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The morning was foggy and cold, but Jacob knew both would break by ten.
He leaned at the balcony's edge. Sunlight shone upon the fir trees standing tall above, lancing off their rugged silhouettes. Below, shadows sunk deep into the foliage; Athena stalked the underbrush, sniffing away with an enthusiasm that never drained.
He knew she wouldn’t go far from Berenson Creek when he could observe her from the second-story deck. And it was a good thing he’d installed a lock to her doggy door on the other side of the house, too—no more wandering about after dark. I don’t need to lose you again.
Beyond the driveway, towards the creek and the log bridge, the forest lay veiled in a curtain of pale yellow. In the fog, he heard a short, shrill sound. An elk calf crying for its mother. Athena heard it too, he could tell by the sudden silence of her collar's clinking tag; when he glanced down at the driveway, he saw her standing alert, her floppy ears upright.
“Athena,” he called quietly; the bite of an order on his tongue. She gazed back at him with longing, before finally loping up the stairs. The elk calf continued its search. Where did its mother go? He couldn't see either of them, but the little elk was audibly close.
He kept his eyes on the stretch of forest a hundred yards away from the balcony. He saw the calf before long; past the great coniferous trees, it looked small, pale brown and lithe. It was taller than Athena, but its long legs were just as skinny as her’s. It stood there, enshrouded in shadows and highlights, with no mother in sight. Still, it called. Its barks bounced off the cliffside walls, muddling with the sound of the creek’s gentle flow.
There’s something comforting in hearing one call out for another; for something akin to comfort.
Wherever does that search begin?
Jacob sighed to himself. Just imagine if someone heard him say that out loud...
Riley would laugh. All those years of reading textbooks and dictionaries have rubbed off on me. I can’t help but think in prose.
He knew Riley wouldn’t laugh. She would ask him what was on his mind to say such a thing.
Nothing new, Riley. Nothing new.
There was something else cantering into this side of the forest—the mother, a healthy cow, appeared from the sheet of mist like a mirage. She swayed her head, and the elk calf frolicked off to her. They brushed sides as they turned together into the trees, twigs cracking and leaves crunching in their wake.
How sweet. Being able to see moments precious as this every morning from home... This...is a life.
I could draw something like this sometime. I should. No, I will.
Hmm... Maybe this morning, a sketchbook and some charcoal; he could lean out here on the balcony, and gesture out a rough rendition of the scene he’d just witnessed, off in the woods. Scribbles ascribed to a rare sight.
It’d been barely a couple weeks since the ride to Edwards Island, but things were changing. He was beginning to feel fulfilled by his endeavors; less nights spent living voraciously in 90’s commercials, more nights spent in his room or the shed, laboring away at the clay sculpture or metal statues. He was enjoying it. Once again, he was starting to appreciate this place he’d grown up in, this place he’d lived in, for all his life.
It's just that some days have been easier than others, is all.
The smartphone in Jacob’s pocket hummed. A text?
He pulled it out, squinted at the message barely readable in the early sunlight; the text was from Riley. What about? Not a nightmare, hopefully.
hey man, how you doin? I’m gonna call my dad this morning. Wish me luck. Don’t be surprised if I want to come over later.
Not a nightmare, luckily, though this sounded like it might induce the same amount of stress. Still, he found the conviction to reply quickly:
Doing alright. Good luck! You’ll do fine.
He was thrust back into reality, a place where more was worried over than fleeted feelings and what once was.
Riley’s apartment seemed too small to be able to contain all of the chaos she scattered everywhere. In the kitchen, a bowl of cereal still sat half-eaten next to half-opened bills, and the counter was littered with crumpled-up gas station receipts. This caffeine intake is concerning. Sorry, Rex. I’ll replace the soda with tea.
She had to call her dad, but of course, like every day before this, she didn’t feel ready. She decided she was going to tidy up first before calling him. Jacob had told her before that instead of cleaning only once a week, that she should do it a little bit at a time each day. Why hadn’t she tried that sooner?
By the time she’d finished, there was only one neat stack of envelopes on the counter, the table was free of the bowl and cups previously cluttering it, and she’d washed the dishes. She'd also put the box of cereal left out from this morning back into the cabinet. After everything was in due order, she wrote on the magnetic whiteboard calendar on the fridge to pay her bills tonight; that way, she wouldn’t forget. There: much better.
