The Girl Made of Clay

by Nicole Meier

  His daughter’s eyes shifted to the floor. Her cheeks flushed pink.

  TR was beginning to understand that maybe Sara hadn’t even told her family about him. To this group of people, he was just a stranger. Well, he supposed this was only fair. Hurtful, but fair. He had led the life of a stranger.

  “Right,” TR announced in a delayed response. “Well, here I am!”

  Sara nodded and handed him his coffee. Her sigh landed at his feet like an anvil.

  “Here you are.”

  TR pretended he wasn’t sure if she was referring to him or the drink. Then his heart skipped a beat when he saw she’d handed him some kind of dark roast. A deep, nutty aroma wafted up and tickled his nose. Sara had been holding out on him after all. Maybe in all the chaos of the morning she’d forgotten to punish him with whatever weak doughnut store crap she’d provided on earlier days. Or maybe he was getting on her good side.

  As he took his first inhale of real caffeine, he studied Charlie as he edged toward the door. A lean fellow, really. Kind of willowy like their son—who must have been at school, for he was nowhere around. Same brown eyes too. Seemed polite enough once the yelling had stopped, TR guessed. But slippery. Like a fish that didn’t want to be caught. The indecent exposure thing probably didn’t help, but this guy clearly wanted to be elsewhere.

  TR cast a sidelong glance to check whether his daughter noticed the same thing. The violent way she was scrubbing the counter with a soapy sponge told him she most definitely did.

  “Well, I’m actually just off to work. Maybe we can catch up next time,” Charlie said, snatching up a travel case and backing out of the room.

  Sara’s entire demeanor deflated. TR wondered if their quarrel had anything to do with the fact that this character was never home.

  Easing out a nearby bar stool, TR positioned it just so in order to climb up without inducing too much discomfort. He perched his elbows on the breakfast counter and clasped the coffee cup. Feeling more alert for the first time in days, he observed the details of his surroundings.

  The place was cozy. He had to admit. Bright daylight entered through a sizable bay window, casting a cheery glow on shelves that were stacked with blue and white dishes and glass mason jars filled with snacks and cookies. A comical little handmade bowl balanced near the porcelain sink. Heavy red glazing was glopped around its lopsided exterior.

  He smirked. Something the kid must have made in school.

  TR mused at this grown-up daughter of his. She certainly was the hostile type. But seeing her at home, he discovered she was also the kind of person who went to the trouble of displaying her son’s handmade knickknack, no matter how terrible it was. She was clearly proud of the boy. And, from the little he’d witnessed, she appeared to be a devoted mother.

  He liked that. But his smile was quickly replaced by a low feeling. He hadn’t stuck around long enough to collect Sara’s childhood knickknacks, and this realization troubled him. He’d left and not returned. And now his kid was an adult. TR was suddenly and acutely aware of the need to make up for lost time. To perhaps see if he could reverse some of the damage that might have been done. How on earth he was going to accomplish such a thing was beyond him, but he was willing to try.

  “Well, girl.” He set down his cup and strummed his fingers on the polished surface in front of him. “I guess it’s just you and me now.”

  “Right.” Sara turned to face him and offered a sad smile. “Just you and me.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  SARA

  Always be careful what you wish for. Sara considered this statement as she stood in the kitchen, opposite TR.

  Today her wish came true. Not only had TR risen with things to say, but also he’d come barreling into the kitchen on red alert.

  The day had not started well.

  For one thing, there was the awful fight with Charlie. Sara had knots in her stomach just thinking about it. But he’d left her little choice. After learning her husband had come home for a night’s sleep in his own bed only to rush back out for a double shift, she’d exploded. Charlie of course had snapped into full defense, claiming she didn’t support his work and making a point to hurl a mountain of guilt in her direction whenever he did return. Having her father there didn’t help. Charlie had accused her of being overly emotional from the stress of having to take care of TR. What did he know about the stress she was under? Her husband wasn’t ever home long enough to appreciate how hard she was trying to keep it all together. How many times was Sara left with the view of Charlie’s back as he put distance between them? And there he went again; practically sprinting for the exit once TR emerged.

