A Real Basket Case by Beth Groundwater

sleep-deprivation six weeks after Judy was born and dealing with three-year-old Michael’s jealous tantrums. Roger volunteered to do night feedings for a week so she could catch up on her rest, even though she was an at-home mom and he was working ten-hour days.
    “You made a great couple years ago, but you’ve grown apart,” Ellen said. “And now this. Why hold on just for old times’ sake?”
    A dried bouquet of roses hanging above the kitchen cabinets caught Claire’s eye. Her gaze was drawn to first one rose, then the next one, then the next—twenty-six in all, one for each wedding anniversary and all in pink, the sweetheart color. Roger never forgot. How could she abandon her Rock of Gibraltar when he needed her most? When she needed him the most.
    “It’s more than old times’ sake, Ellen. It’s life itself. I’m sticking by him, if he’ll have me.” A stifling yawn overtook her.
    “Okay, I can see you’re tired. I’ll stop, but I need to tell you one last thing. A reporter called while you were gone. I told him you couldn’t come to the phone and hung up.”
    Claire dropped her head in her hands. Her stomach flopped, and she glanced at Ellen. “Reporters. I didn’t think about them. This will be in the morning papers, won’t it?”
    Ellen nodded solemnly. “And on TV. They already reported it on the evening news, though they didn’t have any names yet.”
    “Everyone will know Enrique was killed in my bedroom. What will my friends think? Oh, God, what will the kids think? I haven’t called them yet.” She shook with the horror of it all.
    “Call them now. All you can tell them is the truth. That a man was murdered in your home and the police accused Roger, but he says he didn’t do it.”
    Claire reached for the phone. She felt lower than dirt. She ground her teeth as she dialed Judy’s number. Her dry mouth felt like it was already full of the gritty grains of black soil she wanted to bury her head in. She woke her daughter from a sound sleep eight hours ahead in France and had to keep repeating herself because Judy couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
    Twenty tissues and an hour later, Claire put down the phone, worn out from explaining everything again to Michael. Her chil dren’s shock and disapproval was palpable, even over the long- distance lines. Both insisted on coming home, but she told them to wait until she knew when their father would be released.
    Ellen brought a glass of water and rubbed Claire’s shoulders while she drank. “Any other relatives you need to call tonight?”
    Claire thought about her mother, ensconced in the Liberty Heights retirement facility ever since her father had passed away a few years ago. In the semi-twilight of mid-stage Alzheimer’s, her mother rarely read the newspaper and only watched soap operas and game shows on TV. Telling her could wait, maybe forever. She’d just forget it all the next day anyway.
    Lately, it seemed when Claire visited that her mother often didn’t recognize her. Oh, she hid it well. She’d make polite conversation with the unknown visitor until Claire dropped broad hints to help her mother make the connection. The probability that she had inherited her mother’s susceptibility to the disease terrified Claire every time she misplaced her car keys.
    Claire’s brother and his wife were on their annual winter getaway in Mexico for another two weeks, so she could put off calling them. Roger’s parents had passed away years ago, thank God. But not his sister.
    Claire groaned. “Roger’s sister, Regina, in Iowa.”
    She dialed the number, but no one picked up. She left a message on the answering machine asking Regina to call back, then turned to Ellen. “She belongs to a quilting group. I think they meet on Thursdays. If she gets home late, I may not hear from her until tomorrow.”
    “You probably shouldn’t be alone tonight. Want to sleep at my house?”
    Claire shook her head.
    “How about if I spend the