Jeffrey has already bought himself a T-shirt with a snowboarder on it and is deliberating on a real, honest- to-goodness snowboard he liked in a shop window.
He’s been in a much better mood since we arrived at the house and he saw that all is not completely lost. He’s acting a lot like the old Jeffrey, the one who smiles and teases and occasionally speaks in full sentences.
“You two are hilarious,” I say, rolling my eyes. I jog ahead toward a small park I notice on the other side of the street. The entrance is a huge arch made of elk antlers.
“Let’s go this way,” I call back to Mom and Jeffrey. We hurry across the crosswalk right as the little orange hand starts to flash. Then we linger for a minute under the arch, gazing up at the latticework of antlers, which vaguely resemble bones.
Overhead the sky darkens with clouds, and a cold wind picks up.
“I smell barbecue,” says Jeffrey.
“You’re just a giant stomach.”
“Hey, can I help it if I have a faster metabolism than normal people? How about we eat there.” He points up the street where a line of people stand waiting to get into the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar.
“Sure, and I’ll buy you a beer, too,” Mom says.
“Really?”
“No.”
As they bicker about it, I’m struck with the sudden urge to document this moment, so I’ll be able to look back and say, this was the beginning. Part one of Clara’s purpose.
My chest swells with emotion at the thought. A new beginning, for us all.
“Excuse me, ma’am, would you mind taking our picture?” I ask a lady walking past.
She nods and takes the camera from Mom. We strike a pose under the arch, Mom in the middle, Jeffrey and me on either side. We smile. The woman tries to snap a picture, but nothing happens. Mom steps over to show her how to work the flash.
That’s when the sun comes out again. I suddenly become super aware of what’s going on around me, like it’s all slowing down for me to encounter piece by piece: the voices of the other people on the boardwalk, the flash of teeth when they speak, the rumble of engines and the tiny squeal of brakes as cars stop at the red light. My heart is beating like a slow, loud drum. My breath drags in and out of my lungs. I smell horse manure and rock salt, my own lavender shampoo, Mom’s splash of vanilla, Jeffrey’s manly deodorant, even the faint aroma of decay that still clings to the antlers above us. Classical music pours from underneath the glass doors of one of the art galleries. A dog barks in the distance. Somewhere a baby is crying. It feels like too much, like I’ll explode trying to take it all in. Everything’s too bright. There’s a small dark bird perched in a tree in the park behind us, singing, fluffing its feathers against the cold. How can I see it, if it’s behind me? But I feel its sharp black eyes on me; I see it angle its head this way and that, watching me, watching, until suddenly it takes off from the tree and swirls up into the wide-open sky like a bit of smoke, disappearing into the sun.
“Clara,” Jeffrey whispers urgently close to my ear. “Hey!”
I jerk back to earth. Jackson Hole. Jeffrey. Mom. The lady with the camera. They’re all staring at me.
“What’s going on?” I’m dazed, disconnected, like some part of me is still up in the sky with the bird.
“Your hair’s, like, shining,” murmurs Jeffrey. He glances away like he’s embarrassed.
I look down. Gasp. Shining is not the word. My hair is an iridescent silvery-gold riot of light and color. It blazes. It catches the light like a mirror reflecting the sun. I slide my hand down the warm, luminous strands, and my heart, which seemed to beat so slowly a few moments before, begins to thump painfully fast. What’s happening to me?
“Mom?” I call weakly. I look up into her wide, blue eyes. Then she turns toward the lady, all perfectly composed.
“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” Mom says. “You know what they say: You don’t like the weather in Wyoming, wait ten minutes.”
The lady nods distractedly, still staring at my supernaturally radiant hair like she’s trying to figure out a magician’s trick. Mom crosses to me and briskly gathers the length of my hair into her hand like a piece of rope. She shoves it into the collar of my hoodie and pulls the hood up over my head.
“Just stay calm,” she whispers as she moves into place between Jeffrey and me. “All right. We’re ready now.”
The lady blinks a few times, shakes her head like she’s trying to clear it. Now that my hair is covered, it’s like everything returns to normal, like nothing unusual has happened. Like we imagined it all. The lady lifts the camera.
“Say cheese,” she instructs us.
I do my best to smile.
We end up at Mountain High Pizza Pie for dinner, because it’s the easiest, closest place. Jeffrey scarfs his pizza while Mom and I pick at ours. We don’t talk. I feel like I’ve been caught doing something terrible. Something shameful. I wear my hood over my hair the entire time, even in the car as we make our way slowly back to the house.
When we get home Mom goes straight into her office and closes the door. Jeffrey and I, for lack of anything better to do, start to hook up the TV.
He keeps looking over at me like I’m about to burst into flame.
“Would you stop gawking?” I exclaim finally. “You’re freaking me out.”
“That was weird, back there. What did you do?”
“I didn’t
Mom appears in the doorway with her coat on.
