The Girl Made of Clay

by Nicole Meier

  “TR! What the hell?” Here she’d been pulling her hair out day after day over some big mystery when TR had casually known the truth all along. He couldn’t do his daughter the courtesy of informing her?

  He colored. “I’ve liked being here with you and Sam. I wasn’t ready to move on quite yet. I missed out on so many years with you, Sara. It’s been like making up for lost time.”

  Her anger dissipated, and warmth spread into Sara’s chest. She’d waited so long to hear her father say this. “We’ve liked having you here too.” It was all she could get out for the time being. Any more sentiment beyond that would cause the choked-up feeling she’d been fighting all evening to resurface.

  “Thank you.” TR seemed sensitive to this and continued with his explanation. “The long and the short of it is that the cops think I got drunk and drifted off to sleep with a lit cigarette.” He paused to roll his eyes at the audacity. But Sara could tell he accepted the blame.

  “And the fire started just like that?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I’m slipping in my old age. A danger to myself in my own house. I got careless. I hate to admit it. It’s shameful. How could I have been so idiotic? I’ve agonized over facing Bo and Marie.”

  Sara empathized. She knew how stubborn he was, and admitting he was wrong must have been excruciating. “And now? How do you feel now? Do you feel ready to face your family? To return and make amends?”

  “I do feel better now that I’ve talked it over with you. If you hadn’t gone out there and met Bo on your own—and pushed me to own up to my own mistakes—who knows where I’d be?”

  Sara nodded, appreciating his gratitude. “And what about Marie?”

  “I reckon she and I have some talking to do.”

  Just like Charlie and me, Sara thought. She tapped her lips, choosing her words carefully. “So I’m considering going back out there again. To the coast. Thought I’d take Sam. He could see where you work and get a close-up look at the house. He’s asked a lot of questions; a visit might answer some of them. Plus, it might be nice for him to meet his uncle Bo. What do you think? Maybe the three of us could go together?” Her breath caught. It was awfully presumptuous; she knew that. But it also felt like it was time to bridge TR’s two worlds together.

  “Oh yeah?” TR asked, perking slightly. “Going back to spend time with your brother?”

  “Yes. I’d like that. And I was wondering how you’d feel about me spending time in your studio. I kind of like it in there.” She squeezed her fingers together in her lap. It was important to have his blessing.

  A spiderweb of leathery lines spread at the corners of TR’s eyes. The brightness of a smile flashed. “That sounds nice, kid. I’d like that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  SARA

  They’d driven up the next morning, the three of them together in a contemplative mood. Outside a light drizzle fell, the scenery pale and overcast. Mossy green pines bordered the road, winding them through the forest and eventually delivering them to the sea.

  After hashing out the particulars with TR—who’d been hesitant but willing to go as long as Sara was to remain on standby if things went south—she’d notified Sam. Her son had been given the choice of whether he wanted to miss his soccer game for a chance to see his grandpa’s place. It was up to him. There was no pressure either way. Sara was sure the details of TR’s increasingly messy life would be a lot for Sam to understand. But surprisingly, he agreed enthusiastically.

  Making the phone call after breakfast, she’d dialed Charlie’s number on the pretense of a change of plans. But when he answered, she’d launched into questions about whether he was coming home.

  “I’m not ready to talk yet, Sara,” he’d responded, his tone both flat and impatient.

  “But we need to talk. This isn’t the way things are supposed to go.”

  “And how is it they’re supposed to go?” he asked. “You, me, Sam, and your disruptive father are all supposed to hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

  “No, I—” She swallowed before pressing on. “I love you, and I want to work on things between us, but my roots are important, too, and I need you to understand, to meet me halfway, to be there for me and Sam.”

  “I understand what you’re saying. And I don’t want to fight right now. But I need some time. That’s all.”

  “Fine. Well, I’m taking Sam to the coast for the day. Maybe we can talk when I get back?”

