The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1)

by Amy Harmon

People love babies, even sick babies. Even crack babies. But babies grow up to be kids. Nobody really wants messed up kids. And Moses was messed up.

Whatever it was, when Moses came to Levan, he was like water—cold, deep, unpredictable, and, like the pond up the canyon, dangerous, because you could never see what was beneath the surface. And just like I’d done all my life, I jumped in head first, even though I’d been forbidden. But this time, I drowned.

“So you liked the pictures?” Georgia prodded after I stayed frozen and silent too long. “Yes.” Georgia laughed again. “Not the naked people.” I felt ridiculous and actually felt my face get hot. “I liked the beauty. The color. The anguish.” “The anguish?” Georgia’s voice rose in question. “It was an anguish that had nothing to do with me. An anguish everyone could see. Not just me. And I wasn’t expected to make it all go away.”

“I’m a very ordinary girl, Moses. I know that I am. And I always will be. I can’t paint. I don’t know who Vermeer is, or Manet for that matter. But if you think ordinary can be beautiful, that gives me hope. And maybe sometime you’ll think about me when you need an escape from the hurt in your head.”

“Everyone always talks about being color blind. And I get that. I do. But maybe instead of being color blind, we should celebrate color, in all its shades. It kind of bugs me that we’re supposed to ignore our differences like we don’t see them, when seeing them doesn’t have to be a negative.”

He wasn’t white, for starters, in a small school of mostly white kids, so that made him stand out.

If I squinted, blurring the reality of the black lines and the unromantic whiteboard, I could almost imagine the picture was real, that the people behind the water were living and breathing, that they were truly kissing and we were peering through the spray, watching the intimate encounter unfold. And they were definitely naked. I felt my cheeks get hot and I pulled my eyes away. Looking at what Moses had drawn made my skin feel too tight and my body ache with a need that had become an ever-present thing where Moses was concerned. It made me think of the night at the water tower, and the kisses we had shared and the heat that had remained in my belly long after we parted.

then the door swung closed, and I stood on the other side. Still, I thought I heard Mrs. Murray ask Moses the weirdest question. “How did you know?” she asked. “How did you know about Ray?”

The girl’s name was Molly. And she was definitely dead. She kept showing me things. Not about her death. About her life. I hoped now she would leave me alone. This had been going on long enough. I had no idea why she’d come to me at all. Usually there had to be some connection. I’d never met Molly. But she would go now, I hoped. Paint them and they leave. It was the way I acknowledged them. And usually that was enough.

The truth wasn’t anything most people wanted to hear. People liked religion but they didn’t want to have to exercise any faith. Religion was comforting with all its structure and its rules. It made people feel safe. But faith wasn’t safe. Faith was hard and uncomfortable and forced people to step out on a limb.

“We can’t escape ourselves, Tag. Here, there, half-way across the world, or in a psych ward in Salt Lake City. I’m Moses and you’re Tag. And that part never changes. So either we figure it out here or we figure it out there. But we still gotta deal. And death won’t change that.”

“Poe said, ‘There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion.’” Josie tipped her head to the side and looked back at her husband who hadn’t moved at all. Then she murmured, “I think your work is strange and beautiful, Moses. Like a discordant melody that resolves itself as you listen. I just wanted you to know that.”

I felt her scream reverberate through me as the connection was suddenly severed and the feed in my brain went black. But Eli didn’t leave. He just tipped his head to the side and waited. Then he smiled softly, sadly, like he knew what he’d shown me would hurt me. And I put my face in my hands and cried.

IT WAS ONE OF THE MOST terrible sounds I’d ever heard. Moses crying.

He was right that I was afraid. But I didn’t think I was afraid of the truth. I was afraid of believing something that would destroy me if it turned out to be a lie.

I don’t know what it was about Georgia, but she’d always had that effect on me. She breached my defenses and my truths started spilling out with all their warts and garish colors.

“MO-SES!” Eli laughed forming each syllable with equal emphasis. “That’s a funny name. Where is MO-SES?” “I don’t know where he is.” Eli stopped laughing. “How come? Is he lost?” “Yes. He is.” And that fact still made my heart ache.

“I’ll call,” I promised, but knew in my heart Tag was probably right. It was hard to need. “You want my advice?” Tag asked. “No,” I answered. He just rolled his eyes. “Good. Here it is. Don’t go slow, Mo. Don’t go easy. Go hard and go fast. Women like Georgia are used to holding the reins. But you broke her, Mo. And then you left her. I know you had your reasons. You know I get it. But she won’t let you break her again. So you have to take her. Don’t wait for her to say please. ‘Cause it won’t happen.” “We’re not talking about a horse, Tag.” “The hell we aren’t. That’s her language, Mo. So you better learn it.”

Any mother could tell you that a child invades her space from the moment of conception. And for years after, space does not exist. It was one of the things I had missed. I’d even yearned for it. And then Eli died, and I had all the space I had thought I wanted. Not just a little space. Outer space. Galaxies. And I’d floated in it in agony, longing for the days when there had been no such thing.

But Moses’s pictures were like that, glorious and terrible. Glorious because they brought memory to life, terrible for the same reason. Time softens memories, sanding down the rough edges of death. But Moses’s pictures dripped with life and reminded us of our loss.

I’d told him Georgia wasn’t safe with me. And Eli hadn’t been safe. Even with the person who would have gladly died in his place. And she would have. Gladly. I knew that. And I think Eli knew that. I rubbed the back of my head, looking at the little boy in black and blue pajamas, standing so close I should be able to touch him, but couldn’t. And he stared back, keeping his pictures to himself as I pondered the fact that maybe none of us are safe. Not truly. Not even from the people we love. Not even from the people who love us.

“I wish I had your gift. Just for one day,” she whispered. “You can see him. And I’ll never see him again.” “A gift?” I choked. “I’ve never thought of it as a gift. Not ever,” I protested. “Not once.”

I wasn’t angry. But she wasn’t the only one who was suffering, and sometimes there is comfort in the knowledge that you don’t suffer alone, sad as that is.

Then she took a deep breath, looked at her hands, and whispered, “Forgiveness.” A burning ache rose in my throat that was both foreign and instantly familiar. “Yours . . . or mine?” I asked, needing to know. I held my breath, trying to hold back my emotion and watched as she tucked her hands in her pockets and seemed to gather her courage. “Both,” she answered. With a deep inhale, she met my gaze. “Will you forgive me, Moses?”

“Why didn’t you stay away from me?” he choked. “I told you so many times to go away. But you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t let me be. And I hurt you. I created this situation. I did. Do you know that I have lost every person I love? Everyone. And just when I started to hope, to think maybe things could be different with you, Gi died. And she proved me right. And I wasn’t going to let you get anywhere near me. I was in a mental hospital, Georgia! A mental hospital. For three months. And I wasn’t going to let that touch you. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was trying to save you. I didn’t come back because I was trying to save you . . . from me! Don’t you get that?”

I found Samuel’s simple condolence as overwhelming as it was welcome. Eli was my boy. And I’d lost him. His loss was fresh. His loss was recent. For me, he hadn’t died two years ago. He’d died three weeks ago. For me, he’d died in the field behind Georgia’s house as she told me about that terrible day, as I’d seen it all happen. And somehow, this man had given me the validation I didn’t know I needed. “You’ve come back to make things right.” It was a statement not a question.