22. Twenty-two
Twenty-two
“You’ve lost weight,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorway.
Veda flicks her fingers through the air. “It’s probably all that healthy stuff you’re making me eat,” she says dismissively, lifting a mug to her lips at the kitchen table.
I thought I noticed it a couple weeks ago, but now in our third month together, the same shirt she wore the first day I met her is noticeably baggier. Veda is thinner.
“Veda,” I say with a pleading breath. “Just tell me what’s going on.” Our eyes meet and hers narrow at me. “ Please, ” I beg.
Other than me finding the pills and her sleeping in one morning, her weight loss is the only sign there’s something off.
We look at each other with a steadfast kind of resilience. I want to know what’s happening as much as she doesn’t want to tell me.
“Birdie, I’ll be eighty in two months, of course I lost weight—that’s a lot of years to be carrying these bones around!” She smiles as if she’s said something funny, but I see it for the lie it is.
She stands up, pushing her chair from the table. “Either way, we have stuff to load in the kiln,” she tells me as she walks down the hall, me trailing on her heels.
“Veda, ple—”
“And I want to teach you some hand-building techniques,” she says over me. “I realized last week when you left with six bowls I haven’t taught you how to do anything other than throw—can you believe that?” She steps into the sunroom.
“Veda!” I shout, making her hear me.
She stops.
“Veda,” I repeat, this time softly to her back. “What is going on?”
Her shoulders droop. She turns to face me, slow.
“Birdie,” she starts, narrowing her eyes just slightly. “I’ve lived a good life and I’m getting older. That’s all it is. It’s the natural ebb and flow of it all.” She smiles—really this time—and her mismatched beaded earrings jingle when she takes a step. “Now wedge some clay, let’s make something strange today.”
I know she’s deflecting. I open my mouth to explain I could find some way to help if she would just tell me. The look in her eyes stops me. It’s not angry or sad, isn’t the scary hawk-like glare she gave me the first day I met her—it’s desperate. She doesn’t want to talk about it. Being a girl with no mom from a young age to a woman with no kids, husband, or breasts at an adult age, it’s a look I understand well. Some things are more manageable when you lug them alone .
“Fine,” I say. Then without another word, I cut a chunk of clay, wedging it out like she tells me to.
There are things I like about making something out of clay on the wheel—the steadiness of the spinning, the predictability over certain movements on the outcome. The precise steps that are required. It’s soothing. Now that I’ve got the hang of it, I can even say it’s reliable. Tangible steps with a clear goal.
This technique Veda teaches me today is something else. Something unlike me entirely: it’s wild. Veda and I sit rolling coils—long ropes of clay—for hours, lining them on top of one another. She shows me how to connect them with wet clay and shallow cuts, a technique she calls scratch and slip, and how to lay them in different shapes. Instead of perfect symmetry and lines that make sense, this style of pottery is sheer chaos. It is everything I’m not, but for some reason, I love it.
“I want to adopt my neighbor, Huck,” I say, rolling one of the coils like a snail. “But I’m scared that if I die, he’ll be an orphan and have to start all over in foster care.”
She hums in understanding next to me, slowly—shakily—using her palms to press down on her clay.
“And Bo said I could put in my will that he would take him if I died. Which”—a breath rushes out of me in a gust—“is incredible to even offer.” Then I face her. “I guess I’m just wondering if he means it. Or if you think he would resent me? Or regret it? ”
Her smile drips with pride. “He means it, Birdie. If Bo says something, he means it.”
I believe her.
Then we fall into a comfortable silence, stacking coils in various shapes and patterns until we have two wonky vases in front of us that have so many holes they will never hold water.
I laugh when I look at them. “Do these look like they are supposed to?”
“They aren’t supposed to look like anything, Birdie—that’s the beauty of it.”
I agree. It feels like beauty even though they look absurd.
“How’d you find pottery?” I ask, filling a bucket up with clean water in the sink.
“I was always artistic, loved painting—watercolor mostly—so I went to art school. I’d never done anything with clay, almost dropped the class after the first day, but there was a cute boy, so I stayed.” She smiles, though it isn’t for me. “And I fell in love—with him and the clay.”
I wipe the table down with a big sponge, the dry clay turning to muddy streaks across the top. “What happened?”
Her smile widens across her timeless face. “The boy, Daniel, didn’t have an artistic bone in his body, but I sat next to him and helped him. I didn’t have experience with the medium, but I was better than him!” She chuckles. “As I taught him, we fell in love between those shelves of art supplies. He took the class on a dare—his friends apparently never believed he’d stick with it. Right before finals he leaned over and whispered, ‘Veda, I would have hated this class if I didn’t fall in love with you.’” Her eyes are wet, but her smile stays.
