“I remember this one,” she said as she hit play. “Brings back a lot of memories,” and there was a note of regret in her voice.
Clara listened as the song played. The opening was strange, like she had been transported to a different planet, like this was the music aliens listened to. And then the rhythm picked up, and she thought she should feel just the slightest bit of panic.
She concentrated on the words, trying for their meaning though at first, it eluded her. Nothing made sense, and then the chorus played, words repeated over and over until she understood. She blushed at the second verse remembering how Evan asked her about this song when he placed his guitar—his expensive prized possession—on the floor instead of its protective case. Right before he kissed her. Right before he did other things to her. She understood then that the guitar didn’t matter to him. Not when she was sitting beside him. He was already there—on the other side of the rainbow—and she wanted desperately to go there with him.
The music stopped, and the girls sat in silence. Clara watched her mother’s face, her eyes focused on a distant memory, remembering something private and painful and wonderful.
“Do you understand, girls?” she said softly, still staring into the distance. “Do you understand that that’s love?”
“What’s love?” Beatrice asked. She didn’t understand the song.
Ellen looked at Beatrice and smiled.
“Love is when you’re with someone and you never check the time, because for you, time doesn’t exist.”
***
She watched him walk towards her. She stood at her locker waiting though she was aching to go to him. He navigated the students until he reached her, and she flung her arms around him, something so out of character that it startled him. Some students watched intrigued. Others bumped into them suggesting they get out of the way.
“Well, hello Clara,” Evan said looking down at the top of her head.
“I listened to it,” she said into his neck. “I listened to the song.”
“What song?” he asked.
“Silver Rainbow,” she replied and pulled away to look up at him.
Evan was silent for a moment before he spoke. He wanted to knock the breath out of her with his words.
“Well, then I suppose you know now how much I love you.”
She felt weak, and he tightened his grip around her waist, letting her slump against him and bury her face in his neck once more.
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
“Look at me when you say it, Clara,” he demanded gently.
She pulled her face away, flushing crimson, and looked up into his eyes.
“I love you,” she said, and he bent to kiss her. He wanted to take the words out of her mouth with that kiss, long and slow, stirring a desire in him that was very inconvenient at school. He was aware of her breasts pressed against his chest and wanted to touch them. And then Clara felt him yanked away, heard a “no physical contact in this school” as he was escorted to his next class. But not before he turned around to yell as loudly as he could, “I love you, Clara!” making certain that everyone in the hall could hear him.
***
Clara wasn’t ready to forgive her mother. The tension in the house was unbearable. She watched helplessly as Ellen took back her role as mother, meeting with Beatrice’s teacher, working at her new job, setting up dentist appointments, cooking dinners every night that Clara could not pretend to dislike. Her mother was the best cook, even better than Ms. Debbie. And Ellen took over the bills. She worked out a payment plan for the property tax, and suddenly, there was nothing for Clara to do apart from being a regular seventeen-year-old girl. It was disorienting, and it made her angry.
Ellen knew she had to be patient with Clara. She asked Clara to help with chores around the house, and sometimes Clara was agreeable and other times not. Ellen was gentle with her but never let Clara get away with being disrespectful or not doing her chores.
“I’m not washing the clothes!” Clara screamed one morning.
“Okay, Clara,” her mother replied, and the clothes stayed put in a basket on top of the washing machine until Clara had no clean underwear. She stalked into the laundry room and threw in a load, and Ellen went about cleaning the kitchen as if nothing had happened.
“I’m not vacuuming the floor!” Clara screamed another morning.
“All right then,” her mother said, and the vacuum sat beside her bedroom door for a week and a half before the hardwoods collected so much dust that Clara had an allergy attack. She promptly vacuumed and mopped the whole house, sneezing intermittently between strokes.
Clara felt like a bitch, provoking her mother to argue every time she felt the small urge to forgive. She didn’t want to forgive. There were still so many things that had gone unsaid, and Clara couldn’t let them go.
It was also hard for her to give up the mother role. She took care of herself and Beatrice for five straight months, and then all of a sudden her mother came back to reassert her authority. Clara was afraid of letting Ellen be the parent, afraid of forgetting what it was like to be the adult in case her mother deserted them again and she was left to take on the role once more.
And Beatrice. Clara was still so angry with her little sister. She couldn’t understand her, why Beatrice ran into Ellen’s arms the moment she saw her. Wasn’t there any hurt, any anger over what Ellen had done? Beatrice forgave her instantly, settled back into a life with her real mother within minutes of her coming home. It was as though she forgot all about what Clara had done for her, how Clara had taken care of her all those months, the sacrifices that Clara made to keep them safe. Now she recognized Clara as only the big sister, and the fierce bond that was forged between them vanished in a flash the moment Beatrice saw Ellen sitting at the kitchen table.