“It hit her particularly hard and we talked about it for a while, but she ended up with a migraine and she’s lying down now.”
Until my brother died, I didn’t know that longing could hurt so much. That it was a physical ache you feel in your bones; the kind of ache that nothing can tranquilize. People used to tell me it would “diminish” over time, but I don’t believe that’s true. How can losing a piece of yourself be repaired over weeks, months, years? I’ll never stop seeing his reflection when I stare at my own. I’ll never stop expecting to find him in all the subtle intricacies that made up his life.
“He’s been on my mind a lot lately.” I wipe the pain that’s found its way from my eyes and lay my head on Dad’s shoulder. “I wonder… if I make it harder for her sometimes… because I look just like him. Do you find it hard to look at me, Dad?”
“Oh, honey, no, no, no.” He turns his entire body to face me, his palm coming up to stroke my hair. “Don’t ever think that. If anything, you keep him alive.” The expression around his mouth softens. “When I see you smile, I see him smile. And when you get those sun freckles on your cheeks it reminds me of how he used to complain about the ones he had,” he admits, and relief whooshes out of me over words I didn’t realize I needed to hear.
“I loved his freckles.”
“Me too. But he hated them. Remember how he always thought it would drive the girls away, because ‘who the heck likes freckles?’” Dad shakes his head then bops my nose. “My son, all right. Thirteen going on seventeen.” His laughter lightens the mood and he pats his belly. “What do you think he’d say about this thing I’m sporting now?”
I glance down at his round stomach, my lips quirking up at the corners. “He’d probably say to have another cinnamon roll. You know food was his patronus.”
“Ah, yes.” A tiny noise sounds from his throat. “And I think patronus was his favorite word.” He places his hands on my shoulders, eyes burrowing into mine. “I don’t want you to worry about your mother, okay? She’s going to be fine. We’re going to take a drive by the coast later and maybe grab some dinner. I think the air will do her some good. Do you want to come with?”
“Nah.” I kiss my dad then hop off the bench. “I think I’m going to do some sculpting actually.”
“Okay, honey. Enjoy.” I’m on my way to the side door when he calls my name. I pause with my hand on the knob, darting a glance over my shoulder.
“Yeah?”
The wrinkle in his cheek deepens. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Inside the house, I don’t waste any time. I drop my purse on the kitchen table and open the basement door, taking the stairs down two at a time. The automatic sensor for the lights kicks on as my foot hits the last step.
And then I breathe.
This is my sanctuary. This is where I create. And this is where I escape. I love this space. Many years ago, my dad had the basement finished as a hangout spot for our family and friends. The room is warmed by soft track lighting overhead and plush carpeting below, and divided into two sections. One side boasts a generous L-shaped chocolate brown sofa with pillows in various patterns—matching of course. Pressed cushions where we spent hours lying about listening to music or watching movies. The distressed coffee table in the center holds evidence of spilled drinks and shoe scuffs, the warm tan walls memories of laughter and whispered conversation. Avery’s weathered mustard-yellow beanbag chair still sits propped in the corner. It messes up Mom’s design scheme but Avery refused to part with it. I think she does it on purpose.
My favorite area though, is the one on the opposite side. A long, rectangular table sits in front of a window looking out at the backyard. To the right of my work area are six shelves Dad built for me, lined with sculptures. A metal closet with sliding doors stands beside them and houses all of my clay—my lifeline. Some people do yoga. Some exercise. This is what I do. It’s the only thing that frees me.
I cross to the cabinet and secure a hunk of clay, setting it on the table before swiping the remote for the CD player. The one built into the wall—again, courtesy of Dad. Pressing play, Aerosmith’s “Dream On” fills the room, as does Zack lip-syncing it over a hundred times with his fake microphone and lopsided smile. That chestnut brown hair, same as mine, gelled up as he pretended to be some sort of rock God.
I’m glad I have these memories. As much as it hurts sometimes, it’s the one thing that still allows me to hold onto pieces of him—to bring him back whenever I want to—even if it’s only in my head.
My body won’t let me sit. Too much energy flows through my veins. Electricity buzzes its way around my insides, zapping me every time a thought takes shape.