“Youshouldcare. If only to be a better example for your son and a better friend.”
His blue eyes search hers. For what, Veda isn’t sure, but he must find what he’s looking for because he leans just a hair closer. She doesn’t back down. Peter’s insistence and Hiram’s contradictions push her to question things in ways she hasn’t in a long time. If she strips away everything she’s assumed, what’s left is a blank slate.
“If you’re not like your family, you don’t have the luxury of being neutral,” Veda says. “No one knows what you stand for, so they assume. And that makes you just as complicit as your family.”
Hiram’s jaw ticks. “I don’t have to prove what I believe to anyone.”
“No, you don’t, and you lose nothing watching Seers be dehumanized,” Veda says slowly. “Since it’s not your reality, it’s not your problem, isn’t that right?”
“That’snotwhat I said.”
“You don’t need to. Your silence says enough. Raise your son, no one can fault you, but don’t act like you’re better than your family because you’re not a loud, proud bigot. Say something, sayanything. Have an original thought.Take a stand.”
Veda turns to leave, then stops. “Peter says you’re a good man despite your family, but I’ve never known a good man who spectates.”
Eight
Photographs, like memories, bridge the present and past. The album that beckons Hiram from bed just after five in the morning is not filled withhismemories.
They’re Grace’s.
Hiram has never met the woman on the first page, but he’s certain she’s Grace’s mother, because Antaris’s hair curls like hers when it’s wet, and Grace shared the glimmer in her eyes. The pendant on her shirt catches his attention: a jade frog with citrine eyes. He suspects it’s the trickster pendant. Other photographs prove its lineage in Grace’s family, a reminder that it won’t pass to Antaris unless by miracle. Taking the album with him, Hiram boils water for tea and sits on the stool, flipping to the next page.
The first row of pictures makes him stop. Grace and a newborn Antaris. Exhausted wonder in one frame, joy in the next, her soft smile captured as he yawns. There are more pictures. Antaris sitting, standing, walking, running. She documented it all. Hiram keeps staring at the boy’s smile, as contagious as it is unfamiliar. Intimate and warm, he tries to forge false memories—to be there, to hold him, to name him, to help. But they crumble like dry dough. He missed everything. A flicker of bitterness surfaces.
He shuts the album and reminds himself of the present. Antaris is still asleep, and Hiram has a few things to accomplish before thatchanges. He returns the photo album and starts with Antaris’s book bag, which he didn’t unpack last night.
The teacher’s daily report details high scores, completed assignments, and satisfactory behavior. It also notes his struggles. His silence. His isolation. His reluctance to interact with his peers. Her last comment is new.
He’s ready to make a friend.
The wheels in his mind turn as Hiram signs the note and slips it back into the book bag. He pulls out a few loose papers and finds paintings from art class. One looks like two trees, one with fruit, one bare. Another shows at least a dozen stick figures, all drawn with black paint, holding hands. Their hair is the only difference: two red, two gray, the rest brown and black.
Hiram stares until the kettle whistles, then sticks them to the refrigerator. That’s where he always wanted to put his successes as a kid. It’s fitting.
Antaris is a quarter of the way through breakfast when he notices. He drops his fork, eyes widening. Hiram doesn’t know if he’s upset or happy, so he says, “If you don’t want them there, I won’t do that again ...” Antaris’s expression begins to sour. “But if you do, it’s fine. You can add whatever you want.”
A tense silence passes with Hiram internally sweating from second-guessing everything ...
Antaris runs from the table.
His mother’s voice creeps in.You are doing it wrong. You are making the wrong decisions. I have more experience and am the better choice.Hiram knows it’s a lie, but it’s hard to ignore in the face of defeat.
Without hesitation, he would bend the world for Antaris. That’s how much he loves him. Strange how fast it happened, how deeply he feels for a child he didn’t know existed six months ago. Antaris is a choice Hiram made in an instant, one he doesn’t regret, but sometimes, he mourns the simplicity of his old life, when he only had to care about himself.
Those two truths can coexist.
Antaris shyly peers around the corner. Hiram straightens, masking his spiral as his son shuffles in with a stack of papers.His drawings.
Maybe he had it wrong.
One by one, Antaris covers the refrigerator. Little oranges, trees, something that looks like a chicken. When he runs out of reachable space, Hiram plucks magnets from the side and helps him place the rest, adjusting each one until Antaris nods in approval.
Finished, Hiram stands beside Antaris, who peers at him, freckles standing out against the ruddiness of his cheeks. His brows furrow and relax until it clicks what his son is trying to communicate.
“It’s perfect,” Hiram says earnestly. “Thanks for letting me see them.”
There’s a ghost of a smile on his son’s face. It lingers even as they sit by the pier, feet dangling over the edge. Wearing the brightest yellow raincoat despite there not being a cloud in the sky, Antaris is color in a muted world. The water is calm. It’s easy to get lost in the stillness, but Hiram’s mind is loud. He could block out Veda’s accusatory voice, ignore her words, and live however he wants.
