Sight unseen, p.10
Sight Unseen, page 10
“My father did, but I doubt he cares. Not many people do.”
“You do.”
To an extent that it involves Grace, and that’s because of Antaris.
Hiram stares at the blank wall. “I’ve done all I can. I’ve been compliant, answered their questions, but it’s best if I let the authorities do their jobs. Mine is to take care of Antaris.”
“You’re right.” John clears his throat. “Help him find his voice.”
“Right now, I’d take his trust over his voice,” Hiram admits quietly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s late. When he wakes up, I’ll have him—”
“No, no. You don’t have to.” John pauses. “His silence . . . is hard.”
Hiram, who doesn’t even know what Antaris’s voice sounds like, understands more than he’ll ever admit. “You can write to him. I’ve started giving him notes each morning. He likes it.”
“Yeah? Okay, I’ll do that. Call me next month?”
“I will.” They’ve agreed to keep the communication open, no matter how difficult it is.
When Hiram ends the call, he lies back down on the floor beside Antaris’s bed. His indifference to the white walls and crown molding reshapes into distaste.
Sleep is impossible, but he tries.
Lunch on Saturday is yet another in a series of failures. Hiram’s still cleaning up when Peter arrives, the talisman letting him in without hesitation. Antaris greets Peter with a squint, but he’s mostly gotten used to his godfather’s presence. And his gifts.
Today, Peter brings a watercolor activity book that excites Antaris more than anything he’s received so far. Once the boy is settled and painting a picture of a cat—the animal matching his pendant—Peter joins Hiram at the table, where he’s sipping coffee because it’s too early for liquor.
“How did you know he likes painting?”
“Teachers and his tutor. Apparently, he’s most focused during art class and story time.”
“Maybe I should work on cracking his picky eating.”
Peter’s brow rises. “What do you mean? Didn’t you get the list?”
Hiram frowns. “What list?”
“Of course she didn’t give it to you.”
“Explain.”
“Antaris got a walk-through of the school kitchens. They made a list of everything he likes. It was given to Simran, but I guess she didn’t pass it on to you.”
“No, she didn’t.” Antaris barely touched the meat loaf and mashed potatoes he made last night, but he did catch him eating baby carrots and apple slices later. He didn’t say anything at the time, just felt grateful his kid was eating. Meanwhile, there was a goddamn list.
Is he surprised? No.
His mother has always liked to control the narrative, twisting details so she comes out on top. She’d rather let Hiram spiral into failure, to swoop in like a hero with a solution she already had.
He excuses himself to call his mother, who doesn’t answer. He tries twice more; the last call is declined after one ring. A strategic avoidance tactic. Irritated, he calls his father, who answers and tells him that his mother is playing games, but can’t remember where she went. Hiram knows, though.
“Can you do me a favor?” he asks Peter. “Watch him while I step out?”
“Of course.”
After telling Antaris that he will return, just like he wrote on his note, which earns him a cautious look, Hiram leaves.
Simran is a creature of habit, like Hiram. She loves board games, and has a short list of places she frequents. Hiram pulls up outside Zephyr, the members-only lounge his mother has frequented since his childhood. The sign outside confirms she’s probably here. It’s Mancala Day. Simran prefers Pallankuli, but this is the closest she’s found in America. The entry fee is exorbitant for nonmembers, but Hiram pays with his Imprint and ignores the hostess asking where he’d like to sit. He’s not staying.
Inside, the ambience is a strange mix of pretentious displays of wealth and the casualness of a bar. Music hums beneath the chatter of the city’s elite. Some drink and laugh; others gamble over pachisi games with more money than most people earn in a month. He spots her instantly, surrounded by older women, a white porcelain teacup in her hand—masala chai, knowing her—smile wide and gleaming.
It falters when she sees him, then snaps back into place, too tight. “Hiram, love. What brings you here?”
The table turns to look. He flashes a polite, practiced smile. “Afternoon, ladies. I just wanted to borrow my mother. It won’t be long.”
