“I remember a young man with paint on his hands.”
My father glanced between them.
“No one knew each other?”
“No,” Clara said, barely louder than the water dripping from the pool ladder.
“It was almost 20 years ago.”
Glen settled back on his heels.
“A woman came in one Saturday and asked everyone to draw something that meant hope.”
Clara closed her eyes.
The party seemed to vanish around us.
No plates rattled.
No children yelled.
Even Ariel became still.
“I had just had surgery,” Clara revealed.
Her hand rested over the tattoo.
“I had a tumor removed. The scar ran across my stomach, and I couldn’t look at it without thinking about everything that almost happened.”
My father stared at her.
“You never told me that part.”
“I told you I had surgery.”
“You said it was years ago.”
“It was.”
She looked at him briefly before turning away.
