was normal. Only a person with a callous heart would be impervious to Brittany’s words. And Clara’s heart was far from callous. It was tender and wounded, bruised by her mother’s abandonment and frightened for Beatrice. She had all the right in the world to cry, and so she locked herself in a dressing room and allowed herself five minutes to fall apart.
***
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
***
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
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