Into the Dark. Rick Mofina

was proud of him.

      After her first cup of morning coffee, a bagel with peaches, and daydreaming about a nursery, she got into the shower. She tried taking inventory of the day ahead, but as the steam clouds rose around her, Claire was carried back through time, back to her deepest wound. Her Grand Canyon of pain...

      ...Her father is gripping the handgun, pointing it to the ceiling, keeping it out of reach from her mother’s frantic fingers as they battle for it at the top of the stairs. In her other arm, Claire’s mother holds Luke, Claire’s baby brother.

      Claire hurries to them, pounds her doll Miss Rags at her father’s legs.

      “Stop it, Daddy!”

      His gambling and drinking had cost him his trucker’s license. Her mother’s part-time teaching job pays little, bills are piling up. Collectors are calling. He stinks of alcohol, mirrors have been broken, furniture has been smashed, he’s raging again.

      “I’m gonna kill all of you fuckers for dragging me down!”

      “No, Daddy!”

      Luke is crying.

      “Claire, get out of the house! Go next door! Call the police!” Her mother yells but the gun explodes with the first shot, then Claire sees the barrel slowly turning toward her mother. As her mother fights him, Claire’s father falls backward grabbing her mother and Luke, taking them with him as all three fall down the staircase to a sickening crash on the landing.

      “No!”

      Claire rushes to the aftermath. The gun slides across the floor, her father moans, not moving, her mother is on her stomach, one arm is turned all wrong and Luke’s tiny leg sticks out from under her as she groans. “Claire, take Luke and run for help! Now!”

      Claire takes her baby brother into her arms. “Please, Luke! It’s going to be okay!” A bright red ribbon of blood oozes from his ear. He does not move. His eyes are open wide. “Please, Luke!” Claire is in the street and flinches at the first shot; turns and sees the muzzle flashes of two more bloom in the window.

      At eight years old, Claire was the sole survivor.

      Her family was dead, her mother and her father.

      Her baby brother had died in her arms.

      Claire’s world had ended.

      Her aunt and uncle in St. Paul adopted her. Their love helped her mend and start a new life. Claire’s counseling sessions with therapists never erased her scars but they’d helped her heal. Over the years she gravitated toward psychology and by the time she was in high school, she’d decided that she would become a psychologist.

      While she went to college, Claire worked at clinics and crisis lines, helping ease other people’s pain. One night, while doing graduate work at the University of Minnesota, her car battery died. The tow-truck driver who came to her aid was Cliff Rivard, a former engineering student, who’d also studied business before starting his own towing company. He had seven trucks, a dozen employees and was doing well. Born in Duluth, Cliff was smart, funny and a Vikings fan. He was also easy on the eyes. Claire was attracted to him; they began seeing each other. Deep under Cliff’s handsome, rough exterior, Claire found a sweet center and before long she fell in love.

      Two years later, after Claire got her PhD, they got married.

      With the help of her mentor from the U of M, Dr. Martha Berman, a respected psychologist in neuroscience and stress, Claire became a licensed psychologist and found an entry-level position at a small practice in downtown Minneapolis. During this time she’d discovered that Cliff’s sweetness was hardening, that he often lost his temper with his drivers, cursing them, punching a desk or wall whenever something went wrong. At first she’d attributed it to the rugged nature of his business, given that they routinely dealt with fatal traffic accidents where they saw mangled corpses and body parts. Claire had tried to get Cliff to talk about his job, his stress and his temper, but he always refused.

      Nearly three years after they were married, Claire was unable to get pregnant. She saw doctors and specialists, went through several examinations, procedures and had a laparoscopy.

      Then came the day when one of her doctors, the one with the Swiss accent who’d kept her waiting forever in his office, entered with a file folder. He’d looked at her, removed his glasses and ran his hand over his face.

      “I’m afraid the news is not good, Claire.”

      Her heart had stopped as she caught her breath, only half hearing as he’d said that she had endometriosis and a range of other complications, leaving her with primary infertility.

      “I’m afraid that the chances of you having a baby are less than five per cent and should you get pregnant, you would likely not carry to term.”

      Alone in the car she’d slammed her palms against the steering wheel and sobbed before driving home to tell Cliff.

      He had been stunned.

      “What do you mean no kids, Claire?”

      They’d grieved as they grappled with the realization that they could not have children. They’d kept trying and Claire had gotten pregnant but miscarried. She got pregnant again. And again, she miscarried. They’d considered expensive fertility clinics, using a surrogate or adopting but couldn’t agree on what to do, which made matters tense between them.

      Cliff had started drinking more than the usual couple of beers after work.

      Eventually, their private agony leaked to their circles. Word had gotten back to Claire that some of Cliff’s relatives had urged him to divorce her and marry a woman who could bear him children. When Claire had raised it with Cliff, it led to an argument that ended with him putting his fist through a wall.

      Claire later saw that as the point when the seed of Cliff’s resentment toward her had been planted. Although he’d never said it, she’d seen it in his eyes. Her infertility had made her less of a woman to him. At that same time, Cliff’s company had lost several contracts to bigger competitors. He’d had to lay off four drivers while debts on his fleet mounted.

      His business was failing.

      Cliff tried to save it, but nothing he did could stop what was happening. In a short time he’d lost everything he’d built. And when the dust settled there was only Cliff with one old tow truck. Claire had known that Cliff’s identity was entwined with his company. It was how he’d defined himself, and the loss, coupled with the anguish of never having children with her, was overwhelming.

      At times, Claire would wake up in the middle of the night wondering if she would ever be a mother. She’d prayed for a miracle as the strain on their marriage increased.

      Cliff had lashed out at her.

      He drank more, argued more, belittled her, demanded to know about every place she went, every penny she spent. In one instance when she had come home after lunch with college friends, he shoved her against a wall. Her head cracked a framed oil painting of mountains that had been a wedding gift she cherished.

      Claire had begged him to stop drinking and talk to a counselor. She’d offered to go with him to seek counseling together.

      He’d refused.

      One night after leaving a bar for a service call, he’d crashed his truck into a tree. No one was hurt, but Cliff had been arrested, charged and jailed for driving under the influence and punching a cop at the scene. Cliff lost his license, his truck and insurance. After posting his bail, Claire had demanded he get help but he refused and kept drinking, flying into a rage when she tried to rid their house of alcohol.

      “It’s your fault. You’ve ruined everything!” He’d screamed at her before knocking her to the floor. “You bitch, you’re useless to me!”

      It had been the final straw.

      Claire moved out that night. She’d done all she could, but accepted that Cliff was a violent, abusive man. Like her father.