Page 34 of Sight Unseen

He allowed himself to be dragged from his stool and out through the back door.

“His name isn’t really Mr. Miyagi, is it?” Nate asked as we navigated our way down the stone path. I liked holding Nate’s hand. Any excuse would do.

“Nah. His name is Michael Mitchell. I said I’d speak to you and if I was still alive, I’d drive you over there next week.” I cackled. “Guy looks like a little rooster. Tiny, with this mohawk thing on his head. His eyes stare right through you. I expected him to start pecking for chicken feed at any moment.”

Whenever I could, I tried to paint pictures in words so Nate could visualize what he’d lost. He said it helped and I’d seen the appreciation on his face when I did it.

Nate laughed loudly. “Christ, that’s one hell of an image to process. How am I going to talk to the guy next week without bursting into laughter?”

We reached the studio and I tried the handle. It was locked. “Damn, have you got the key with you?”

Nate shook his head. “Crap, I forgot. It’s still on the hook in the kitchen, I hope. Unless Jon moved it.”

“Stay here, I’ll go get it.” I patted Nate on the shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Where the hell would I go?” Nate remarked testily. His shoulders tensed and he glanced at the studio, his face filled with apprehension.

I sped back to the kitchen, found the key easy enough and was back at the studio in time to see Nate with his palm against the door. I could swear he’d been stroking it.

“Were you getting kinky with the door?” I unlocked it, smiling at Nate’s scowl. “It’s okay. We all need a little wood in our lives occasionally.”

“Hah-hah,” Nate said as he gave me the stink-eye. I took his arm as he stepped inside his old haven. Because that was what it had been to him. A place he could come and lose himself in the passion of creating some of the amazing pieces dotted around the wide-open space in front of me.

I hoped it would be that place again for him.

He gazed around, his face shadowed, eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared as he took in the scents of the studio he’d last been in a few months ago. His nose wrinkled. Mine did too. It didn’t smell particularly fresh in here.

“The place reeks of old clay,” he muttered. “It needs to be thrown out. Dude, help me navigate around so I can remember where everything is.”

I held his elbow, moving things as he walked around. Later, if he wanted to work here, I’d try to create a safe space for him, making sure everything was in easy reach and accessible. I was sure Suzanne would help with that, too.

The studio was large and airy with a bright yellow kiln on one side that Nate used to fire all his pieces. Various workbenches and tables were scattered around, all sorts of tools and things I had no clue what they were dotted the worktops and the floor.

A potter’s wheel stood on one surface, looking forlorn and unused. Shelves were littered with items of Nate’s trade, including various colored and sized plastic containers with labels like lead basilicate, ball clay, and soda feldspar. In one corner was a small stack of shelves holding plastic bags tied with different color pegs. Each peg had a nametag attached.

My heart swelled when I remembered the class Nate had held for a local school. The kids had come here and he’d taught them to make a rudimentary pinch pot. The results of those endeavors still lined a small part of the wall. Clearly Nate hadn’t had the heart to throw their hard work away.

Sunlight shone through the large picture window running one side of the place. I remembered how Nate had loved to sit there, basking in the sunlight, as he contemplated his next steps on a piece.

He said nothing as he explored his space. He ran his hands over his tools and along the surfaces of his worktops. His fingers trailed lovingly over some of his finished and unfinished pieces and I didn’t miss the fleeting look of pain as he did it. I was beginning to think this hadn’t been a good idea, seeing the anguish on his face at the realization this had been his old life and now he needed to create a new one here at the bottom of his backyard.

He took a deep breath. “What the hell am I supposed to do, Cody?” His voice cracked. “I can see the place in my head as I left it but I’ve no idea what I should be doing now. How do I—” He gestured helplessly around him. “How do I move on with all this?”

“I guess the answer would be slowly,” I said as I looked around. “You’ve got some amazing pieces here, Nate. I know some of them you’d said you’d finished but you weren’t sure what to do with them. The others, the ones not yet completed—maybe Mr. Miyagi can help you make sense of them. It’s worth a try.” I hesitated. “Maybe you simply start over with making new pieces from scratch.”

He looked over, his eyes tormented. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

He moved away from me, almost stumbling over a box of tools left on the floor that I’d missed. Nate shouted out in panic as he toppled forward and I moved swiftly to catch him. He clung to me, arms around my waist and head burrowed in my shoulder.

“Take me out of here,” he murmured. “Please. It’s enough.”

I nodded then murmured my acquiescence because, of course, he couldn’t see. Dumbass. We walked slowly back to the house.

In the kitchen, Nate sat on a stool and stared into space. I waited, wondering if I’d messed things up for him with my meddling insistence. I busied myself washing up the coffee cups. Finally, he cleared his throat and I turned to look at him.

“I’ll go see your Mr. Miyagi,” he said quietly. “I owe you that. But I’m not making any promises.”

I closed my eyes, relief flooding my body. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll take you to see him next week.”