The Astonishing Color of After(51)

I picked up the pad and thumbed through to find paintings I hadn’t seen yet. The edges flew by too fast, landing on a page in the far back that was heavier and thicker than all the rest—

Here was a photograph, old and a little bent, glued in place. It took me a second to puzzle out who the four people were—I was too used to thinking of Axel’s family as just him, Angie, and their dad. This was the Moreno family back when it was still whole, before Axel’s mother walked out.

Sometimes it was easy to forget that Axel’s mother existed; so much of his face came from his father. I wondered if that bothered him. If he felt like the lack of his mother in his own features made her seem too easily erased.

Here, in two dimensions, they looked so happy. But then, didn’t everyone, in pictures? That was almost the point, wasn’t it? To be able to look back and see yourself smiling, even if the camera had shuttered and clicked while you were standing there thinking about all the things that were wrong?

Axel’s mom grinned with teeth that were slightly crooked. Her black hair fell in messy waves around her shoulders, and she wore an emerald dress that flattered her curvy hips. She looped arms with her husband. He stood awkwardly to the side, a couple inches taller than his wife, but shrinking inside a striped button-down that was a little too big.

Beside them: toddler Angie squeezing a plush elephant, and Axel in a plaid shirt, gazing up at his mother like she was the only thing in the world he needed.

I heard the rustle of sheets too late. Axel rolled out of bed, and I didn’t have time to hide what I was holding. I turned toward him, suddenly feeling like I shouldn’t have touched anything in the first place.

His eyes landed on the sketch pad. He sighed.

I knew that sigh. It was the sound of him deciding to forgive me.

“I’m sorry,” I said immediately. “I realize I shouldn’t have now, but I didn’t think you would mind—”

Axel waved away the rest of my sentence and squeezed his eyes shut through a yawn. “You shouldn’t have. But it’s fine.”

I nodded, my cheeks burning a little.

“I just found that the other day,” he said, coming around to sit on the couch.

I sat down next to him. He smelled like sleep.

“You mean the photograph?”

“I don’t even remember when it was taken,” he said. “But I remember that dress. She called it her power dress and only wore it for special occasions.”

“How old do you think you are?”

Axel looked over my shoulder. He stared at the photo for a while. “Maybe six? It was probably a year before she left.”

“Could you tell?”

“Tell what?”

“That she was going to leave.”

Axel sat back and let out a long, slow breath. “I don’t know.”

“Did it seem like your parents were falling out of love?”

His fingers traced the edge of a cushion that had begun to fray. “I don’t know.”

I slid down on the couch so that I was lying on my back, my legs forming a bridge over the cold floor. “I know emotions are all internal and whatnot. But I just wonder if it’s visible on the outside. You can tell when people are falling in love. So there must be a way to see if people are falling out of love, right?”

Axel slid down so our eyes were at the same level. “Maybe, I guess.”

“Do you think people can be in love but also unhappy?”

“Yes,” said Axel, the most solid answer he’d given in a long time. “Definitely.”





53





Once, Dad and I went to a choir concert where my mother was the piano accompanist. Everyone was watching the conductor, the singers, the soloists—but we kept our faces angled toward the far left of the stage. There, my mother leaned over the huge piano, her hands heavy as anvils when the voices stormed, fluttering light as a dove when the voices sailed low and quiet.

Her chords kept time like a clock. She turned her own pages, her hand flying so quickly it was like a magic trick; if you blinked you would miss it. Nobody but us watched her, but she was playing for all the world. She was a sea creature and the music was her ocean. It had always belonged to her. It was in her every breath, her every movement. She was the color of home.





54





Ni kan,” says my grandmother. Look. She points to a church. The rest of her words are far away, indistinct.

Feng steps so close to me her sleeve grazes my elbow, and the touch makes me shiver. “Popo says this is where your mother learned to play piano. She learned from a Catholic nun who saw that she was very gifted and would let her come during the empty hours to practice.”

“Can we go inside?” My voice comes out all ultramarine. And as I ask, it dawns on me that I recognize this place. I saw it in the incense memories, saw how Waipo stood outside on the steps, listening.

We push through heavy wooden doors into a little foyer. A second set of doors slides open and then we’re standing behind rows and rows of maple pews, the wood gleaming in the soft light.

It’s so strangely quiet, like a bell jar has fallen over us, sealing away the sounds of the city, the rush of the traffic. There’s only the gentle rhythm of our breaths. The shy clicks of our feet echoing off the marble floors. The most surprising thing about the place is how similar it is to the few churches I’ve seen back in the States—I guess I was expecting something different.