taught me about sex—I remember not the official talk, but this one night when Afton and I were sitting at the kitchen counter doing our homework. It sticks out in my mind, because Mom was cooking dinner.
This was rare—a special thing; Mom didn’t cook—that had always been Pop’s department. She didn’t have time, obviously. She was too busy being a whirlwind and saving lives. But this was a special occasion. Their anniversary. And Mom was making ratatouille, something she’d made for Pop when they were first dating, to impress him.
She was predictably good with a knife. I kept stopping at my algebra to watch her slice the zucchini, squash, eggplant, sweet peppers, and tomatoes so neatly, her hands careful and precise as she arranged each perfectly uniform piece in the dish.
Pop came into the room. His shirt was wet—he’d just given baby Abby a bath. He took parental leave those first two years after Abby was born. He stayed home with us. It was the best, those two years of pretty much uninterrupted Pop.
“I put her on the living room floor for some tummy time,” he said. “Mmm. That already smells good.”
He crossed behind Mom and put his arms around her waist. She kept arranging the vegetables, but she leaned back into him.
He lifted her hair and kissed the nape of her neck. “You smell good,” he said. “I want to eat you up.”
Mom blushed. “Oh you, be good,” she said, but you could tell she didn’t really mean it. She finished with the veggies and pushed the dish away, then rotated and put her arms around Pop’s neck, smiling. “Although I kind of like it when you’re bad.”
Pop’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you, now?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Afton and I exchanged glances. I could tell Afton wanted to say something sarcastic, like Hello, excuse me! You’re traumatizing your daughters, but she also didn’t want to interrupt. We knew they were talking about sex. But it felt like that’s what they should be talking about on their anniversary. They still liked each other. Afton and I both knew that this was something of a miracle—married people, liking each other.
It felt healthy. It felt like a role-model situation. What they had: that’s what we wanted to have, eventually. That intimacy.
We didn’t take it for granted.
But that was a long time ago, I guess.
28
I wake up from a nap with the urge to make art. It shames me that I didn’t think of it before. What’s the one thing I came to Hawaii to do, besides forget Leo, and besides paddleboarding?
I came to paint.
The sketchbook is lying next to my head on the pillow, flipped to a sketch I did of Abby a few months ago. Puppy-Dog Eyes, I called it, that look she assembles on her face whenever she wants something and is determined to get it by pure cuteness alone.
I grab the sketchbook. Then I go over to my bag and take out the brand-new travel set of watercolors. Then I put together a makeshift art station outside on the balcony with the sketchbook and some loose-leaf heavier paper I brought for just this purpose, some paper towels, and a few of the clear plastic cups I found next to the ice bucket.
I sit on one of the deck chairs, rearrange my supplies one final time, and lift my arms over my head to stretch.
It feels strange, that I haven’t done this for an entire week, not since I drew the Not Ready sketch of Leo Friday night.
I avoid looking at that one, or any of my other sketches. I want to start blank. Fresh. New. Not weighed down by any past attempts.
I begin with the landscape before me, the sky and sea first, in the background, what I will later layer in shades of blue and aqua and pale clouds.
Then the shapes of the palm trees, always at an angle, blowing.
Then the foreground. The statue of Buddha, the round circles of his body and head.
Then, because I can’t seem to help myself, I add a figure. Then two figures. Too distant to identify. Who are they?
Afton and Michael?
Mom and the mystery dark-haired man?
I stare at the drawing. I’m a little bit out of control, but I can’t tell if this is helping or hurting me. I mean, I know it’s hurting. But is it also helping?
Art can convey everything. I can pour myself in with the paint. I can bleed stuff out through the strokes of my pencil, my pens, my brush.
But at the