I don’t remember them lowering her, my mind’s attempt at self-preservation, I guessed. I don’t remember the priest’s prayers. I don’t remember when they buried her. I don’t remember it. All I could remember were her little sighs and how I wanted to hear them again but I couldn’t.
When I finally looked up, most everyone had gone. It was only Atticus’s brothers, myself, and Etta.
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking Atticus in the eye. He didn’t respond. “I’m so sorry.”
“You should be sorry,” Liam told me, gutting me. My eyes clenched shut for a moment as I absorbed what he said.
“Liam!” Aidan shouted.
“If she had told Atticus what was going on, we could have prevented it!” Liam yelled.
Atticus stared at me and I stared back.
“You don’t know that!” Cillian yelled.
“She’s an awful person!” Malachi chimed in.
“That’s enough!” Etta demanded.
We continued to stare at one another, across the grave of our daughter.
“Look at what she’s done to Atticus,” Brendan told Aidan and Cillian.
“She didn’t do anything to him!” Etta defended me.
Atticus blinked once, his mouth slightly ajar, his eyes trained on me and mine on him.
“She left him when all he wanted to do was love her!” Liam added.
“You don’t know all the details, obviously,” Etta said, disdain in her tone.
“He just wanted to help them,” Liam threw back.
“Enough!” Aidan said. “Enough.”
It grew quiet for a moment as we looked on one another.
“It’s too late now, though,” Brendan said. “Now Atticus is fucked in the head and it’s all because of her.”
His comment cut through me, sliced me in half. All my breath left my lungs.
“Brendan,” Cillian said, “Juniper was her daughter too.”
I staggered forward at that and fell on top of her wet grave. Etta screamed and tried to grab for me but I shook her off. All the boys sucked in a breath. I grabbed fistfuls of dirt as I wrapped my arms around the small mound of earth.
“Leave me,” I told Etta. “Leave, Etta.” She bent by my side and our eyes met. “Please, Etta. Please leave me be.” She nodded and stood. I watched as she retreated to the main gate and disappeared into the grove of trees where all the cars were.
I heard shuffling and watched Atticus’s brothers follow Etta’s path to the cars. I looked up as Atticus laid down on the wet dirt beside me. His hand met mine and we regarded the other. We laid there for minutes, possibly hours, I didn’t know.
“I’m sorry, too,” he finally said, his hair wet against the side of his face.
Thunder rolled above us, tumbling over itself, and the rain came harder.
He stood, grabbed a fistful of dirt, and staggered to the gate. I watched him go. Watched as he disappeared as the others had.
“I’m expected to survive this,” I told Juniper. “Can you tell me how I’m supposed to do that, my darling one? Since I took my real first breath the second you took yours? Since you took my last the second you breathed yours?” My hand cascaded over the earth. “You would have been extraordinary. Just look at who your father was. Yes, you would have been extraordinary. And it would have been a beautiful life. Now I have to wait to see you again, my tiny girl. What am I going to do with my time before then, huh? I have no one to love here anymore and no longer belong.” Tears poured down my face and mixed with the wet dirt. “Poor Atticus,” I told her, “I’ve ruined his life.
“I’m going to miss you, Juniper Kelly. I guess your soul was just too pretty to stay. I can see how God would want you. I can see that. I can see how. Pray for me, baby girl. Save me while you’re there, will you? I’m damaged even more now and need fixing. Pray for your dad, too. He might need it more than I will.
“I love you, Juniper.”
One month later…
“Do you want something to eat?” Etta asked me.
I pulled the covers around my shoulders. “No,” I said.
“You have to eat something, Hazel,” she said. “You’re still recovering from surgery and you’ve lost so much weight. I’m starting to worry about you.”
“I’m fine, Etta.”
Two months later…
“How is she doing?” James asked Etta.
She took a sip from her mug on my bar top. “Not well,” she answered, as if I wasn’t fifteen feet from her, lying in my bed. “She’s still not eating. I can see her ribs now.”
James took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m holding her position. Cordelia insists on it as well. She can take all the time she needs.”
“Thank you, James,” she said.
Three months later…
“Someone dropped off an envelope with your name on it,” Etta said.
I heard the envelope rip and the rustling of paper. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
“What?” I barely got out.
“They’re letters from Atticus.”
I sat up, scared out of my mind. “What do they say?”
Her eyes scanned each one. Her expression changed from worry to shock. “Um, nothing really. They say nothing.”
“Etta,” I demanded, holding out my hand.
“No,” she said, pressing them to her chest, “you’re too fragile for these.”
“Etta,” I insisted.
“They’re from before, when you broke up.”
I felt my heart beat into my throat. “Why would he send them now?” I asked.
