Then Clara shifted.
Uncovered by the high arch of the cut-out, a faint trace of dark ink emerged against the pale skin of her ribs. It was an old tattoo.
A lighthouse.
“No, Mommy! I’m not lying. Look.”
The ink had faded to blue-gray. Thin lines formed a narrow tower against curling waves.
Beside it was a tiny smiling sun.
A circle. Seven short rays. Two dots for eyes. One crooked curve for a mouth.
I had seen that sun thousands of times.
I had seen that sun thousands of times.
Glen drew it on grocery lists.
On napkins.
On birthday cards.
On every note he tucked into Ariel’s lunch bag.
I stood up too quickly.
“Glen.”
Something in my voice made the yard quiet.
Glen drew it on grocery lists.
He walked over, wiping his hands on a towel.
“What happened?”
I pointed at Clara.
“Why is your drawing on her body?”
Glen looked.
The towel slipped from his hand.
Clara stared at him.
For one long second, neither of them spoke.
“Why is your drawing on her body?”
My aunt stopped collecting plates.
My father sat up beneath the umbrella.
Someone turned off the music.
Glen looked pale.
“Please,” he said. “Let me explain.”
The words landed badly.
Of course they did.
Glen looked pale.
Clara wrapped the towel around her waist.
“I don’t know what kind of story you’ve made up in your head.”
“In my head?” My words clipped. “My daughter just recognized my husband’s drawing on your body.”
Ariel stood between us, tracing the air with her finger.
“Daddy draws the happy sun.”
“My daughter just recognized my husband’s drawing on your body.”
Glen knelt beside her.
“You’re right.”
The confirmation moved through the guests like a cold current.
I looked at him.
“How?”
He kept one hand on Ariel’s shoulder.
“Before I met you, I volunteered at an arts center downtown.”
“You’re right.”
“I know that,” I snapped.
He had told me about Saturday classes and community murals.
He had never told me about Clara.
Clara pressed the towel tighter against herself.
Glen looked at the tattoo again.
“There was a program for people recovering from surgery. Local artists helped them design things to cover scars. I’m not a tattoo artist,” he added quickly. “I only sketched.”
He had never told me about Clara.
Clara’s mouth parted. “The community room on Willow Street.”
Glen looked at her.
“You remember?”
“Only pieces.”
She touched the lighthouse.
“I remember a young man with paint on his hands.”
“Only pieces.”
My father looked from Clara to Glen.
“No one knew each other?”
“No,” Clara said. Her voice was barely above the water dripping from the pool ladder.
“It was almost 20 years ago.”
Glen sat back on his heels.
“A woman came in one Saturday and asked everyone to draw something that meant hope.”
“No one knew each other?”
Clara closed her eyes.
The party disappeared around us.
No plates clattered.
No children shouted.
Even Ariel stood still.
“I had just had surgery,” Clara revealed.
“I had just had surgery.”
Her hand moved to the tattoo.
“I had a tumor removed. The scar ran across my stomach, and I couldn’t look at it without thinking about everything that almost happened.”
My father stared at her.
“You never told me that part.”
“I told you I had surgery.”
“You said it was years ago.”
“It was.”
“You never told me that part.”
She looked at him, then away.
“I did not want to spend the rest of my life introducing myself through the worst thing that had happened to me.”
Glen rubbed one thumb against his palm.
“I drew a lighthouse because it stands in bad weather without pretending the weather isn’t there.”
Ariel leaned against him.
“And the sun?”
“I drew a lighthouse.”
He gave her a faint smile.
“I put that sun on everything back then too, sweetheart.”
Clara looked at the tattoo as if seeing it for the first time.
“Underneath, he wrote two words.”
She lowered the towel slightly.
Below the lighthouse, almost hidden by the swimsuit seam, faded letters curved along the scar.
Still Standing.
“Underneath, he wrote two words.”
My father sat down again.
Nobody laughed now.
The suspicion inside me did not vanish all at once. It loosened slowly.
Glen had been 21 then.
Clara had used her maiden name.
Years later, she married my father.
Glen had been 21 then.
By then, Glen had moved away, cut his hair, and become the man I met at a friend’s barbecue.
Clara had changed too.
Different hair.
Different last name.
A brief afternoon in a crowded art room had disappeared beneath two decades of living.
Until a three-year-old noticed one crooked sun.
By then, Glen had moved away.
***
Ariel reached toward Clara’s stomach.
“Can I touch it?”
Clara nodded.
Ariel placed one finger on the lighthouse.