  She thought she heard Charlie start to ask a question, but he only responded with a “maybe” and then claimed he needed to go. Sara was left holding the phone, wondering whether she should have said more.

  Before leaving her neighborhood, Sara had also tapped out a text to Bo, informing him they were on their way. She and Bo had swapped phone numbers during her last visit. Sara thought it was only fair she gave him warning that she’d be returning so soon, with TR in tow. She supposed Marie was back, and Sara didn’t want either one of them to be taken by surprise this time around.

  When her car pulled onto the gravel drive, she placed a hand on TR’s arm and told him to keep steady. She knew he was apprehensive about confronting his girlfriend and his son, both of whom he’d parted from on bad terms. But TR squared his jaw and stepped out of the car with his head held high. Whatever weakness lingered just beneath the surface, her father wasn’t willing to reveal it.

  She coached him as they walked toward the guesthouse. “Try to be open, TR. You don’t have to like everything you hear today, but you need to at least listen. And remember, apologies go far. Look at us.” She nudged him, knowing by his look that he understood the sentiment. His apology to her had brought them there.

  TR nodded and reluctantly moved out from her, toward his waiting family.

  Sam, who was following behind, scurried to catch up now that TR had marched off. “This place is pretty big,” he said, swiveling around to take in the setting. His eyes traveled across the trampled landscaping, the burned house, and the path that led to the two outer buildings. She wondered what he was thinking.

  She’d briefed him earlier that morning, the best she could. Without going into too much detail, she’d shared that TR had more family than just them. He had a girlfriend and a grown son who lived at the coast. Sara confessed she’d only just met them and TR needed to smooth over an argument with these people. But they were TR’s family, so it was important they drive him back home to try.

  Sam had taken this new information in without expressing judgment, the way only young children can. If only adults could be so willing, Sara had thought.

  “Yes,” she replied to her observant son now. “Your grandpa’s place is big. The main house isn’t safe to walk around inside, though. Too much fire damage. But we can go everywhere else. Want to see more?”

  Sam pumped his head, picking up his stride. Together they wound around the side to the art studio. Pushing the door aside, she inhaled the familiar smell and waited for Sam’s reaction. He didn’t say anything, but Sara noticed his lips part, perhaps a little awestruck by the sight of TR’s workspace. Gently, she ushered Sam inside and got busy flipping on lights and turning the knob on a tiny space heater. Sam planted himself in the center of the room and stared.

  “Pretty cool, huh?” she asked, coming over to the wedging table to set down her purse and laptop computer. Dried fragments of clay the size of breadcrumbs were scattered across the surface. She must not have cleaned up very well during her last visit.

  “I’ll get you some clay,” she offered. Sam perked. “While I’m doing that, why don’t you help yourself to some of those special sculpting tools hanging over there? I bet you can figure out what to do with them.”

  “Okay!” Eagerly, Sam scooted across the studio and began perusing the collection of instruments. Sara pretended not to notice as he thoughtfully examined the assortment, running his index finger over various shapes and sizes before plucking one from its hook. Sara concealed a smile as she spotted a double-sided wire tool cl
utched in his hand. It was one she recognized, used for turning and fluting clay. By the looks of its well-worn wooden handle, it was also one of TR’s favorites.

  Sam returned and cast curious glances as Sara went about setting up a makeshift work area for him. He settled in quickly, fingering a newly cut slab of clay and testing out different tools on its malleable surface. Sara stood back and watched for a few moments as he went to work, shaping what appeared to be a tiny creature with fur.

  Who needed video games, Sara wondered, when a kid had an entire art studio to explore?

  Turning her attention back to the wedging table, she began her own setup. This time she’d come prepared with a hard drive full of downloaded instructional videos and a journal containing notes from home. She’d stayed up half the night doing research after TR had given her permission to try the wheel. He’d kind of gushed encouragement at her, actually. When he was done sharing what he knew about the accident, Sara admitted she’d nosed around in his studio and helped herself to his things. To her happy surprise, TR said he was glad to hear it. Sara supposed her father had hoped for this all along for his children. And while Bo wasn’t too keen on being a clay artist, Sara couldn’t wait to dive back in.

