Part 16 (1/2)

173.

Her enthusiasm floats over the booth like birdsong. She has always gotten what I've tried to tell her in the past. Maybe she really can help. There's only one thing to do. Leap.

”Okay, here goes. You know Damian and my brother, Nate, were best friends, right?” I wait for Helena to nod her a.s.sent, then continue, ”Well, they were both artists, and they set up a studio in this barn across town and made all these sculptures and paintings. And, like I told you, they're amazing. Just amazing.” Helena nods again. ”So, I've been hanging out at Damian's studio working on a big map -- all of those little pieces I've been doing in art cla.s.s are studies, pieces of the larger map, actually. Anyway, I want, somehow, to show Damian's and Nate's art to everybody. I want everyone to know they're not total screw ups. That they have been doing something great all along.” I stop and look at Helena, half expecting to see an expression of disgust or disbelief on her face. But I see neither. ”Do you think I'm crazy?”

Helena sits back and folds her hands beneath her chin. She shakes her head then looks straight at me. ”You're not crazy. You're brilliant. I know what we're going to do. We are going to have a gallery opening, a party!” She claps her hands excitedly and blows a lock of pale hair out of her eyes. ”Oh my goodness, this will be incredible; we can ask Ms. Calico and get permission from the princ.i.p.al, Mrs. Brown, to include Nate's art in this year's art show, and his sculptures can be the centerpiece of the show! We'll make a big event out of it and advertise to 174.

the whole school. Then everyone will see!” Helena hops around in her seat, her zeal getting the better of her.

”Really? You really think we could do this?” I ask as a bubble of hope rises up in my chest.

”Of course! Why not? All you have to do is convince Damian to bring Nate's sculptures, and we'll have to get him to bring his own paintings -- they should be there, too. And, actually, you should be able to take Nate's stuff yourself, right?”

”Right.. .”

The catch. I have a feeling that convincing Damian may not be as easy as strawberry rhubarb pie.

I have no idea how to broach the subject with Damian. After school the next day, I go to the barn with him and stare at his back as he hovers in front of a canvas. He has stepped outside of his workshop and is now playing with a new set of oil paints.

It seems strange that Damian and I have been spending so much time together, yet no one else in our lives -- aside from Helena, now -- knows. I've never met his mother, and while I know Mrs. Archer works two jobs, I can't help but think that it is strange to spend so much time with Damian and not know this most basic piece of his life. It's strange to think about how I used to hate him, used to think he was a monster. So much has changed.

I crouch in front of the map and stare at it, letting the 175.

colors and textures blur before my eyes. The longer I stare, the more the piece seems to break apart and float lazily in layers, the dried-out stems of gra.s.s and wheat that I've glued down for the cornfield suspended on top of the flakes of the oil pastels of the ball field. These places meant something to me once. Meant so much. The anatomy of my childhood, a body marked by the games Nate and I played, by dizzying joy and sc.r.a.ped knees, by tears for lost toys and wild imaginings, by time shared and, now, time lost. Will I ever feel that happy again? That free or heedlessly anch.o.r.ed again?

I trace the painted white-blue swirls of the skating pond. Unbidden, the thought that it is probably cold enough to go skating now flits through my mind. I c.o.c.k my head and sit up.

I want to see the skating pond.

”Damian?” I call softly.

”Hmm,” he answers, turning and wiping his hands on a spotted rag.

”Do you feel like going for a walk?” I ask.

”Sure, I could use a break,” he responds easily. ”Are you ready to go?”

I nod, then follow Damian as he bounds out the door. The sky has reached that hazy violet-and-blue s.h.i.+mmery brightness that comes midway between a winter's day and dusk.

”Thanks,” I say breathlessly as we step out the front door into the chilly air. ”Thanks for coming with me.”

176.

”No problem,” Damian returns, smiling. ”Any particular direction?”

I start to head in the direction of the skating pond. We walk beside each other in amiable silence, our paces matched. I have to keep my hands in my pockets -- I forgot my gloves -- and I watch plumes of breath burst in front of me.

We are led through this world by our breath. There can be no going back. Breath fans out, little beads of life, dissipates, and vanishes. And there can be no going back.

Finally we reach the pond, and sure enough, there are skaters, mostly little kids with their parents, wobbling back and forth across the ice. Damian and I walk over to the snack stand and buy a couple of hot chocolates, then sit down on a bench to watch.