  TR. She snorted. Her father’s timing couldn’t have been worse.

  She hadn’t even had the chance to finish making her point to Charlie before hurricane TR struck. The old man had shown up with his bloodshot eyes full of innocence as his bathrobe hung wide open for the entire world to see. Un-freaking-believable.

  No wonder Charlie ran.

  Sara rubbed her temples and looked on as her oblivious father relaxed in her kitchen. He made little smacking sounds as he slurped greedily at her good coffee. Was he actually moaning?

  Where had she put the aspirin?

  It was bad enough she had to set everything aside to tend to her impetuous father. But Sara had the needs of Sam to consider too. Luckily, he’d taken the bus to school earlier that morning. But he would be home soon, and Sara was going to have to run interference.

  She was exhausted just thinking about it.

  Sara ran cool water from the faucet over her hands. “You know,” she announced to TR over the running water, “Charlie’s got a lot of demands at work. Being a pilot, it’s a busy life. It’s just how things are right now. He’ll be back soon.”

  “I suspect so.”

  Sara looked away. It was no business of her father’s that her marriage was splintering.

  “It was all planned, you know. Him leaving today? Just part of the job.” She wondered if TR was buying her bullshit. He only nodded once, so it was difficult to tell.

  Swatting off the faucet, she twisted a dishtowel through her wet hands. The shakiness was faint but still there.

  True, she was aware of the latest cause of her husband’s annoyance. Sara hadn’t shared much with her husband about TR in the past. She had given him the brief version: that after becoming famous for his sculpture work, he had summarily ditched Joanne and Sara for greener pastures. Charlie had asked a few times to know more; in the beginning he lightly suggested Sara try to find him and let her father know how she felt. But Sara always brushed him off. It was mostly too painful to revisit the sins of her father. Eventually, TR’s name vanished from their discussions altogether, sending the subject of her father into deep hibernation.

  The parent Charlie knew most about was Joanne. And for much of the time, that had felt like more than enough. Yet there was Sara’s father, suddenly taking up residence in their guest room and making an appearance in Charlie’s favorite robe without warning. That was unfortunate.

  Couldn’t Charlie see Sara was upset too? Where had he been? When she’d asked, he’d been dodgy with the details.

  She wasn’t buying “the airline needs me” bit anymore. He was a grown man with seniority and a good reputation within the company. Because of this, Charlie had always been able to dictate his schedule. So what had suddenly changed? Didn’t he want to be around her anymore? Certainly, he couldn’t believe the company was more important than his family. Sam needed a father, and she needed a partner.

  Sara refused to acknowledge the pinprick of fear over the idea he might have found someone else, someone better, with whom to take up company. She refused to be abandoned.

  She’d been driving home this very point when TR had intruded. We’re supposed to be a team, Charlie. You can’t just return home for one night and then take off again so soon. Sara had wagged a finger and reminded him she had never signed up to be a single parent.

&
nbsp; Her husband’s blood had been boiling, that much was clear. But she’d never know what he was thinking because, once TR had inserted himself into the picture, Charlie had taken off like a shot.

  Sara surveyed the room and sighed.

  Dishes were piled up on the counter, the refrigerator was near empty, and the dog required a walk. There were only a few hours until Sam would be returning on the school bus, and by the way TR was throwing back Vicodin, she would need to make a run to the pharmacy. And she could forget her duties to the PTA this week. There just weren’t enough hours in the day.

  After watching TR drain two cups of coffee, Sara decided he was caffeinated enough for a little light probing. There was a lot to discuss with her father, an unending list of topics, but she knew she wasn’t emotionally ready to touch any of them yet. These were heavy subjects that might cause her to unravel. She needed to prepare for that. What she was willing to dive into, however, was the fire.