  Sixty frustrating minutes later, the dazzling fantasy she’d concocted in her head wasn’t exactly turning into a golden reality.

  Sara braced her knees around the sides of the pottery wheel and huffed. Long drips of pasty water ran down her forearms and puddled into the wells of her elbows. Gray splatters decorated the canvas apron secured at her waist. The only thing keeping her energy up was sheer determination and the cold trickle of salty air that entered through the crack in the front door.

  She’d made four or five attempts now to get it right, but no dice. Her lower back ached, and the unused muscles along her bare arms throbbed. Still, she pressed on. The wet, lopsided lump of clay sitting before her resembled nothing more than maddening failed tries. The video she’d uploaded earlier had made it look so simple. Just jam your thumb into the middle and spin. Yet Sara still couldn’t figure out how to center the monstrous thing. Throwing on the pottery wheel was proving much more difficult than she’d thought.

  But it felt astonishingly good, despite her lack of skill.

  Sitting cross-legged on a nearby bench, Sam observed and giggled. He pushed the now-dirty sleeves of his fleece sweatshirt off his wrists and clucked. “Wow, Mom. That’s pretty bad.”

  Sara playfully stuck out her tongue. “Some help you are.”

  “Maybe you should watch that video another time.”

  “You think?” She’d only watched it half a dozen times already. She’d made a habit of hitting the pause button every few seconds to jot down more notes.

  “Or maybe don’t use such a big piece of clay.” He held up his own piece, no bigger than a pack of gum. Perhaps her son had a point. Sara had sliced off more than she could handle.

  If that wasn’t a metaphor for the past month, she didn’t know what else was. It had been a wild ride up until that point. Reconnecting with TR and stepping once more into his world was a journey she’d never believed she’d have. Who would have thought that one day she’d be sitting in her estranged father’s art studio alongside her son, trying something new? Certainly not her.

  But here she was anyway. Open and willing.

  Sara took Sam’s suggestion and scooped off a chunk of excess clay. With a swift motion, she lobbed the slick glob into a nearby bucket of scraps. Sam flicked her a glance of approval and went back to his own work. They didn’t say much, but she knew he was enjoying himself. Whatever unease existed over Charlie’s leaving, the time spent in the studio was proving a decent distraction. She was grateful.

  It was nice to witness her son contentedly testing out his own creative limits. Sam bent over, pointing his bump of a nose down in concentration. His fingers manipulated bits of clay, twisting here and there to form funny little alien creatures. The bodies were compact, with spindly arms that hung too low at the sides. He’d used a needlelike tool to dig out features on each one—a set of eye sockets for one and a line for a mouth for another. Even from far away Sara could tell he’d given each one a little personality.

  “Looks like you may take after your grandpa, after all.” She cocked her chin at Sam’s clay figure. “Very impressive.”

  “Thanks.” Sam beamed.

  Turning back to her own work, she squinted. Where did she make a wrong turn? Contemplating, she arched her stiff back and dug her dirty knuckles into a sore spot. Her body wasn’t used to bending this way. Looking beyond Sam, her eyes traveled out the low window. Somewhere out there, TR was talking to his other family. Sara prayed, for everyone’s sake, that it was going well.

  Slouching back over her dreadful attempt at a vessel, she agonized. This was not shaping up to be anything remotely like the coffee cup she’d hoped to craft for Birdie. She thought it might be such a nice way to tell her friend thank-you for all the support she’d given. She imagined a sizable mug, complete with an ergonomic handle and sturdy base, which would hopefully be fired in TR’s kiln and glazed just enough to be pretty. TR promised he’d help with the end product if she could get started on her own.

  Sara inaudibly cursed the group of enthusiastic potters from the videos she’d studied. There was no way she was anywhere near coffee mug status. That much was glaringly clear. The most she could hope for that afternoon was a crooked little pinch pot. And even that was going to be a stretch.

