by Rae Walsh
"I must know who represents you," the woman said. "Because if you don't have an agent, or you aren't modeling yet, I would love the chance to be your agent. Here—"the woman had blinked her fake eyelashes, reaching into her purse—"take my card."
Theresa had opened her mouth once, twice, before pulling away and sprinting down the street, leaving Sheldon standing with the woman.
"Sorry," Sheldon had muttered, and then he took off after Reesey. When he finally caught up to her, she was so panicked that she wanted to keep running, but after a few blocks of walking quickly, she finally slowed and laughed.
"I hope that taught her a lesson about accosting people at art shows," she said.
They went back to the gallery when Reesey calmed down enough to think it might be safe.
Sheldon remembered her face, open like a flower as she gazed at the paintings and sculptures of her hero. Now that he thought about it, she had lingered a long time over one display, a simple case from floor to ceiling, filled with pots and jars the artist had crafted. It was the most humble of the exhibits, and most people glanced it over briefly and then passed it by, but Theresa's eyes stayed wide with delight as she looked her fill.
"They all have some kind of mistake," she said. "Not even one is perfect. I love that."
Sheldon had slipped his hand into hers. Dorothy had been watching little Maddie and encouraged the two of them to take as long as they wanted. They went to a taqueria that night and sat devouring tacos, drinking Coronas, and dreaming.
Theresa had so many dreams. She was high on beautiful art, excited about the endless possibility of the artist's life. They walked around the city streets, holding hands, disappearing into shadows for quick kisses. Sheldon quoted poetry to Reesey, and she kissed him after every poem. The memory burned in Sheldon's heart as he walked through the park, aiming himself like an arrow for the lakeshore, the comforting sound of the water lapping gently on the stones. His heart couldn't take much more of this.
He didn't know why Theresa had left, or why she had hurt him so badly. But she was back.
And Sheldon loved her. He loved every single thing about her. Sheldon loved Theresa so much his heart ached with it. He loved her more than some vow he had made. He loved her more than the ache he felt at the memory of her betrayal.
He needed one last chance to win her over again.
He looked at the silvery reflection of the moon on the black water, testing the thought in his mind. A quest. A resolution. Yes, Sheldon would try one last time to see whether Theresa could love him. If she couldn't, well, that would be that.
Sheldon had been waiting for her to come back. He had told all his friends that he was suspended in time until Reesey came again, and it wasn't only drama or self-protection that made him say it. Now that she was here, as whimsical and blunt and strange as ever, Sheldon realized that he hadn't really believed she would ever return. He couldn't miss this new chance to be with her.
If she were loved, all would be well, wouldn't it? Sheldon had convinced Theresa of that once. She had believed him, and she had loved him back. That was what she needed: to know she was loved.
Chapter Nine
Early one morning, about a week after her arrival in Aveline, Theresa pulled her favorite mug out of the cupboard. She traced its lines with her fingers, allowing memories to flow over her.
The day she made it, in the cold little studio in Minneapolis, where the heater never worked very well in winter, and when she worked with clay, her hands stiffened up until she had to breathe on them or jam them under her arms to warm them.
This cup had been her first successful wheel throw after she remade her entire life. She'd finished it while Maddie was at her new kindergarten. Back then, in her cold and lonely new life, her face had often streamed with tears while she worked on her pots. She wedged clay or centered and molded it on the wheel, she learned about glazing and firing, and all the while, she longed for what she had left behind.
Theresa had made hundreds of mugs since then, but she still loved this first one the best. This was the one, a sculpted depiction of a milestone: the first time Theresa had dared to let herself think she could do something more with her life after she fled...well. The first time she believed that she could become a potter and take care of Maddie, far off in the snowy wilderness.
The cup was round and gently tapered at the top, with a deep blue glaze, cracked in spots where it had fired incorrectly. It had a dent on one side. Theresa had deliberately pressed her thumb into the clay after she cut the mug off the wheel. Since that long-ago day, reviewers of her work had written about these little signature marks. She'd been praised for them, and she'd been criticized for what one reviewer called a conceit.
Theresa didn't care what they called it. She only knew that perfect symmetry made her teeth hurt, so she made an indent in each pot. Without the last mark, her work was not complete. Choosing where and how she made the mark was essential, a sacred step that Theresa took seriously.
She pulled her ceramic pour-over coffee filter out of the cupboard and set it over the mug, placing a cloth filter inside and turning the kettle on. She pulled a bag of coffee beans from Sheldon's store out of the freezer and poured some into her hand grinder, turning the crank, and breathing in the aroma of the beans releasing their oils. She felt her shoulders loosen as she moved through the slow ritual.
Theresa had unpacked carefully over the week, opening boxes, hanging art, and putting her belongings into her new cupboards. She had skimped over the last decade, living in a tiny house, spending next to nothing. Buying this house was her reward. Theresa was making the most of it, designing the home she had always dreamed of, as though with her care, she could guarantee this was the final time they would move houses. She did all of this while her heart thumped a warning, trying to tell her the new home wasn't safe. She ignored the message. Theresa knew her body. Her heart pounded warning signals even if none were needed.
