Chapter Seventeen

As I approach the front door, I hear the strains of a familiar voice flowing from the living room.

“Being an artist is the most import aspect of your identity. You are an artist first and everything else flows from that. Never forget it. You are not human or female or even my daughter. You are an artist.”

It’s my mom. Dad must be listening to one of the videos on the laptop because everything about this speech sounds familiar.

I stand for a moment with one hand on the doorknob, listening. I never realized how melodramatic Mom was when she talked about art. Telling me I’m not even human? Seriously?

As soon as I walk in the front door, Dad slams the laptop shut, but we both know I’ve caught him in the act.

I could swear his eyes look like they’re actually shining. Like he’s tearing up at Mom’s passionate speech.

Kelly runs from the foot of Dad’s recliner to where I’m standing at the door and sniffs me all over. She continues sniffing up and down my whole body so thoroughly and for so long it starts to get awkward.

Dad’s brow furrows accusingly, and if it wasn’t for Kelly’s comical enthusiasm for the smell of fried dough, I’d probably be pissed at him for assuming the worst.

The dog’s fuzzy snout digs into my side, tickling me, and I can’t help but squeal with laughter.

I gesture to the dog and explain, “Fair’s in town.”

Kelly’s tail is wagging like crazy, and Dad gives a chuckle of relief.

I point to the closed computer on his lap and ask with false casualness, “Whatcha watching?”

His expression tenses again. After a pause, he nods and says, “I was thinking I would maybe give your mom’s videos back to you.”

This was not what I was expecting and I’m stunned into silence.

“I still don’t like you watching them all the time, but they were meant for you.” He sighs. “I didn’t really have the right to take them away.”

He holds the closed laptop up to me and I move closer to take it, stuffing it quickly under my arm like a book.

We stand for a minute, both looking at the other’s feet. Finally, I turn mine in the direction of the stairway.

Drawing a quick breath, he asks, “So, how much crap did you eat at the fair?”

I turn back. “A funnel cake the size of my head, plus a few fried Oreos.”

“What? No pepper steak?”

“Well, of course I ate a pepper steak. That’s not crap though.”

He laughs. “Do they still have that horrific Zipper ride you always loved so much and made me go on?”

“Me?” I point a finger at him. “You’re the one who loved all the wild rides.”

In an instant and for a moment, I am his daughter again.

I think of him trying to connect with me in the stockroom at Danny’s. He’s not always the easiest guy on the planet to get along with, but I have to admit to myself that he probably doesn’t really hate me.

Sliding the laptop onto the coffee table, I walk over and sit on the arm of his chair.

Dad sets his phone aside and absentmindedly pulls at the crease on his jeans.

“Thank you for giving me back the videos,” I say.

He clears his throat and nods. “You know, I really am sorry I didn’t tell you about Linda earlier.”

I shrug. “Our first meeting might not have involved flying food if it had been planned a little better.”

“You seem to have inherited your mother’s explosive personality.”

I cross my arms. “We prefer the term ‘artistic temperament.’”

Dad sighs. “I know that becoming an artist is a way to keep her alive.” He reaches up to put his hand on my shoulder. “But are you able to see how it destroyed her?”

“You’re wrong, Dad.” But he’s building into one of his anti-art rants, and I regret letting my guard down.

“Your mom was wrong in that video, Rory. You need to be a person first and an artist second. Your art will never love you back.”

“You just don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand, Rory. Because I cannot lose you too.”

On the word “too,” his face breaks in a way that makes my heart lurch.

I look at how much he’s aged in the past year. I see how afraid he is and recognize that he has no idea how to deal with feelings of fear.

All his training as a cop has taught him to be strong and wrestle the bad guys down to the ground. He sees art as the bad guy, and he’s determined to eradicate it from our lives.

But I can’t just change who I am. I can’t give up on the part of me that is crying out to paint—the lion that is inside that needs to come out. It’s so huge it might not even fit on that water tower, but I need to try.

I sigh. “I’m sorry, Dad. I know you miss her too.”

He pulls me down into his lap like he did when I was little and wraps his arms around me like two big paws that hold me still. I submit, trying to ignore the awkwardness. Dad and I are not huggy people.

Finally, Dad releases me, leans back, and says, “I know making art kept you connected to her and maybe someday you can go back to it. I just feel better—”

“If I let it go for now,” I finish his sentence for him, and he goes in for another hug.

The lion inside me is having a hard time enduring his embrace, knowing that I’m lying. That it still has to come out and have at least one last roar.

I know I can’t just leave that water tower alone.

Artists make art, and I’ve come too far to give up being who I am just so my father will be less afraid. But for right now, in this moment, I can offer him what he needs.

I give him a kiss on his forehead and wrap my hands around his neck like I did when I was little. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “I’m going to be fine.”

There has been a gaping canyon between the two of us, and I realize he’s been trying to build his imperfect bridge in his own damaged way to reach the side where I’m standing alone.

And now I’m building my weak and splintering way toward him as I move to sit down on the coffee table across from his chair. We start slow by sharing memories of Ulster County Fairs gone by with their fried fritters and rickety thrill rides, and while we don’t discuss Mom, we allow space in the room for her memory.

Even Kelly lies down and rests her head on her front paws as she listens to our uneven laughter. It’s okay to relax a little for just a moment.

By the time we finally head up to bed, Dad and I have managed to hang a perilous string bridge across the chasm between us.

Swinging dangerously high, our bridge’s unfinished planks threaten to draw blood with the wood’s sharp edges. And neither side is quite secure. The whole thing could easily plummet into the bottomless canyon, especially if Dad ever finds out about my graffiti lions.

But I trust us enough to believe it will eventually become crossable. Because we are clumsily building our rickety-ass string bridge

with unbreakable strands of love.