by Amy Harmon
It hadn’t been my pain—in the dream—it hadn’t been my pain. It had been a woman. A girl . . . and she was having a baby. Her thoughts and her agony and then the child in her arms as she’d looked down into his squalling face all indicated child birth. His squalling face? I suppose that was right. She’d thought of the child as a boy.
Maybe it was Eli, showing me his birth, the way he’d shown me his bedtime ritual. But that didn’t seem right either. It hadn’t been Eli’s eyes I’d looked through. It hadn’t been Eli’s thoughts in my head. But nothing with Eli had been like any other experience I’d ever had. The connection was different. More intense, more detailed. More everything. So maybe it was possible.
But it didn’t feel right. Eli showed me images and perspectives relative and relevant to his understanding. As an infant, being born into the world, he would not have had that perspective. It was Georgia’s perspective. It was as if I was looking through her eyes, feeling her emotions, her pain. Her despair. She had been filled with fear and despair. I hated that. I hated that she had felt so alone. Eli should have been celebrated. But in the dream, there was no joy or celebration. Just fear. Just pain.
And maybe it was just a dream.
That was possible too. Maybe I wanted to rewrite history so badly that my subconscious had re-created a moment that fed into my guilt and my regret, putting me there, in the room with Georgia as Eli had come into the world. I mopped at the water on my neck and walked down the stairs without turning on any lights, needing a glass of water or maybe something stronger.
I’d left the lamp on in the family room. I’d sanded down the entire wall where the girl had revealed her face. Last night I’d painted it again, covering Molly and Sylvie and the other, nameless, somewhat faceless girls beyond them with a thick coat of yellow. I wanted yellow in the room. No more plain white. I was tired of white. I got a beer from the fridge and held the can against my face, eyeing the cheerful, buttery wall, thankfully devoid of any dead faces. For now. I would paint the other walls when morning came.
My eyes skipped to the side as my thoughts mentally moved on to the next section of painting that needed to be done. The paint was bubbled on the far wall.
“Ah, shit.” I’d been afraid of that, afraid that the other walls would need to be sanded down too. But it had been more than a week since the paint on the back wall had begun to peel. The other walls had shown no signs of bubbling or peeling. I walked to the adjacent wall and smoothed my hand across the ripples. And just like that, the paint came off like tissue paper being unwrapped and pushed aside.
My mother’s face stared out at me with sad eyes and a slightly wistful smile. And I knew who sent me the dream. It hadn’t been Georgia’s perspective in the dream, it wasn’t Georgia’s memory. It was my mother’s.
***
Moses
IT WAS STRANGE. I’d been painting frantically since coming to Levan, though I’d controlled myself, resisting abandoned buildings and barns and cliff faces, and limiting myself to canvas. Every day it was another painting about Eli. I couldn’t stop. Some of them I left for Georgia, wanting to share them with her the way she had shared her photos with me. I was almost afraid she would come storming over and throw them in my face and accuse me of mocking her pain. But she never did. I almost wished she would, just so I would have an excuse to fight with her. An excuse to see her.
I had kissed her and then doubted the wisdom of the move for days afterwards. That kiss was like a living, throbbing pulse of fuchsia in my head. Maybe that’s why I felt compelled to paint. Eli came and went, showing me the same fleeting images and bits and pieces of his life with Georgia. But for the first time, my painting wasn’t for the dead. The painting wasn’t even for Eli. It was for me. I wanted to make him permanent. And I wanted to give permanence to Georgia.
But the dream of my mother shook me, as did the walls that wouldn’t stay painted. For several days I just worked on the house and left my art alone. I didn’t want to start channeling my mother in my paintings. I sanded down the entire living room once more, retreating all the walls with everything 4D’s, the hardware store in Nephi, had in stock for pre-treating old walls. The new coats of yellow seemed to be holding, and I moved onto other projects, keeping myself busy with physical work, doing what I could on my own and hiring the rest out, watching Georgia from afar and wondering how I was ever going to bridge the gulf between us.
