But on some level, Claire knew. She knew which year was which. Which bright hot July 1st brought the breaking of the dam (’58), which one brought the Queen in her boat (’59), and which one brought that little bundle of trouble she had named Tammy (’57). But it all melted together in the blinding sunlight shimmering on the water. In the heat-wave warp of love.
Oh love, love. Where have you gone? Where have you ever been? Up in the big blue sky above the clouds. Or somewhere down deep beneath the waves. Razed and flooded. Drowned and blotted out.
Except for those few short years of brilliant sunshine with Darren.
Love! There was never enough love. Not for Claire. So hungry for love from the beginning, her mother used to push her away with a broom.
The summer Tammy was born, Claire remembers being cooped up in her parents’ house for days, her belly so heavy, so stuck out in front of her she almost fell forward every time she stood up. Her feet were so swollen, none of her shoes fit. Only her slippers. The heat was making her miserable. One-year-old Trudy was miserable, too.
One day, Claire remembers, Trudy had been fussing all day. Pouting and crying. Refusing to eat. Then, finally, she was sleeping, her head tucked hotly into Claire’s neck. The shoulder of her blouse was wet with drool and sweat. Trudy’s little body was pasted against her. Claire had put her head back on the arm of the couch to close her eyes, hoping to sleep just for a minute, when her mother walked into the living room. Hair slick with sweat, face bright red, broom in hand. She looked at her daughter and her granddaughter with pure scorn.
“I can see you’re very busy, Claire, but that diaper pail upstairs is disgusting. Could you please do something about it?”
“Yes,” Claire whispered. Trudy stirred in her arms, whimpering.
“Today?”
“Mom, I will get to it. Please keep your voice down. I just got her to sleep.” She gingerly — and with much effort — got up from the couch to take Trudy to her crib in the corner of the room. Trudy’s eyelids twitched and her brow furrowed for a moment as Claire set her down and quietly backed away. Suddenly angry, she turned to her mother. “You could be a little nicer to me, you know.” And then, “Sometimes it’s like you don’t even love me at all.”
As Claire brushed by on her way upstairs to face the nauseating diaper pail, her mother’s hand shot out and grabbed her. Her strong fingers dug into Claire’s plump, tender upper arm. Her mother’s face was in her face. Her voice trembled.
“Listen to me, you little idiot.”
Claire listened.
“I have cooked for you, cleaned for you, let you live here in my house, when the whole town is looking down their noses at me. When the whole world knows I have a daughter who can’t keep her legs together. Who has no sense. Who refuses to learn from her mistakes and comes back to this house pregnant again! Twice! Single and pregnant again and barely eighteen! Brilliant.” She paused here. Shook her head in disgust and loosened her grip on Claire’s arm. “Don’t you ever fucking tell me that I don’t love you. You stupid, stupid girl.”
Claire’s slipper caught on the edge of the rug and she stumbled forward a little toward the stairs, tears streaming down her face, her arm burning where her mother had grabbed it. Those words, spoken with hatred. Spat at her like venom.
Don’t you ever fucking tell me I don’t love you. You stupid, stupid girl.
That was as close as her mother had ever come to saying it.