"You're a few inches taller than you were the last time I was here."
"She's not at all taller," my grandmother said. Despite the resemblances between my father and myself, she liked to emphasize and stress the ones between me and my mother, as if she was trying to convince herself I was cloned and her son didn't have anything to do with the sinful mess that followed. Height was one of the characteristics I shared with my mother, and from what I could tell from the pictures, I was molding into a figure similar to hers as well.
"Well," my father said, "she must be thinner then or something. She looks taller."
"She's lost any traces of baby fat; that's for sure," my grandfather said, smiling.
"Ridiculous," my grandmother muttered. "A girl this age is not supposed to have any baby fat, Michael. She's over sixteen."
"Precisely. A young lady," my grandfather replied, nodding. "Working on a new painting?" he asked quickly, knowing I had been up in the attic all day. "She's doing some remarkable work," he told my father, who flashed a smile.
How sad, I thought, to think that a smile was such a risk. I wondered if Rachel counted how many times he did smile at me while he was here, as well as how many times he touched me. She surely counted any kisses, lip brushes included.
"You'll have to show everyone the one you did of the tree in the meadow. I swear. Every time I look at it, it seems to have changed. It's almost alive on the canvas!" my grandfather said.
I could see from the expression on my grandmother's face that she didn't like to hear him talk about my art like that. She actually looked a little frightened, as if my art was some sort of witchcraft. Did she really believe my mother was speaking through me in my art? I wondered myself if that was at all possible.
"Well, you couldn't have a better public relations man, Alice. I guess I'll have to see it then," my father said.
"See what?" Rachel asked, coming into the living room.
"Dad was just telling me about one of Alice's new pictures and itiiw wonderful he thinks it is."
She smirked. "They put up a fuss, but the m
oment both hit the bed, they closed their eyes and were out," she told my grandparents, as if nothing had been said about me. Then she turned to my father. "Are you taking me to the drugstore now, Jesse, or what?"
"We just got here," he protested.
"I'd like to go while they're asleep," she said, "and I don't want the store to close. I need my things."
"Well, okay, I guess," he said, rising. Was he reluctant to take her because he was taking her to what had once been my mother's stepfather's drugstore? Rachel was either unaware of it or simply didn't care.
"They should sleep a while," she told my grandmother, "but if they wake up . ."
"Don't worry about them. I'll listen for them," my grandmother said.
My father glanced at me.
"I'll see your picture later, Alice."
I shrugged and turned away until they left. For a moment it was as if all the air had gone out of the room with them.
"I'll look in on the twins," my grandmother said, rose and went off toward the guests' bedrooms.
Why had I bothered coming down?
My grandfather was staring at me, a very thoughtful, if not painful, look on his face. He slapped his knees and rose.
"Come take a walk with me, Alice," he said. "A walk? Where?"
The Doral House was on a nearly deserted rural road with the next property being a good half mile or so east of us.
"Just a walk. It's a rather nice day and you haven't been out to enjoy any of it," he said. "Come on. You'll get an idea for a new painting perhaps. I do my best thinking when I'm just walking."
I followed him out of the living room and then out of the house.
"I didn't think we'd stay here this long," he said, pausing on the porch and gazing at the road. He was still a very handsome, physically fit man and looked years younger than he was. He loved golf but had taken up racquet ball to keep his weight in check. He told me most of the attorneys he knew were overweight. "Too many free lunches," he said. "And martinis."