Read Online Dust of Eden by Thomas Sullivan - Free Book Online

canvas than she had ever seen him do in real life. And the spectacular eyes—she had captured those too. So where had the old cavalier glint gone now that he was alive again? She had painted him younger than when his Alzheimer's had become pronounced. In his mid-sixties. But then, how could you tell when dementia really started, especially with someone as smart and articulate as Kraft had been? It was strange, because the others remembered what had happened up until their deaths, unlike Amber, who remembered nothing. Maybe with Amber it had been too great a span—age forty-four back down to nine—or maybe it was because she had been alive at the time of the re-creation. But even with dementia, Kraft had recognized her and the others at times up until he died, so she had thought that giving him back a few years would ensure he remembered everything about her. But he did not remember her at all.
    Of course, that could be good.   Because if he had forgotten Danielle Kramer, maybe she would have a chance with him now. ( Why don't I paint myself younger? ) Or, was this just an ancient hurt to her pride too absurd to rectify?
    She wanted to be humble, and that was the paradox. Because it was pride that demanded she be humble. The potential to look like a mad egoist out for tyranny and revenge was obvious. Ariel the leper in charge of things. Pay her lip service, pay her tribute – an altar here, a statue there. But that wasn't what she wanted. What she wanted was to be worth something. Molly said they were grateful, but they weren't. …as easy for you as Jesus Christ. They were afraid. Fear thy God. She didn't want their fear. Only fundamentalists and fanatics used fear and took it on themselves to act as proxies for God. You could create the illusion of love, but you would never really have it if you forced it out of fear.
    "Do you remember me, Kraft?"
    He stared back blankly.
    "I'm Ariel. We used to be friends."
    "I don't remember you."
    "Who do you remember?" She looked hard into his eyes. "If you could have anyone you ever knew here right now, Kraft, who would it be? Tell me. Don't be afraid. I can bring people back. Tell me who you want."
    His eyes remained rigid and impenetrable to her. He could be thinking she was insane, she thought, or he could be hating her.
    "Who do you want, Kraft? Your mother? Your brother? Give me a name, and if it's someone I have a photo of, I'll paint them back." She had lots of photos of Danielle buried with the others in a wicker basket upstairs. "Remember how I used to take pictures, Kraft? All of our gang. I always took the pictures. That's why I'm not in very many of them. You always asked me to take the pictures."
    She plucked a thread from the sleeve of his shirt, brushed his shoulder.
    "Just say the name of anyone you want, and I'll deliver him—or her—to you, Kraft. Now or never."
    He wet his lips. "I can’t remember anyone."
    She really should paint herself younger.
    But if she did, what would happen to her body? Would she still be there, dead, like Amber slumped in her wheelchair?   Now, that would get everyone's attention. Dropping like a fly, a little terror in the parlor. Fear thy God . . . .
    She wished she had gone to Amber's funeral, seen the body. But how could she when she had to take care of the nine-year-old reincarnation of the forty-four-year-old corpse? "I'm too upset," she had told her son-in-law and grandson. There was no love lost between them anyway, and they hadn't tried to persuade her to attend, and except for Christmas cards there had been no further communication. She had considered taking nine-year-old Amber to her own funeral—who would recognize her?—but she had feared that Amber might become hysterical. Later, when she actually took the child to her own grave site, it became apparent that the fear was unfounded.
    "Is that me?" Amber had asked, staring down at the cold stone.
    "No."'
    "Yes, it is."
    "That was who