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That I’m never going home again.
I never had a home in the first place.
My mother is a child, my family is a mess, and I’m on my own.
Joan wishes me well.
After a minute, I dry my face. Look up at the sky. Inhale.
It’s one of those winter days that don’t come often in Iowa, when the temperature drops so low that it hurts to breathe, but the sun comes out and the sky is thin blue, far away.
The snow sparkles. The world blanketed in crystal.
I pull my phone from my pocket and dial my mom. She picks up on the second ring.
The conversation drifts for a while. The wind gusts up, lifting powdery surface snow and sending it whirling over the fields. I make the right noises at the right times and wait for the moment.
Then I say it. “I want permanent custody of Frankie.”
The sun ducks behind a cloud. My mom protests, argues with me, but I just brace myself there. Let the wind blow over me.
It’s no surprise when my mom finally asks, “You’ll still let me see her?”
“Of course. I’ll fly you out for the guardianship hearing, and you can stay awhile.”
“I’d like that.”
Then she’s quiet, and I’m quiet, too. I guess we both know what it means.
“I love you, West,” she says.
I say, “I love you, too.” Because it’s true. And because it’s kind.
And because it’s over.
It’s a week into January when I go by the art building looking for Rikki. I want to talk to her about art therapy for Frankie.
I don’t know what art therapy costs, or even if it’s something that would do Franks any good, but Caroline pointed out that it’s helped her a lot to have a therapist to talk to since the thing with Nate, and maybe I shouldn’t be so close-minded about it.
I shouldn’t. I’m trying not to be. Frankie’s still having nightmares, so there’s plenty of room for improvement, and like Caroline says, it’s unlikely to hurt. Frankie will probably see it as art lessons from Rikki, which they’re already more or less doing every time she goes over to Rikki’s place with the sketchbook I gave her for Christmas.
I try Rikki’s office, but she’s not there, so I swing by the studio where she teaches her classes. I find her there with Raffe and Annie—the dude with the crazy hair from my Studio Art class and the tiny blonde he always hangs around with.
Since I quit smoking and it started snowing all the time, I haven’t run into them as much as I used to, and it gives me a jolt to see them now during break.
Makes me wonder what kind of families Raffe and Annie have got, that they’re here on campus in January hanging out in the art building.
They’re each bent over white forms on the table that look like ceramic ice cube trays. Rikki is tapping what looks like shiny white sand into one opening with the back of a spoon. “The trick is to make sure you do not leave too much air in here,” she’s saying. “Because then you will have bubbles, and the frit will not melt evenly.”
Raffe glances up. “Leavitt,” he says.
“Hey, Raffe.”
Annie acknowledges me with a dip of her eyelashes, which is all I’ve ever managed to get out of Annie. Raffe, I’ve talked to a few times, but only the kind of polite conversation that doesn’t go anywhere.
You done with that?
Yeah, it’s all yours.