  But even amid her growing disillusionment, Sara was not deterred. Because though she had no idea of what she was doing, it was satisfying nonetheless.

  The very act of plunging her wet hands into a bucket of murky water and then dropping them back around a gooey mass of adaptable clay was enlivening. The touch, the feel, and even the backbreaking exertion of it all were why she’d come.

  Working there, in her father’s studio, Sara was able to do something she hadn’t before. She was able to harness all her built-up angst over Charlie, the stress over her father, and her longing desire to protect Sam, and channel it into something tangible and good.

  As she cupped the cylinder, contouring the soft clay with the heels of her hands, something inside of Sara stabilized. With keen focus, she braced her forearms over her thighs, and her right foot tapped gently, prodding the machine’s pedal. Nothing but the soft whir of the wheel and the faint splatter of wet clay sounded as she bent over and pushed deeper into the process. The only thing that mattered in that moment was the form in front of her. Her burdens sloughed away with each turn of the wheel. And in the quiet stillness of her creative bubble, Sara found peace.

  When she was satisfied with her effort, she tapped the pedal once, halting the electric spin of the wheel. The circular tray slowed gradually, her creation coming to rest off-center. Looking across the room, Sara caught Sam’s eyes darting away as he held in a laugh. What a sight he was there, perched just below the window. Dappled light bounced off his shiny head of hair. An army of sculpted figurines sat gathered on the bench around him, comical and crude but beautifully creative all the same. Sam had taken to the work.

  Sara followed his amused gaze back to her own concoction. While it had been quite involved to mold, the wobbly shape before her told her she had a long way to go.

  “Oh boy.” She sighed. Sam’s funny look snared her, and they both chuckled. It really was a sight.

  “What is it?” Sam said, cackling. His little voice echoed off the concrete floors and spread throughout the room.

  The clay body in front of her had sprouted up and out to one side, resembling a wonky, tubular version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The sides were constructed of an uneven thickness, and while the lip was uniform, it was inappropriately weightier than the base. The whole thing was tragic.

  “I don’t really know,” she mused. “Maybe it could be a funky pencil holder?”

  “Wow, Mom. That’s a pretty crazy pencil holder!” He clutched his sides and lost himsel
f in laughter. Sara leaned back and nearly knocked over the bucket of water. Splashes flew up and hit her in the face. This of course sent them both into another fit of roaring hilarity. Sam rocked back and forth, nearly bumping his assembly of clay people. The leg of the bench tipped as Sam almost toppled off.

  Gathering her breath, Sara dabbed at her tears. She didn’t know if she was crying with joy or relief or both. But what she realized in that moment was she wouldn’t give up this memory with her son for anything.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  TR

  Knocking softly before stepping over the threshold of the guesthouse, TR steadied himself. The nerves that Sara had helped to quell now returned. He’d come to face the music and to seek forgiveness, but he was scared. How would Marie and Bo react? Would he even be welcome? There was only one way to find out.

  “Hello?” He gently pushed the weathered door aside and peered into the semi-lit room. Woodsy rosemary mingled with tangy tomato sauce to fill the tiny space as Marie’s inviting cooking aromas lured him farther inside. Once all the way in, he saw the two of them and froze.

  Standing side-by-side were his girlfriend and his son, arms folded and looking back expectantly, as if they’d been waiting. The shame came immediately; TR acknowledged one, then the other in silent greeting. Marie was clearly simmering at a low boil; he recognized the smoldering agitation in her eyes. It had been so long since they’d talked, he feared what she might have to say. Bo appeared hesitant more than anything else, but he nodded still, granting TR access into their sanctuary.

  “Hello.” Marie was the first to respond, her voice edged with bitter regard; however, she released her locked arms and gestured to him. “Come in.”

  Despite the lack of an affectionate welcome home, TR melted at the sight of her. Had he really stayed away for so long? “Ah, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”