True Places(102)
That was all he said about the past. He asked questions about Iris and Suzanne, steering away from the time Iris had spent alone in the woods. She understood his guilt was too large for him to tolerate too much of the truth at once, and it wasn’t at all clear to her how much fault lay at his feet in any case.
Iris visited her father twice more during the summer. He’d have to leave the treatment center before long and find work, make some sort of life. It wasn’t that different from what Iris herself had to do. They talked, sometimes about the time before Ash got sick, sometimes about afterward, easing toward a reckoning of the past the two of them might be able to bear. It wasn’t something that could be hurried, Suzanne said, or something Iris was required to do at all. And yet she felt she did.
He was her daddy. She’d always loved him and couldn’t find a reason to stop now. Maybe he should’ve taken Ash to the hospital sooner. Maybe he should’ve tried harder to find her. Maybe he should’ve been stronger.
Iris knew being strong wasn’t enough, because life could weigh more than you ever imagined. You had to bend, like a branch laden with snow, arcing toward the earth. Daddy had been folded in half until he could no longer see the sky, knees forced to the ground. It seemed to Iris he deserved less weight, not more. Along with Mama, he’d given her what she treasured most: the woods, the streams, and the mountain breezes. Iris held those gifts in her heart, where there was also room for him.
CHAPTER 46
In the light-filled room that served as her office, Suzanne pored over the plans spread out on the massive oak table. Andreas Thierry, the architect, would be arriving after lunch to discuss the final revisions for the barn conversion. She’d chosen Thierry for his experience in laboratory design, but she wanted the space to be both functional and beautiful. The barn and the rest of the property were too special to turn into an industrial park, so she was making use of the existing buildings and striving to retain their character. The house would be her residence when she wasn’t in Charlottesville and would eventually also have reception and meeting rooms. The barn would contain the lab, the storage facility for specimens, and a library. The garage, which at one time had been a carriage house, was destined to become a bunkhouse with its own kitchen. Once the center was established, she would consider adding other facilities, but for now the plans in front of her were sufficiently ambitious.
Rivulets of condensation streaked the glass of iced tea at her elbow. The brick walls, three courses thick, kept the house somewhat cooler than outside, but even so it was warm on this humid August day. Suzanne jotted notes on a pad, then straightened her back, tight from leaning over the drawings, and surveyed the room. Tinsley, Suzanne had to admit, had done a stellar job with this room and the other parts of the house restored thus far—two bedrooms, one bath, and the kitchen. Suzanne had asked for a minimalist approach; the last thing she wanted in her work life was clutter. Tinsley had selected natural materials—wood, sisal, linen—in natural colors, giving the rooms a feeling of having been borrowed from the landscape. In fact, Suzanne was so impressed with her mother’s ability to translate Suzanne’s wishes into reality that she’d encouraged Tinsley to consider interior design more seriously. Tinsley had waved away the suggestion. “We don’t all need to follow you into the ranks of working mothers, my dear.” And yet Suzanne sensed her mother hadn’t dismissed the idea out of hand.
Suzanne checked her watch. Just past noon. She left the plans as they were and went in search of Brynn. Not finding her in the living room, Suzanne walked out the front door and along the walk that led to the barn. She paused at the sign that had been installed last week: MARY COLTON SMITH CENTER FOR MEDICINAL BOTANY. Suzanne pulled a few weeds from the flower bed at the base of the sign, then continued toward the barn. The heat of the sun seeped into her skin, and she left the path for the shade of the walnut trees. There, between the barn and the pond, was Brynn, adjusting a camera on a tripod. Suzanne stopped to watch her.
Not surprisingly, Brynn hadn’t been eager to spend time at the Buchanan house, especially not before the basic renovations had been completed and the Wi-Fi installed.
“I don’t do rustic,” she had said.
In mid-July she twisted her ankle during a game of Frisbee with her friends, tearing tendons and requiring her to use crutches for six weeks. Brynn found sitting with her foot elevated in Charlottesville no more exciting than doing so in Buchanan, especially when Tinsley enlisted her granddaughter’s help during decorating trips. One weekend, Brynn brought her friend Lisa to the center. While Suzanne made breakfast, Brynn and Lisa laughed at a pair of bluebirds being pursued by begging fledglings. They called the adults Mom and Dad and named the fledglings after their friends, dubbing in teen dialogue. After the girls finished eating, Suzanne handed them binoculars. Brynn hobbled outside and Lisa followed. To Suzanne’s surprise, they spent the morning sneaking up on birds.
“Don’t tell anyone we were doing this,” Brynn warned Lisa when they retreated inside from the heat. “Social suicide.”
Brynn tried to photograph the birds with her phone but became frustrated. Suzanne consulted with Whit, and together they chose a camera and zoom lens that they presented to Brynn on August 1, her sixteenth birthday. Since then, she had been eager to accompany Suzanne to the center, waking early to catch the birds and butterflies during the height of their activity. She had even entered one of her photos in a local contest and received an honorable mention, which seemed to legitimize her interest and render it less dorky.