Page 81 of Inked in Bloom
Who took care of Jessica? She was relatively old for a bunny—for all I know, she could be dead by now. Where did my paintings go? The cabinet of painted cups, bowls, and plates Charlotte and I had compiled during college? My attention flits to the bedroom, and my cheeks heat. Someone had to open my nightstand andclear out my…personal items. It’s mortifying. Some things were meant to disappear with you in death.
Despite all that, I can’t bring myself to move on yet. I sit at the empty kitchen table and wait, some distant part of me curious about what life has replaced my late-night reality TV binging and impromptu painting sessions. At some point, my eyes flutter until they force their way shut…
The door clicks and I jolt, as if caught. When the two strangers enter my apartment, I almost expect them to freeze like me, but they don’t.
Being inside, just me and this couple, it’s a sort of intimacy I didn’t expect. I could leave—they wouldn’t know I was ever here, but instead, I stay.
Iwatch.
They’re both sweaty, no doubt from their commute home, and disappear into the bedroom, coming out a moment later in low-slung athletic shorts. One man goes to the fridge, pulling out various vegetables, butter, and chicken from the fully stocked shelves. So unlike the barren ones I was used to, living on take out. I stare at the glasses of water on the counter, licking my dry lips.
As the man chops up peppers, his partner scrolls through his phone, loving on a handful of social media videos. As he sets it down, the lock screen reads Friday, May 29 5:23 p.m.
The two laugh and chat and kiss, preparing their dinner without a clue I’m there, an invisible witness of their joy.
My chest pinches, pain twisting between my ribs.
Has Briar figured out I’m not back?
I wait a few moments for any emotions to sift through my body—a sensation I’ve slowly become more used to—but there’s nothing other than the hollowache stretching across my rib cage, taking up all the air, all the space, until I’m scrambling for the hallway.
I can’t stay here. They could realize I’m not beyond the veil at any moment.
Hopping on my floracycle, I zoom to the community center to check in on my group members. Despite the slight discomfort swirling in my chest, I sigh in relief when the Painting Hope sign is posted outside the entrance. The gymnasium is already set up with tables lined with silicone mats and jars of clay. There’s so much comfort listening to everyone checking in with one another, asking questions I remember asking them myself. Those aren’t the only familiar faces in the room, though. When Stasia Kelpher comes out in her smock, I can’t help but smile. She and I graduated from the same Art Therapy program. I haven’t seen her in years, though I’d heard she was working with wounded service members at Walter Reed.
She begins by walking everyone through the various pottery techniques: pinching, coiling, pressing into slabs, creating textures with scoring tools and fettling knives. When was the last time I worked with the medium? I glance over at a pile of clay and give in to the urge to touch it, but my hand passes right through. I clench it into a trembling fist.
Clasping my hands behind my back, I focus on everyone working on their pots. I follow Stasia, listening to her talk to the students as they mold their clay. She’s a natural with them, and they all seem at ease with her. It means so much to see the group carried on, its legacy’s not a testament to me, but Charlotte.
Out of the corner of my eye, Stasia escorts another student over to an empty spot beside the only former group member I haven’t seen yet.
“Hi, I’m Phoebe,” she whispers to the new student who’s adjusting the neckline of her smock. “What’s your name?”
She tugs an elastic off her wrist and wrangles her curls into a wild ponytail. “Lark.”
“Welcome to the group.” Phoebe smiles, glancing between Lark and the coils she’s rolling with her clay.
“Thanks.”
I swallow down any anxiety over my quivering hand and trail past Stasia who stops and helps someone with their project. The sunlight pouring in from the windows settles some of the stiffness in my joints. It’s been a long spring, but being here—somewhere I found comfort, especially after Charlotte’s death—makes the never-ending work worth it. A little exhaustion and shaking are a small price to pay.
It’s cruel they don’t allow you back home. If they were all mortals once, they’d understand the pull to be with the people you knew. Cared about. Loved.
I never wasin love, but I loved Charlotte. I loved honoring her memory, and I loved helping people. Seeing their growth, witnessing them flourish—that gave me purpose. I was enamored by the process of providing them with tools and exploring how they could use them to take the broken pieces and fuse themselves back together.
“That’s beautiful,” Lark says to Phoebe.
“Thanks. I love yours.” She gestures to the silhouette leaping around the rim of the pot. “Do you dance?”
“I did for a long time. Now I teach.” Lark picks up the scoring tool and drags it along the clay, creating a textured tutu. Rolling a small ball of clay between her fingers, she gives her ballerina a bun, then watches Phoebe attach a flower to the side of her pot, curling the petals so they reach out from the clay base. “Do you mind if I ask how long you’ve been cominghere?”
“Almost two years,” Phoebe says. She picks out some clay from beneath her fingernails. “I started coming after my parents passed.”
It’s silent for a beat before Lark speaks again. “My wife passed away about a month ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.”
