The Girl Made of Clay

by Nicole Meier

  They must be in the wrong room, TR thought. Probably someone else’s family. All the family he had was either dead or wanted nothing to do with him. Mostly.

  “Don’t know who you’re looking for, sweetheart, but it ain’t me.” It came out like a jar full of gravel. TR cleared his throat and cursed under his breath. Somewhere along the line he’d been intubated, and the damn equipment had made his insides raw. The doctor told him it had been necessary due to smoke inhalation and things would heal over time, but TR wasn’t so sure. Nothing on his body felt like his own anymore.

  The woman and the boy looked back at him with matching stunned expressions.

  “Did you hear what I said?” TR tried again. He squinted. Now that he was more awake, his vision was sharpening, as was his pain. A stirring of recognition emerged.

  The redhead stepped forward with hesitation. She adjusted a leather tote bag over one shoulder and extended a palm to block the boy from advancing.

  “No, TR,” she said. “We’re in the correct room.”

  His ears pricked. He grew uneasy. Only his friends called him by this nickname. To the rest of the world he was either Thomas, or Thomas Robert, depending on how snooty the social circle. Gallery owners used to love to employ all three names when he was exhibiting. You simply must see our collection of Thomas Robert Harlows! They’d draw it out like he was a damned member of high society or something.

  TR suited him much better. Less stuffy. Only those close to him knew this.

  TR examined her. There was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He didn’t recognize the voice, that was for sure, but still there was a ring of familiarity. It was how the eyes met up with the bridge of her nose. That lightly freckled peach-toned skin. Much like his own, actually.

  And suddenly he knew.

  He shook his head. The drugs must have been playing tricks on him. Either that, or he was about to bite the dust and this was some kind of angel. Or ghost.

  But no, the woman lingered, her torso rising with a visible inhale. “It’s me, Sara. We came because you asked us to.”

  The words permeated his skin, settling deep into his chest.

  His dry lips felt cracked, his tongue gone numb. Time stood still. TR’s heart felt as if it might seize. He widened his gaze and glanced from the woman to the boy and then back again.

  Was that really her?

  “Sara?” he whispered. “You came?”

  “Yes.” Her soft chin betrayed her otherwise stoic demeanor, quivering just the slightest. A hand shot back behind her, checking on the security of the boy.

  Sara. Maybe it was the drugs, but it was as if something suddenly warm seeped from his heart and filled his whole spirit. Here she was. His little muse who once danced with square feet in the bubbling sea foam. The impish creature who used to slip her tiny hand into his and ask to watch him work. The ten-year-old who got swooped up under the protective crook of her mother’s arm, whose life he didn’t mean to miss but somehow did. His girl.

  It was real, but what was he to say to this grown woman?

  The silence in the room was stifling.

  Everything was so maddeningly muddled. He had the faint memory of an exasperated nurse asking if there was a family member to notify, a next of kin. Apparently, Marie had hung up on them one too many times. He did offer Sara’s name in a foggy state. But he hadn’t expected her to materialize at his bedside after all these years.

  He felt the heat from her accusatory glare. If he were at home, TR would pour himself a stiff drink.

  Glancing beyond her, he gestured. “Who is we?”

  The young boy in a navy hooded sweatshirt peered up at him. A scrawny thing, really. But he had a tender face, made up of long lashes and an aura of innocence. It was the kind of face that made one want to pick up a brush and paint something.

  TR wasn’t usually much for kids. But for some inexplicable reason he had the sudden urge to reach out and run a finger across one of those unblemished cheeks. His left hand rose an inch, but the tubes reminded him he was hooked to an IV.

  The boy eked out a barely audible, “Hello,” before his eyes went back to his mother for help.

  Sara shifted. An oatmeal-colored knit tunic hung down around her frame, practically swallowing her whole. What was she hiding from under there?

  “This is, um . . .”

