Two days after Christmas. I’ve been here in Gibtown since Sunday night, but it feels like a miniature forever. Like a tiny lifetime.
Trullia comes yawning and stretching out of the bathroom as Grandma and I are eating breakfast. She’s wearing a trapeze costume, so I guess she plans to practice today, or work, or whatever it is that she does in those clothes.
“Did you notice something different in the living room?” Grandma Violet asks as my mother pads barefoot into the kitchen and pours a cup of coffee.
“Um . . . there’s no Mike sleeping there?” Trullia sips her coffee. Her hair streams wet down her back, dripping drops of water on the glittery gold costume.
“No. I don’t even want to hear that name! Guess again,” Grandma says. “Hint: It’s something on the wall.”
I try not to smile. She’s talking about my painting, the portrait of Grandpa. She already put up a hook and hung the unframed canvas on the living room wall.
“Uh . . . you bought an Elf on the Shelf?” Trullia guesses.
“Don’t be silly!” Grandma says, laughing. “Look! The wall over the sofa!”
My mother’s eyes roam the wall until they land on my painting. She puts down her coffee, not taking her eyes from the portrait, and goes into the living room as if a magnet is pulling her.
“Wow,” says Trullia. “This is good. Where’d you have it done?”
“Lily painted it,” Grandma says. “Last night, while you were gone.”
“Wow,” Trullia says again. She looks at me as if I’m somebody she doesn’t know, which actually I suppose I am. “You’re an awesome artist, Lily,” she says. “It looks just like him. It’s almost like you brought him back to life.”
I shrug.
“I tried,” I say. “I know his face by heart.”
I’m hoping for more of a conversation about my painting, about my grandpa, about how proud my mother might be of my talent for art. But no. It’s not going to happen, because Trullia is hustling back to the kitchen and slurping her coffee.
“I have to hurry,” she says, “I’m teaching at trapeze school today, for Faith.”
“Maybe you could take Lily,” Grandma suggests. “I don’t think she has any plans.”
I sigh.
“Not exactly,” I say. “Maybe just hanging with that kid Henry Jack.”
“Well, Mom, it sounds as if she has plans,” Trullia says. “I’ll see you later today.”
And then my mother bangs out through the door, juggling her coffee cup and her purse, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. She just leaves me behind, once again, not even looking back before she goes.
My phone beeps. It’s a text from my dad.
Everything going OK?
Yes, I text. Fine.
Now that I’m in the painting mood, I want to keep on going. I set up my new easel and canvas outside, in the yard, planning to paint a Florida landscape in shades of yellow and blue and green and orange.
Grandma’s on the phone inside, talking about funeral details. I can hear her voice through the screen window, plus the TV sounds of a morning talk show.
Queenie Grace is standing nearby. She keeps staring over at Charlie’s place, even though there’s nobody outside. Maybe she can smell Mike. I must be getting to know the elephant, because I can tell that she’s nervous. She trembles a little bit when she looks over there, plus she keeps shuffling her feet and rocking. Her eyes swim with fear.
“It’s okay, Queenie Grace,” I say. “We won’t let him hurt you again. He’s not coming back here. Don’t worry.”
Queenie Grace seems to understand. Her eyes shine with something like gratitude, and she walks slowly to my side. I have a bunch of paintbrushes, a cup, and the new paints from Grandma.
I dab a brush in the blue, paint sky. Orange, yellow. Lots of flowers, green grass, and trees.
And then Queenie Grace reaches over with her trunk. She picks up a brush and dunks it in the cup. Water splashes. I laugh, surprised. The elephant dips the brush in the purple paint and adds a swath of color to my sky.
“Good job!” I say. “You’re a good painter, Queenie Grace!”
The elephant is standing right next to me, and I’m not even scared, not really. We paint together for a few minutes, and it feels comfortable, as if we’ve been doing this forever. Her trunk brushes against my arm a few times, but I don’t even flinch. Something about putting paint to canvas is so relaxing, and I’m happy. I’m glad that the elephant and I are starting to become friends. I’m getting over my fear. This might be a miracle, a Christmas miracle. Everything feels peaceful, both inside of me and outside.
But then I see something that makes me afraid and gives me the shivers. It’s Mike, slinking around in Charlie’s yard. He’s carrying a tool of some kind, long and sharp, and he looks away when he sees me.
I shudder. Something is just not right about Mike.
Queenie Grace feels it, too.
“Don’t worry,” I say again, reaching over and patting the elephant. “He won’t hurt you anymore. I promise. I swear, I’ll do my best to protect you. Hopefully, you’ll protect me, too. Deal?”
Queenie Grace pats my arm gently with her trunk. It’s an agreement.