Brooklyn, New York
Claire’s alarm went off, snatching her out of her slumber. She rolled over and and hit the “off” button, bringing the obnoxious ringing to an end. She looked at the clock. 6:00AM. Claire sighed deeply. She had only been retired a year but still found it quite difficult to let go of her habit of keeping a routine. Every morning, at 6:00AM, Claire rose and began her day. The house had been especially quiet this morning since the Twins, both now in law school and with families of their own, left for Atlanta the evening prior. With the exception of an occasional visit from Rudy, the house maintained a level of silence that Claire had grown uncomfortable with after raising 5 children. Theo and his wife would drop in for the occasional dinner because, after all these years, Theo never missed an opportunity to consume a home cooked meal from his mother.
Claire rose, slipping her feet into her morning shoes and walked over to the vanity mirror. She sat down and stared at her reflection for just a moment. 70+ was beginning to show itself on her; her sable hair, now glistening with streaks of grey that dignity, hung wildly about her face. Wrinkles, each seemingly hand-drawn by God himself, only accentuated her timeless beauty. Even as an elder, Claire still received many compliments on her ageless aesthetics; if nothing else, it numbed her own self-doubt about aging and beauty — if only for a moment.
“Claire!”
Her moment to herself was disturbed by what she determined to be Cliff’s voice booming down the hallway and into their bedroom. She stood up and moved about, side-stepping the ottoman and out of the room. She came down the long hallway and stopped for just a moment and reminisced. She remembered when this very hallway was buzzing with Theo’s dribbling, and Rudy crying about not being able to get into the restroom. Claire’s smile stretched from ear to ear as she remembered the many mornings Cliff affectionately referred to as the “Prince and MJ” Wars: Theo blasting Michael Jackson’s Bad, and Vanesa trying her best to outdo him with Prince and his Sign-o-the Times. The summer of 1987 was one for the ages!
30 years seemed like yesterday. The days had run together and she like 50, 60, and 70, life had snuck right on by her. 30 years ago, these halls were filled with the laughter, cries, music, stories, and love of the five extensions of herself: Sondra, Denise, Theo, Vanessa, and Rudy. She found herself reminiscing on the mornings when Theo Jr aka TJ would bury himself in his father’s room and pay old cassettes of LL Cool J and Whitney Houston. Claire remembers the music — it was the soundtrack that played in the background as she and Cliff did the best they could to provide a life for their children that had only been a mere dream for them.
“Yes, Cliff?” Claire called out as she came down the backstairs and into the kitchen. She scanned the room. No sign of him. Claire walked around to the back of the house. She checked her office. Cliff would take his bible into the dining room and study occasionally. She checked the dining room. Still no signs of him. She walked back through the kitchen.
“Where are you, Cliff?” Claire called out.
“I’m in here!” Claire followed the voice as best she could.
“Where is ‘here?’ She called back. She walked through the kitchen and into the living room. The record player crooning the sounds of Nancy Wilson, Cliff’s favorite. She smiled. He must have forgotten to turn it off before they retired for the evening. She looked over at the coffee table. Her favorite bottle of Chardonnay lay nearly empty. Cliff’s glass still full.
“Cliff where are you?”
She walked across the living room and down the stairs leading to his office. She opened the French doors leading to his study.
“Cliff? Are you in h-?”
The room was empty. Claire surveyed the room, confusion now beginning to show itself. Then, as ash turned to leave, there in the corner of his office, lay Cliff’s white lab coat sitting on the coat stand. The reality of what was hit Claire like a ton of bricks. She turned the light off and closed the doors to his study. She quietly walked back up the stairs, silent and somber.
Claire stepped back into the living room- Nancy still crooning away:
When you look into his eyes and he turns away,
when you’re at a corner table, and there’s nothing left to say,
how plainly can he tell you, does he have to spell it out?
face it girl, it’s over.”
She walked over to the record player and lifted the needle –turning up the volume on a home already buried in stillness.
Claire walked over to the coffee table and re-corked the Chardonnay bottle. With the bottle in one hand and two wine glasses in the other, she walked to the kitchen and placed the glasses and bottle on the counter. She stood at the sink for a minute trying with all her might to keep her composure. She had done it to herself — again.
A single tear began to well up and slowly dribble down her face as she made her way back up stairs. When she reached the top of the hallway this time, however, there were no sounds of dribbling balls or memories of faint cries. The tunes of Prince and Michael did not fill the airspace. Instead, silence. Claire walked down the hallway and entered her bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she set on the side of the bed and began to weep quietly. How had she done this to herself — again?
The tears now flowed uncontrollably as she reached for her phone. There was only one person who she could talk to at this time of morning who would do nothing else but listen. Claire dialed the number and pressed the phone up against her cheek, tears still flowing.
“Hello?”
Claire could do nothing but cry into the phone.
“Claire? It’s okay, girl. I remember those mornings. I am on my way. Just keep crying. Let it out. I love you, See you soon.” And with the that, the call ended.
Claire hung up the phone and laid her head on her pillow and closed her eyes. Piece by piece, last night’s events slowly began to come back to her. She began to remember getting up in the middle of the night, pouring herself a glass of Chardonnay and listening to Nancy. She’d drank until her memories, meds, and chardonnay worked their toxic wonders. Her dreams had gotten more vivid in the last few months, prompting her doctor to insist that she consider a prescription for a sleep aid. She reluctantly agreed, not knowing that the medication she had been prescribed only intensified the voices.
His voice.
She could hear Cliff.
She could feel Cliff.
But there was no Cliff.
Claire set up, grabbed a silk handkerchief off of the knight stand and dabbed her tears away. She grabbed her cell phone and turned off the alarm system so that her friend would be able to get into the house with ease. She laid back down and covered herself — waiting patiently for her friend to come and remind her that there was indeed life after the death of her first love.
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