  Edging around to his side of the counter, Sara kicked her legs lazily over a stool. She did her best impression of a relaxed vibe. It was essential to act casual if she were to catch him off guard. Maybe that way he’d share a bit more information.

  “So”—she twisted a lock of hair—“I noticed the lilies in your room are beginning to lose their petals. They were so nice. Who did you say sent those to you?” She recalled TR’s defensive retort when she’d first raised an eyebrow back at the coast.

  “Flowers?” The upbeat demeanor her father had a minute ago now appeared to wilt slightly. He looked away and feigned ignorance, pretending to inspect something at the bottom of his cup.

  Doing her best to mask new irritation, she tried again. “You know, the arrangement you got in the hospital? The giant vase we brought home with us? The one that spilled water all over my back seat?”

  TR pressed his index finger to his cheek. Peachy sunspots mottled the skin. A puffy, crescent-shaped scar ran over his knuckle. Sara wondered what had caused it. A flash of grief moved through her. Her father’s hands, which were once so familiar, were now a curious roadmap of the many years she’d been denied.

  TR moved his jaw around in contemplation and finally answered.

  “Ah yes. Those flowers. Lovely display.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Really, was her father prone to dementia or just faking it?

  A hand shooed the air between them. “We can toss them if they’re dying. Nothing lasts forever.”

  Sara frowned. “That’s not what I was asking.”

  “Oh?”

  Oh, for goodness’ sake. “TR, who sent you the flowers?”

  “I thought I told you they were from my manager, Edward. Wonderful fellow.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Edward who?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  Because I get the strange feeling you’re not telling me a whole lot. She sucked air through her teeth and faked a smile. “Because I thought you might want to use my phone and tell him where you are, that’s all. If he went to the trouble of sending you that bouquet and big batch of balloons”—which had met their demise in the hot car—“then he’s probably worried about you. Maybe you should touch base.”

  Her father squirmed in his seat, readjusting the sash of his robe. Sara twisted up her mouth. You aren’t fooling anyone, she thought. Not thirty minutes ago he’d carelessly flashed the whole house. Suddenly he was concerned with modesty?

  “Ah yes. I think I will call him. But later. I believe he’s traveling at the present. Busy guy.”

  “What about other people in your life who might be concerned? A girlfriend perhaps?” Sara knew enough about her father from past headlines to know he liked to keep the constant company of women.

  “Mmm,” he responded. “I don’t think any girlfriends are worried about me at the moment.” His eyes drifted to the ceiling, studying something invisible.

  “Well, maybe we should check on the status of your house. The police paid you a visit in the hospital; from what I understand, they reported a lot of damage. We should call them—and maybe call a restoration company to go check things out.”

  To her surprise, TR landed a fist on the counter with a sudden thump. “No!”

  An uneasy flutter materialized in Sara’s chest, yet something deeper in her core forced her to speak anyway. “No? Don’t you want to know when your house will be habitable again? Aren’t you worried about your things?”

  Gathering himself up, he tightened his robe. Sara watched the wave of emotion recede behind his eyes. “Yes, I’d like to know about my things. There are a lot of works in progress waiting for me to return. But with my pain level, I’m just not ready to travel to the coast. I need more time. You know, to heal. At the moment I’m not feeling too well. I need to rest.”

  Sara frowned. For someone so prideful, it seemed odd he was admitting he was too fragile to be productive.

  “Okay. You just let me know if I can help.”

  Before the words had left her tongue, TR gave up his post and drifted in the direction of his room. He jutted a thumb into the air. “Righty-o!”

  He shut the door on Sara and any chance for discussion.

  Well, that went nowhere.

  Sara slouched and stared blankly at the wall. The two of them had been circling one another for days, avoiding genuine conversation. At first she believed this was because her father’s system was chock-full of heavy narcotics. But now she wasn’t so sure. Was TR purposely acting dopey just to avoid her questions? Did he have something to hide beyond the transgressions of his past?

