EACH DAY THERE WAS ANOTHER PAINTING. One was left on the front seat of my unlocked truck. One was propped up on one of the tack shelves in the barn. And they were all of Eli. Eli sitting on the fence, his face so sweet and serious I could almost remember a moment just like it, as if Moses had taken a photo and turned it into art. But he had no photos. I’d taken them back. And there were no photos that even came close to what Moses created—the detail in the curls of Eli’s bowed head at bedtime reading the worn yellow storybook, the depth of his brown eyes fixed on his horse, Eli’s little feet in the dirt and his finger carving his name into the mud. The swirling brushstrokes and vivid color were signature Moses—even the mud looked decadent—and I couldn’t decide if I loved the paintings or hated them.
There was one of me. In it, I smiled down into Eli’s upturned face, and I was beautiful. Unrecognizably so. It was the Pieta starring Georgia Shepherd, and I was the loving mother, gazing at my son. My mother found that one when she went out to rake leaves. Moses had left it sitting on our doorstep. I was two steps behind her, but she found it first. And she held it for five minutes, staring down at it in agony and wonder, tears running down her face. When I tried to comfort her, she gently shook her head and went back inside, unable to speak.
Moses returning had been incredibly difficult for my parents, and I had no idea how to make it better. I had no idea if I could. Or if I should. And I didn’t know if his art was helping. But Moses’s pictures were like that, glorious and terrible. Glorious because they brought memory to life, terrible for the same reason. Time softens memories, sanding down the rough edges of death. But Moses’s pictures dripped with life and reminded us of our loss.
I remembered how Moses had talked about art, about anguish, and I knew then what he meant. His pictures filled me with sweet anguish, an anguish so ripe and red that it threatened to turn bad if I looked away. So I found myself staring at the pictures constantly.
Other than the paintings, left where I wouldn’t miss them, Moses kept to himself and watched me from a distance. I would see him across the pasture, standing at the fence that separated Kathleen’s back yard from our property. He would always lift his hand, acknowledging me. I didn’t wave back. We weren’t friendly neighbors. But I appreciated the gesture all the same. I wondered at the brazen kiss with his hand around my braid and at his teasing in the barn, and hardened myself against further contact, though he made sure I saw him every day.
Most of the time, when I was running therapy sessions, Mom or Dad would join me as another set of eyes, watching the horse while I kept my gaze on the folks or vice versa. But Dad had another round of chemo scheduled, and Mom was going with him. They were going to stay in Salt Lake for a few days with my older sister and her kids before heading back. Mom didn’t want to leave with Moses back in the neighborhood. I just had to bite my tongue and remind myself that I had made the bed I was now lying in. Literally. I’d lived at home too long. I’d relied on my parents through Eli’s life and Eli’s death, and now, at twenty-four, it was my own damn fault that they still treated me like I was seventeen.
Surprisingly enough, it was Dad that convinced Mom that I’d survived Moses once and I would survive him again. I didn’t especially like his choice of words, but I held my tongue. Dad had been awfully quiet since our morning conversation the day after my very first run-in with Moses. Eli’s death was in the air again, the anniversary approaching and making us all cringe and hold our breath, wishing for it to pass us by. Moses coming into town this month, of all months, felt like an omen. And not a particularly good one. Mom was jittery, Dad was pensive, and I was a wreck, if I was being honest with myself.
It was probably a good thing that I had a few days to myself, that it was only me in the corral. The horses were tuned into me, and they didn’t like my mood at all. It took me a good hour, brushing them down, cleaning their hooves, getting my head straight and working out my own stress before I conducted a session with a small group I saw every week.
But my angst returned in full force when Moses wandered over at the end of my class. I didn’t want to draw attention to him or to myself, and when I realized he wasn’t going to talk or interrupt, I finished the session and bid the group goodbye as they loaded back into the treatment center van and drove off. I returned to the corral, hoping Moses had gone, but he remained, as if waiting for me. When he saw me coming, he climbed down from the fence and walked toward me. His brow was furrowed, and I tried not to give any credence to the way my breath caught and my hands shook when I watched him approach. He still appealed to me on a very primitive level. And I didn’t want that. I was afraid of it. I despised myself for it.
“He keeps showing me random things,” he said, shaking his head, not even pausing for a greeting or small talk. That was just like the old Moses, and I didn’t want to question him. I didn’t want to know what he was talking about.
“Eli keeps showing me random things,” he repeated, and I felt myself soften even as my heart lurched wildly. I could not resist the lure of Eli, of hearing about him, even if it was all a fairytale told by a man who I really wanted to hate.
“Like what?” I whispered, not able to help myself.
“His toes in the dirt, chicken noodle soup, Legos, pine cones, and Calico. Always Calico.” He shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “What do you think he’s trying to tell me?”
I suddenly found myself smiling. It was the oddest thing. It was the oddest and most wonderful, horrible thing. I was smiling and my eyes were filling with tears. I turned away, needing a moment to decide whether or not I was going to accept a new truth.
“Georgia?”
Moses waited for me to take several long, steadying breaths while I found my voice.
“Those are his favorite things. He’s telling you his greats.” My voice cracked and my eyes sought his.
His face went blank for a second and then his jaw dropped slightly as if a gong had sounded in his brain. He looked stunned. Flabbergasted even.
“His favorite things. He’s telling me his greats,” he repeated, almost to himself. “I thought he was trying to communicate something. Maybe teach me something.” Then Moses started to laugh.