I had temporarily stopped painting, though Eli hadn’t stopped sharing pictures with me. But he had started showing me new things. Flowers. Clouds. Cupcakes. Hearts. Drawings pinned to the fridge with chunky magnet letters. They were still things he loved, as far as I could tell. The images were fleeting and focused. Fat red hearts, cupcakes piled with white fluffy icing, and flowers that I wasn’t sure even existed beyond a little boy’s imagination. They were riotous and multi-colored, a garden of Dr. Seuss blooms. I didn’t think these were his greats. This time I was pretty sure he really was trying to tell me something. I found myself talking to him, to the boy who danced in and out of my vision, never staying long, never making a whole lot of sense, but I talked to him anyway, hoping my limitations were not his.
I spent a Saturday removing the tub, toilet and sink in Gigi’s old bathroom telling Eli about the first time I’d seen Georgia. I was little. Not as little as Eli. But young. Maybe nine or ten the first time I really remembered her. She had stared at me, just like the other kids at church. But her gaze had been different. She had watched me like she was dying to talk to me. Like she was wishing she could make me talk to her. And she smiled. I hadn’t smiled back. But I had remembered that smile.
Eli answered with an image of Georgia, smiling, holding him in her arms, swinging him around and around until they both collapsed onto the grass and let the world spin above their heads. I took his memory to mean he hadn’t forgotten her smile either.
So then I’d told Eli about the first time Georgia actually did talk to me. How Sackett had reared up in the barn and knocked her to the ground. How it had been all my fault. I told Eli I knew then that Georgia wasn’t safe with me.
Eli’s response baffled me. He showed me Georgia, crying his name, her face distorted with horror as she looked beneath the truck the day he died. It was the very last memory Eli had of his mother’s face before he left the world.
“Eli? Don’t do that!” I shoved my fists over my eyes and cried out, banging my head against the newly installed sink. I physically and mentally pushed back, not understanding why Eli would want me to see that again.
He stopped immediately, but I was shaken. I swore and paced for a minute rubbing my head, trying to ease the throb and clear the horrible image. And then my words came back to me.
I’d told him Georgia wasn’t safe with me.
And Eli hadn’t been safe. Even with the person who would have gladly died in his place. And she would have. Gladly. I knew that. And I think Eli knew that. I rubbed the back of my head, looking at the little boy in black and blue pajamas, standing so close I should be able to touch him, but couldn’t. And he stared back, keeping his pictures to himself as I pondered the fact that maybe none of us are safe. Not truly. Not even from the people we love. Not even from the people who love us.
“So cupcakes . . . hearts . . . flowers. What’s the deal, Eli?”
I saw Eli, his grubby hands gripping some ugly, half-bald dandelions, handing them to his mother, and Georgia, exclaiming over them like his arms were filled with roses. Then I saw a little, silver pie tin filled with mud, being presented with a happy giggle. And again, Georgia oohing and ahhing over the offering, even pretending to take a giant, muddy bite.
The pie tin dissolved into a new thought, and Eli was drawing hearts. Misshapen wobbly ones that looked more like upside down triangles with boobs than actual hearts. He was drawing them in every color on a white sheet of paper, signing his name in crooked letters, and handing it to Georgia, a declaration of his devotion.
The images switched off abrup
tly, and I was left staring at Eli, holding the wrench in my hand, still rubbing the back of my head. A huge goose egg was forming.
“Oh, I see.” I grimaced, chuckling. “Flowers, cake, hearts. You’re giving me advice. Very nice.” I laughed again. “I gave her some pictures, but I’m guessing you think I should do more.”
I saw myself, arms around Georgia, kissing her. My breath caught and I watched as if someone had caught us on film. Her hands clutched my arms as I took her mouth. I watched as my hands traveled up her back and framed her face. She didn’t pull away, and for several long seconds, she didn’t let go. In fact she kissed me back, her eyes closed, her head bent under mine.
