She turned on the oven light and peered inside to check on the bread. “He’s in the basement,” she said. “Working on the train track.” I heard the slight irritation in her tone, which meant my dad was in the dog house for something. “You kids be good for Grandma,” I said. “No fighting. I’m going to go down and see what Grandpa’s up to.”

“Tell him we’ll be down as soon as we make the cookies,” Josh said. He loved the trains almost as much as my dad did.

I opened the basement door and walked down the stairs. My dad whirled around at the sound of my footsteps when I entered the room. “Claire!” He smiled at me, the way only he could, and held open his arms. I went to him and he enveloped me in his embrace. “What brings you by? Are the kids and Chris with you?”

“The kids are upstairs making cookies with Mom. Chris is at home.” The office door was closed when we left, so I didn’t tell my dad what Chris was up to because I had no idea. “How’s the train track coming along?”

“I’m working on a playground. The kids will love it.”

Three weeks after my dad retired, he decided he needed something to fill his days. “I’m going nuts,” he told my mom.

“He’s driving me crazy,” my mom told me. “He’s got to find something to do; he’s underfoot all day.”

My dad solved the problem by immersing himself in the world of model trains, and one end of the basement showcased his entire collection. He actually spent more time working on the track than he did with the trains. He’d mounted it on a large platform and the elaborate, winding track included trees and shrubs, small outbuildings, and houses. There was even a frozen pond with a miniature ice-skater on it. Jordan loved that the best. I walked over to check out his progress with the playground. He was right. The kids would love the tiny swing set and slide, and the picnic table. “What’s happened here?” I asked, pointing to a jumbled pile of track that wasn’t connected to anything.

“I’m switching the direction so that it winds back around. I’ll probably switch it back,” he muttered. I sat down on the old plaid couch. The bookshelves along the adjacent wall still held all the mementos of my youth, including my soccer trophies and my senior picture from high school. My mom had saved every award or certificate I’d ever earned and they were lined up on the shelves in their outdated eight-by-ten frames. I found the nostalgia comforting and also a little embarrassing. The room was one giant time capsule. Chris loved to come down here and tease me good-naturedly about the shrine my parents had erected in my honor. The bane of an only child.

“What’s new, Claire-bear?” my dad asked.

“Nothing. Just waiting for spring.”

His doubtful expression said he wasn’t buying it, not for one minute. He walked toward the couch and sat down beside me, polishing his glasses on the hem of his flannel shirt. “You gonna tell your dad what’s really wrong?”

His candor surprised me. I expected these kinds of questions from my mom, had in fact fielded several since Chris lost his job, but not from him.

“I can’t reach him, Dad. We don’t talk and he won’t let me help him.” Tears welled up in my eyes, maybe because it felt cathartic to finally say it out loud or maybe because everything was falling apart and I wanted nothing more than to let my dad handle it, the way he’d fixed my bicycle when the chain came off or changed the oil in my car when I started driving. I knew those thoughts were ridiculous because I was a grown woman, a mother of two, and I could hardly expect him to solve my adult problems.

“What Chris is going through is a hard thing, Claire.” His tone was gentle, but his words stung. My own dad didn’t think my emotions were justified. He noticed my expression. “Now, don’t get your feelings hurt, honey. It’s hard on you, and the kids, too. I know that. This hasn’t been easy on any of you. But a man wants to take care of his family, and it doesn’t matter whether they’re capable of taking care of themselves or not. He’s out of sorts. Doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

“He won’t talk to me about it. I try, and he shoots me down.”

“He hears what you’re saying, Claire. He just can’t answer you right now. Men aren’t big on sharing their feelings, especially during the hard times. Don’t give up on him. He needs you more than ever.”

I nodded, wiping the tears that spilled onto my cheeks. “It will probably get worse before it gets better,” he added. “You should remember that.” He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “I’m not saying you don’t have a limit, when enough is enough. Don’t be afraid to tell him, either. You’re nobody’s punching bag.”

“Oh, Dad. Chris would never raise a hand to me.”

“I know that. But words can hurt every bit as much.”

He pulled me toward him and hugged me. I heard the thunder of footsteps on the stairs and Josh and Jordan burst into the room, eager to spend time with their grandpa and check out the track. They hugged him and after he showed them everything that was new, I told them I was heading back upstairs.

“Grandma said we’re supposed to come back up, too, as soon as we’re done looking at the track. The pumpkin bread is ready,” Josh said. He and his sister left the room as abruptly as they had entered it. I started to follow. “You coming, Dad?” I asked.

He picked up a tiny swing and added it to the playground, giving it a slight push and watching as it swung back and forth. “I suppose. Been hiding out down here long enough.”

“Why are you hiding?”

He cleared his throat. “Because your mother wants to talk about my overdue prostate exam, and I don’t.”

Despite my swirling emotions, and my despair, I couldn’t help but smile and shake my head.

“You’re gonna get it checked out though, right?”

He threw his hands in the air and snorted. “Yes.”

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you, too, honey.”

17

claire

I’m playing catch with Josh in the backyard. He’d prefer to throw the ball to Chris or Travis, but Chris is in Miami and Travis has a raging case of strep throat. All Josh has left are his mom and his sister and when Jordan refused he came looking for me. His timing isn’t the greatest because I’m right in the middle of cooking dinner, but he looks so hopeful that I can’t bring myself to say no. I turn down the temperature on the stove, deciding that the beef stew can simmer for a while longer. After shutting off the oven that had been preheating for the crescent rolls, Jordan’s favorite, I follow him outside.

I put on my glove and Josh winds up and throws.

“Good job, Mom,” he says when I catch it.

He smiles when I throw it back. We play for almost a half hour, but then I bend down to retrieve the ball that I missed and something pops in my back. I can barely straighten.

“Mom, what happened?” Josh asks, running over to me.

“Nothing,” I assure him. Trying not to grimace, I say, “I’m okay.”

It isn’t nothing. It feels like white-hot arrows of pain are shooting from my lower back to the top of my spine, pain that’s exacerbated by the slightest movement. “Let’s go inside,” I say. “It’s almost time for dinner.”

“Okay,” he says.

I take two Motrin and walk over to stir the beef stew. After preheating the oven I have to ask Josh to open it; I can’t bend down far enough to do it myself. “Thank you,” I say. “Stand back.” I slide the sheet pan of rolls inside, closing the door with my hip. When the timer goes off twelve minutes later I somehow manage to remove the rolls without dropping them.