  TR realized she was nervous, the way she kept gripping the purse strap that was looped over her arm. Her lips pressed together again, as she appeared to be deliberating. Then she rolled her shoulders back and straightened.

  “This is Sam. My son.” She placed her arm around the boy now with a softening behind her eyes. Her voice was edged with a distinct weariness.

  “We only came because the hospital insisted. They said you were in an accident. I don’t know what’s going on, but for your sake I suggest you wake up and tell me.”

  For the first time in weeks, TR actually felt like laughing. A chuckle started at the base of his belly and rolled out deep and low. The amusement hurt his ribs, but it delighted him nonetheless.

  He wagged a finger. “You’re much more assertive than you used to be, kid.”

  A shocked expression crossed Sara’s tight features just before she jutted her chin defiantly. Her arms whipped into a tight fold.

  “I believe I’m entitled to an explanation.”

  For which part? TR wondered.

  He regarded her again. Somewhere in there was the little girl he once knew. Sara was attempting to keep a poker face, but he wasn’t buying it. This girl obviously came with an agenda.

  “First of all, why don’t you get that boy a seat?” TR needed to get control of this situation. With his free hand, he propped himself against a lump of unsatisfying hospital pillows and motioned to a faded blue armchair in the corner. He ran a dry tongue over a set of filmy teeth. “And second, be a doll and get me a glass of water, would you?”

  If it were possible to see steam come out of someone’s ears, he would have sworn that’s what was happening with Sara. He watched as her eyes narrowed into angry slits. After a beat she strode over to the chair and wordlessly yanked it out for her son. A paper cup was snatched from a nearby dispenser and filled from the bathroom sink. It was delivered to his bedside table with such succinct violence that half of its contents sloshed out over Sara’s shaky hand.

  “Satisfied, old man?” Her complexion was now a deep crimson.

  My girl grew up to be a spitfire, TR mused. He stifled a smile. Good for her.

  Taking his time, he sipped at the tepid water and tried to ignore the faint taste of corroded metal. If only his cup were filled with a splash of booze instead.

  TR needed to get out of there. But instead he was laid up, alone and helpless. The cops had informed him, in no uncertain terms, that the main structure of his home was not to be occupied. And apparently, so had Marie. It was deemed unsafe due to the fire.

  That part really riled him. What right did anyone have to keep him out of his own place? That was the real crime, TR thought. But there he was anyway. Stuck in that prison-style bed and wondering how to appeal to his estranged daughter’s sense of humanity. He’d quite literally and figuratively burned all his bridges at home and now hoped to seek shelter with his only daughter.

  Think, you idiot, he told himself. But the fog was slow to clear.

  TR had zero idea how to ask for help.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SARA

  It was all Sara could do to keep her composure. Truthfully, she’d come to find out whether TR had anything important to say to her. That, and out of a worry her father could possibly die before she had the chance to confront him. The last time she’d seen him was when she’d been sixteen years old, over a disastrous reunion in Los Angeles when she and her mother had discovered TR at an art opening.

  Now there they were in the same room together. And the first thing he does is ask for a cup of water? No hello. No claims that he missed her. Nothing.

&nbs
p; Her brain was having trouble processing the difference between the enchanting father of her youth who used to usher her into his cozy art studio, providing a sanctuary of creativity and peace from the outside world, and the crotchety blowhard before her now. But TR was clearly in some kind of delusional fantasy if he thought his long-lost daughter had driven all this way to be treated like a moronic groupie.

  Life had had its way with TR. Hard living had left a physical imprint. Deep lines ran up his forehead, connecting like the rungs of a ladder and disappearing into his whitened hairline. Prominent parentheses clung around his eyes and mouth. Sun damage had given him an almost leathery hide, indicating little consideration for self-care.

  The tissue of his face seemed to be slightly bloated as well. Sara wasn’t sure if this was perhaps due to alcohol abuse or just the effects of his accident. The nurse out front said he’d been through a lot. So perhaps there was no real way to know. Sara made a mental note to talk to the attending physician as soon as she got the chance.