“Then we got married. I became an art teacher; he went to work for the city. We had Daniel and a good life. I taught art for nearly thirty years before I became a potter full time.”
I wrap our vases in plastic bags as I think of it all. A younger Bo-like kid in a college class he has no business being in. I smile at the image.
Then an idea.
“You know, Veda,” I start. “We’re due for a Forever Fun field trip. Since you’ve assured me there’s nothing wrong with you”—I pause, shooting her a look that silently says, but I don’t believe you, before continuing—“would you be up for hosting it here? Sometime this fall? I’ll clean everything up and take care of everything, I would just need you to tell them what to do—teach them. Something like this would be great with the coils, or like, those little monster sculptures kids make?” I laugh. “There are only two of them right now.”
“When are you thinking?” she asks, considering it as she washes her hands at the big utility sink.
“Anytime really. Usually, I do something three or four times a year, but we haven’t done anything since spring. If you aren’t up for it now, we can wait until December or—”
“Not December,” she says quickly. “How about September or early October? It will be nice out. The fall colors will inspire us,” she adds.
I smile. “I love that. They’ll love that. Thank you.”
Mabel, Sam, and Veda—all together with clay on their hands. It has the making of a sitcom episode written all over it.
“Gran?” a voice calls from the front of the house along with the sound of the opening and closing of the door.
“Back here!”
In a few booted steps, Bo steps into the sunroom.
I look at him as I put the last of the tools in their bins and bite my bottom lip to hide the smile that happens because it can’t not when he’s around.
“Birdie,” he says with a smile just big enough for his dimples to show through his beard.
He’s wearing his usual blue jeans, but instead of a T-shirt, he’s in a tucked-in blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up.
My, “Hi,” comes in a breathy whoosh that lets me know I like this look on him very much.
“Birdie, stop staring at him,” Veda says, making my face flush as she narrows her eyes at me before softening her face toward him. “Why are you all dressed up?”
He walks over to where she’s standing at the sink and gives her a hug and peck on the cheek.
“Meetings.” He looks at the table. “What did you girls make today?”
I point at the plastic wrapped vases. “Things that won’t hold water.”
He chuckles. “I like it.”
“What are you doing here?” Veda asks, rinsing the sponges .
“Just saying hi. I’m heading to get Lucy…and I needed some of these.” He grabs two Lincoln Logs from a basket I’ve never noticed and waves them around with a grin before doing a double take of Veda. “Is Birdie feeding you, Gran? You look like you’ve lost weight.”
When she turns around, I raise my eyebrows knowingly toward her, and her face morphs to a point in response. Our wordless battle begins.
“You know, Bo,” I say, holding her gaze. “I thought the same thing.”
She doesn’t shy away, eyes turning into little slits. “If Birdie would cook something edible, maybe I would—”
“Okay, okay,” Bo laughs, cutting her off, kissing her on the cheek. “I get the point. Birdie’s food is too healthy. Just don’t go withering away on me.”
While his voice is playful, Veda and I stand in a stubborn staring contest.
My I know something is going on with you meets her I’m not telling you a damn thing .
Finally, when my eyes start to burn from not blinking, I relent, and damn her for the smug look on her face when I do.
“I should get going,” I say, looking at Bo as I start out of the sunroom.
“I’ll walk you out,” he says, walking out ahead of me. “Gran, I’ll be right back.”
“Veda,” I say sweetly. She smiles so innocently I almost laugh. “ See you Monday.”
With one last look at her, I grab my purse and walk the short distance to the front porch where Bo is waiting.
“She might be the death of me,” I say with a laugh mixed with a sigh as we walk across the yard to my van.
He chuckles. “She’s harmless.” His eyes squint. “I think.”
I shake my head.
“What are you doing with random Lincoln Logs all the time?” I ask, eyeing the aged brown miniature logs in his hand.
“Building cabins, of course.” A toothpick dances in his mouth as he grins.
I laugh under my breath as I open the door of the van. “Probably helps with material costs.” I give him one last look, feeling my tongue swell in my mouth at how damn good he looks before pulling my eyes away. “Huck’s probably waiting.”
He rounds his back, leaning on the frame of the door when I pull it closed.
“The only eight-year-old I’ve ever been jealous of.”
Putting the key in the ignition, I shake my head at how smooth he is then shift the gear to reverse.
“See you tomorrow night?” he asks, pulling away from the van.
“See you tomorrow night.” I back up a few inches then push the brakes. Heart pounding, I add, “I’m going to try to adopt Huck.”
His slow-to-grow smile is wide. “I think you should.”
I just nod, looking back through the windshield at the gravity of those words, before giving him a wave and driving away.
When I get home, instead of walking the dog with Huck, I visit Miss Alice and start the application process to adopt him.