“She went to sleep,” says Brock, walking toward the kitchen. “You people want ice water?”
“That another right thing,” says Meer, following him. “Yes, please, ice water.”
I show Saar the fridge with its pretty jars of nuts and seeds; the crisper drawer full of nutritional powders. It’s strange but nice, having Saar in the castle. He’s bearing witness to this life I have been living.
While I show Saar the rows of tincture bottles in the pantry, Meer begins writing on his left forearm in Sharpie.Kingsley. Kingsley. Kingsley.He writes it over and over, like he can’t etch it hard enough into his skin.
As the rest of us make small talk, Meer writes until he runs out of space. Then he writes across his palm and down the backs of his fingers.
I go over to him and hold out my left arm, palm up.
He writes large, in beautiful letters,Kingsley.
I offer him my right arm and he writes,I am the sister ofMeer Sugawara. Now and forever.
It’s the best. I love him so much. I take the Sharpie and write on his right forearm,I am the brother of Matilda Klein.Now and forever.
“You, too, Brock,” I say.
Brock stretches one arm across the table. I pause, unsure what to write but wanting to do something to voice our connection, even if it’s only in Sharpie that’s not really permanent and possibly toxic. Finally, I write,I am Paul-David Brock, not Sammy. I am a friend to Matilda Klein. Now and forever.
“You don’t have to write a whole essay for me not to forget you,” he says. “I have your cell number.”
We leave the two of them writing on each other as I walk Saarto see the vegetable garden and the pool house. I tell him more about Holland, and the story of Glum and the poultry massacre. It feels good for him to know what happened. I tell him about how Meer and I are connected to the Sinclair family. How my father ate Oreos while he painted. How Tatum found a home for Cotton, the surviving duckling.
Saar wants to see the ocean, so I take him down the winding staircase, the same way Meer walked me on the first day. At the foot of the cliffs, we take off our shoes.
Tatum is in the water. We can see him, sitting on his boogie board, staring out at the sea. The muscles of his back ripple as the waves beneath him shift. There’s Sharpie across his skin, Meer’s writing:
Rest in Peace, Kingsley Cello. Artist. Father. Visionary.
I call his name.
Tatum turns.
He rides the next wave in.
Saar forces him into a very Los Angeles man hug and comes away with a damp shirt.
While Tatum showers and Saar does stuff on his phone, I go upstairs in Bone Tower.
I have one last look at Kingsley’s studio before I leave. There is so much I could learn about my father, if I stayed. But June is fully angry with me and I never am going to be his daughter the way I hoped I would. All we got were two short conversations, and these paintings.
Still, he did see me. In a way.
I am not just a girl in a college sweatshirt.
Beneath my surface there is darkness and strength.
Maybe madness. But maybe magic.
70
We have loadedmy bags and the painting calledLostinto Saar’s Range Rover. I don’t have any paperwork on it, but I take it anyway. Because Meer says I should have it.
I hug Brock and Meer goodbye. The plan is for them to stay with June for a while. When Kingsley’s will has been read and Gabe has sorted out the financials, Meer will have some money. Gabehas told him he will.
Then Meer and Brock will come to Los Angeles.
