“You know you don’t have to thank me.” My father grips his hand, and they pull each other into a hard embrace. “But I hope we see you sooner next time.”
Darius doesn’t respond. He detaches himself from my father and turns to me.
I’m shattering inside. This can’t be it. This can’t be how we say goodbye.
“Good luck to you, Nell.” The words are utterly neutral, as if he’s talking about the weather. “I wish you nothing but the best.”
A hot flame ignites in my blood. I could pull the pin on the grenade right now. Condemn us both with one mention of what happened at the beach house. What’s been happening for the past three months.
Instead, I nod. “You too.”
The words crack and splinter. His features are like stone, shadows beneath his eyes, deep lines edging his mouth.
We step toward each other at the same time. He holds me loosely, a polite embrace between friends. I suppress the urge to wrap my arms around his shoulders and press my face into his neck. To never let go.
I breathe him in, as if I can absorb his power and his pain.
Listen to me. You are not at fault because there is no fault here. But if you insist on thinking you’ve sinned, then please forgive yourself.
His stubble scrapes my cheek. He pulls away first, sliding his palm against my lower back before he steps away.
He and my father exchange a few more words, and Darius gets into the car.
Tears burn through me. The earth feels as if it’s about to break open under my feet. I retreat to the front porch as the car reverses and moves forward again. The red taillights disappear down the hill.
The screen door closes as my father goes back inside.
I wipe my eyes and swallow the ragged sobs piling up inside me. A breeze brushes against my hot face. A brown sparrow hops onto the porch railing before flitting away.
I remember a school field trip I’d taken when I was nine or ten. Our class went to a wildlife sanctuary and refuge that helped raptors who’d been hurt out in the world. During the tour, a veterinarian had introduced us to a huge, beautiful barn owl.
The owl had a white, heart-shaped face and obsidian black eyes. Its speckled plumage was a rich array of brown, gray, black, and gold. One look at that owl, and I was convinced he knew all the secrets of the universe.
He’d been hit by a car on a highway, which had left him with a broken wing and leg. The vet had explained that they’d operated on the wing, but the owl had been injured so badly that there might be nerve damage. They were concerned the break might not heal properly, leaving him unable to fly.
We later learned that the owl’s injuries had been too extensive for rehabilitation. The center had been forced to euthanize him.
Heartbroken, I’d told my mother about it when I got home from school. She’d reminded me that owls have to fly in order to survive.
“If they can’t fly and hunt, Nell, then they’re trapped. They’re not doing what they were born to do. They’re not free.”
The same can be said of other raptors. Eagles, vultures, ospreys, falcons.
And hawks.
CHAPTER 34
Nell
I’m a kaleidoscope, shifting every instant from broken pieces of hot red and orange to a kind of brilliant clarity. It’s been a long time since I let myself feel angry. I’ve mostly either suppressed the volatile ache or tried to exorcise it through physical pain.
Now, anger burns in my blood, right next to the knowledge that I’m a different person than I was before Darius came back into my life. I’m stronger, braver. I feel like I can do something instead of letting myself get swept up in a tide.
My story is mine. Like every single person who has appeared in one of Darius’s photographs. And if he can stand in front of a classroom and tell the students about being taken hostage, if he can agree to write a book about his experiences, then I can damned well own my story in all its painful, fractured beauty. Every part of it.
The night after he leaves, I spend hours in the garden shed creating my entry for the art competition. I continue working on it the next day after school, through the night, and again the following day. Parts of the collage are still damp when I borrow Fern’s van to deliver the massive plywood board to the installation crew on Thursday morning.
After taking my last final exam, I drive to downtown Grenville to look for a pair of shoes that match the cobalt-blue dress I’d purchased weeks ago. I find a pair of suitable ballet flats, and as I’m walking back to the car, I pause outside a hairdresser’s advertising a cut and highlight special deal.
“You interested?” A slim young man with white hair comes to the open door. “I can take you right now.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Come on, I’d love to get my hands in your hair. Professionally, of course.” He smiles engagingly.
“Okay, but nothing radical.”
“Honey, you are totally classic.”
After getting me situated in a chair and introducing himself as Ari, he fluffs up my hair and clucks his tongue. “When was the last time you had a cut?”
“I can’t remember. A few years ago?”
“Girl.” He shakes his head with disapproval and holds up a tuft of my brown hair. “Look at this gift you were given. Long, thick, shiny. You know how many people would kill for this hair? And you just let it hang from your head like a ratty old horse’s mane.”
I can’t help smiling. “Good thing I stopped in here, then.”
“I’ll say.” He starts brushing my hair vigorously. “You trust me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not anymore.”
Three hours later, Ari spins me around to face the mirror. I stare in bewildered shock and fascination at my reflection. “What did you do?”
“Caramel and butter highlights to give your color some pop.” He waves his hand at me like he’s a showcase model and I’m the prize. “Layers to lighten it up and stop it from hiding your face, a little texturing to show off your pretty eyes, and look at how the ends curl without all that weight dragging it down.”
“I look so different.”
“No, you don’t, honey. You look like yourself.”
Myself has high cheekbones softened by large gray eyes, a slender neck, and a mouth shaped like a bow. Myself is pretty.
After thanking Ari profusely, and tipping him generously, I decide there’s one last thing I need. I stop at a department store makeup counter and ask them for a lesson in how to apply makeup “lightly.” The result is another surprise—eye shadow enhancing the shape of my eyes, a warm shade of lipstick, blush highlighting my cheekbones.
At home, I put on my dress and shoes and look in the full-length mirror. The woman gazing back at me looks confident and attractive, even if her eyes are cloudy and dark. Still, she manages to smile.
“You look nice.” My father is waiting in the kitchen, handsome in a tailored suit and tie.
“Thank you.”
We haven’t spoken much since our arguments about college and my photographs. Haven’t talked about anything, really.
I’m sure we will after tonight, though.
The exhibition is held in the high-school gym, and the main parking lot is filled with cars. We check in at the front table, where one of the teachers gives me a badge with my name, a gold star, and the word Artist.