But not yet.
I have enough self-awareness to know that I can’t just bounce back from what happened on the roof of this building. None of us can. It’s more than a vague notion of the events that occurred between my attempt to draw Stephen’s curse and opening my eyes to find myself looking up at the sky. Only it wasn’t the sky, but the vivid blue of Stephen’s gaze.
I don’t know how Maxwell Arbus died. Of course I know hitting the pavement after a nine-story fall took his life. But I have no memory of how Arbus took Laurie’s place on the ledge. Or what made him fall.
The way that Stephen and my brother steer me sharply away from the subject anytime I get near it makes me think I probably don’t want to know. Maybe it’s better this way—that we keep our darknesses close, hidden in our minds, protected by our hearts.
* * *
We’re each coping in our own ways.
Laurie is hinting that he’s going to bring Sean to dinner so he can meet Mom. This will be new territory for Laurie. For all of us. We are looking forward to our pioneer days.
Stephen is slowly rebuilding ties with his father. They speak often and Stephen relays the conversations to me. This is his frontier. I can see the sparks of hope in his easy smiles, in the gradual melting of the cold edge that his voice carries whenever he mentions his father.
My solace comes from a familiar place. I counter the sluggish recovery of my body with the sharpness of my mind and force the fever that lingers in my blood to become one of spirit. My hands are steadiest when they hold a pencil, pastel, or charcoal. My vision is clearest when a blank page fills my sight.
I have a story to tell that I’ve been holding on to, thinking it was mine alone.
But I was wrong.
* * *
It is after midnight when Mom finally goes to bed. She’s been taking a couple days each week to work from home so she can spend more time with me. That also means she stays up late to get hours in at the virtual office to compensate for the lengthy Scrabble games we play. I love the time with her; I want very much to reassure her that I am okay—even if that okay is heavily qualified. But it makes finding time with Stephen more of a challenge. When I don’t find that time, I am lost.
Stephen is at his door a moment after I knock.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
We share a smile. He takes my free hand while his glance takes note of the portfolio under my arm.
Stephen leads me to his room. He sits on the edge of his bed while I empty the portfolio. He has to stand to create enough space for all the pages. I’ve arranged them for him to view. His quilt is papered with sketches. Some are brightly hued. Others resemble little more than a jumble of shadows.
I step back, watching as he leans forward. His eyes widen, then narrow. He knows this story. It is our story.
* * *
Yellow and blue shopping bags in disarray.
A room full of unopened boxes.
Two glasses of lemonade.
The angel watching over us.
A door left open to an empty hallway.
A dark, velvet-draped shop and a man with an eye patch.
Wrinkled hands, holding a teakettle.
A woman cradling an infant in her arms. An infant that cannot be seen.
The outline of a small boy and the long, cruel shadow of a man falling over him.
A riot of shapes and colors: my collage of curses.
A different mother and a different boy. A museum. The same shadow.
My room in the daylight.
Stephen’s room in moonlight.
An Upper West Side block, rendered in jagged pieces.
The roof.
The sky.
Blue eyes and dark hair.
A hospital bed with two occupants.
A close-up of fingers entwined.
The long, cruel shadow turned to ash. Scattered by the wind.
* * *
Stephen looks at the sketches for a long time.
“It has a beginning and an end,” he says, touching the edge of the last page.
“Yes.”
He turns to face me. “And after the end?”
“Another beginning.” I rise on my tiptoes and kiss him.
I don’t say that I haven’t given up.
I don’t swear that I will someday free him of this curse.
I have already sworn that to myself.
But I don’t know when that day will arrive, and it would be too easy to forget to marvel at the beauty in this moment. In every moment.
I am touching Stephen’s cheek and looking into his sky-blue eyes. He is looking back at me. His hand mirrors mine. His fingers are warm on my skin.
We see each other, and it is enough.
For today.