She looked at the top of a legal envelope, the one they’d been delivered in, I assumed. “Atticus wrote them but Aidan’s name is on the return address.” She opened the envelope farther and a Post-it slipped out. She picked it up. “He says he wants you to know how much Atticus suffers without you, though he won’t admit it. He says to read the letters when you are stable enough so you know and come back to him.”
I laid back down, my eyes already burning. “Get rid of them,” I said, afraid to see his words, afraid I wouldn’t be able to handle them.
“I’ll put them up in the cabinet,” she said.
“Fine,” I said.
Four months later…
I’d read the letters that night after Etta had left. I’d read them every day since. Aidan was wrong. Atticus hated me. It was Juniper’s original due date. I pulled the covers over my head.
Five months later…
I got out of bed.
Six months later…
I picked up my brushes.
Seven months later…
James and Cordelia welcomed me back to the gallery.
Eight months later….
I spent every waking minute of my day I wasn’t at work painting.
Nine months later…
Painting was a therapy.
Ten months later…
The therapy was working.
Eleven months later…
I showed my finished pieces to James. He showed them to Cordelia.
Twelve months later…
“Have you thought more about exhibition?” James asked.
“I’m not ready to share them,” I said.
“It’s your best work, Hazel. Some of the best I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s because I bled on those canvases.”
“I can tell,” he said, sitting down in his swivel chair. “Cordelia has an open block, and she wants to feature you in that shared exhibit.”
I took a deep breath. “When is it again?”
“Three weeks,” he said.
A range of emotion flooded through me before landing on peace. “How do I move forward?” I asked.
“Just say the word and I’ll tell Cordelia. We’ll get you added to the event, update the invites ASAP before they’re sent out.” He looked at me. “What do you say?”
“Call her,” I answered.
Two weeks later…
Atticu
s
“One more time,” I told River.
There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” River called out.
“Atticus,” I heard behind me. I swung around to see Etta standing in my studio.
“Etta,” I said, surprised.
“Can I talk to you?” she asked.
I looked down at River, who waved me away. I stood. “Come to my office,” I said, walking out into the hall and opening my door for her.
I offered a chair and she sat. I moved behind my desk and did the same. I didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say.
She cleared her throat. “How are you?” she asked.
“I’m getting there,” I told her truthfully.
“Good.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a square, stiff envelope. “I wanted to give this to you. She doesn’t know I’m here. In fact, she’d kill me if she knew I was disturbing you, but I thought you should come.”
She handed the envelope over and I opened it. It was an invitation to an exhibition featuring Hazel at the DMA.
“Etta,” I said, drawing her name out. “I don’t know.”
Etta stood. “Come, Atticus.” She began to walk out but she turned back around and added, “You really need to see it for yourself.”
She didn’t give me a chance to respond because she left. I scrambled around my desk and watched her leave the building. I looked down at the invite in my hand. It was for the following Saturday. I was due to be in LA the Friday before. I sat back down again and picked up my office phone.
“Hey, it’s me. I need to move our Saturday session to Monday.”
One week later…
I pulled the cuff of my shirt out of the sleeve of my tailored suit jacket and straightened my tie and vest. I approached the front of the DMA. People dressed impeccably milled about outside. My heart beat into my throat when an attendant opened the door for me, knowing Hazel was just on the other side.
“Good evening, sir,” he greeted.
I smiled, my eyes going to the large, cavernous foyer peppered with tables and chairs. There was a sectioned-off wing of the museum roped with velvet, and I discerned it must be where the exhibit was. I spotted a podium at the head of the tables that were filling up quickly. I picked a table in the back, half the chairs were filled with stiff people who looked so stuck up it was a wonder they could sit at all. I slid into one beside a gentleman who took one look at me and scooted his chair an inch toward his wife. I’d have been offended if I hadn’t thought it one of the funniest things I’d ever seen.
A woman approached the podium.
“Good evening,” she said. “I’d like to welcome you to the launch of FifteenTwentyFive.” She winked. “Cleverly titled, as we are showcasing works from fifteen revolutionary artists all under the age of twenty-five. I usually start off with listing our artists’ accomplishments but, since our artists have yet to truly embark on their careers, for most this is their freshman exhibit, I’ve decided to allow them to speak to you all personally. I think it will help you truly understand their works and get into the psyche behind each piece. I’ve never seen a piece that wasn’t altered in my mind’s eye once I’d met the artist. So, without further ado, please welcome our first artist, Akio Deshi.”
Everyone clapped as Akio stood from her seat and approached the podium. She spoke a little about herself and which art pieces belonged to her, mentioned her inspiration and what she expected the viewer to see. My eyes searched the sea of heads seated, looking for Hazel. There were too many people and I couldn’t find her. I had to endure thirteen more artists’ speeches, and I thought I would tear my hair out. When the last artist finished, the audience clapped and my stomach plummeted to my feet as the woman who was running the whole shindig approached the microphone.
