Losing Clara

Chapter Six: Something Beginning

The texts had never really stopped. But after the café, they changed.

A good-morning text before her 5 a.m. clinical. A photo of a terrible sandwich with the caption this is why I need a cook. A question about her exams, and then, three days later, a question about how the exam had actually gone, which no one else had thought to ask.

Clara told herself it was only friendship. She'd had old friends come back into her life before.

But she noticed she had started checking her phone between patients.

On Thursday he asked if she wanted to meet again. This time there was no G-Wagon and no driver. He was standing outside a small tea shop near her school in an ordinary gray jacket, hands in his pockets, looking a little unsure of himself.

"You took the train," she said.

"I wanted to see if I still could."

"And?"

"I got on the wrong line twice."

She laughed so suddenly that a woman at the next table looked over. He'd ordered for her before she reached the counter: chamomile with honey, no sugar. She stopped with her hand on the chair.

"How did you know that?"

"You ordered it every Wednesday at youth night. The tea kettle was always empty by the time you got there, so you'd wait." He shrugged, embarrassed. "I was usually standing behind you."

"You were always standing behind me."

"Three rows back is the best view."

She meant to roll her eyes. Instead she looked into her cup and felt her ears go warm.

They talked until the tea went cold. He asked about her family, and she told him about her mother's Sunday pot roast, her father's terrible jokes, and how she'd promised them both she would finish school without asking for a dollar more than they could give. He didn't fill the silences. When she said something that mattered, he simply listened.

She noticed that, too.

When they left, the sky was already turning the color of dusk. They walked side by side without speaking, and once, at the crosswalk, the back of his hand brushed hers.

Neither of them said anything. Neither of them moved away.

The light changed. They crossed.

On Sunday, Clara found a seat in the fourth row and set her Bible on her knee. Susan slid in beside her a minute later, whispering about how she'd nearly overslept.

Then she stopped whispering.

"Clara," she said, very quietly. "Turn around."

She did.

Three rows back, in a white shirt and a plain dark tie, sat Patrick. No watch. No driver. He was looking straight at her, and he lifted one hand in a small, embarrassed wave.

"Three rows," Susan murmured. "He counted."

"Stop it."

"I'm just saying he counted."

Clara faced forward and tried very hard to concentrate on the opening hymn. It didn't work. She heard nothing of the first half of the sermon.

Afterward he found her by the church steps, hands in his pockets again, as if he'd been practicing that too.

"I wasn't sure it was allowed," he said. "Coming back."

"It's a church, Patrick. It's kind of the point."

"I know." He looked up at the building, and for a second the confidence slipped. "It's been a while."

She looked at him for a long moment, at the tie that didn't fit right and the eyes that didn't quite meet hers, and found herself gentler than she'd planned.

"Then I'm glad you came."

He let out a breath she hadn't realized he was holding.

Behind them, Susan called out that she was heading to lunch and that Clara should text her later, and gave the two of them a look that said later meant everything. Then she was gone.

Clara and Patrick stood on the steps a little longer than they needed to.

"Can I walk you back?" he asked.

"You don't have a car today."

"That's why."

She almost said no. She'd told herself she would go slowly, and slow had started to feel like standing still.

So she said, "Okay."

That night, Clara knelt beside her bed with her hands folded and the little cross resting on the blanket in front of her.

She didn't quite know what to pray. She didn't have a request. She only had a feeling she couldn't name, half hope and half caution, like standing at the edge of a river and not being sure how deep it was.

Lord, she prayed, if this is good, let it be good. And if it isn't, let me see it before I'm too far in.

Her phone buzzed against the nightstand.

Goodnight, Clara. Thank you for today.

She read it once and turned the phone face down on the wood.

Then she picked it up again and typed:

Goodnight, Patrick.