Page 43 of An Unfinished Story
Whitaker put up both his hands apologetically. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Seeing the kindness and gentleness in his eyes, she knew he truly meant no harm. Claire took another long breath and shook it off. Apparently his mouth didn’t come with a filter. She could either accept working with him and all his peculiarities or get up now and walk away.
No, Claire had to trust her instincts, the ones that had led her to him in the first place. And in doing so, she had to give him the benefit of the doubt. He wasn’t prying; he was helping.
“No, it’s fine,” she finally said. “I don’t mean to be defensive. Our marriage was great, like better than ever. We’d already passed our rough spots and were in a strong place. We were having a lot of fun.”
Taking a welcome divergence, Whitaker asked, “Any idea where he drummed up this story? Saving a boy in a group home. Orlando. Sarasota. It’s an impressive premise, the whole idea of a sad and lonely man finding purpose in helping a young man who deserves a lift up in life.”
“Yeah, it’s beautiful. And, yes, I do feel like he wrote the book as some sort of cathartic exercise.” By now Claire knew the answer all too well, having exhausted the idea that this book was how David had experienced being a father.
“You alluded to it earlier,” Whitaker said. “Please elaborate.”
More laughter came from the other table, and Claire was tempted to turn around and tell them to keep it down.
Claire crossed her right leg over her left and folded her arms. “David always wanted to be a dad. It was his dream for so long, but we had trouble getting pregnant. We tried and tried. We were that couple that did way too many IVFs and IUIs, and it started to eat at our marriage. You can only deal with getting your hopes up so many times before you fall apart. It got bad once the doctor told us we had to stop. I was a wreck, especially. We toyed with adoption, but that didn’t work out either.” The wordadoptionsqueezed her heart.
Whitaker raised an eyebrow. “How did that not work out? Aren’t you guaranteed a child when you adopt?”
“Yeeaaaah, but ... it’s a long story.” And she really didn’t want to ever revisit it again, but she knew she needed to. “We thought we had a baby. Came home early from a trip with assurances from our lawyer. We met the mother, and she loved us.” Claire looked up and added, “You have to meet the mother and get her approval before you can meet the baby. So the baby was in the nursery. We went home feeling like it was happening. But we received a call that night, as we were getting the nursery ready. A different adoption agency had come in and talked the mother into giving the baby to another couple. Apparently, they’d offered her money under the table. Our lawyer was furious; we were destroyed.”
Claire took a big sip of her wine to slow her elevated heart rate. Those days had been so awful, sitting on the floor in the nursery holding the toys and touching the clothes she’d begun to collect, the ones that a baby might never touch.
Once she’d collected herself, Claire told Whitaker what she’d never told anyone. “That was it for me. I couldn’t keep trying. David attempted to make me feel better, promised me we’d eventually find our true baby. I told him I was done.” The confession stopped in the air in front of her, and she fought to hold back a cry. “And I said ...”
Whitaker reached across the table. “We can do this later.”
Claire shook him off and coughed up the words as if she had to get them out before they choked her. “I told him that if he loved me, he’d have to let this dream of ours go. That I couldn’t bear another failed attempt. I told him we weren’t meant to be parents.”
Claire felt the tears collecting under her eyes. But she didn’t want to cry, not anymore. “He hugged me and told me that I was all he ever needed, that we didn’t need a child, that he couldn’t be more content.” Claire scratched the table, feeling David’s breath on her neck. And she could hear the bitterness in her tone as she said, “But apparently, according to his secret book, he wasn’t content at all. It reads to me as if he wrote it to experience what it was like to be a father. I guess Orlando was the child he never had.” Claire touched her flat, empty belly. “What we could never have.”
Whitaker put his elbows on the table. “Don’t let yourself get caught up in regret. You two went through a lot. Like you said, he was happy when he died. That’s what matters most.”
Claire nodded. “I know.” Whitaker had a good point, and it was probably the one positive that had gotten her through the first three years.
“Okay,” Whitaker said. “Enough prying. And, Claire, we can always wrap up and go at it again tomorrow.”
“No, let’s keep going.”
Whitaker wrapped his fingers around the stem of his wineglass. “Why Sarasota for the setting? Was David from there?”
Claire shook her head. “No, but he traveled there sometimes. He was doing projects all over Florida. He’s actually from Tampa.”
“Oh, gotcha. You’re from Chicago, right? You met up there or ...?”
Claire loved the story of how they met, but everything was pressing down on her. One of the tears she’d attempted to suppress rolled down her cheek, and she turned so that he wouldn’t see it.
But he did see it. “You know what? Let’s take a break. This is all tough. We have plenty of time to talk. I think you get the picture. To do this right, I have to understand him. And I suspect to understand David, I need to understand you too.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Claire quickly lifted her glasses and wiped her eyes.
Leaving the topic, they made small talk for a while, getting to know each other more. Claire started to feel better and latched back on to the excitement of finishing David’s book. It was a nearly epic gift that she was giving to him. And she liked that Whitaker was her choice. Her intuition had been correct. Though his prodding hurt, it showed her how serious he was going to take the project.
As they shared the bowl of olives andtortilla Española, Whitaker asked, “What is it you do outside of running the café, not that you have any free time? But do you have any hobbies?”
Claire popped an olive into her mouth and chased it with a sip. “I have a cat.” The wine had helped calm her, and she was enjoying herself again.
“Ah, you’re a cat lady. That explains a few things.”
