I’m going to miss the familiarity in those blue eyes, the chance to stare into them like I’ve done for the past four days. I walk into the bedroom, and she digs inside her suitcase, retrieving something.
“I’m wondering what to do about this.” She extends a flat stone toward me, the one Andrea found on our bike ride. “We were going to paint it,” she reminds me, “but maybe you’ll help her?” The stone rests in her open palm, an invitation to me—an opportunity for us to parent our child together, for once.
“Yeah, Laurel,” I agree, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, I’d like to paint that with her. What kind of stuff you think we need?”
“Oh, you have it,” she replies. “It’s there, in the living room. I brought her some paints, you know. A whole set.”
I can’t help smiling, thinking of how talented our daughter is. “She really loves art.”
“I know,” she agrees, “and she’s really gifted already.”
“I’m not so good with that stuff, you know,” I admit reluctantly. “Alex could sit with her for hours and create all these intricate things, but mine always come out like big globs.”
Laurel takes my hand, and delicately slides the rock from her palm to my own, closing my fingers around it. “Michael, you are very exceptional. In many ways.”
“I know enough to appreciate your work, Laurel,” I say, and from the surfboard room I hear Casey laughing with Rebecca. Sounds like Marti’s in there, too. That’s got to be a good sign that they’re all yukking it up together.
I know it’s now or never—the things I want to tell Laurel, just us. We won’t be alone like this again before she goes; first thing tomorrow, Andie will attach to her like a barnacle until we’ve deposited her curbside at the airport. So I close the bedroom door, turning to face her.
“Let’s talk a minute,” I say, and she nods, sitting down on the bed. Her bare feet dangle over the edge, and unlike Rebecca, I notice that she doesn’t paint her toenails. She’s all natural, including the shell ankle bracelet she’s wearing, something woven and handmade.
“I wanted to thank you, again,” I begin, tentative as I close the distance separating us, “for that painting of Alex.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“But what you said about it speaking to me?” Her clear eyes narrow, though she says nothing. “I don’t think I get what you mean.”
“Maybe it’s something you need to think about,” she suggests softly. “Some more. Maybe?”
“No, Laurel see, I want to know what you meant by that. How can a painting sing?” Despite myself, I feel my anger rising. “Got enough shit I’m always thinking about.” All the mysteries; all the thoughts about where Alex went, where he might not be.
Laurel stares at her hands, toying with her charm bracelet. She rubs the cross between her thumb and forefinger, quiet.
I think of Andrea and her dreams. “Why’d you paint him on the beach?” I press, and she only smiles. One of those inside-out kind of Laurel smiles that begin somewhere deep inside of her.
“Michael, art comes from the soul of the creator,” she explains quietly, “and reaches out to touch your soul. That’s what art does.”
I’m still perplexed by her mystery. “You telling me that Allie will talk to me?” I demand, stepping closer. “Is that it?”
She only continues smiling, a warm, tender expression—not closed off to me, like a few days ago.
“Michael, I’m going to pray that you hear what you’re supposed to hear.”
“Pray.” I snort at that one. God seems to have me trapped by a posse of believers. “Sure, Laurel, you pray about that. Knock your socks off.” My words come out bitter, and that’s not really what I wanted, so I add, “I appreciate all the help I can get, you know.”
“We all need help, Michael,” she agrees, swinging her bare feet as they dangle off the side of the bed. Her eyes never leave me, serious and intense, the thick black lashes opening wide around the quiet blue. Alex had a way of watching me like that when he was trying to talk to me about important stuff. It always made me squirm, and I feel pegged in the exact same way now by her; just change those lashes to a dusty red, and it could be my lover looking right through me.
So I wrestle the conversation in a different direction, a more comfortable one. “Hard to believe it’s already time for you to go.” I turn away from her, walk toward the closet and thumb through his clothes. My hand lingers on his suede jacket.
“It’s been a quick few days,” she agrees, a melancholy sound that she can’t hide filling her voice.
“So maybe we’ll do this again, huh?” I suggest, turning toward her hesitantly. “Not wait so long.”
A glorious smile spreads across her face: relief, joy, it’s all there. “I’d love that, Michael,” she agrees, giving her long hair a casual toss.
“Maybe next time you could bring Bruce?” Bruce is her live-in boyfriend of about ten years.
She laughs. “Well, now that I’m not so sure about.”