“Take her,” one woman says. “She’s been beating us for the last hour.”
“I cannot help that you are all sore losers,” Simran preens.
They playfully mock her as she leads Hiram to a quiet corner. Her smile vanishes the moment they’re alone. She’s not happy with him. Good. It’s mutual.
“How rude of you to barge into my game. What is it that you need?”
“The list.”
“What list?”
Hiram stares at her. “The last thing I’d ever describe you as is stupid.”
Simran’s eyes harden, but she pulls a folded paper out of the pocket of her navy saree. Hiram scans it, folds it, then slips it into his jacket pocket.
“Where is Antaris?”
“At home painting with Peter.”
“I have several friends with grandchildren his age. Th—”
“No,” Hiram cuts her off. “You’re not doing this today.”
Simran’s face shifts to confusion. “Surely you are not upset with me.”
“Not upset. Disappointed. This is your second strike,” Hiram warns with a tight smile, knowing they have an audience. “Enjoy your day, Mother.”
He steps around her and walks out without looking back.
Fueled by frustration, he walks four blocks, happens upon a grocery store, skims the list long enough to pick out what he needs for dinner, and leaves calmer than he arrived.
That night, he makes pasta with three vegetables the list notes Antaris likes. When he eats two plates without prompting, for the first time in months, Hiram doesn’t feel so lost.
The moving boxes from London and Los Angeles arrive on Monday morning.
While Antaris is at school, Hiram unpacks his son’s old life. He organizes his closet, anchors pictures to the wall, and fills his empty shelves with books. He suspects Antaris would rather decide where his belongings go, a suspicion that’s confirmed when he sees the boy’s face as they open the first box after Antaris gets home from school.
He isn’t prepared for the lessons packed into each box. The first reveals that Antaris likes to paint more than the doodles Peter told him about. The box is filled with art supplies, a small foldable easel, and several wrapped watercolor paintings. Antaris stares at them for so long, Hiram wonders if they’ll finish unpacking at all today. Trees with a winding trail. A gray cat with green eyes. A vase of flowers. Storm clouds over trees. None of them look like they were painted by a child.
“Your mom painted these?” Hiram feels odd for asking.
Antaris’s tension confirms it. Unsure what to say, Hiram watches as his son props each piece against the mirror on his dresser.
“We can get them framed and hang them up, if you’d like.”
Antaris looks over his shoulder, hazel eyes wide and hopeful.
Hiram sees his next mission. “We . . . can go buy frames together.”
Antaris looks at the art one last time, then nods. Hiram’s tempted to go now, to capitalize on the momentum, but he doesn’t want to push.
The second box reveals that his son shares Simran’s love of games and puzzles. The building blocks inside are the same kind Hiram had as a child. He stacks them in the empty hall closet while Antaris watches with curious concern.
“You can open the closet whenever you want,” Hiram assures him.
The boy relaxes, and they move on to the third box.
It’s the heaviest, and confirms that his son’s college-professor sense of style is normal. The box is full of clothes he can wear now, and knitted bow ties that Antaris organizes with unusual care. A few casual things Hiram folds and puts away, shirts with grass stains and jeans with paint splatter, but what he finds odd is the abundance of hooded coats, boots, gloves, and scarves. They’re out of season, and all have tags. Why Grace bought winter clothes in March is as unsettling as realizing everything is a size too big—perfect for the upcoming winter.
Antaris is too short to hang his own clothes, so he watches as Hiram does it for him. The last box remains unopened when their pizza arrives. Antaris likes extra cheese. Hiram prefers meat lovers, but it’s a small sacrifice to see his son practically inhale two slices. They finish eating in record time, and Hiram is surprised when Antaris brings his plate and cup to the sink.
“You don’t ha—” Hiram stops when worry etches Antaris’s brow. “You want to help?”
This is how he learns his son knows how to wash dishes, as well as a six-year-old can.