Well, marginally better. She still had laundry to wash, but at least it wasn’t all sitting on the couch anymore; she’d placed it in a basket in her room.
Her kitchen and living room were clean now, pulsing with sunshine. The place looked...livable. Like she could invite someone over, if she wanted.
...But I’m not inviting him over. I’m giving him a call, and it’ll be over quick. Hopefully.
She was conflicted as to why she was so adamant about cleaning right now. She got...a little carried away. Either to gain some cheap sense of achievement before an inevitable obligation, or to push it off further... Either way, it was happening now. She’d already waited too long; over two weeks too long.
Riley tapped her dad's name, and brought the phone up to her ear. Her leg bounced up and down as she leaned against the kitchen counter, waiting for her dad to pick up. Ring... Ring... Ring...
“Hey, Rye. What’s up?”
She kept her voice evenly cadenced; optimistic, even. “Hi, Dad. How are you doing?”
“Oh, same old, same old. You know how it is. How’s that new apartment treating you? It was nice having you back around the house those couple of days you weren’t working. Really kind of the research team to give you a hotel room, but you know I wouldn’t have minded if you’d stayed just a while longer?”
Just wait ‘till you discover why I left so fast... You’ll be changing your mind, then.
Contrary to her thoughts, Riley’s voice was light, balancing precariously before a pit of anxiety that threatened to silence her. “Well, y’know, I didn’t want to...um...” How to put it nicely, so that it didn’t sound like she wanted to fight? “Take up space, or your food. You know...” I didn’t want to burden you. Why was she putting herself through this stupid conversation?
“I—I actually have something I need to tell you,” she blurted out. “It’s... It’s actually the reason why I moved. I moved out of Seattle, I came back here, and I decided I would get my own place, hopefully settle down in one spot...” She could hear her heart thrumming in her ears. Here it came, she wasn’t ready, this was going to be so hard to say...
“I—I, um... Dad, y—you’re going to be a grandpa.”
The silence. Oh, that vicious silence. So sharp, so all-encompassing, it could tear her chest right open, she could fall right into it.
"Uh—Oh, wow. Riley, that's great. So, uh—who's the father?"
Riley’s breath left her, disappointingly. She almost felt light-headed. This would be the harder part.
“Um,” she stammered, “j—just a guy I’d been with for a couple months.”
“...Just ‘a guy?’ What’s his name? I feel like I shouldn’t have to ask you this. Like, I should know him already.” That reprimanding tone she remembered as a child was seeping back into his voice. It sounded older, more gravelly now, but discouraging all the same.
She shook her head. “It... It didn’t last. He... Look, he wouldn’t even care, probably.” Her voice faltered, but her bitterness only intensified.
“Let me guess... You ghosted him?” The tone her dad used was biting.
“Ugh, why does that matter now? I’m warning you now, a kid’s on the way, his—their father’s not around—”
“And that’s likely because you stopped talking to the guy.”
“I—I—know! But it wouldn’t have worked out anyway! I can handle this myself.”
Her dad sighed. “That’s how you’ve always done it—by yourself, alone. I know you’re a loner at heart, Riley, but admit it to yourself that the father needs to know. Because if you haven’t, then you’re essentially robbing the kid of their father!”
"Well, it's not like my mom was around either! So we'll both turn out just fine. I'll do my best. I can do enough for h—them." She recognized the aggression shining in her words once she fell silent, and she took a breath, hoping it would help. Reset. Her mind turned briefly to the penny. Funny, how she forgot all about it until that night.
“I would hope so—and I believe you can,” he added, likely an afterthought. “I just can’t help but feel like, if you hadn’t made these brash choices—if you hadn’t leapt around from place to place, these choices you continue to make wouldn't be so sporadic."
“Wh—What is this about? What are you trying to say?” She demanded, almost desperately. And it's not only my fault for 'leaping around'—maybe I would've found something better if you hadn't guilt-tripped me into enlisting!
“I just wish—I—I hope you’ve planned for this, Rye. It was a lot of work to raise you. And I hope you’re ready to take on a responsibility like that yourself.”
