Free Claire's Head by Catherine Bush

impossible to capture. Rachel’s quick, clean stride. Her tumultuous hand gestures. The fixity of her gaze. The way she would rub her index finger back and forth over the darkened skin beneath her eye. By this signal, Claire would know her anywhere.
    Six and a half years earlier, right at the end of the year, Claire had received an ecstatic phone call from Rachel. “I’ve got some news. Eight weeks along, due in mid-July. I know it’s still early but I wanted to tell you.”
    â€œCongratulations,” Claire said, although what she felt upon hearing word of Rachel’s pregnancy was a bewildering array of emotions, happiness being only a part of it. Not that the news was entirely a surprise: for the last half a year, since shortly after her return from her mysterious Asian sojourn, Rachel had been speaking openly about her attempts to conceive. (Was her desire sparked in any way by her discovery, upon her return, that Allison was already pregnant and had been so, quietly, privately, sharing the news with none but Lennie, a mere four months after their parents had been killed? Was Rachel’s sudden longing provoked in turn by their terrible death?)
    The complication, on Rachel’s end, was that there was currently no man in her life to be the father of a child. She did notseem to view this as an insurmountable impediment. She required a man, yes, but seemed less convinced about the need for a relationship.
    Allison thought she was crazy. Claire did not know what to think. During her six years of living with Michael Straw, Rachel had not spoken of wanting a child – at least not to Claire, nor to Allison from the sound of it. And there were times, during those years, when Claire truly thought that Rachel had settled down and found a man capable of holding her sustained attention. Claire had liked Michael, missed him when he was gone from Rachel’s life. Tall, thick-browed, half-Irish, he had an almost abrupt courtliness on first meeting, yet was willing to sing Irish ballads for the family after dinner, in a lilting baritone, during a visit that he and Rachel made to Toronto. He wore white shirts, always, Rachel said, an ironed one to work, yesterday’s crumpled one when he stumbled out of bed in the morning. They had seemed happy together. Rachel had seemed happy. She was never bored, she said, which was her idea of fulfillment. Later, she would complain that Michael brooded more and more in private. Towards the end, there were apparently affairs. On both sides. Claire was under no illusion that Rachel was easy to live with. Perhaps Michael wasn’t easy to live with either.
    Then, after her return from Asia, Rachel began to speak about her longing for a child, for the joy, the new states of awareness and intimacy that a child would bring. She welcomed the potential transformation of her life. She knew now that she did not want to live without this experience.
    â€œCan I ask about the father?” For a moment Claire was terrified that Rachel did not know for certain who the father was.There had been a handful of hopeful but ultimately unsuccessful encounters over the last few months, from what she’d gathered.
    â€œHe’s an engineer. It’s him, there’s absolutely no question. He was born in Bombay, works at MIT. He sat down next to me on an Amtrak train. We were on our way to Boston. It all happened very fast. He’s incredibly good-looking and has an extraordinary mind, extraordinarily sharp. Claire, we just made a connection. The whole thing was extraordinary. I had an immediate sense.”
    â€œDid you tell him what you wanted?”
    â€œYes, eventually, and he was incredibly generous, it was an act of extraordinary connection and generosity.”
    â€œYou spent time together in Boston?”
    â€œNo, Claire, no, it all happened on the train.”
    In Kingston, Claire woke up. The Japanese couple sitting across the aisle from her had gone,