Page 20 of Every Chance After

She twists the sketchbook, revealing a hard-lined, gray and black version of me. Not a bad likeness except for the pinched and wrinkled brow and my wiry fingers tucked in at my chin.

“Damn, Marigold. I’m thirty-six. Not eighty.” I sit up, rubbing my head.

“It’s an accurate depiction,” she says, returning to her work.

With a breath, I scan the room for clothes, finding an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt draped on the bed’s end. Resurrected from some box of my left-behinds and freshly laundered. Mom’s in full force today. I even smell bacon frying.

She gets like this when something’s happened.

“It’s inconsiderate to draw people while they’re sleeping. Remember?”

Now, her brow pinches as she considers the question. “Yes, but I thought you meantotherpeople.”

“Other people?”

“Mom. Dad. Gil. Overnight guests. Children I babysit.” As she delivers her list, she grows frustrated, probably because she misunderstood my meaning. Marigold’s biggest personal hang-up is anxiety over getting things wrong. Facial expressions. Social cues. Therules. I often tell her that no one is better at being genuine than she is, and the only thingwrongwould be not being herself.

Well, except when it comes across as creepy. She’s scared the hell out of everyone in the house at one time or another over her sleep drawings. Once, she penned Gil in the dark, sending him into a full-blown panic attack when he startled awake and saw her hovering over him, scratching away.

“Thanks for not lumping me in withotherpeople,” I smirk, refraining from giving her a consoling pat on her leg. She doesn’t like touching. “You’re right. I’ll be theoneexception.”

She continues her sketch. I check my watch. “It’s 11:30? Fuck.”

“Mom says not to cuss.”

“She meansotherpeople.”

I stretch, getting out of bed, my joints cracking enough to make me groan again. I roll my shoulders, sore from the accident and the weight of yesterday resettling against them.

“Mom said you needed to sleep,” Marigold mentions, failing to connect that remark with her need to draw me. “She said someone almost died.”

“Did you bring the dogs over?” I ask, redirecting.

She nods, not looking up. “They are fed, watered, and walked.”

“Thanks. What would I do without you?”

“Hire a professional dog sitter,” she answers dryly.

“What’s everyone up to today? Give me the 4-1-1.”

“No one says that anymore,” she says.

“Will you please update me on our family’s activities this morning?”

“Dad’s out on the farm. Gil’s gaming downstairs. Mom’s in the kitchen, baking bread. The dogs are with her, waiting for scraps. Weshouldbe at Zach and Zoe’s soccer game. Everyone else is, but Mom said we needed to stay home. For you. So, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. What’s the general vibe, you think?”

She lifts the pencil to her chin, tapping. It’s a question I try to ask often, my small effort to help her notice such things. “Um, busy and tense, I’d say. Mom’s been on the phone all morning.”

“No doubt,” I sigh, grabbing the clothes. “Alright, time’s up on the portrait. Show me the final product.”

She turns the sketch toward me with slight amusement as I take in the exaggerated lines now etched into the image’s face.

“Fucking hell, Marigold! You made me look older?”

“It’s a joke,” she giggles.

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