Riley grappled for words, wanting immediately to defend the work she’d done already: “Do you see how much I’ve accomplished since I got here? Don’t you see? I’ve got my own place, it looks nice for once, I’ve held onto this research job so far, and I’ve been searching around for my own car. I’m putting the work in. Are you... Are you disappointed, about this?” She asked, genuinely. A question, suddenly insatiable, that made itself known without warning.
Her father was indignant. “N—No, Riley, I just—don’t want the cycle to continue. You have to stick around for that kid, because if you don’t, then no one else will. You are the one who has to raise them. And you have to do a good job. You can’t just half-ass it.”
What, like you did? Riley wanted to snap. But—no, that wasn't true.
She had to be better than that. She had to be better for Rex. 'Admit it to me—to yourself—to the void—that eternity spent doing nothing isn’t for you.'
Just pretend there’s hope, she told herself, and it was all she could cling to, in this moment. A ridiculous thing.
She said slowly, patiently, “I’ve already made that promise to myself, Dad. Do you believe me?”
He stopped to think: “Yes, Rye. I believe you. And—I see your effort. You’ve done a good job since getting back here.”
Good. Because there’s nothing else we can do about it now. Riley hid her sigh from the phone. This is just how it’s going to be. There was nothing they could change. This was the now.
“So... I’m very happy for you, Rye—I’m very excited. I can’t wait to meet them. My grandkid. Do you have any hopes? Any names?”
“N—No hopes, in particular. As long as they come out healthy, then I’m happy. And, uh, I think I have a name picked out. But...I’m not sure just yet,” she lied.
“If you ever need any help building anything, like a crib or a high chair, just let me know, alright?”
“Alright, Dad. I do have that friend I told you about, who can help me with those things now, too. He’s great.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s good.” He paused. “Maybe further down the line, we can build a swing in the backyard—or tie a tire to the old almond tree, like the one you used to have.”
“Yeah, that’d be... That’d be sweet.” What an unbecoming word of her to use; ‘sweet.’ Riley wasn’t sure if her smile felt genuine, but she’d blindly believe that it was, for now.
A moment of stillness stretched onwards—a thread traveling, straight and true, undisturbed through the air. Riley wasn’t sure how to break it, and neither was her dad, clearly. She just wanted to hang up, but that’d make the already delicate balance of things worse. So she stood there, saying nothing, praying her father was still on the other end of the line.
Eventually, finally, she heard his tired voice. “Look, just...come over, one of these days. We can talk about all of this then, in-depth. You're only five minutes away now, after all. Right?"
Her heart ached. "Right, okay, f—fine."
"I love you, Rye. I hope you know I’m happy for you."
"Love you too, Dad. Th—Thanks." The words sounded so tasteless, like obligation.
Finally, she lowered the phone, and waited for him to end the call. It ended two seconds later.
The phone fell from her hands onto the counter. She couldn’t help a miserable groan as she slouched inwards, cupping her face in her hands.
What a mess. Tears stung her eyes. What a mess she had scattered everywhere. What a mess her father had only ever made worse. And what a mess her mother had started, to begin with.
What a mess their lives had only ever been.
It was after ten, and the fog had indeed broken.
“Do you want to talk about it yet?” Jacob turned his attention from the forest outside to the kitchen table.
Riley thrummed her fingers against the oaken-textured table at the far side of the kitchen; light shined in past valances and opened blinds. “No, not really. But I can’t skirt around it any longer, can I?”
He took the seat opposite from hers at the table. “You can if you really want to.”
Riley cupped her cheek in her palm. The sunlight shining into the kitchen, bouncing off the floor and onto the marbled plank walls, glowed on her reddish skin and in her hazel eyes. “Well, I won’t. Because saying nothing will get me nowhere.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied the walls, stared past them; as though pondering how to answer, or even if she wanted to at all.
“The phone call...went fine, all in all. In fact, it went much better than it could’ve, which I’m glad for. It ended on a...an alright note. A civil note,” she sighed. “He... My dad said he was excited, that I could come over to discuss it with him any time, but...I... I don't know...” She was scowling now, the resentment of it all that lay beneath boiling up towards the surface. She had shown so little of such a feeling prior.
On the supernatural night that Riley and Jacob met again, there were times she looked forlorn, regretful, but not angry, necessarily; not like now. Now, she’d actually reached out to her father like she promised to. It seemed like all the effort gave little payoff thus far, and that likely wrought frustration. Some old wounds never truly heal.
