*
He usually liked to paint this time of day. The bedroom he had turned into his studio faced west, but the oaks and pines filtered the sun. The soft, low light of late afternoon. But today he took a walk instead. Today, he wanted to be outside. She had liked to be outside, and since he could not be there to say a formal farewell, he would say one here.
He had almost gone down to Sycamore today. Maud had called him with the news, as promised, and he had not asked, but she had told him: “There’s a memorial. Out at Iris’s place.” She hadn’t invited him. He’d found the time and date in the paper, and he had written it on the calendar pinned up next to his desk. He’d thought he could go and stand in the back, stay hidden, but he knew he would not be welcome. And he had promised he would not bother Maud again. He could keep that promise. He would not interfere with a place that was no longer his.
This was his place now.
He walked through the forest behind the cabin, his shoes crunching on the pine needles. He had no destination, really, just to be outdoors. He reached the Griffith Spring Trail, and he thought the spring was as good a place as any for what he had in mind. He wanted to sit for a few minutes on a boulder and watch the sun sink behind the trees. It did not really matter where he sat, or that it happened at a certain time, or even that it happened today. He was not sure, actually, what it would change. But he found himself wanting the ritual. To mourn properly, with solemnity. To lay her, if not himself, to rest.
When he reached the spring, he sat down on a slanted boulder near the water, feeling the ache in his hips, in his left knee, knowing he would struggle to rise from this low position. The spring, full and lush this time of year after the summer storms, trailed downhill to fill Oak Creek and Pumphouse Wash to the south. Soon it would slow to a trickle, come to a standstill.
He had not prepared a speech. He had not thought about what he would say. So he sat, staring at the water. Really staring through the water, at the mossy rocks and silt below. How clear it was. How calm.
He took off his shoes, rolled up his pant legs, and stuck his bare feet in with a small gasp. He pushed himself off the rock and walked out into the spring, holding his arms out for balance and stepping carefully on the slippery rocks. When he reached the center, he stopped and looked around. He reached up and brushed back his hair. A yellow pencil fell out from behind his ear. He had forgotten it was there, again. He reached down and plucked the pencil from the water, slid it behind his ear. The water dripped on his neck.
You would have loved this place, he said to her. You might not have wanted to come here, but you should have lived to see it.
He waited, listening to the wind in the tops of the pines, listening to his own breath.
That was all. That was all he had.
Nothing had changed that he could tell. The sadness was part of him now, so long had he lived with it.
He stepped out of the spring, rolled down his pant legs, slipped his shoes on, and headed to the cabin. Home. He still had plenty of light left. Perhaps he would go to the studio after all. Make dinner, a steak and salad, have a glass of wine, then get out the paints. Perhaps that was the way to end the day.
When he reached the cabin, the sun was low, near to setting, casting shadows across the house. He did not see her at first. She was sitting in one of the two rockers on the porch. Even when he did see her, even when she rose from the rocker and stood at the railing facing him, he did not immediately understand. Who was this woman with the dark short hair on his property? Was she lost, looking for a neighbor?
She lifted her hand to him, and still he did not know. Still.
And when he did recognize her, when he did finally see it was his daughter standing before him, he clenched his fists, digging his nails hard into his palms. To make sure. To make sure he was standing there. That she was.
She came around to the steps of the porch, in full view. A streak of light made its way through the trees and lit her. She looked straight at him. Right in the face. The child he once knew. The woman he did not. Both of those at once.
He did not know what to say. He opened his mouth and closed it. His throat tightened. She stepped closer, and he felt a shiver of alarm. What if she had come to berate him, to say the words he knew she had wanted to say but could not? Fine. If she must, she must. He braced his shoulders and swallowed hard. She stood a few feet in front of him now, her gaze steady behind the dark makeup around her eyes.
She said, “Hi, Dad.”
He laughed, almost a croak, startled by the simplicity. “Hi, Dani.”
She smiled a little, and he did, too.
He cleared his froggy throat. “You came.”
“I did.”
“I thought you’d be at the memorial.”
“I did, too.” She tilted her head. “You’ve gone gray.”
He touched his hair. “A while ago, yes.” He touched the pencil, pulled it from behind his ear. “You look well,” he said. She was grown, his daughter. So grown. Perfect is what he meant. So he said it. “Perfect.”
She smoothed the sides of her hair, tucked it behind her ears. “I don’t know what to say. I hadn’t exactly planned this. I got in the car, put your address in my GPS, and here I am.”
He nodded. “Well, are you hungry? We could go to town. Or I have some steaks and salad. Wine.”
“Okay. Let’s eat here. Sure. Dinner. We’ll start with dinner.” She looked down, biting her lip. He could tell she was fighting not to cry. He wanted to lean over and pat her shoulder, comfort her, but he dared not touch her for fear she would bolt.
He climbed the porch instead and opened the unlocked door. “Come on in,” he said.
She followed him inside. He showed her his bedroom and studio, the small kitchen, the tiny bathroom, the cubby where he had his desk, where he wrote to her each morning.
“It’s not much,” he said.
She sat down at his desk and looked out the window, her back to him. “It’s just how you described it. Exactly.”
“Is it? I’m glad.”
Outside the window, the light had turned hazy, soft with a tinge of pink.
“The sun’s setting,” she said.
Down the hill, the memorial would be starting. “Yes,” he said.
“I’m not ready to talk about it,” she said. “I’m still very angry. I still don’t know how to forgive either of you. I don’t know how to tell you things. I have things to tell you.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m still glad you’re here.”
She folded her hands on his desk. She shook her head, her short hair swinging. “Where do we even start?”
He got a chair from the kitchen and pulled it up to the desk. He sat next to her. He set down the pencil he forgot he was holding.
“Here,” he said, pointing out the window, at the best light of the day. “Tell me what you see.”