The water bubbled in the gooseneck kettle. Theresa picked it up and poured, swishing the steaming water around the inside of the mug to warm it. She poured the used water out, then wet the filter. She added two scoops of coffee and put the cup on the scale. 60 g of water, clockwise.
Maddie sometimes made fun of her for this ritual. "It's just coffee," she said. "Honestly, Mom."
"How would you feel if someone forced you to drink tea from a tea bag?" Theresa countered.
"What? No one would, ever," Maddie said, pulling a horrified face.
Theresa smiled. She loved it when Maddie spoke fiercely. Her daughter had grown up around the scent of her mother's fear, which made her try to console and protect, rather than being her true fierce self.
A sudden wave of terror weakened Theresa's knees, as though even the thought of fear had made her afraid. She was foolish to think she could live here, in Aveline, that someone like her was allowed to have a life and a new house. She jerked compulsively, and hot water splashed over her arm. Gasping with pain, she rushed to the sink and held her arm under the running water.
The ends of her hair trailed in the sink, dampened as she leaned over, running the cold water, breathing in peace and breathing out fear, the way her therapist had taught her. It took nearly ten minutes for Theresa's heart to stop racing and the sting of the burn to ease.
She turned the water off and found the jar of aloe vera, daubing it along her arm in a long swathe.
Her coffee was ruined. Theresa started the kettle, washed the cup, washed out her cloth filter, and started again. Warm the cup. Wet the filter. Scoop the coffee. 60 g of water, clockwise. Wait 30 sec. 90 g of water, counterclockwise. Wait 50 sec. And then the next step. The coffee bloomed, the grounds expanding and rising in the cone. The fragrance reached her, and it was not a dangerous smell. She finished making the coffee and put the filter in the sink.
With her cup in one hand and leather journal in the other, she walked over to the open back door and stepped onto the tiled veranda. She had bought an outdoor tab
le with two chairs: one for her and one for Maddie, who was still at Sam and Katie's house taking care of Sirius. Theresa had spent hours in the garden already, mowing, weeding, revealing hidden plants. She bought a birdfeeder and new plants that she dug into the earth with her bare hands.
These were not the actions of someone who hated herself.
Theresa opened her journal.
An incident in the morning. But not a full meltdown. I recovered and made my coffee because that is what I can do. Because I am strong.
There was a time when that wash of fear would incapacitate Theresa for the day. Maddie had known her that way for a long time. Even as a young girl, she had dealt with the aftermath of meltdowns. The familiar heat of shame prickled in Theresa's palms. But she pushed it away.
I have today. What will I do with today?
Oh! Sam and Katie were coming home. They would all have dinner together tonight, and after dinner, Maddie would move into this house. She hadn't seen her room yet—Theresa was keeping it as a surprise. Her fierce little girl. A memory came to Theresa: tiny Maddie, hands in fists at her waist, standing at Theresa's bedroom door. Lobbing a question like a grenade.
Who is my father?
You don't have a father. You have an uncle and a grandfather. That's pretty good, right?
Theresa took a shaky breath and stood. She needed to get dressed for her walk by the lake—the dog might be waiting.
It had become a rhythm, and Theresa needed rhythm.
"You need to find the middle point between rhythm and inflexibility," her therapist had said. "You have to take care of yourself, and taking care of yourself in this world, which is full of unpredictability, means finding that line."
Theresa was working on it. She threw on a loose indigo tunic and gold leggings, stepped into tall boots, and pulled a red beanie over her messy black hair. Washed her face. Brushed her teeth. Wrote herself a note on the mirror: After walk- breakfast! No more forgetting to eat. No more self-loathing.
Chapter Ten
The air was fresh and bright outside, and the dog was waiting for her. The dog had been there every morning, tagging along as Theresa walked to the lakeshore.
"Who are you," she asked him, "and who is letting you wander?" He replied by wagging his tail and falling into step beside her, sniffing at every tree in their path. Theresa walked at her own pace, and the dog always caught up.
Once she reached the shore, she walked with wide steps, relishing the crunch of the stones under her boots. She prayed not to meet anyone while also trying to open herself to the possibility of meeting someone. It was tricky. Don't be inflexible.
When the therapist had first introduced the concept of flexibility, Theresa had responded by making a series of sculptures. She spent half a year on the project. When she was done, she held an art show called flexible. Each sculpture followed the other: Flexible 1, Flexible 2, Flexible 3…and so on. They looked a bit like elongated human creatures, but all were missing a limb. She didn't know why—they had just come out that way. Maybe the missing parts were wounds from not being flexible enough. Theresa knew the feeling.
"Just the fact that you're taking our talks into your studio shows that you're getting it," her counselor said, her round face flushing with excitement.
Theresa stared at her. Theresa had taken their talks about actually being flexible in life, and made a series of sculptures that all had the same name. It didn't mean she was progressing in actually being flexible.
"That makes you happy?" she had asked.
"Of course it does."
Theresa would never understand people.
The dog brought her a stick. Theresa threw it for him. He was a raggedy kind of dog, the type that had one ear pointing up and one ear flopping over. If she stopped to gaze out over the lake, the dog sat waiting for her, head cocked to one side. If she patted him, wrinkling her nose because he was dirty, he wagged his tail and yelped when she stopped. He was sweet.
