Six years ago, eleven-year-old Vega died in a car crash caused by a drunken driver. The crushing grief created a rift between her fathers, Arn and Fox. The anger burning hot over the unfairness of a young life taken away too soon tore the remains of their little family unit apart, and Arn and Fox went their separate ways.
On the anniversary of Vega’s death, they meet again for the first time since their split. The old feelings are still there, as intense as ever, but can they overcome the hurt and find their way back to each other? Or will the absence of their darling girl prove to be too much?
I make quick work of the dishes, then inspect his cacti a few minutes, tempted to take him up on his offer to explore, but uncertain if I should. My curiosity wins and I walk out of the kitchen, in the direction of his studio, eager to see what he’s creates since I last was here.
What greets me isn’t a room full of sculptures as I’d expected. Instead, every surface is covered by paintings and sketches, frames are leaning against the walls, some drawings even lay discarded on the floor. Only the bench with his tools is clean and meticulous; a myriad of paint brushes in cups arranged according to size, boxes containing charcoal pencils are neatly stacked, as are the pans and pans of watercolors.
My attention is stolen by a big painting displayed on an easel in the center of the room. I recognize the setting immediately, Vega’s cliff. The surrounding forest and even the lake are all painted in muted colors, as is the fox perched on the edge of the cliff, looking up at two eagles soaring high in the sky.
The eagles, one larger than the other, are the only objects painted in vivid colors -- happy, saturated greens, yellows, browns, and blues -- their feathers so detailed I’m convinced they would feel real should I touch them.
The artwork is so full of movement it takes my breath away. The breeze is evident in the water’s surface, the trees and even the fox’s fur. I can almost see the clouds racing across the sky, and the eagles’ wings are captured mid-beat, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they flew away before my eyes.
From what I can see of the other paintings and sketches, they’re variations on the theme; the fox and the eagles in different color schemes, close-up studies of a bird’s wing, of movement, of the cliff. Several discarded paintings where it seems like he’s tried to capture the glitter of the sunlight across the lake.
My eyes are drawn back to the painting taking center stage of the floor. He’s clearly put much elbow grease into it, worked hard on perfecting every detail, on getting the colors right, on capturing the mood.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts and overwhelmed by my emotions evoked by the painting that I don’t hear Fox approach until he’s right next to me and starts speaking. “You know how your name means eagle?” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Do you know Vega also means eagle?”
I shake my head.
“Well, there are a couple different meanings, but the name originates from a phrase in Arabic meaning swooping eagle. Or swooping vulture, but I chose to ignore that part.”
“I had no idea.”
“I know you picked the name because of that Carl Sagan book you love so much.”
“Yes.”
“But maybe that’s why she adored eagles. She felt a kinship with them.”
“So this painting ...”
“Is the three of us.”
Tears well up and spill down my face. The image of the lonely fox looking up at the two eagles high above, out of reach, makes it difficult to breathe, and I have to stop looking at it because in my mind, the painted fox is exchanged for my real-life Fox, cut off from his entire family, all alone on the cliff where we all used to hang out together.
“Oh Fox,” I breathe, and can’t resist reaching out and taking his hand in mine. I hold him loosely, giving him the opportunity to pull away if he wants to, but he doesn’t. Instead, he intertwines our fingers together like he used to, and I cry even harder.
“Come here, you,” he says and tugs on my hand, letting go only to wrap his arms around me instead and pull me close.
His hold on me is tight; his hands tremble between my shoulders, and I return the hug, pressing my palms against the small of his back.
Being close to him again after so long almost makes me moan out in relief, but I squeeze my mouth shut and press my face into the crook of his neck instead. His pulse is racing, his familiar scent, earthy and vibrant, surrounds me like a second embrace, and my tears run even faster, wetting his skin and sweater.
“I’ve got you,” he mumbles into my temple, but the tremble in his hands spreads up his arms and beyond until his entire body is shaking. “I’ve got you,” he says again.
