The Astonishing Color of After(59)

We’d laughed about it, and then I never knew what happened to the actual paper. I didn’t realize anyone had bothered to keep it.

What memories will I find in here? I tug out a fresh stick of incense, and bring the match to its bright and flaring life.





61





—SMOKE & MEMORIES—


I’m standing in the master bedroom. The very bedroom where it happened.

My eyes go to the spot in the carpet where I saw the mother-shaped stain. But it’s not there. Of course it’s not there.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to encourage her,” says my father. He’s sitting up against the headboard, pinching the bridge of his nose between a thumb and index finger. Next to him, the lamp on the night table buzzes.

My mother lies beside him, curled up and facing the wall. She says nothing.

“I just worry about her, you know?” says Dad. “She has no siblings. No cousins. She has, like, one friend.”

“A good friend,” my mother says, her voice muffled and slow. “One very good friend can be all she need.”

“Well, and friendships change,” says Dad.

My mother is silent again.

“This art thing is getting so intense. It’s all she does.”

“She has passion,” my mother says defensively.

“And that’s great,” he says. “But hobbies change, too. And there’s the question of, will it provide for her? Will it make her happy?”

“She should do what she loves.”

Dad turns his face toward my mother’s back. He says, very quietly, “You do what you love. Are you happy?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Dory,” he says after a long moment.

There is only the sound of my father drawing in a deep breath. He sighs, clicks the light off.

A burst of new colors.

In the darkest corner, the hands of the living room clock glow slightly, little moon-green blades showing that it’s past midnight. Light slants in from the hallway—enough that the rest of the room is dimly visible. My mother’s on the couch, eyes closed, a cushion under her head, blanket sliding off her shoulder. At first it’s hard to place the memory in time—over the years there were so many nights when she slept downstairs because the bedroom had become a cave of insomnia.

But then my father steps lightly into the living room, wearing his favorite vest from my middle school years. He leans down over the couch to slide the blanket up, tuck it under my mother’s chin, nudge a lock of hair out of her face.

He turns to leave the room but stops, his eye catching on something: a piece of art resting against the sheet music on the piano. I remember that drawing—it was from the end of sixth grade. Mom had gotten me an extra special pack of artist’s charcoals and I’d shared them with Axel, who couldn’t afford anything that nice but hated what Mrs. Donovan had in the art room. The prompt was to sketch shoes, and Axel and I traded to make our subjects more interesting. He drew my new but already-stained purple Converse. I drew his off-brand sneakers that were so old they’d turned the color of dust, and there was a crack near the toes of the left one.

The flaws in Axel’s shoes made my drawing especially interesting—I became obsessed with getting the shading just right, replicating the grime perfectly.

And then I’d set it on the music stand so Mom could see, as usual. I didn’t expect Dad to even notice it. That year he’d already stopped paying as much attention to my art. Or so I thought, at least.

Now I watch as he carefully brings the picture into the hallway light, leans down to gaze at the details I captured, his eyes tracing the laces, the worn heel, the cracked rubber.

On the couch behind him, my mother’s eyes open. She shifts inaudibly, tilts her head back, watching him.

“Hmm,” he murmurs to himself. He goes to the kitchen, pulls an old camera out from a drawer, and snaps a photo of the drawing before setting it back and tiptoeing away. The golden light clicks off, but I know my mother’s eyes are still open, still looking.

The colors change.

My mother, making waffles on a Sunday morning. I must not be awake yet, because Axel is sitting there at the table alone, turning a mug of coffee around and around and around.

His hair is a mess, sticking out in funny directions.

“You two are a good pair,” my mother says, spooning fresh whipped cream onto his plate.

“Who?” says Axel. “Me and Leigh?”

My mother nods. “She cares about you very much, you know?”

Axel laughs uncomfortably. “She’s my best friend.”

Mom nods again. “It is rare you find such strong friendship.”

Axel makes a big show of cutting his two waffles into minuscule pieces. “Is there syrup?” he says.

My mother pulls a small jug from the fridge. “I’m glad she has you,” she says with a half smile.

The kitchen flickers and vanishes.





62





Forty-three days.

Six left.

I think of that last memory—Mom trying to talk to Axel about me. It clouds my head with sepia tones.

Why did I need to see it? To remember how much we’ve broken between us? I don’t get how this gives me anything useful.