When we arrived back at the house, an hour after we left, Henry scooped up all of the kites and was out of my truck before I put it into park. He ran up the walk like he was five instead of fifteen, barreling through the door, while I followed him at a slower pace.
By the time I made it into the kitchen, Millie was running her hands over Henry’s head with a furrowed brow. I lifted one of her hands and placed it against the back of my neck where my hair fell over my collar.
“You were right,” I said simply. “We’re too attached to our hair.”
The furrow lifted but she didn’t drop her hand. She curled her fingers against my scalp and tugged a little, testing its length, and I did my best not to start purring. Henry didn’t. He dropped his head to her shoulder and closed his eyes, completely tamed.
“Don’t fall asleep Henry. We have some kites to fly.”
Millie threw back her head and laughed, her hands dropping to her sides.
“Oh, you didn’t miss that not-so-subtle suggestion, huh?” she snickered.
“Nope. I got it loud and clear. We got you a pink one. Henry picked it out.”
“He knows me well. Pink’s my favorite color.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“Because it has a smell. It has a flavor. Every time I taste something pink I can remember the color. It floods my memory for a second before I lose it again.”
“Huh. I thought you were going to say it’s because you love rugby.”
“Ah, the pink jerseys?” Millie asked.
“Henry needs to get out more,” I answered, laughing.
“Let’s go!” Henry shouted, running for the door, as if taking my advice to heart.
The street was tree-lined, the front yard too small, and the traffic a little too steady to give us an open place to put our kites in the air. We piled back into my truck, Millie in the middle, straddling the gear shift, and Henry sitting by the door, practically bouncing with enthusiasm.
Moses hates my bench seat. He says it’s irritating not to have an arm rest. But Mo isn’t the smartest man, sometimes. I was never more grateful for the bench seat than I was at that moment with Millie pressed up against my side, my right tricep brushing against her breasts every time I shifted. She smelled like fruit. Strawberries or watermelon. She smelled . . . pink. The thought made me smile. She felt pink too. Pink and soft and sweet. Damn. I decided then and there that pink was my favorite color too.
I drove to Liberty Park, just south of downtown, and within minutes, Henry had his kite out and was urging LeBron James into the air.
“He’s done this before,” I said in surprise.
“Not in forever. I can’t remember the last time, actually,” Millie replied. “Is he doing it?”
“Listen,” I said. “Can you hear it?” I listened with her, straining for a sound that would connect her to the visual. Then the kite dipped, caught the wind again, and lifted, making a soft, wop wop in the air, like laundry on a clothes line, flapping in the breeze.
“I hear it!”
“That’s Henry’s kite. He’s a natural.”
“Will you help me get mine in the air? I could take off running, but that might be dangerous. I don’t want to run head first into the pond. There is a pond, isn’t there?”
“Just run away from the sound of the ducks.”
Before long I had our kites airborne, and LeBron James, Elmo, and Millie’s bright pink triangle were dipping and darting, enlivening the pale afternoon sky.
“Give it some slack, Millie!” I hollered as her kite veered downward, tethered too close to the ground. “Let it fly!”
Millie squealed, panicked, but immediately followed my instructions, and her kite corrected itself, catching a draft and soaring higher.
“I can feel it climbing!” she shouted, ebullient. Henry wasn’t the only one who was a natural. He was running back and forth, the kite streaming behind him, his hair falling in his eyes, his cheeks ruddy in the tepid February sunshine.
“If you could go anywhere, just holding onto the tail of that kite, where would it be?” I asked Millie, my eyes on the sky, thinking about the places I’d been. “Or is traveling kind of a scary thought?”
“No. It’s not scary. Just unrealistic. There are lots of places I’d like to go even though I wouldn’t be able to see them. I could still press my hands against the walls and soak them in. Buildings soak up history, you know. Rocks do too. Anything that’s been around a while.” Amelie paused as if waiting for me to snicker or argue. But my best friend can see dead people. I have no doubt that there is a lot we don’t understand. And I can accept that. It’s easier than trying to figure it all out.
“It’s true!” Millie added, even though I hadn’t argued at all. “My mom took me and Henry to the Alamo in San Antonio when I was thirteen. Apparently there are signs all around the Alamo that say ‘Don’t touch the building,’ and it’s cordoned off by rope so you can’t do anything but look. Which is pretty unfair if you ask me. I look with my hands! So my mom got special permission. She was always finding a way to help me experience as much as I could, even if it meant finding someone to let us break the rules. I stood right next to the Alamo and laid my hands and face on the walls and just listened.”
“And what did you hear?” I asked.
“I didn’t hear anything. But I felt something. It’s hard to describe. But it felt like a vibration, almost. The way your legs feel when you’re waiting for a train to go by. That sensation . . . you know what I mean?”