The Law of Moses(64)

And then Eli showed me the rest.



Georgia’s head lay against the wheel of an old pick-up truck and music poured out the windows. I was looking at her from an odd angle, as if I sat on the ground behind the rusted bumper. Georgia’s hair was sleek and long, shiny and clean like she’d just blown it dry and was heading out for someplace special. She opened her eyes and popped down the visor to check the color on her lips. She rubbed them together and shot the visor back into place. My view changed as if the eyes through which I saw altered their position. I was staring at the back of the truck, at the tailgate that was hanging down. It was still so high. The picture bobbled as if I were attempting to climb. The engine roared and the view changed yet again, abruptly, awkwardly. Wheels, undercarriage.

And then Georgia’s face, peering beneath the truck. The horror on her face transformed it. She looked hideous—gaping mouth and crazed eyes. She looked otherworldly, and she screamed, Eli, Eli, Eli . . .”



I felt her scream reverberate through me as the connection was suddenly severed and the feed in my brain went black. But Eli didn’t leave. He just tipped his head to the side and waited. Then he smiled softly, sadly, like he knew what he’d shown me would hurt me.

And I put my face in my hands and cried.





Georgia



IT WAS ONE OF THE MOST terrible sounds I’d ever heard. Moses crying. His back shook in a parody of awful laughter, his head was cradled in his hands like he couldn’t believe what I’d told him. Strangely enough, when he rolled away from me his expression was blank, frozen, like a granite wall. And then he tipped his head ever so slightly like he was listening to something . . . or thinking about something. And then he’d let out a horrible, wrenching cry, covered his eyes with his hands and lost it. I wasn’t even certain why he cried. I meant nothing to him. Obviously.

He’d always been so remote and detached, able to pull away without the slightest indication that he was bothered by the separation. He didn’t know Eli. He’d never known him. I had tried to tell him. I’d visited that damn facility week after week until they told me in no uncertain terms that I was not wanted. I’d written him a letter that no one would deliver. And then he’d just disappeared for almost seven years.

He’d never known Eli. He was right about that. But that should have made this news easier to bear. And from the way he cried into his hands, heartbroken, it wasn’t easy at all.

I didn’t dare comfort him. He wouldn’t want my touch. I was the same as his mother. I hadn’t taken care of my child, just like she hadn’t taken care of Moses. I loathed myself almost as much as Moses loathed me, and I had felt that loathing coming off of him in waves. But that didn’t stop me from crying with him.

I was always amazed that my tears kept coming. Day after day. There was a limitless supply. My grief was a deep, underground spring constantly bubbling up and spilling over and I cried with Moses, tears flowing, looking up at the true blue October sky above my head. It stretched endlessly and disappeared behind the mountains that ringed my town like silent sentries, keeping none of us safe. Beautiful mountains. Useless mountains. October had always been my favorite month. And then October took Eli. And I hated her. October gave me sunflowers—a peace offering, I suppose. I put them on his grave, and hated her again.

Now the sunflowers lined the grassy field where I lay beside my old lover, not moving, my eyes fixed on the empty blue of another empty day. Moses stayed bent beside me, mourning for a son he had never known. He grieved openly, desperately, and nothing he could have done would have surprised me more. His grief seeped through his hands and spilled into the ground beneath us, and his grief softened my heart. Eventually, he rolled to his back beside me, and though his lips trembled and his breath was harsh, his sobs quieted and no more tears fell.

“Why are you here, Moses?” I whispered. “Why did you come back?”

He rolled his head slightly and found my eyes. The anger was gone. Even the loathing, though I wasn’t sure if it had simply been temporarily washed away. I met his gaze steadily and he must have seen the same thing in my face. No anger. Despair, acceptance, sorrow. But no anger.

“He brought me back, Georgia.”





Georgia




I SPENT THE NIGHT STARING up at the ceiling in my old room, remembering the night Moses had lain on his back and painted until I’d fallen asleep with colors dancing behind my eyes and a white horse running through my dreams.

You’re afraid of the truth, Georgia. And people who are afraid of the truth never find it.

That’s what Moses had said, lying next to me, looking up at a blue sky that wasn’t really blue. Color isn’t real. I had a science teacher tell me that color is simply the way our eyes interpret the energies contained within a beam of light.

So did the blue sky lie by making me believe it was something that it wasn’t? Did Moses lie when he told me Eli had brought him back? Was he trying to make me believe he was something he wasn’t? He was right that I was afraid. But I didn’t think I was afraid of the truth. I was afraid of believing something that would destroy me if it turned out to be a lie.

Sometime before dawn, I’d had that dream again, only this time, instead of the white horse, I saw Eli’s paint, Calico, and when I stared into the horse’s eyes I could see my son, as if he, like the blind man in the story, had been transformed into a horse that ran into the clouds, into a blue sky that wasn’t really blue, never to return.