a fool for not showing him that. And he was a fool for not seeing it.

 

Clara never did get her sweatshirt. She was afraid to go back into that drawer believing she would find another picture to remind her of her father when all she wanted to do was forget.

 

***

 

“Why can’t we stay here?” Beatrice asked. She clutched her teddy bear close to her chest.

 

“Grandmom needs our help, Bea,” her mother replied. “She’s all alone and wants us to come and live with her.”

 

“But she’s so far away,” Beatrice complained.

 

“She’s just on the other side of town,” her mother said. “She’s not that far.”

 

“We’ll have to go to another school, won’t we?” Clara asked.

 

Their mother averted her eyes. “I’m sorry girls,” she whispered.

 

“I don’t want to!” Beatrice cried. “I want to stay with my friends!”

 

Clara swallowed.

 

“You’ll still see your friends,” their mother said. “Maybe not as much, but I’ll make sure you still see them.”

 

Clara listened as Beatrice sniffled into the head of her teddy bear. Her mother slunk out of the room, and she followed leaving Beatrice alone to cry out her frustration.

 

“Why are we really moving?” Clara asked when they reached the kitchen. “Grandmom doesn’t need our help.”

 

Her mother turned around and sighed. “I can’t afford to live here,” she said. She looked Clara square in the face. “Do you understand?”

 

“Yes,” Clara replied.

 

She only had one friend at school, but she was her best friend. Clara knew how it would go. They would try to see each other every weekend, but then it would change to every other. And then it would change to every once in awhile. And then it would stop altogether. Clara panicked at the idea. She didn’t want to start all over at a new school. She knew her limitations —how painfully shy she was—and couldn’t imagine trying to make a new friend.

 

“I’m sorry, Clara,” her mother said quietly. Tears coursed down her face.

 

Clara stood emotionless staring at her mother. “It’s not your fault,” she said in a dead tone. She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 15

 

 

 

Beatrice was invited to her best friend Angela’s birthday party on a cold Saturday afternoon. Clara withdrew a little money for Beatrice to get a small gift. They had gone that morning to get Angela a bracelet, something sparkly and fun. Something Clara really couldn’t afford to buy but didn’t want Beatrice showing up at a party without.

 

“It’s no big deal if I don’t bring a present, Clara,” Beatrice had said as they looked over the assortment of bracelets.

 

“It is a big deal, Bea,” Clara argued. “You can’t show up to a party and eat food and cake that you didn’t pay for without bringing a gift. It’s rude.”

 

Beatrice shrugged her shoulders.

 

“And anyway, it’s a birthday party. You bring a gift. That’s what you do.”

 

Clara picked up a shiny bracelet with multi-colored jewels on it. “Do you think Angela would like this?” she asked holding it out for Beatrice.

 

Beatrice took the bracelet and turned it over in her hands.

 

“Yes,” she said finally. “This is the one.”

 

Clara made sure to ask for a gift box at the jewelry counter. The girls had no paper at home to wrap it, but Clara did find an old spool of Christmas ribbon in a closet and used the white ribbon to tie up the box. Beatrice handmade the birthday card, and Clara thought that in the end, it was a very nice gift.

 

With Beatrice gone, Clara found herself sitting on the couch and staring at the bracelet receipt. She looked at the total—$11.74—and wondered about all of the other things she could have bought with that money. Fucking Angela, she thought. Fucking Angela and her fucking birthday party that her fucking mother had to throw.

 

She slapped the receipt on the coffee table and stared into the empty fireplace. The house was cold, but she couldn’t bring herself to make a fire. She knew she would need to in order to boil water for her bath. She wondered if it even mattered—washing before work. She thought it didn’t.

 

She was jolted by a knock on the front door. It alarmed her every time, her heart catching in her throat, pounding in her esophagus. Her instinct was to run and hide. For one, knocks didn’t happen that often, so she was always suspicious of them, of who it could be, and two, she didn’t want whoever it was to discover that there was no electricity when she opened the door.

 

She peered out of the front window and saw him standing there. Her nerves didn’t settle. She was more on edge, uncertain about inviting him in. The last time he was in her house it wasn’t so cold.

 

Clara opened the door. “Why are you here?”

 

“I thought I’d come see you on my way to work,” Evan replied.

 

“But you don’t work anywhere near here,” Clara said. She stood in the doorway barring his entrance.

 

Evan shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets.

 

“I know I don’t,” he said. “But I’ve got some time. So are you going to let me in?”

 

Clara looked behind her and then back at Evan.