The Shadow Box(33)

She closed her eyes. Two big tears rolled down her cheeks. Tom knew she was far from okay.

“I wanted to bring you something,” he said. “A book, a game, a stuffed animal—I just wasn’t sure what you might like. I asked my wife and stepdaughters, and they had some good ideas. But I started thinking, and then I knew.”

Her eyes opened, and she waited for him to tell her.

He unzipped the duffel bag, and he saw her watching him carefully, following his movements. He reached inside, pulled out the tiny dog. She was so small, barely bigger than his hand. He held her toward Gwen, who gasped and reached out her arms.

“Maggie!” Gwen cried.

Tom placed the Yorkshire terrier in Gwen’s arms, watched Gwen bury her face in Maggie’s fur, kissing the back of her head as Maggie squirmed with joy.

Mariana entered the room, gave Tom a hard look.

“Really?” she asked.

“I picked her up from the vet,” he said.

“Dogs aren’t allowed in here.”

“I figured,” he said and grinned. Watching Gwen pet and kiss Maggie, Mariana smiled too.

Tom knew that when Mariana said he had to leave, he would take Maggie home and keep her until Dan and Gwen were discharged. But for now, he just sat beside Gwen’s bed, watching the reunion between a girl and her dog, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat.





THREE DAYS EARLIER





18





CLAIRE


Today I planned to bring the last pieces over to the gallery and help Jackie get ready for Friday. I had finally finished Fingerbone. I stood in my studio, doors open to a sea breeze and the sound of breaking waves, and leaned over the shadow box I had constructed to resemble a tidal pool.

I examined the placement of mussel shells, barnacles scraped from granite at low tide, crab claws, fragments of their carapaces, and sun-and sea-bleached twigs—each small section forming a knuckle and bones, fashioned together to look like the grasping hand of a skeleton.

People with no idea about Ellen’s death wouldn’t understand, but I did, and one other person would, and that was the whole point. There were ways to go about a divorce, but I would take nothing monetary from Griffin—not the house or alimony or any material object. I wanted only for him to know that I knew, without any doubt, exactly who he was and what he had done.

I would make sure he dropped his candidacy. Before I left for good, I intended to pull off his mask. And the timing had to be now: next week was a major campaign event, when Senator Stephen Hobbes would publicly endorse Griffin for governor.

“Well, hey there!”

I was so lost in thought that Nate’s voice made me jump. He stood in the doorway, then came toward me to give me a hug. He was as rumpled and shaggy as ever, and I fit into his arms so comfortably. We hadn’t been able to stay married, but he was the perfect ex-husband, and I would love him forever.

“You’re back!” I said. “How were the whales?”

“The humpbacks send their regards,” he said. “It was hard leaving them. I’m not sure which I loved more—watching them feed in the Bering Sea or calve in Baja. You should come next time. I kept thinking of you, how inspired you would be.”

“Let’s do it,” I said. I smiled into his twinkling blue eyes.

“Don’t tease me,” he said, his sun-and wind-weathered face crinkling into a grin. “Griffin will never let you travel with me. I’d never bring you back.”

“I’m so glad you’re home again,” I said. “Why didn’t you call to let me know?”

“I figured I’d stop by and surprise you, get an early viewing of your new show.” He smiled again. “And it’s the middle of the afternoon, so I know Griffin’s at court or deposing someone or charming some audience or sweet-talking donors, whatever it is he does.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Today he’s taking depositions.”

“So, okay if I take a look at the work?”

“Sure,” I said, and I was excited to hear what he thought. Nate had always been my favorite early viewer of my work. More than anyone, he understood how I tried to express human life and emotions through elements of nature. He had invited me to speak to his classes at Yale, where he taught about extinctions, psychology, and how the decline of species affected human existence. His nine-month sabbatical had seemed forever—I had really missed him.

“These are beautiful, Claire,” he said once he had made the circuit of my studio. “But they’re dark.”

“You see that?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “I know you. You’ve captured pain and apprehension. What took you to this place?”

“The way the world is,” I said. I left it open for him to interpret: the political landscape, growing fascism, the suffering of refugees, failure to address climate change. If anyone could look into my heart and see my own personal darkness, it was Nate—but just then I wanted to hide it from him.

“The global situation is beyond troubling,” he said. “Being on the research ship was a respite, in a sense. I avoided the news as much as possible. But I felt it as soon as we made port.” He turned toward Fingerbone and shuddered. “This one looks like the end of life on earth. Is that what you intended?”