Hiram dries and wipes the counters. When he finishes, Antaris stands in the living room doorway in rain boots, shuffling, note in hand. Hiram doesn’t understand what it means until he gets closer and Antaris hands it to him.
In only a couple of weeks, the itinerary Hiram gave him is now worn. He unfolds it and sees the issue: It’s torn.
“You want me to fix it?”
Antaris nods.
The only tape Hiram has is for moving boxes, but he sits at the coffee table and does what he can while Antaris hovers. Three strips later, the paper is whole again. After handing it back to his son, who leaves in the direction of his room, Hiram’s eyes fall on the table. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s writing another note to replace the one that’s torn. Just in case.
He’s on his fifth balled-up paper when he notices Antaris again, now in a rain jacket that matches his boots, hood up, despite clear skies. Ready to wander, no doubt. Feeling like he’s been caught doing something wrong, Hiram awkwardly folds the paper and offers it. The same reassurance on fresh paper. “I thought you might want a new one to keep?”
Hiram is prepared to blame himself for trying too hard, but Antaris accepts it with both hands.
Seven
Veda isn’t late for her tutoring session with Antaris, but she will be if she doesn’t leave the greenhouse now.
She finds Antaris alone in the cafeteria, tidy as usual in his uniform and bow tie. His book bag is on the seat beside him, lunch box on the table, jacket on the back of his chair. She observes until he lifts his head. That’s her cue. Pushing open the door, she lets in a breeze with her entrance. It’s been just over a month since Antaris came into her life, and each session reinforces the quiet rhythm they’ve found together. Veda isn’t sure who’s helping whom more.
“Hello there.”
That gets his attention, until his eyes drop to her side. In her haste, Veda forgot to drop off the lavender sprigs meant for the school’s stores. She sits beside him and places them on the table.
His eyes never leave.
“Do you like plants?”
He taps the table twice. Yes.
“These are just some stems that broke off, but there are plenty more ready to go in the ground.” She’s not one for interpreting his silence, but his open awe is easy to translate. “I can take you to the garden, and we can plant the rest together.”
Antaris nearly jumps to his feet.
Veda cracks a slow smile, tucking the lavender away and leading him out of the cafeteria. Outside, he grows cautious and unsure, trailing behind. She glances encouragingly over her shoulder. “Come on.”
He dashes back inside before she can stop him. Confused, Veda waits until he returns, umbrella in hand.
“Oh, it’s going to rain later. I suppose we can’t be too prepared.” Before she can talk herself out of it, she offers her hand. He doesn’t take it but walks beside her, close yet distant.
His eyes roam curiously over the animals. The trees. The sky. Watching him, Veda notices his bow tie is now crooked. She reaches to fix it, but panic plays across his face. “I’m sorry, I should have asked first. May I?”
He holds her gaze, then slowly nods. Veda carefully adjusts the bow tie while he bends his head down as best as he can to watch. It’s twisted around the back, so she fixes it under his collar. He’s slow to relax, careful to move.
“There you go,” she murmurs. “Is this your favorite? It’s the only one I’ve seen you wear.” When he nods, Veda smiles. “Well, I like it, too. Whoever made it is talented.”
The bottom of her heart drops when Antaris’s eyes water. He turns away to hide his face, and his broken whimper tells Veda she’s made a mistake and unearthed his pain.
The bow tie. His mother must have made it.
His shoulders shake with each ragged breath as he fights to keep inside what desperately wants out. Silence amplifies his grief, shaking her to the core as she watches him struggle, fighting it . . . until Veda whispers his name, reminding him that he’s not alone. With red cheeks and wet eyes, he starts to back away but freezes when she calls him again. Lips quivering, he scrubs his tears away with clenched fists, and hides his face again.
“Can I help?” The urge to do something, to reach for him, give this hurting child the comfort he so desperately needs. But he shakes his head.
“Okay. We’ll stay here until you’re ready. Take as long as you need.”
Antaris sinks to his knees, gazing at the sky. She’s done the same countless times before, but when she joins him, she wonders if it’s for the same reason.