“Eli . . .” I breathed, wondering how in the world I was ever going to kiss Georgia again if Eli had soaked it all up, every detail, without me even knowing he was there. When I’d kissed Georgia, I’d been afraid Eli would never return. But he had definitely seen me kiss Georgia.
And he’d seen Georgia run away from that kiss as I stood staring after her, dazed.
“Okay, buddy. That’s enough.”
I called down the waters on Eli’s little demonstration, not especially wanting his romantic input, and as my mental walls went up, I lost him, finding myself alone in the old house, muttering to myself, considering how I was going to implement Eli’s ideas . . . without him watching.
Moses
THERE WASN’T MUCH TO DO IN LEVAN unless you rode horses. Or four wheelers. Or enjoyed the great outdoors. Or had friends. Since I didn’t, on all accounts, I ended up watching Georgia more often than not. Sometimes I watched from an upstairs window, hoping she couldn’t see me. Sometimes I watched from Gi’s old deck as I sanded it down, giving me an excuse to surreptitiously track her as she worked with horses and people, day in and day out, usually in the big round corral. It seemed she’d picked up where her parents left off, doing the work they’d once done. And it suited her.
Her skin was tan and her hair bleached even blonder by the sun. Her body was long and lean—strong arms and legs and hands that were slim-fingered and firm on the reins. All of her was long . . . her hair, her legs, even her patience. She never seemed to lose her focus or her temper with the horses she worked with. She pushed and prodded and coaxed and wore them down. And she was wearing me down all over again. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She wasn’t the kind of girl who should ever have appealed to me. She wasn’t my type. It was the argument I’d had with myself when I’d come to Levan almost seven years ago and seen her, all grown up, laughing and riding and taunting me until I had to be close to her. She had focused in on me that summer, as if I was everything she had ever wanted. And that singular intensity had been my undoing.
Our son had that same quiet intensity. He often sat close by, perched on the fence, as if his spirit remembered the posture, though he had no physical form to make it necessary. He stared at his mother, at the horse she trained, and I wondered if Eli had come to visit his mother this way often. I wondered if the relationship between animal and woman, woman and child merged together in the quiet corral and created an oasis of comfort and peace that tamed all who entered there.
It was odd, seeing the woman and her child and knowing she was completely unaware that he was there with her, watching her, hovering over her like her own little guardian angel. I put down my tools and wandered over to watch her as she worked, wanting to be near her, to be near them, even if she would rather I stayed away.
When I climbed up on the fence near Eli, he didn’t seem to be aware of me, as if he was caught between worlds. But Georgia was aware of me, and she stiffened slightly, as if she considered running away, and then she straightened her back, and I knew she was telling herself that it was her “damn property and Moses can go to hell.” I could see it in the lift of her chin and the jerk of the rope in her hands. It made me smile. Luckily, she didn’t tell me to go to hell. She didn’t even tell me to leave.
So I sat, my eyes on the woman and the horse she wooed, but before too long, Eli’s memories became so loud, I had no choice but to listen in.
“How do horses talk, mommy?”
“They don’t talk, baby.”
“Then how do you know what he wants?”
“He wants the same things you want. He wants to play. He wants loves. He wants to eat and sleep and run.”
“And he doesn’t want to do his chores?”
“No. He doesn’t want to do his chores.”
I saw her face as if I was looking down at her from atop the horse, and she smiled up at me sweetly, laughter in her voice, her hand on my leg. Not my leg. Eli’s leg. Eli was showing me the memory. He must have been riding and Georgia must have been leading him around. The light was the same, sunset coloring the western hills, the corral bathed in a soft golden haze, the ground dappled with shadows and sunlight. I shook myself, trying to separate the scene in my head from the scene in front of me, but Eli wasn’t finished.
“Does Calico love me?”
“Of course!” Georgia laughed, but Eli was very serious.
“I love her too. But how do I tell her if she doesn’t talk?”
“You show her.”
“How do I show her? Do I make a big heart with my arms?” Eli curved his small arms in a shape that slightly resembled a smashed heart. He teetered a little in the saddle and Georgia reprimanded him gently.
