He’s good at it, and I know
that, but what he just said
might contain an element
of fact. Still, I want to know
some things, the main one
being, “Who are Ariel
and Mark, Dad? Please
tell me the truth. I think
I deserve that much.”
He sighs. Okay. But then we leave.
He plants his butt on the arm
of the sofa, waits for me to sit.
You probably don’t remember
because you were so little, but
a few weeks after we left North
Carolina we were in an accident
in Virginia. You were fine, but I got
pretty busted up. The woman who
stopped to help was named Leona.
We lived with her for several months,
while my broken bones healed up.
“I remember her, but only bits
and pieces. She took care of me
while you were in the hospital.”
a widow. She lost her husband
and little girl in a train wreck.
Oh my God. The lights snap
on. “Mark and Ariel Pearson.
I remember photos . . .”
It was Leona who started calling
you Ariel. You reminded her
so much of her little girl, and
I think she was a tad tetched
in the head, which was why
she wasn’t working right then.
She named her baby after Ariel
in that Disney movie, The Little
Mermaid, and she used to watch it
with you. You loved it because
you were the spitting image of that
mermaid. Well, except for the tail.
Not sure if that’s a weird
attempt at humor or if he’s
serious, but I do have a vague
recollection of sitting in a woman’s
comfy lap watching that movie
while she hummed along to the music.