He showed me Calico running in the fields and Georgia reading to him and tucking him in, just like before, but he showed me some new things too. He showed me chicken noodle soup, the noodles so fat there was hardly any broth. And he showed me his toes curling in the dirt, as if he liked the way it felt. I knew they were his toes because they were short and childlike, and as I watched, he made his name above his toes with one small finger, tracing the letters carefully in the dark earth. Then I watched as his hands built a colorful tower, struggling to snap the Lego pieces one on top of the other.
It was the oddest thing, little snippets and snapshots of the life of a little boy. But I watched them, with my eyes closed, letting him pour the pictures into my head. I picked through the images, trying to understand him better. I didn’t want to miss something important, though it all felt important. It all felt absolutely vital, every little detail. I fell asleep dreaming I was helping him erect a wall made out of a million colorful plastic bricks. A wall that would keep him from leaving for good, the way Gi had left for good.
Georgia
AFTER I LOST ELI, I would come out to the horses, and without fail, the horse I was working with would end up lying down in the middle of the corral. Sackett, Lucky, or any of the other horses. It didn’t matter. Whichever horse I was working with or interacting with would lie down like they were too tired to do anything but sleep. I knew they were reflecting what I was feeling. The first couple of times it happened, I just laid down too. I couldn’t change the way I felt. Self-awareness wasn’t enough. The grief was too heavy. But as I forced myself to get back up, the horse would get back up too.
Throughout the first year, there were days when I couldn’t get Calico to budge. He would just stand there, perfectly still, his back to the wind. I thought he was depressed because he missed Eli. But over time, I realized he was mirroring me. I wasn’t lying down anymore but I wasn’t moving forward either. So I’d started working a few more jobs, taking care of myself a little better, and trying to take steps, even if they were small. Even if it was just so Calico would run again.
In the last few months, my horses had started to crowd me, to nip at me and nuzzle me. I supposed they felt my need to touch and be touched. Any mother could tell you that a child invades her space from the moment of conception. And for years after, space does not exist. It was one of the things I had missed. I’d even yearned for it. And then Eli died, and I had all the space I had thought I wanted. Not just a little space. Outer space. Galaxies. And I’d floated in it in agony, longing for the days when there had been no such thing.
Now the horses were crowding me, taking the space away, and I welcomed their heavy bodies and nudging noses, the way they tripped me up and followed too close. It healed me even as I pushed at them and begged for room to move. They knew better. Apparently, my body was saying one thing when my lips said another.
I had let Moses kiss me. And in that moment I was guessing my body and my lips had said the same thing. Sure, I had pulled away. But not right away. I’d let him kiss me first. I had opened my mouth to him and kissed him back. And today the horses were crowding around me again like I was sending out a homing beacon. They were swarming me and they were restless, mimicking the buzz I felt beneath my skin, mirroring my nervous energy. Sackett wouldn’t meet my gaze and hung his head as if he was guilty of something. Looking at him, I realized then that I was ashamed of myself.
I’d let Moses kiss me. And he had no right to kiss me. He’d asked me if I wanted him to go. I shouldn’t have waffled. I should have demanded that he go. Instead, I’d let him in. And he’d kissed me like I was still the girl who had no pride and no rules where he was concerned. Now he was gone, and Kathleen’s house was locked up tight. He’d been gone for two days. No explanation. No goodbyes. For all I knew, I wouldn’t see him again for seven more years. I realized my lips were trembling and there were tears in my eyes, and Sackett suddenly laid his head on my shoulder.
“Dammit, Sackett. Dammit all to hell. It is time to make some new, stricter laws in Georgia. From now on, anyone named Moses is not allowed in. No visits, no crossing boundary lines. Nothing. No one named Moses is allowed in Georgia.”
I’d spent the night before on my laptop trying to dig up every last piece of information I could on Moses Wright. He wasn’t on Facebook or Twitter. But neither was I. We had established a website and Facebook page as well as a Twitter handle for our Equine Therapy Sessions, and I haunted social media under that cover. But when I googled Moses Wright, I was amazed at what I found. The BBC had done a special on him, and there were videos all over YouTube of his painting sessions with clients, although the camera was usually trained on his canvas, as if Moses wanted to keep his face from the screen. There was a Times article about him and about his ability to “paint for the dead,” and People magazine had done a small feature about the “other-worldly brilliance of Moses Wright.”
I realized then that he had made an impressive name for himself and he was a bit of a star, though it seemed he did his best to keep the lowest profile possible. What had Tag said, just in passing, about them traveling all over the world? Judging from the volume of information coming from all corners of the globe, I had no doubt it was the truth. There were hundreds of pictures of his paintings but few of him, though I did find a couple of shots of him at some gala for a hospital. He stood between Tag and another man, a man the caption listed as Dr. Noah Andelin. I found myself wondering again how Moses and Tag had ended up together. Their connection was deep, it was easy to see. And I realized something else. I wasn’t just ashamed. I was jealous.