“Lastly, we have Miss Hazel Stone. Miss Stone is local, ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps you’ve seen her work around town on the sides of many prominent Dallas buildings or even here in the museum. We have a permanent piece in our collection just acquired from her last week. I believe we’re going to see wonderful things from her in the future. Please help me in welcoming Hazel Stone,” she said.
People clapped for her more than they had for anyone else, which made me beam with pride for her. Local girl done well to them, but if they’d only known her as I did. They’d have been standing. They’d have never ceased clapping.
She stood and the sight of her stole all the breath in my lungs. Her hair was a little shorter, the bones in her face a bit more defined, but it was Hazel. She wore something that belonged on an eclectic couture catwalk, which I expected, but what I wasn’t expecting was the rush of emotion I got once I saw her. My hand went to my chest and stayed there as if it could calm the violent heart that beat beneath my ribs. She stunned me. She was stunning.
“Good evening,” her velvet voice greeted. “Thank you, Cordelia, and thank you all for such a warm welcome.” She smiled but it melted away. “I’m— I joined tonight’s event on a whim. I hadn’t been ready to show these pieces to anyone. See, they cut deeply for me. I don’t think I could ever convey just how far. The theme is devastation. I know this feels melodramatic for someone as young as myself, an artist’s prerogative, but I have no hesitation in admitting this is far from the truth. I hope you will see as much in my works, let it speak to you, through you.
“Own what you see, apply it to your world, because the art isn’t in the paint, in the strokes, even in the subject matter. The art is in its influence on you, if it can help you. If it invokes a change in you, there lies the art. My pain is on display,” she admitted. “If the manifestation of it on canvas can bring you any closer to peace yourselves, then my pain doesn’t go to waste.
“Thank you,” she spoke softly, then returned to her seat.
The crowd didn’t know how to react. There were a few women around me whose faces broke their careful facades. A few held back tears. The first woman who spoke approached the ropes and held them back, inviting everyone in. People piled inside. I stayed behind, not sure if I was afraid to see or if I wanted the opportunity to appreciate them with as little distraction as possible. Or it could have been because I wanted an opportunity to watch Hazel.
She sat in her chair, all the people around her gone. She folded a napkin over and over. The woman, the one who introduced her, called out to her so she stood, meandering through the tables and chairs to reach her. The woman patted her shoulder and they wrapped their arms around one another as they walked through to the exhibition.
I stood quickly and made my way their direction. When I reached the open mouth of the wing, I took in the expanse of people, trying to spot Hazel. Most of them surrounded three large works in the rear of the gallery. Each piece looked to be about ten feet high by ten feet wide. I couldn’t see what they were but I knew they were Hazel’s immediately. I recognized her style. I knew her brushstrokes so well. That’s when I spotted her. She was alone, in a secluded section off to the side of her pieces. Her hands were situated behind her back, which rested against the wall. No one was talking to her. I could tell a few wanted to but she kept her eyes on the floor. She didn’t notice them. She was in a world of her own making.
I worked around the people, my eyes focused on her. I weaved my way to the opposite side of her works, refusing to look at them until I was close enough to really take them in. I waited for someone to leave the line marked on the floor and when someone did, I toed the line. I took two deep breaths and brought my face up. All my breaths rushed out at once. My hands involuntarily went to my head.
It was us. It was Hazel and me. We were wrapped in one another, a sea of skin and her hair. Colors bled into one another. They were bold and earthy and jewel toned and beautiful. My hands fell to my chest. My eyes felt scalded, parched, desperate for wet. I sucked in a breath. We were the focus of the canvas yet there was so much going on. I could barely keep up with it as I searched every inch, taking it all in. If it were a song, it would be the most beautiful one eve
r written.
Without thinking, I moved to the second and stopped cold. It was us but torn apart, our hands reached for each other but we were being pulled to opposite corners of the canvas, our bodies already slipping beyond its limits. Our fingers were so close to one another it looked as though they were touching, but if you looked closely you would see a sliver of space. So small yet such a chasm.
I rushed to the third and almost yelled out in pain. It was us, our backs to one another, floating in black but between us was a bow of a juniper bush, the berries and leaves painted with such intense detail from the right angle you would think it had been nailed to the canvas. It was utterly haunting, utterly beautiful, and utterly agonizing.
My head whipped right. I found Hazel, who had already found me. Her eyes reflected grief. She swallowed; her chin quivered as she fought the emotion inside her.
I shook my head. I had no words. She came to me and faced the painting. My eyes wouldn’t leave her.
“Hazel,” I said, tasting her name on my tongue. She turned her body toward mine but closed her eyes. “Look at me, Hazel.” They fluttered open. A tear from each came spilling down. “I miss her too.” Her face contorted in pain and I took her in my arms, squeezing her to my chest. “They’re beautiful, Hazel. The paintings, they are evergreen, they will live forever, even when we have not. You have immortalized her, us.”