Page 72 of Dirty Little Midlife Drama

“She’s strange to me.”

I huff, joining her back inside. We clean up the kitchen, I show the kids to their room, and I take a shower and tidy my own space. Georgia forgot a hair tie next to my sink, and I find myself toying with it between my fingers before sliding it in my back pocket. I like having a piece of her to carry around with me.

I acted like a fool yesterday. And yet Georgia still came back to my bed. That’s good…right?

“Dad?” Christine pokes her head in my bedroom door. “Can we go check out your workshop? Matt is interested in metalworking, but he hasn’t had a chance to do much since you left Clare. He’s interested to see what you’re working on these days.”

“Sure, Bug.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling up to the workshop. All my tools and materials are unloaded again, have been since a couple days after I came back and decided to stay. My trailer is parked out back, and the space smells like wood and metal and dust.

It feels like home.

When I’ve had time away from the gallery and away from Georgia—mostly when she’s at home in the evenings with her family—I’ve come here. The past few weeks have been some of my most creative.

“What’s this?” Christine approaches my latest project, swooping curves about seven feet tall that almost look like two bodies interlocked. I’m proud of the craftsmanship, but I haven’t decided how to finish it off. Paint would work, but what color? Get it dip galvanized? Leave it raw so it develops a patina of rust?

“Just something I’ve been working on.” I run my finger along a sharp edge, then grab some safety glasses and my die grinder to smooth it out.

“It’s…” Christine tilts her head.

My grinder whirrs, and the three of us are silent until I’ve smoothed out the sharp edge. I put the tool away and lift the safety glasses off my head, then glance at my daughter. “It’s what?”

Matt is the one who answers: “It’s happier.”

Christine snaps her fingers. “Exactly.”

I frown, staring at the piece. “It’s not finished yet.”

“Usually your work is like a storm. It’s got lots of movement, materials clashing, metal cutting into wood, hard shapes and violent curves.” Matt walks around the half-finished sculpture. “This feels more like waves lapping on a shore.”

“Or two people slow dancing,” Christine says. Matt agrees with a hum.

My throat grows tight. This is one part of the art world where I’ve never quite belonged. Matt and Christine are educated, trained. They studied at a college and Christine got accepted to grad school, both of them talented and successful. They can speak the language.

Me, I just make what’s in my heart. Most of the time, I have no idea what the finished piece is going to look like. I struggle with the hardness of my chosen materials, use my strength and my skills to bend them to my will. I’ve never thought about storms and violent curves and people slow dancing.

Apparently satisfied with my non-answer, Christine changes the subject. “I liked the feature of you for the Heart’s Cove Fringe Fest,” Christine says, eyeing the piece of swooping steel I still need to weld to its base. “They promoted it online. The pictures look good, especially that piece you made for the community garden. We passed it on the way to your house.”

I come to stand next to her. “Are you telling me the fine art graduate approves of her uneducated, unrefined father’s work?” I nudge her shoulder with mine.

Christine laughs. “Dad, you know you’ve always inspired me. Anyone who sees your work would see that you’re as good as anyone with a degree. Better, probably.” Her fingers trace the edge of curving steel that I just smoothed into a rounded bead.

We talk for an hour, and Christine tells me about her plans for grad school, how excited she is to learn from one of the professors she’s admired for years, Matt’s new work-from-home job that will allow him to spend more time on his art. They’re both full of light and hope. Then Christine tells me how angry her mother was that Christine was leaving early to come spend the week with me, and I get a little flash of satisfaction that probably means I’m a bad person. Either way, I’m so damn proud of my kid. She’s bright and happy and driven, and I can’t believe she turned out so perfect.

I wish Georgia would’ve stayed longer, gotten to know her.The thought pops up out of nowhere as I watch my daughter haul old, rusted-up pieces of machinery I brought up from Texas out from under a workbench. It used to be part of an antique hay baler, and it sat in my father’s barn for fifty years. I’ll turn it into something eventually.

While Christine inspects the rusted metal, she has that look on her face I call focused daydreaming, like she’s seeing the world in a way that no one else could even imagine. How Shelly and I made a kid like Christine when we could barely stand the sight of each other, I’ll never know.

“Is Georgia an artist too?” Matt asks, drawing my attention back to the present. He’s leaning against one of my worktables, his eyes on my daughter.

I did give him theHurt My Daughter and I’ll Shoot Youtalk, but I always liked Matt. Christine met him in her first year of college, and I’ve always been able to tell he loves her. They get each other on a level that Christine’s mother and I never did. A whole conversation happens between them with just a glance or a subtle touch. He looks at her like she’s the source of all light in his life.

I shake my head at Matt’s question. “No, Georgia’s not an artist, but she has a good eye. She’s opening a gallery in town.”

Christine’s face brightens, turning away from a bucket of old scraps of wood in the corner. “Really?” When she sees my grimace, she frowns. “What? What did you do?”

Scrubbing my hair, I give her a wry smile. “I might have punched the artist she was going to feature for the opening.”

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