A. Homes: In A Country Of Mothers

Inside, Claire used her key again and locked the door behind them.

“Flashlight?” Jody asked.

“Candles,” Claire said, going through the bags, pulling out candles and the silver candlesticks that had been a wedding gift from Sam’s aunt.

Jody raised the video camera to her eye.

“You can’t hide,” Claire said. “I see you, I know you’re there. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

“Not enough light,” Jody said, putting the camera down.

Claire smiled. “Take a look around.” She handed Jody a lit candle. “Four bedrooms, two and a half baths, and a lot of work to be done.”

Jody wandered off through the house. “This is totally creepy,” she called from upstairs. “Don’t you believe in light bulbs?”

“It’s an adventure,” Claire said. “Besides, we obviously haven’t moved in yet. It’ll be really great once we’re all together.”

Jody came back into the living room, where Claire was unpacking things. “I hope you’re hungry,” Claire said, handing Jody the bottle of wine and the corkscrew.

“What are we supposed to be celebrating?” Jody asked.

Claire didn’t answer. She watched the candlelight play on Jody’s face, strange shadows dancing, and finished laying out the meal. Her throat was filled with a ball of words wanting to come out all at once. Claire swallowed, then handed Jody two wineglasses. “Pour,” she said.

They sat on opposite sides of the room, the picnic spread out on the floor between them. They ate in bits and pieces and spoke in fragments about the house, the city, anything but themselves.

The rain plunked against the windows.

“Jody,” Claire said softly, about an hour later, when the first bottle of wine was nearly gone, when all that was simple and easy had already been said. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

Jody sat motionless on the other side of the room. “I’m tired of talking.”

“Then just listen.” Claire pushed the tablecloth away, slid closer to Jody, and put her hand on Jody’s ankle. “In December 1966, in Washington, D.C., I gave birth to a baby girl. Three days later I handed that baby to a stranger and then went home. For nearly twenty-five years I’ve tried to go about my life, to forget that I’m the mother of that child. But I can’t.” Claire looked at Jody, checking for a reaction, but she was motionless. “Jody,” Claire said, squeezing her ankle, “you are that child.”

Jody pulled her leg away, drew her knees to her chest, and put her hand over her eyes.

“I am your mother,” Claire said, wrapping her arms around Jody.

Jody raised up the wineglass in her hand and brought it down hard on the floor, smashing the bowl, then dug the broken stem into Claire’s arm. “Don’t touch me,” she said, “or I’ll kill you.”

“I can understand that you might be angry,” Claire said, wincing as she fingered the gash on her arm. “Your whole life you’ve been waiting, and now I’m here, just like that.” Claire blotted the wound and again moved toward her.

“You’re not my mother,” Jody said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sweetie,” Claire said, kneeling in front of her, “it’s true. You and I both know it. That’s what these last few months have been about. I wouldn’t be surprised if on some level you’ve known all along. Maybe you got sick so I’d come back to you. It explains so many things. That’s why everything has been so confusing. But now the mystery’s solved. We can go on.” Claire paused and smiled. “I’m so glad it’s you.”

“You’re crazy,” Jody said, springing up, running to the door. “Why the fuck can’t I open the door!” she screamed, pulling at it.

“I have the key,” Claire said, coming up behind her.

“Let me out! Let me out of here!”

“Calm down. I want you to calm down. You can’t go racing out like a maniac.” Claire put her hand on Jody’s shoulder. “Stop,” she said. “Just stop.”

Jody whirled around, waving the stem of the wineglass in Claire’s face. “Leave me alone! This is your problem, not mine.”

She ran up the stairs, Claire chasing after her, and ended up locked in the bathroom with the broken tub.

Claire banged on the door. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this. Come out, Jody. I’ll give you the key. Here, I’ll side it under.” Claire took the house key off her ring and tried to fit it under the door. “It won’t fit,” Claire said. “But it’s here, right outside the door.” She paused. “You’re free — you can go.”

Jody didn’t answer.

Claire rattled the knob. “I want you to open this door.”

“Just go away.”

“Sweetie, don’t do this. We can be happy now.” Claire sat down on the floor outside the bathroom door. The hall was narrow and dark. “When you were five,” she said, “on your first day of school, when your mother put you in a Florence Eiseman dress and walked you to your classroom, do you know what I did?” Claire paused. “Well, I went out the night before and bought you a pencil box, crayons, paper, Elmer’s glue, and a lunch box, all the things I thought you’d need. I stopped on my way home, bought a loaf of white bread, a jar of smooth peanut butter, grape jelly, strawberry jam, and then I made twelve peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, trying to get it right, to make the one you’d really want — crust, cut in half, no crust, cut in quarters. A whole loaf of sandwiches. I wrapped them in wax paper and put them into the fridge, and in the morning, when your mother was getting you ready for school, I didn’t know what to do. So I ate them, all of them, one at a time.”

“I hate peanut butter,” Jody said.

“I’ve loved you so much for so long. Every year I’d buy you a present for your birthday; I’d wonder what you were doing and if you were happy. For twenty-five years I’ve thought about you and worried about you. How can you do this to me? Don’t you realize nothing can keep me from you? Not your resistance, and certainly not this door.”

Jody didn’t answer.

“What are you doing in there? I want you to tell me what you’re doing.”

“Nothing. I’m not doing anything. Leave me alone. You have to go away and leave me alone.”

“Come out and let’s talk. Can we do that?”

“Shut up, Claire, just shut up.”

Claire poked at her bloody arm, and thought about the broken glass in Jody’s hand. “What are you doing in there?”

Jody didn’t answer.

“Please, tell me what you’re doing.”

Claire imagined Jody working the stem back and forth against her wrists, her neck, sawing at her skin, splitting the veins. She imagined blood spilling onto the floor, traveling in thin rivers down the grouted paths between the tiles.

“Jody?”

There was no answer.

She pictured blood pooling in the sunken spots under the sink, in front of the toilet, and Jody slumped against the tub.

Claire stood up and threw herself against the door. “Say something!” she screamed. “If you don’t open this door I’ll have to call the police and they’ll break it down.” Claire waited for a response. “Jody, don’t make me do it.” She conjured the pulse slowing, the heart stopping.

She picked up her keys, ran down the steps, out the door, and to the car. Breathless, she picked up the car phone and dialed information. “Stamford,” she said. “Greenspan, Bert.” A classmate from Columbia, a guy she’d dated, head of a private hospital in the hills of Stamford.

“Hi, Bert, it’s Claire Roth.”

“Claire, hi. It’s been a while. Where are you? The connection’s terrible.”

“It’s my car phone. Listen, it’s an emergency, I’m in Glenville. I bought this house. It’s a long story, but a patient of mine is out here. She’s locked herself in the bathroom and—” Claire paused—“she may be suicidal.”