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The dead should always be respected, even if it’s a memory.
“Ooh!” Penny squeals behind me.
She’s found her way to Brianna’s art nook. It’s partially hidden in a corner by an old, decorative freestanding wall. I built it for her so she’d have her own private space, but still be close to me.
Penny is so engrossed in touching all the different paintbrushes and pencils that she doesn’t look at me when I approach.
“My wife really liked to paint and draw,” I say.
“Maybe she still does.”
“Kinda hard since she’s not here anymore, kiddo.”
“Maybe she is and you just don’t see her.” She leans in to squint at a sketch of Cherry that’s pinned to the wall. “Maybe she still wants to draw.”
“Well, it’s all just sitting here.” Wasting away. Bri would be heartbroken to see her art space so forgotten. “You like to draw. Why don’t you draw while I work?”
She stares up at me, her mouth quirked skeptically to the side. “My mom doesn’t really like when I draw anymore.”
“How come?”
“She gets upset when I draw the memory pictures.”
I run a rag over Brianna’s table, brushing away years of dust. “Memory pictures?”
“Yeah. The people and things in our memories.”
“Why would she be upset about you drawing things you remember?”
“Not just things I remember. Things other people remember.”
“Lemme get this straight,” I say playfully. “You draw other people’s memories?”
“Yes. And I do it all in my own head.”
“Okay…”
She crosses her arms and flings her hair over her shoulder. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
I lean back against the desk and cross my boots. “I wouldn’t say I don’t believe you. I’d just need proof.”
“Fine,” she says like she’s about to turn twenty-five right in front of me. “I’ll draw a picture from your memory. Then you’ll see.”
Hell no. With my luck, this kid really does have a weird gift and she’ll draw my dead wife and creep me all the hell out and ruin my Saturday.
“Don’t be scared, Alex,” she says.
My chest involuntarily puffs out. “Seriously?” I scoff. “I’m not scared. I got work to do. I can’t play games with you.”
“It’s not a game. Please, Alex? I need someone to believe me.” Her pleading green eyes shimmer like moonlight over a lake, seeping right through my defenses. “I know you’ll believe me. You’re my only friend.”
Fuck. I don’t want to be her only friend. I’m a shitty-ass friend.
She doesn’t give up. “I promise the memory picture will make you happy.” Hope scatters through her voice. “I can already see it.”
“Fine,” I mimic her word from earlier. “But you hafta do it right here so I can make sure you’re not cheating.”
“Okay, but you can’t watch me draw it. It has to be a surprise when it’s done.”
“Deal.” I glance over at all the brushes, markers, and colored pencils as she climbs up on the chair, sets her juices and snacks to the side, and opens up an empty sketchbook. “You got everything you need, Picasso?” I ask.
With a determined smile, she’s already reaching for a light-gray pencil. “Yup. Don’t forget your juice box,” she says as I start to walk away. “It has vitamin C.”
Shooting her a grin, I swipe one of the juice boxes and go back to my mountain of garbage.
Hanging out with Penny stirs up questions I’ve asked myself at least a thousand times over the years. Would I have been a good father? If things had turned out differently, I’d be raising my nine-year-old daughter. I wonder if she’d be fascinating and smart like Penny. Would she roll the ball patiently and endlessly for Cherry? Would she love the smell of the barn? Would she have her mother’s talent and curiosity?
I wonder if she’d consider me her friend and not just her dad.
I guess I’ll never know.
While I sort through other people’s trash, I steal peeks at Penny. It’s bittersweet to see her bent over the drawing table with her hair falling into her face, lost in the magic of her imagination. Bri used to sit there for hours, quiet, a million miles away, but still right here with me. The best kind of company is when you don’t have to be talking or touching, yet you still feel physically and mentally threaded together.
I flip on my favorite playlist—one me and Bri made so many years ago—and sing along idly, wondering what the hell I can make with an ancient typewriter, when I hear Penny also singing along, nailing the lyrics perfectly. Grinning, I wonder how a nine-year-old knows the lyrics to songs by Aerosmith, Pearl Jam, Creed, Fleetwood Mac, and 3 Doors Down. Mrs. Rose doesn’t strike me as the type to blast this kind of music.
“You like these songs?” I ask curiously.
She doesn’t look up from her drawing. “Of course. They’re our favorites.”
“Whose?”
“Ours,” she says simply. “Stop looking over here and work on your own stuff.”