“It still felt disappointing. Discouraging, to have to say all of it, and...listen to him chide me about it after. I tried really hard to not snap at him for it... And I didn’t. So, we didn’t have an argument. Wh—Which is good, I think.”
“That is a good thing,” Jacob agreed, his tone neutral.
She crossed her arms tightly around herself, shoulders spiked upwards. Some things must’ve still stung as if she’d just heard them spoken aloud. A chiding is never fun—especially not from one’s father. He didn’t want to imagine the words said. Or the words that were almost said.
Riley piped up again. “And... No, nevermind. There was something else my dad said, but it isn’t important.” Whatever it was, the woman was quick to dismiss it.
“You sure?” Jacob paused, looked her up and down with a skeptical squint. “That’s it?”
“Yes. That’s it,” was Riley’s curt reply. She swung her legs under the table, he could tell by the way she swayed; some emotion left unspoken lifting from her brow. Her hands lay clasped atop the table. The mellow lilt of her voice was lifted by a dose of casual placidity: “Erm... What’ve you been up to?”
Jacob found yet a new way to pause: “Me?”
“Yeah. I wanna know about you. If ya feel like talking about it.”
Jacob watched as Riley played with the cuff of her longsleeve; it was woven of green wool. It is June, and you are wearing a sweater. Funny, how he hadn’t noticed till now.
He brushed messy strands of hair from his forehead. Athena dozed in the diagonal block of sunlight below his seat. “Oh, alright,” he answered. “I’m still trying to get from point A to point B on the goals I’ve set for myself—” His idea for Riley had set the idea into motion for him, too— “especially the art stuff. I’m starting to find myself distracted with...other things, though, the things that felt important to me on that night.”
“Oh,” it clicked for Riley. “You mean...”
Jacob found his cheek buried in his hand. His words sounded more drab than they had across the entire morning: “It’s just been...a morning. Not good or bad, it just... I’ve been trying to see the good in things, but it’s just not...” He shook his head, moving his hand away to cross over his other arm. He sighed heavily. “Yeah. J—Just a morning.”
“Yeap. That it be.” He had looked away from Riley, so he only faintly heard her fingers tapping against the table. Oh, how the silence stretched on... An empty mural of words not yet said; perhaps never to be said...
“So, you’re still thinking...about Maggie?”
His expression soured. There; she’d finally said it. Yes, he was thinking about Maggie.
“Last night, I was puzzling over where to put the collection of radios and journals downstairs collecting dust. Do I donate the radios? Put the journals in the attic? I know damn well I’m never using them again. Which means they should probably go somewhere. Make room for new things.” He’d leaned to the side, his fingers against his chin, lost. "I—I just don't know what I'd put in their places. Those have been there for five years."
"You don't have to move that stuff."
"But I should. Or they're gonna sit there for another half a decade."
Riley was starting to sound impatient. "Jacob... I know you want to change things. But do you think..." Then she hesitated.
He watched her, because just what was she trying to say, now?
Her next words unraveled slowly: "Have you been thinking about the last letter she left you?"
Jacob felt his hostility glaze over with something heavier. “Why bring that up?”
"I—I know the question sounds unwarranted, but—My intentions are pure. I just wanted to ask because I know it's on your mind. You're—You’re a thinker. I can't imagine you not thinking about it."
You know me too well. That, or I’m just too predictable. He bit back the bitter thought for something more amicable. "I—Yeah, I’m thinking about it—but so what? What does that change? I’m still, just...” He rested a hand against the back of his neck. “...trying to answer the question she left me. I...don’t know how to do that.
“It’s like a three-dimensional equation. I look at it in different ways, but I’m still clueless as to how to solve it, every time.” He looked elsewhere, anywhere else, but nothing could shield him from Riley’s stare.
“Maybe now isn’t the right time to solve it,” she said plainly. “Maybe right now, you can focus on something else. Something better for you. Y’know what, man—” She shrugged, looking around—“Let’s just, like, hang out. Do something.”
“I mean, sure, I guess.” He pondered a moment, considering the kindness of her suggestion. “You did say you were bored...”
“I did, so choose something not boring.”
