47. Forty-seven
Forty-seven
“Huck wonders where we are going today,” Huck shouts from the back seat.
“I was thinking we could go to the library,” I tell him. “They have an insect exhibit.”
“Huck wonders if we could go see Bo at the cabin instead.”
I blow out a long breath.
“You know, we can drive by, but he’s really busy, so I don’t think we can stop.”
Reluctantly, I drive to the site I know all too well.
The cabin is nearly finished now; today they are installing windows. I roll the back window down for Huck to watch a few minutes while my gaze is steadfast out the windshield—anywhere but the cabin.
“There’s Bo!” Huck shouts.
I don’t turn to look .
“Awesome. You should wave to him because we have to go now if we want to get to the library before it closes.”
“He’s walking over here now. Maybe we can stay.” I hate how excited he sounds.
I hate my response even more.
Rolling up his window with the button on my door, I start to drive away. “Maybe next time.”
After the library, dropping off Huck, and dinner, I will myself to look at my phone and all the messages I’ve been ignoring.
From Libby, You know, if I was the kind of girl that read into things, I’d think you’re ignoring me. What’s up, Pam Beesly? Call me. I miss watching you eat healthy food.
I read it, smiling so I don’t cry. I’ve put her in a terrible position that I had no right to. Her sister married Bo; she can never be my friend. Not really. Not now. Not with Mandy here. The nicest thing I can do to her is shut her out so she doesn’t have to feel guilty for having to do the same to me.
Then, Bo.
Is your plan to ignore me forever?
Birdie, we need to talk about this.
Is this going to require a list?
I roll my eyes. Because what does he think? I’m just going to go over there and hang out with him and his wife ? He can’t be that delusional .
Part of me wants to tell him to piss off, and part of me wants to beg him to come over and fix it. The two extremes tell me the best response is none.
The week after Veda’s funeral, I force myself to go to her cabin on a morning like I would be if she was still alive. When I walk inside, it’s unchanged. Same earthy, wet smell. Same colorful blankets and gauzy curtains. Like any minute she’s going to walk out of her room, hair pinned back in a tight bun, and order me to go wedge some clay.
It’s empty. Quiet. Her echo.
When I get to the sunroom, I feel her. Hear her.
My eyes land on two bowls on a shelf—the last ones she made months ago. They have been sitting wrapped tightly in plastic bags, still too wet for the kiln. I pick one up and I’m instantly flooded with emotion. Vibrating with it.
I miss her and I’m mad at her, both with a rawness I’ve never known.
Using my arm like a bat, I swing it at one of the bowls—still in the bag—and send it off the shelf to the ground with a cry. Without thinking, I do the same thing to the other one. This time, with a louder Ahhh! and tears that fill my eyes.
When all that’s left is silence, I realize instantly what I’ve done—destroyed her final pieces like a fool—and pick them up. I open the bags; each pot sits in five to a dozen jagged pieces. My heart sinks as fresh tears well.
I’ve ruined yet another precious thing.
Then I think of my dad. Of his busted cookie slab and the Japanese method of kintsugi . I think of broken things becoming beautiful again. The cracks becoming the coveted.
With a long exhale, I vow to put them back together, somehow, though I have no idea how it’s possible.
Pulling a big plastic tub out from under the table called a damp box that helps keep unfinished pieces wet or rehydrate dry pieces, I add water and put all the broken pieces inside, snapping the lid on and praying for a miracle.
I debate going home, but I hate the idea more than I hate being here without her, so I open a fresh bag of clay. I cut a hunk off with a piece of wire, and wedge it, Veda’s commanding instructions whispering in my ear.
At the table, I roll out a slab, long and flat, before wrapping it into an asymmetrical cylindrical vase. The seam is obvious, a scar, but I leave it, lining it with flowers.
I work for five hours, only stopping to cry or use the bathroom, before it’s finished.
It’s beautiful—different—even in wet clay. I know it’s the best thing I’ve made.
I put a plastic bag over it so it doesn’t dry out, clean up my space with a wet sponge, and lock the front door. When I leave, it’s as if I was never there at all.