  She had so many things she wanted to say. So many angry questions that had burned a hole in her for her entire adult life. And now TR was a captive audience, tethered to an IV and bound in first-aid dressing.

  “Tell me, my boy,” TR croaked in Sam’s direction. “How old are you?”

  “He’s ten,” Sara heard herself snap a little too quickly. “And I’ll be the one asking questions for now, if you don’t mind.”

  TR flinched.

  Part of Sara wished to bring her fists down onto the bedside table and demand TR explain where he’d been. Didn’t her father care to know about how she’d survived in his absence? Was he oblivious to it all? She wanted to shake him by the shoulders and make him understand the pain he’d caused her, the pain he’d caused Joanne.

  Standing there in that foul-smelling room, she steadied herself. She’d tried to locate him once upon a time but hadn’t been successful. That was before the ease of tracking someone via the internet and social media. Before she was an adult and the hole in her grieving heart had yet to close up and seal itself off from him entirely. But she realized he needed to know of the damage he had caused. How his leaving had robbed her not only of a parent, but also of the art she so loved. She had been forced to give up on her creative dreams to take care of her ill mother.

  Anguish began to bubble to the surface, ready to spill from the giant fissure in her heart—but Sara had to consider Sam.

  Her son was sitting so quietly behind her. Patient and wide eyed. Clearly waiting for some kind of explanation or a proper introduction that would allow him to know this stranger who was his maternal grandfather. All she’d told him on the drive over was that her father hadn’t “participated” much in her life, but he was now sick and asking to see them. Sam had looked confused and asked questions, but Sara’s answers had been clipped as she glossed over any real explanation.

  How could she protect Sam and deal with her own eruption of feelings? On top of this, Sara sensed that the two males in the room had further questions about one another. Until that day, neither knew the other existed. Sara had omitted so much whenever Sam had asked.

  But TR knew I existed, Sara thought. And what good did that ever do?

  She glanced at the clock on the colorless wall opposite the bed. She was suddenly tired. It had already been a long morning.

  Bringing Sam along wasn’t her first choice. God knew what they might be greeted with when they got there. But without Charlie around to take over, and Birdie and Eileen having to work, Sara saw no other option. She told herself that if the nurses warned them TR was in scary shape, she’d leave Sam in the waiting area with a book.

  But a part of her reasoning for bringing Sam along was because she wanted to show TR she was all right. Despite his leaving her behind, with a heartbroken mother and no tangible explanation, Sara turned out okay. And she had her beautiful son with her to prove it.

  She also came to see if her father was clinging to a lifetime of remorse from his deathbed.

  The old man, however, wasn’t dying. True, he was injured badly, as was evidenced by the way he winced at even the smallest of movements. But it was clear the old goat was going to carry on. And by the way TR was acting, he was likely going to carry on without showing his own flesh and blood even the smallest scrap of repentance.

  “How long have you been in here?”

  “Too damn long!” His bushy brows leaped together into a deep scowl.

  “Well, the nurses tell me you’ve been badly burned. In a house fire. Is that right? Your house?”

  “Yes.” He shrank a little deeper into the mattress, and Sara got a strange sense he was hiding something.

  She realized how much he’d aged since she’d been a little girl. His skin was sallow and his shoulders hunched. Broken capillaries flecked his nose, like mini bursts of purple explosions. Sara couldn’t decipher whether they were a result of old age or indicators of someone who had hit the bottle one too many times in his day. His once-rugged jawline was now covered by the beginnings of a beard. White, salty flecks of stubble traveled unevenly down his neck and melded into his reddened skin.

  And then there were his eyes. Gone was the bright light Sara had held in her memory. TR always had the expression of one constantly marveling at beauty. But all Sara detected in him now, as this sixty-nine-year-old man lay slack in this hospital bed, was a dim shadow of defeat.