“‘Not boring?’ What counts as boring for you? Because my hobbies range greatly in subjectivity from fun to boring. There is nothing athletic in my repertoire, as I know you’re so inclined towards.”
“Um... Sitting still, staring at a rock. Probably the most painful thing you could subject me to.”
“Sounds like you’re in luck! I have approximately one hobby that involves that, depending on the subject.”
“I’m...surprised...that’s even...a...thing you would do. But I really shouldn’t be. It’s you we’re talking about.”
Sigh. Subjective tastes. “It’s called drawing, Riley. Did I not have this conversation with you on the boat ride to Edwards? All that talk about creating stuff?”
“Oh. It makes sense when you put it that way.”
"'That way.' Alright, sassafras, lemme get the things I need if we’re gonna dive into this."
It took him all of a few minutes to grab the things he needed from upstairs; she seemed bewildered by the copious amounts of sketchbooks and pencils and erasers cradled in his arms when he trudged down the stairs, and through the door to the balcony. He took a very careful stroll down the balcony steps, and dropped all the supplies on the ground in a pile.
"You weren't kidding," she noted.
He strangely found the humor to chuckle, and a grin burst forth. “There’s a whole collection sitting next to all the books on my dresser. But enough of that—wanna learn the fundamentals of drawing that I assume you don’t know?”
“Heck, why not. It’s time for you to teach me something with all that knowledge of yours.”
“Okay.” He sat down, and lifted a sketchbook in his hand, leaning in such a way that she could not see the contents he was paging through. “This sketchbook has so much...trash in it... Here! A few pages I can show you.”
He finally scooted in, levitating the open sketchbook over to her. “You can draw really anything you look at, if you’ve got enough practice,” he mentioned as she studied his pieces. The first was a landscape, then he flipped to a canine, and then a still life; all in a deep black medium, the strokes composing them sharp-edged, thick, textured, and surprisingly, elegant. Some were smeared in places, giving the strokes depth past their trajectories. In black and white, they seemed real, yet blurry—dreamlike in composition. He liked that about charcoal sticks. A messy, but versatile medium. They offered such distance, such cover, for their little form. The only problem he had with them was when he dropped one and it shattered everywhere, and Athena would come scrambling over to lick up the pieces. Then he’d have to try passionately and often ungracefully to shoo her away from the mess (often without resolve).
“Wow, these are... I know you said you like creating things, but I didn’t know you were this passionate.”
“Er...thanks! They’re not...flawless. I’ve poured hours into doing this stuff since I was a kid, so of course the skill was acquired eventually. Funnily enough, Maggie was actually the one who taught me how to draw. I learned the basics from there, and...took off.”
“Yeah, you’re damn good, man! You said these were trash?”
“N—Uh—They’re not, just by my standards. I guess.” He was beginning to regret putting it that way. “That’s—y’know! Every artist says that!”
“Well, then lower your standards,” Riley countered, “because now I get it. I see why you crave recognition for your creation—you’ve been doin’ it this whole time for yourself.”
“Yeah, well,” Jacob shrugged, offering a quirkish simper, “now I’ve finally got someone to share it with.”
Riley waited expectantly as he sat perched on the higher step behind her. “Teach me. Teach me your ways, Jedi Master.”
“Alright, young Padawan—” Riley snuck him a glower (the first time he’d joked about her being older than him was by accident, but every time after was on purpose)— “We can start simple. Anyone can make art. All you need is paper and a pencil! So, I’ll pick something out, and...eh, let’s start with a charcoal stick. This here’s a soft. These are my go-to when I wanna make something quick. Impressionable.”
He reached ahead of her (rather awkwardly) to grab the couple of things he needed. He wondered if her impartial expression was inherent, or if the warning she gave him that she’d be bored was well-founded.
“Alright, let’s see... What to draw... Ah, hey!” He shuffled past her to hop down the stairs and grab something off the beaten path beyond the gravel driveway. Then he plopped it down in front of their spot.
“Oh my god, you weren’t kidding,” she groaned. “We are literally sitting still, staring at a rock.”
“Ah—I didn’t plan that.” Jacob’s admittance bubbled into a laugh. His voice afterwards grew smaller with every word: “It’s funner...than it...sounds...”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Riley responded a bit skeptically, though the hint of an amused smile played at her lips.