I begin to speak out loud, even though I am pretty sure I sound like a complete weirdo. ”I've been thinking about what it means to be grown up.' You know, when you can look back and say, I'll never be a little kid again. I'll never again be a small child who is sure of my parents' love, of their protection, who knows that whatever mistakes I make, it doesn't really matter. It's not a big deal. Because the worst I can do is break a vase or track dirt onto the carpet. Or forget a book at school or maybe get a bad grade.” I stop and look down at my hands. My fingers twist and knead and turn each other white. ”Then, then, there's this place called home, and it's the safest s.p.a.ce in the world. But when we go off to college or whatever, eventually it won't 177.

be home anymore. So, when we're old enough to realize all of these things, we have to make the choice to either mourn the loss of that time, the innocence, the safety and ease of it all. Or we can feel excited to be free, relieved of the weight of this giant safety blanket, and released into the world to explore.”

”Unless you already stopped feeling safe a long time before you grew up,” Damian interrupts.

”What do you mean?”

”I mean ... my dad took off when I was a baby. I never knew why, but it shook my whole world to its core. As soon as I was old enough to realize he wasn't coming back, I figured out that I was never safe. If he -- my dad -- could do that, just walk out and not even look back, anyone could.”

I open my mouth, to say what, I have no idea, but Damian cuts me off with a sharp look. ”Anyway, I think I'm way past the point of being able to make mistakes without them mattering. I've screwed up everything.” His brow is wrinkled, his eyes downcast, portentous and dark as a thundercloud.

”Damian,” I start, very, very cautiously, ”what if there was a way to fix it?” He looks up quickly, surprised. ”I know you're not a screw up. What if you could show everyone who you really are? What you've been doing -- making?”

He c.o.c.ks a wary brow at me. ”And how would I be able to do all that?”

”We-e-11, I've been talking with Helena Carson -- you know who she is, right? From art cla.s.s?” He nods. ”So, we've been 178.

talking about, well, remember the school art show? We want to have, like, a gala opening or something. And I, um, I wanted to show Nate's art. And the map. And I think you should show your paintings.”

”What? No. No way.” Damian is shaking his head vigorously, gripping his hot cocoa with whitened knuckles. ”No way,” he repeats.

”Why? Why not?” I press. ”What are you scared of? Remember at the coffee shop, you said you wished you weren't such a coward? This is your chance, Damian. Don't you see?

”I mean, I'm totally freaked most of the time. Some days I just live in this snail's sh.e.l.l of memories, wis.h.i.+ng I could go back and be a little kid and have it all safe and easy, and other days I feel like I'll die if I don't get out of here, out of my freaking house. And believe me, losing Nate doesn't make the survival instinct in me feel very strong. I'm so scared I'll mess up.

”I've got this image in my head of how I want my life to look, and I have absolutely no idea how to get there. And I'm so scared that I'll make some wrong decision -- just one -- and everything will get messed up and go wrong -- for good. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. But I have to think that doing this, showing Nate's and yours and my art can only help. I truly believe it will help you.”

I don't know what else to say to him. We sit there and watch the little kids tottering around the pond on their skates.

179.

They're all bundled up in parkas and hoods and scarves and mittens, like snowmen mummies, so they can barely move their arms or turn their heads. Dads and Moms stagger after them, most of them not looking any more sure-footed than the twerps. And everyone is laughing.

They are all so happy. Perfectly happy.

I remember how my dad used to take Nate and me skating here when we were little. He had this really thick sweater of navy blue wool with white snowflakes knitted in lines across it and around his arms. That sweater always made me feel safe. It was the ”Daddy and Rabbit weekend sweater.” When he wore it, I knew that he was going to take me to the pond to skate or out into the woods to hike or that we were going to play Monopoly in front of the fireplace in our living room.

One day he brought Nate and me to the pond to skate, and he was wearing the sweater and these big woolly mittens with leather st.i.tched onto the palms. He knelt in the snow at the edge of the pond, clenched those mittens between his teeth, and tied my skates for me. He patted Nate on the top of his head and watched as Nate hurtled out into the middle of the pond. Then Dad held my hand and very gingerly, very carefully, lowered me onto the ice. ”Ready, Rabbit?” he asked, his eyes crinkling with that warm smile he used to save for just the two of us. He held my hand as I skated, pretty much holding me up, since I was completely unsteady on my feet. When I toppled over, he grabbed me under the armpits and hoisted me 180.

up, all the way up into the air, so he could plant a kiss on my cheek, then he swung me back down onto the ice.

Nate skated in circles around us, sometimes moving so fast his legs blurred, and he came careening toward us, laughing wildly -- not with meanness, but with this crazy joy for the speed and crisp air and the knowledge that my dad would scoop him up before he could crash and swing him around and roar with a laughing mock anger.

This is home. An immense sadness, but a sweet one, fills me then. What a beautiful time it was. It's over, so over, now. But at least I can remember it. At least I had all that once. Maybe I can't hate it anymore.