"Where do you belong?" she asked him. She felt all loose and happy after walking. Talkative. Even if she was only talking to a dog.
The dog didn't answer.
Her flexible sculptures had all sold for incredible amounts of money. Theresa had an agent now, something that made her sigh and smile. She remembered how she used to feel about agents, back when they tried to contact her about modeling or acting. Once, Theresa had literally run away from one. She sighed, remembering that evening with Sheldon. That art show was where Theresa had made up her mind to be a potter, right before she left Aveline.
Oh, Sheldon. Theresa hadn't wanted to hurt him.
She knew that she could never get involved with anyone in Aveline again. Not if she wanted to stay here, wanted to keep her house and not have to move on. She needed to make sure Sheldon was not holding onto any hope that there could be anything between them. But she did wish they could be friends. Besides Maddie, he was her favorite person in the world. It would be good to have a friend.
Just as Theresa turned to walk away from the lakeshore, she saw people in the distance and tensed up. As they came closer, though, she recognized George and Mercy, her long-time friends. Theresa waited, and hugged each of them when they reached her spot on the beach.
"We missed you," Mercy said. "Are you going to set up shop so we can bathe in your glory? We'll have a famous artist in Aveline."
Theresa blushed. "How did you know?" she asked.
"Oh, Sam has shown us headlines from Minneapolis,” George said.
Sam. Theresa smiled, thinking of her younger brother, wondering if he knew how much farther her art had traveled recently. There was a twinge of uncertainty in her chest. Theresa had been gone forever—she had no right to complain—but what was it going to be like now that he was married? Married to an apparently perfect person, at that.
"I remember when you moved here," she told George and Mercy. "You came over to our house for Thanksgiving dinner."
"I remember that," Mercy said, smiling.
"I was young, though. We didn't talk deeply then. I remember babysitting Faith. It was hard for you at first?"
Mercy turned and looked out over the lake. "You remember we moved here for Mercy's health," George said.
"We moved because, as you know, we lost our son, and I wanted to kill myself." Mercy said.
Theresa blinked. George made a choking sound.
"I don't think I've ever heard you tell someone that straight out," he said to his wife, moving closer to her. She leaned into him.
Theresa felt a sharp pang somewhere in her chest. The dog came back. She threw the stick for him again.
"Theresa understands," Mercy said. "She has secrets of her own."
Theresa looked at Mercy quickly. "How do you know that?" she asked.
"No one disappears the way you did if they don't have secrets," Mercy told her. "And I can tell a lot of things without having them spelled out for me. I am a lawyer, after all. Let us know if you need help, okay?"
Theresa looked at Mercy. The older woman had started to wear her hair short and natural, different from years ago, when she had worn it long and straight. Short hair suited Mercy, showing off her dark skin and eyes and her beautiful bone structure.
Theresa wondered if the statement about secrets was a lucky guess or if Mercy knew more than she was saying.
"I did have secrets," Theresa said. "When I left. But everything is okay now, or I wouldn't be here. Don't worry about us. We'll be fine."
"Whose dog is that?" George asked, changing the subject. He held Mercy's hand in his and had one vertical line between his eyebrows.
"No idea," Theresa said as she threw the stick for him again.
"Looks like yours," Mercy murmured. “Have you seen Sofía, since you’ve been back?”
Theresa looked up, startled. “No,” she said. “But I haven’t talked to Sofía in a long time. Sometimes she sends me a Christmas card.”
“That’s a shame,” Mercy said. “I remember the two of you playing with Fai
th together, all of you laughing yourself into a fit.”
"How is Faith?"
They both smiled, suddenly, beautifully, as they thought of their daughter.
"She's doing well," Mercy said. "I don't think she eats enough, though. She's been seeing Maddie more often, now that Maddie's doing therapy with her."
"Yes, I heard that," Theresa murmured, feeling a wash of sudden shame. Mercy stepped forward and caught Theresa's hand in her own.
"We all do the best we can," Mercy said. Her eyes were shiny, and Theresa felt her own eyes fill with tears.
"What if our best isn't good enough?" she asked.
"It has to be," Mercy said. "Did you know we have a women's circle now? You should come."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Theresa said, dashing at her eyes with the backs of her hands. "I don't like groups of people."
"These are good women," Mercy said. "You're welcome to join us if you ever feel that you can come."
Theresa remained at the lake longer than she usually would have, gazing at its blue, smooth surface and throwing the stick for the dog. She stood there until Mercy and George were tiny specks in the distance, and then she wiped at her face and took a deep breath. It was late. She needed to go straight to the post office. Breakfast would have to wait.
Chapter Eleven
The bells on the post office door rang as Theresa walked in, giving her an old shivery feeling that she imagined might come from years of picking up Christmas and birthday presents here. A feeling like some kind of lovely surprise was on its way. Then a beautiful surprise did come, as Theresa took in the effect of the post office walls.
Posters depicting space covered every surface with galaxies, planets, and nebulas. Theresa turned in a slow circle. The effect was magical.
“This is marvelous,” Theresa said out loud.