Jacob moved to perch down in front of her. “Alright, so the basic fundamentals—there are a lot—so the ones I’ll focus on, because they’re most applicable to this drawing, is, firstly, composition. Where are you gonna put the drawing? Are you gonna draw just the rock? Or are you going to include the shadow it’s casting, or the ground beneath it? That might also depend on how you choose to shade it. With charcoal, it’s simple. You push the charcoal harder for more dark, lighter for less dark. Now, the thing I’m gonna do first, to make it easier, is sketch out the shape of the rock. I’m just gonna place it smack-dab in the middle of the paper. Not gonna think about it too hard.”
He constructed the silhouette of the stone in a series of thin lines; some straight, some rounded. The motions were quick, habitual, almost thoughtless. Then he studied the rock. Its top glowed with sunlight, the bottom descending into shadow. Squinting made it easier to make out the lightest spot, the darkest spot. “You’ll shade—or, color in—the rock the way you see it, and, with your finger, you smear the lighter shades—pull them out, sort of—from the darker places. For the lightest places, you don’t have to put any color down at all.”
“Oh. I never thought of that,” Riley cocked her head.
“Yeah,” Jacob nodded. He continued; he placed down the darkest parts, and erased away the lightest areas. Then he smeared and scribbled in the parts that needed clarity, and added its shadow, complete with some small textures for detail. It was a quicker drawing, a bit sketchy, but he was done.
“Bam! Prolly took me about all of four minutes.”
“That was...surprisingly captivating.” The woman sitting behind him hummed. “And now you expect me to be able to do this?”
“Anyone can draw, Riley. You think I was a pro when Maggie taught me? Here’s the sketchbook,” he stood to switch places, “now you draw.”
She scooted one step down. He passed her the sketchbook, flipped to the next page, and moved backwards to the higher step behind her.
She took the charcoal stick in her dominant hand, but looked as though she didn’t know how to hold it. “Uh... Do I hold it like a pencil?”
“Kind of,” Jacob squeaked, “but you hold it at an angle, so you don’t risk breaking it. That’s never fun mid-doodle.”
She’d gotten about as far as the silhouette and some sloppy lines that represented the shadows cast upon the rock before she sighed, “This is...”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jacob reassured her. “Just keep going. You might like it when you’re done.”
He watched as the shapes formed by her hand, as the shadows were softened by one careful fingertip. She looked back and forth from the subject to her interpretation of it. Not bad, for an amateur.
“Y’know,” she turned to him briefly, “I haven’t done this since sixth grade.”
“How’s it feel?” he tried.
“Um, it’s interesting. And it’s tough to gage how far I am, whether I’m done. I think I’m almost there...”
By the time she was done, she cracked up at how amateurish her piece looked compared to his practiced hand. “I’m sorry,” she cracked mid-snicker. “But this is...harder than it looks.”
"No, no, but you did good!” Jacob assured, his voice light and uplifted. “So, tell me: did you enjoy the process?"
“I dunno. I found myself getting...lost in it, for a minute there,” she admitted. “It was interesting, like I said. I see why you like it. Maybe if I was more used to it, it wouldn’t feel so foreign, and I’d enjoy it more.”
“So would you say you got lost in it like you do with your climbing?” He gave her a curious look, excited for her opinion, though it was very difficult not to pry with such a feeling—such a different feeling. When was the last time he’d felt so excited to talk about an interest to someone?
“That’s a decent comparison to make. Maybe.”
His fingers weaved together. Charcoal dust stained his hands. "Um... Do you feel accomplished, at having made something? That's the best part. For me."
Riley tilted her head to and fro, considering. Ultimately, she nodded.
His face lightened, and he felt emboldened to continue. "It doesn't have to look good. It doesn't have to mean something. It's just nice to have made something, sometimes. Maybe you'll look back on it and think, 'Man. I was cooking something with this.'
"But...sometimes you will make something with an intention. You'll find yourself connecting with what you create, and what you feel. I don't know. Maybe I'm thinking about that because I saw something cool out in the woods this morning."
Riley stayed quiet. She looked out that way, then back at him, and smiled. “Thanks for showing me this.”
The grayish lines beneath her eyes defied such a bright remark—she looked as though she needed this, somehow.
In turn, he replied just as warmly: "You'll have to teach me something, next time."