  TR had never been considered a classically handsome man. But as publications used to describe him, he carried a kind of outdoorsy and rugged charm. His reddish hair was regularly sun-kissed blond, making him look like he belonged at the beach. He was often photographed wearing a sly, playful grin that evidently kept TR in the epicenter of women.

  But where were his admirers now? Sara wondered.

  For the first time since she’d arrived at the hospital, she noticed the absence of any flowers or cards. Where were all the well-wishers of the man who once traveled with an entourage, who entertained the rich and famous on rented yachts and in private European villas? What had become of TR’s so-called friends he’d reportedly collected in well-known circles? Had they abandoned the washed-up man now that he’d progressed toward obsolescence?

  A careful knocking came from the other side of TR’s door.

  As if on cue a young-faced doctor slipped into the room. Sara was a little surprised. She estimated this guy must be a decade her junior, with his healthy head of styled brown hair and the physique of someone who hit the gym on a regular basis. She only hoped that what he lacked in years he made up for in competent knowledge.

  “Good morning,” he announced, and offered a broad smile.

  Sara did her best to quickly wipe the concern from her face. She smiled back. The doctor made eye contact with each of them and swiftly pulled out a clipboard before scanning it.

  “I’m Dr. Burke. And you must be?”

  Sara hesitated, wondering what was written on that clipboard. “I’m Sara.”

  “My daughter,” TR interjected, a little too loudly.

  “Wonderful,” Dr. Burke said. He faced Sara. “Are you the family member who’ll be in charge of home care once our patient is released?”

  Home care?

  The air in her lungs emptied. Sara felt as if her stomach had dipped down into her knees.

  “I’m sorry. What exactly do you mean?”

  Dr. Burke cleared his throat. He must have had plenty of experience dealing with shocked family members, because he calmed his tone. “I’m hoping you’re here, Sara, to look after your father. While his injuries were quite serious, consisting of second- and third-degree burns, he’s progressed very nicely. Especially for someone his age. The skin graft surgery went well, and his wounds are beginning to heal. We’d like to see him return to the comfort of his home, but this can only occur if someone is around to care for him.”

  “But I’m not—”

  Dr. Burke’s brow knit into a frown. “Is there a problem?”

  Was t
he room suddenly ten degrees hotter? Sara could feel a slick sheen of perspiration developing at the base of her back. She twisted her face into an uncertain question and shot an angry look at TR.

  “What my daughter means to say, Doc, is that my house has been pretty charred up from the fire. I’m not allowed to go back there yet. The cops say it’s a no-no.”

  The doctor’s face relaxed a little. “Well, then, if that’s the case, then perhaps he can return home with you, Sara. You live in the area?”

  “Well, sort of. I, um . . .” What could she say? I live in a nice house about an hour and a half away, but I have no interest in taking in my father because my resentment is more significant than his health?

  Everyone in the room stared.

  “No,” she blurted. This wasn’t going to happen. She had no intention of taking care of TR. “My dad seems to be getting such great care here. I think it’s best if the hospital looks after him until he’s able to get back on his feet. You know, in case of any, uh, complications?”

  Dr. Burke’s frown returned. “We planned on keeping him for a day or two more, that’s true. But considering your father is lacking any kind of health care insurance, we thought it might be best—”

  “You don’t have any medical insurance?” She was incredulous. Here TR was, a world-renowned artist who’d once been photographed with the president, and he couldn’t even bother to muster up a bit of lousy insurance?

  TR refused to meet Sara’s glare. He shrugged. “Don’t believe in it.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Good God, TR.”

  Dr. Burke continued. “So you see—”

  “No, no. There must be another way. I’m not the right person for this.” The very idea of TR coming home with her was absurd. “Wait!” She snapped her head up. “He may not have insurance, but he’s got money. I mean, do you know who this is? This is Thomas Robert Harlow. The artist? His work has been exhibited in the Met, for Christ’s sake!” It was uncouth. She recognized this. But the situation seemed to call for it. Her father was rich.