letters.
Emma’s never been to Sexton College, even though it’s less than an hour away from their house. She knows it’s where her parents met. Where they studied art A Long Time Ago. Sometimes, Emma says, “I’m going to go to Sexton when I grow up,” and her parents talk in their irritated-but-trying-to-sound-calm voices, and tell her there are plenty of schools out there and we’ll just have to wait and see, and besides, Sexton might not even be around by then.
Emma’s dad turns down the radio, which is fine by Emma. She doesn’t get baseball at all. B-O-R-I-N-G. Emma shifts in her seat, puts her hand on the worn green sleeve of Danner’s shirt and asks the question again.
“How did you die?”
Danner turns back toward her, shakes her head. “Who says I did die? Who says I’m not some future version of you, or the daughter you’ll have one day, peeking in from the transparency all the way on the bottom?”
“You’re not me,” Emma says. Her head is starting to hurt. She wishes they’d hurry up and get home.
“Your parents think so. They think you invented me,” Danner tells her.
Is it Emma’s imagination, or has Danner’s face changed a little now? She looks a lot more like Emma. A grownup-girl version of Emma wearing a Sexton College sweatshirt. Emma closes her eyes tight. She doesn’t like it when Danner plays these games.
“But I didn’t.”
“Are you sure?” Danner asks.
“Yes,” Emma answers. “You’re real.” To prove her point she reaches out and touches the sleeve of the sweatshirt again.
“So you can’t invent something real, imagine it to life?” Danner pinches the thin skin on the top of Emma’s hand.
“Ow!” Emma cries, pulling her hand away. “Whose side are you on anyway?” Emma asks, annoyed.
Danner laughs. It’s that quiet, cat-sneeze-sounding laugh.
“Yours,” she says, smiling a sly smile. Her face is her own again. “I’m always on yours.”
Chapter 6
T ESS HAS WORKED LATE into the night to finish the grotto. Coleman lanterns hiss around her. Her fingers have holes burned in them from the cement. At some point or other she always takes off the thick, clumsy rubber gloves, needing to feel the sculpture take shape against her skin, forgetting, in the moment, the acid-burn pain that contact will bring.
The grotto is the latest addition to her ferrocement sculpture garden. The Island of Doctor Moreau is Henry’s name for it—he jokes, but the truth is, great artwork or not, she knows he finds the whole thing unsettling.
Emma, on the other hand, has always loved the garden. She’s spent hours, whole summer days, playing out here, imagining it to be its own country, a land she’s named Freesia. She even made up a little song, a sort of national anthem:
Everyone’s free in Freesia
The lions, the dodos and me
We wear what we like, we go swimming at night
Everyone’s free in Freesia!
The garden began, eight years ago, with the sculpture of Henry and Tess themselves, stuck in the middle of a long-abandoned, overgrown flower garden just between the house and Tess’s painting studio. She created a form with rebar and chicken wire, then covered it with layers of carefully sculpted cement.
Tess named that first piece The Wedding Dance. It’s a life-size sculpture of the two of them dancing, his arm around her waist, her right hand clasped tightly in his left. From the waist down, they have the bodies of lions, tufted tails held gracefully. Their human faces seem frightened, a little horrified even, like they’ve just glanced down for this first time and discovered what’s happened to them. They understand there’s no going back. They’re stuck this way forever.
“Why lions?” Henry asked. “Lions are supposed to represent strength, right? Power? So why do we look so scared?”
“Lions are killers, Henry.”
His face went pale. He never asked about the sculpture again.
After The Wedding Dance came the dodos, a parade of
Emma’s never been to Sexton College, even though it’s less than an hour away from their house. She knows it’s where her parents met. Where they studied art A Long Time Ago. Sometimes, Emma says, “I’m going to go to Sexton when I grow up,” and her parents talk in their irritated-but-trying-to-sound-calm voices, and tell her there are plenty of schools out there and we’ll just have to wait and see, and besides, Sexton might not even be around by then.
Emma’s dad turns down the radio, which is fine by Emma. She doesn’t get baseball at all. B-O-R-I-N-G. Emma shifts in her seat, puts her hand on the worn green sleeve of Danner’s shirt and asks the question again.
“How did you die?”
Danner turns back toward her, shakes her head. “Who says I did die? Who says I’m not some future version of you, or the daughter you’ll have one day, peeking in from the transparency all the way on the bottom?”
“You’re not me,” Emma says. Her head is starting to hurt. She wishes they’d hurry up and get home.
“Your parents think so. They think you invented me,” Danner tells her.
Is it Emma’s imagination, or has Danner’s face changed a little now? She looks a lot more like Emma. A grownup-girl version of Emma wearing a Sexton College sweatshirt. Emma closes her eyes tight. She doesn’t like it when Danner plays these games.
“But I didn’t.”
“Are you sure?” Danner asks.
“Yes,” Emma answers. “You’re real.” To prove her point she reaches out and touches the sleeve of the sweatshirt again.
“So you can’t invent something real, imagine it to life?” Danner pinches the thin skin on the top of Emma’s hand.
“Ow!” Emma cries, pulling her hand away. “Whose side are you on anyway?” Emma asks, annoyed.
Danner laughs. It’s that quiet, cat-sneeze-sounding laugh.
“Yours,” she says, smiling a sly smile. Her face is her own again. “I’m always on yours.”
Chapter 6
T ESS HAS WORKED LATE into the night to finish the grotto. Coleman lanterns hiss around her. Her fingers have holes burned in them from the cement. At some point or other she always takes off the thick, clumsy rubber gloves, needing to feel the sculpture take shape against her skin, forgetting, in the moment, the acid-burn pain that contact will bring.
The grotto is the latest addition to her ferrocement sculpture garden. The Island of Doctor Moreau is Henry’s name for it—he jokes, but the truth is, great artwork or not, she knows he finds the whole thing unsettling.
Emma, on the other hand, has always loved the garden. She’s spent hours, whole summer days, playing out here, imagining it to be its own country, a land she’s named Freesia. She even made up a little song, a sort of national anthem:
Everyone’s free in Freesia
The lions, the dodos and me
We wear what we like, we go swimming at night
Everyone’s free in Freesia!
The garden began, eight years ago, with the sculpture of Henry and Tess themselves, stuck in the middle of a long-abandoned, overgrown flower garden just between the house and Tess’s painting studio. She created a form with rebar and chicken wire, then covered it with layers of carefully sculpted cement.
Tess named that first piece The Wedding Dance. It’s a life-size sculpture of the two of them dancing, his arm around her waist, her right hand clasped tightly in his left. From the waist down, they have the bodies of lions, tufted tails held gracefully. Their human faces seem frightened, a little horrified even, like they’ve just glanced down for this first time and discovered what’s happened to them. They understand there’s no going back. They’re stuck this way forever.
“Why lions?” Henry asked. “Lions are supposed to represent strength, right? Power? So why do we look so scared?”
“Lions are killers, Henry.”
His face went pale. He never asked about the sculpture again.
After The Wedding Dance came the dodos, a parade of
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