  Sara went over to the laptop resting on her desk. Up until now, she’d stayed away from all things TR on the internet. But perhaps it was time to do a little digging.

  Where to start? She tapped the desk and debated. The mystery of her father’s life went so far back.

  There had been a time for Sara when TR had been accessible. Her memories of this period were securely locked away, and it often hurt to retrieve them. But they existed. When she was around seven or eight years old, Sara was one of the few people allowed into TR’s inner sanctum. Even at a young age, she realized this was a unique privilege.

  Many of her childhood days were whiled away on a rustic wooden bench in the corner of TR’s messy studio. This was Sara’s favorite place to quietly examine her father’s work. She’d forever remember the cool, earthy smell of the clay slabs and the surety of them against the flesh of her tiny palms. She could still picture her fingerprints creating faint impressions around the edges of the mud, recording her very existence. She used to love the pleasing way her father sank a sharp cutting wire into the doughy mass, choosing a section with care. Sara would always be gifted a small slice, which usually resulted in a painstakingly molded dog or horse.

  Her creations were scrutinized with her father’s detailed eye, their attributes commented on and then praised. It was in that studio that she first blossomed. The clay work itself was an instant love for Sara. Her father seemed to acknowledge this passion, and he encouraged it, celebrating her pieces as if she were a peer and not some silly child squandering away the hours in her father’s office.

  This recognition from her father, in and of itself, had filled her up enough to replace everything else that was missing in her life. It didn’t matter that there weren’t any other siblings or that her mother was preoccupied with her own self-inflicted melancholy. Back then, the art had been everything.

  Hours would fly by as Sara also studied her father’s craftsmanship. She admired the way his rough hands formed obscure shapes in his work, the way the tendons in his forearms flexed and bowed. Her hand would quietly skim the tray of intricate carving tools that seemed to call to her like rare and precious objects yearning to be touched. When left alone, she’d let her fingertips graze the rolls of wire mesh used to support malleable clay forms. Everything had a purpose, and she wanted to understand what.

  Watching her father sculpt was like witnessing a magician produce something out of thin air.
TR was the enchanted wizard, and Sara was his little fairy muse. At least, that was the story she used to tell herself.

  But those days had long ago vanished.

  Dismissing these memories to the far corners of her mind, Sara pushed open her laptop. The screen illuminated, and instantly unopened emails and calendar updates filled the screen, each digital notification a red flare that had been shot up, signaling for help.

  Casting her guilt aside, she cleared them to the bottom of her screen. She’d come back to her duties soon. At the moment, there were more pressing matters to address.

  “Okay, TR,” she whispered toward the computer. “Let’s see if we can uncover a few things.”

  Her fingers moved in nimble strokes across the keyboard. Pausing after a few clicks, she checked over her shoulder. All was still. She relaxed a little. TR must have been napping. That was good. It was best to be cautious when googling someone in the next room. But then again, Sara thought, this was TR’s doing. If he’d just been upfront with her in the first place, she wouldn’t have to resort to online snooping.

  The first few items she came across were ones she’d seen many times before. A smattering of old images and articles, mainly from arts and entertainment publications, featured TR in his glory days. Looking young and virile, he posed in eclectic galleries and discussed his works at museums. There was even a Wikipedia page dedicated to him.

  Sara clicked the link and scanned the biography.

  Thomas Harlow Young (born June 7, 1949, in Los Angeles, California) is an internationally acclaimed sculptor, painter, and installation artist renowned for large-scale sculptures that emphasize the human figure. Harlow’s most recognizable work, Girl Rising, is a clay-to-bronze statue, created in the image of his daughter, Sara, depicting a child playing at the rising surf . . .

  Sara snapped the computer shut. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she tried to rid the statue’s gleaming, metallic image from her brain. A bitter taste coated her mouth.