the end of March, the mud was drying. Besides, some of our most treasured members were snowbirds. This gave them more time to return, which they always did. Town Meeting was a reaffirmation of who we were. It was about self-identity.
Self-identity was a huge issue for me right now. In the life I’d built here, I was a makeup artist, a sculptor, and a friend. But that life had been hacked, broken into by two men I hadn’t invited. Suddenly, I was a sister and a whatever-it-was to Edward. I didn’t know how these roles fit into my life here, all the more so after Monday’s lunch.
My emotions were the problem. I wanted to deny them; denial was my thing. When someone hacked into your life, you shut them out. So yes, I could tell Liam he had two days to find a place to live. But I couldn’t shake the sense of family, that I thought I had shut out, but apparently missed, because I did like seeing him in my home. And Edward? I could demand he steer clear—could tell him that he stirred up memories too painful to bear. But seeing him brought good memories, too.
Besides, I could say whatever I wanted, but would my dreams listen? No!
Once upon a time, I had been a good sleeper. Then I became a mother and started listening for every peep from the baby monitor and, when the monitor was retired, from the room down the hall. After Lily died, I kept listening, hearing sounds that my therapist likened to the imagined pain of a severed limb. So I slept in short spurts, which meant that when I dreamed, those dreams were fresh enough to linger when I woke.
They were coming in droves again, and they were killers. Lily was in some, Edward in others. At times, I woke up struggling to breathe, when my only remedy was hugging whatever ball of fur lay closest to me. At one point Monday night, I even sat on the floor by my bed, pulling air into my lungs with my ear pressed to Jonah’s sweet heart, and, fooling neither of us, studying the green velvet box under the bed. I didn’t pull it out. I knew what was inside. Pandora’s box? No. It held no evil, just all-too-real pieces of the past.
Yes, Town Meeting would remind me of who I was now.
But so would clay. I arrived at the pottery studio Tuesday morning in the mood to make another teapot. My teapots always flew off the shelves, which made them a win-win for me—loved making them, loved sharing them. Unfortunately, thanks to Liam’s breakfasts, I wasn’t thinking of raisin croissants, pecan buns, or anything else from The Buttered Scone. With my brother never far from my laptop and nosy as ever, I had no chance to check my mother’s Facebook feed, which meant that Mom-as-muse was on hold.
That left a vacuum, which forced me to open my mind. Let go, enjoy life and celebrate, CALM told me, and, in theory, that captured the beauty of clay for me. Like clouds shifting in the sky, a mass being pushed around on my work bench could take on the shape of any little thing.
This day I did consciously let go, freeing my fingers to wander in, over, and around. I was once removed from it, watching with fascination as my hands formed a head and my fingers shaped its brow, eye sockets, and cheeks, before picking up tools to define a round eye, a slender nose, and long, wavy hair. The piece was small, barely four inches from crown to chin, but vivid.
“She’s a looker,” Kevin praised as he hunkered by my stool. “Lily?”
His voice, soft though it was, brought reality back. “Oh, no. No, no.” I studied what I’d made, only then identifying the model. “Maddie. She’s twelve. And she is beautiful.” No matter that I had sculpted only one side of her face. The other side didn’t matter. This was how I saw her.
“You haven’t done a person before. You should do it more.”
“Maybe,” I said but let that go, too.
* * *
It was harder to let go as I drove to the Inn, harder not to think of Edward and wonder whether he would come by or call. What I needed was a day of nonstop work, but bookings were sparse. I was therefore relieved when Joe Hellinger called and, grateful for direction, I drove straightaway to his office to consult