The pictures in the first half of the sketchbook are fairlyordinary: pencil drawings of Glum, asleep, with imagined monsters looming over her. Sketches of trees that are probably somewhere here on the property. Some drawings of Brock, in profile, laughing—maybe studies for a second painting of him.
Then there are pictures of the teenagers who died in the fire. Drawings of Mirren, her cousin Johnny, and Gat, their friend. The first sketches are based on a photo that I saw when I looked up online articles about the tragedy. Kingsley has captured the way Mirren tucks her hair behind her ears, the way Johnny squints into the sun, the way Gat smiles like he has a good secret. Later drawings of the same people deviate from the photograph. Kingsley puts the three of them lying on the beach, their hands across their chests like they’re lying in coffins. Then he tries them on the widow’s walk of an old New England house, all with their backs to an enormous dragon, who curls herself around the house, her mouth open above them.
Then, surprisingly, there is a series of drawings in Sharpie. The thick nib of the permanent marker gives these sketches a much bolder, more cartoonish feel, though the line still looks very much like Kingsley’s. He’s drawn some monsters, some castles—elements of the fairy tales and classics he uses so much in his paintings.
And a piranha plant. With spiky teeth.
It’s a bit different from the one Tatum drew on my leg. But it’s the same kind of plant. From the garden level ofLuigi’s Haunted Mansion.
The drawings of Mirren, Johnny, and Gat could have been done any time after the Beechwood Island fire. It happened a week before I arrived on the Vineyard.
But the piranha plant, no way. That drawing has to have been madeafter I arrived at Hidden Beach.
And yet, that’s impossible.
Kingsley hasn’t been here to draw it.
One of the boys has to be drawing in Kingsley’s sketchbook. But why? And which one?
I’ve seen Tatum draw on Meer, and he draws with confidence. And though Brock claims he can only draw spirals, and his piranha plant was objectively terrible, he could be hiding his skill. Maybe all this time at Hidden Beach, he’s been apprenticing to Kingsley?
More likely, the drawings are Meer’s. My brother keeps a sketchbook of doodles and tattoo ideas. He covers himself and everyone else in Sharpie. He told me he’s “not an artist”—but he was also homeschooled by his parents. “June had so much to teach me,” he said. “And so did the ocean. And Kingsley.”
Meer could have been trained by Kingsley to paint like Kingsley.
Is it even possible, what I’m thinking?
That Meer draws in this sketchbook because Meer is painting Kingsley’s paintings.
That Meer isn’t leaving Hidden Beach to go to college, or do anything else, because he already has a career that pays him millions.
That Meer, not Kingsley, paintedPrince of Denmark,and that’s why the painting shows the son conquering the father figure.
And Meer, not Kingsley, painted me on a raft in the middle of the sea. Because it’s Meer who would have seen that picture on my social media. And Meer would store the painting in his own room instead of in Kingsley’s studio.
But why would Meer be painting for Kingsley?
Did our father leave his family ages ago to adventure across the sea like Odysseus, after training my brother to carry on his legacy?
I look through the rest of the sketchbook, hoping for more information, but it’s only half full. The rest of the images don’t offeranything I can make sense of. The artist returns to pencil. There are many, many drawings of goblins and gargoyles, crushed up next to one another, laughing and lurking in what looks like a cave, or maybe they’re under a bed.
They really do look like Kingsley drew them. I recognize the sense of threat in each image, the ugliness inside the beauty, some impossible-to-articulate quality of line. The feeling of claustrophobia, the laughing faces.
When I finally lift my eyes from the sketchbook, morning sun is pouring through the windows. I tuck the book under my arm, put my electronics away, and shut the lights.
I need to talk to Meer.
40
He’s sleeping withouta blanket, wearing pajama pants and no shirt, lying in front of a white plastic fan. The hot air ruffles his hair, which has come out of its usual bun. Since his mattress is on the floor, his sheets spill onto the carpet.
I sit on the edge of the bed and tap Meer softly on the shoulder. I expect him to roll over sleepily and ask me to go away, but he bolts up to sitting, seemingly completely awake in a heartbeat. “Is it Dad?”
“No. He’s not back yet.”
Meer flops back and looks at me. “Oh, Matilda. I thought you were my mom, waking me up. Ugh, I’m so tired.”
“He might be back today, though.”