“My parents are gone. Like your mom,” Veda says gently. The heartbreak in his eyes steals her breath. “We spent every summer riding around the country in an old camper van because my parents loved road trips. I used to hate it, always complaining because I wanted to stay home. When I was sixteen, I was swimming in a lake we were parked by while they were grilling lunch. One moment they were there, the next . . . gone. Vanished. Like so many others.”
When she feels a small hand on hers, Veda smiles sadly.
“I haven’t stopped missing them, just like you haven’t stopped missing your mom. Some days are easier. Some aren’t. The worst is forgetting the little things, so when that happens, I look to the sky, because even though I can’t see them, I know they’re still with me—woven into the Cosmos. Your mom, too.”
Antaris nods in teary understanding, eyes not leaving the sky. Veda doesn’t realize her own eyes are wet until her vision blurs. The breeze dries their cheeks as the sun peeks out once the clouds roll on. It feels like hours pass before Antaris stands.
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
He nods slowly, then points, as if asking her the same.
“I’m sure.” Veda points toward their destination. “Let’s go.”
The garden swells with freshly planted life. Veda hangs his umbrella on the gate latch while Antaris wanders between rows of fruits, vegetables, and herbs.
Raised beds line four grassy aisles leading to the greenhouses. Flowering bushes border the fences that enclose the garden. Veda lingers near the entrance, watching as Antaris looks around with his hands behind his back. Careful. Respectful. But when he reaches the bed with an assortment of camas, red columbines, and common yarrow wildflowers that are in full bloom, Veda joins him.
Still worried about his outburst, she puts on a brave face. “Do you like them?”
He doesn’t need to answer; his fascination is clear. It’s as if he’s trying to memorize the smallest details, examining them from every angle, but he doesn’t touch. Veda follows his lead, naming the flowers for him. “Each one was planted to bring in bees to help with pollination.”
Antaris turns, listening.
“Have you seen bees?”
His confirmation is still stilted, but she takes whatever she can get. Emboldened, she steers him to where her tools remain, but there’s only one pair of gloves. Veda turns to find Antaris waiting for her next move.
It’s one neither of them expects. She kneels before him, startling him back a step, and beckons him closer. “Gloves will protect your hands while we’re planting. They’re too big for you, but something is better than nothing.”
The standoff doesn’t last as long as she expects. Antaris takes one cautious step closer, then another, before finally holding out his hands.
“Next time, I’ll have a pair that fits you.”
Antaris’s expression doesn’t change, but with one oversized glove on, he points at her hand.
“Don’t worry, my hands are rough. They can take it.”
Apparently that isn’t it. He steps closer, eyes on her arm, head tilted. She doesn’t realize why until she notices the scars from her curse peeking out from under her sleeve. She quickly adjusts it. “It’s from a while ago. An accident.”
He frowns.
“I’m okay,” she lies gently, slipping on the second glove for him. He won’t be able to grip much, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Veda leads him to a half-dug hole and drops to her knees in the dirt. Antaris stands beside her, watching intently. She picks up the hand shovel and digs into the soft earth. “Do you want to plant this one?”
He nods.
Veda gestures for him to kneel like her. He does, nearly stumbling. Embarrassed, he settles and looks to her, waiting. She almost asks if he’s okay but decides against it. Loosening the soil, she pulls a lavender plant from its plastic pot and hands it over. “Right here.”
Antaris works with care, gently filling the hole with the surrounding dirt. They move to the next spot, and Veda grabs another baby lavender plant, starting to dig a new hole.
“Sometimes, when I feel nervous or scared, when everything feels too heavy, I come here. Watching things grow and change makes me feel better. Stronger. Planting, watering, and harvesting remind me that, no matter what, everything will be fine.”
Antaris listens, rapt.
“I’m out here more than I like to admit.” She chuckles, shaking her head. “Cosmos, I’m unloading on a six-year-old.”
But he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s quietly taking it all in.