“Hold on, son. And no. I don’t think Calico would understand if you made her a heart. You show her you love her by how you treat her. You take care of her. You spend time with her.”
“Should I pet her a lot?”
“That would be good.”
“Should I bring her apples to eat? She likes carrots too.”
“Not too many. You don’t want to make her love sick.”
“Moses!”
Georgia stood below me, her hands clinging to my legs as if to keep me on the fence, and I was teetering the way Eli had when he raised his arms to make a heart. I gripped the nearby post and slid down inside the corral, my body brushing against Georgia as I did. We both jumped, but neither of us gave ground. The horse she was working with, Cuss, had strolled to the other side of the corral, and we were alone. Alone with the sunset and the horses and Eli’s memories.
“Holy crap! Don’t do that! I thought you were going down!” Her face was so close I could see the specks of gold in her brown eyes and the little groove between her brows that indicated her concern. I stared too long and watched as the groove of concern became a scowl.
“Moses?” she asked doubtfully.
I lifted my eyes from her face and saw Eli, still perched on the fence, his curls lifting in the soft breeze as if the wind knew he was there and welcomed him home.
“He’s here, Georgia. And when he’s near, I kind of get lost in him.”
Georgia jumped back as if I’d produced a snake and offered it to her. But her eyes scanned the nearby area as if she couldn’t quite help herself.
“Thank you for not letting me fall,” I added softly. I felt disoriented, still feeling the dizzying effects of being in two places at once. Eli’s memories carried me away completely, and returning to the present was jarring. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced, the little windows into his life, so complete yet so insufficient. I wanted to stay in his head all day. I wondered suddenly if horses and girls spoke the same love language, and I knew instinctively that Eli was trying to help me with Georgia, telling me how to woo her.
“Is he still here?” Georgia asked, interrupting my thoughts.
She didn’t have to tell me who ‘he’ was, but her question took me by surprise. I didn’t know when she’d started believing me, but I wasn’t going to argue about it. I looked back where Eli had been perched and discovered that he was gone. He had the attention span that was probably typical of a four-year-old, and he flitted in and out without warning. I shook my head.
“No.”
Georgia almost looked disappointed. She gazed beyond me, past the corral to the hills t
hat squatted west of Levan. And then she surprised the hell out of me.
“I wish I had your gift. Just for one day,” she whispered. “You can see him. And I’ll never see him again.”
“A gift?” I choked. “I’ve never thought of it as a gift. Not ever,” I protested. “Not once.”
Georgia nodded, and I knew she hadn’t considered it a gift either. Not until now. In fact, she hadn’t ever known what to think. I’d guarded my secret and let her believe I was crazy. Deranged even. The fact that she now seemed to believe me, at least to some extent, made me giddy and nauseated all at once. And I owed her as much honesty as I could give her.
“For the first time in my life, I’m grateful that I can part the waters. That’s what Gi called it, parting the waters. I’m grateful, because it’s all I’m going to get. This is all Eli and I get. You got four years, Georgia, and this is all I get.” I didn’t say it angrily. I wasn’t angry. But she wasn’t the only one who was suffering, and sometimes there is comfort in the knowledge that you don’t suffer alone, sad as that is.
Georgia bit her lip, flinching, and I knew what I was saying wasn’t easy to hear.
“Do you remember that girl I painted on the underpass?” I said, trying to be as gentle as I could and still explain.“Yeah.” Georgia nodded. “Molly Taggert. She was just a few years older than I am. They found her, you know. Not long after you left town. Someone killed her.”
I nodded too. “I know. She was Tag’s sister.”
Georgia’s eyes widened, and she stiffened abruptly, as if she had suddenly put it all together. But I didn’t want to talk about Molly. Not right now. And I needed her to listen. I reached out and tilted her chin toward me, making sure she heard. “But you know what? I don’t see Molly anymore. She came . . . and she went. That’s how it is every time. Nobody hangs around very long. And one day, Eli will go too.”