Part 1 – November 2004
“I couldn’t remember if he wanted cerulean or cobalt, so he’s gonna have his pick of the blues.”
Nana laughed into the receiver, a hearty, warm sound that reminded me of the apple pies she baked at the first sign of fall when the leaves gave up their green for rustier shades. How someone could make a noise almost edible must’ve been a talent reserved solely for grandmothers, I figured, and Nana had certainly perfected her recipe.
I slipped the crinkled plastic bag into my backpack and slid my shoulders into the armholes, leveling out the uneven weight digging against my shoulder blades. With my schoolbooks already in the bag, it didn’t leave much room, but a promise was a promise and I wasn’t about to let him down. Not today. Not any day.
“Can you tell Tommy I’m on my way back?”
“Of course,” Nana said. “Be careful out there, Mallory. The roads are slick and you know all the crazies come out after dark. I worry about you. I always worry … like it’s my job.”
“No need, Nana. It’s only four thirty, I’m on a bike, and you should be enjoying retirement. These are your golden years. Live it up. Get a country club membership or a new manicure or maybe buy yourself something sparkly.” I chuckled into the phone pressed to my cheek as I unlocked my vintage Schwinn from the lamppost outside B Street Art Supplies. The chain clanged against the frame with a metallic clinking. I hopped onto the bike. The seat was cold on my jeans and I shivered under the discomfort and then pedaled quickly down the sidewalk to try to draw some warmth to my muscles. I felt that addictive and invigorating burn in my quads as I raced over the pavement. Picking up speed, the wind burned my face and bit my roughened and chapped lips, dry from winter’s unforgiving chill. It was freezing, but I loved this. Being out in the frigid elements only made the warm harbor of shelter that much cozier. Juxtapositions were beautiful when they were in their most extreme. “See you in a jiffy, Nana!”
With a toss of my phone into the wicker basket attached to the handlebars, I pushed up to stand against the pedals and sped through town, my legs and mind having memorized every turn, every intersection and stop like an intricately choreographed routine. It was only ten minutes before I rounded the last corner, my tires gripping what little salty pavement remained exposed, and I pulled into the driveway of our modest three-bedroom home, the one I took my first steps in, and where I would likely take my last. I couldn’t imagine ever being anywhere else and I couldn’t imagine any other location for this life of ours. It was a good place and it was a good life. I figured I’d stay here as long as I could.
I saw Nana’s silhouette dance against the orange glow through the kitchen window, the one draped with the embroidered white linen she’d sewn for its covering. Her hazy figure disappeared the moment she spotted me trekking up the walkway. She was at the door with a smile and a hug ready for the taking and I dove into her open and readied embrace, my snow dusted jacket pressed firmly to her large chest, thawing me upon contact. Before I could fully snuggle in, she held me out at arm’s length, surveying head to toe with a keen eye. Clumps of melting slush fell to my feet, puddled dots of half-water, half-ice.
“Made it home unscathed, looks like,” she said, nearly satisfied though not completely. As though checking every inch for a blemish, even looking behind my ears, she ultimately released me from her grip with a satisfied sigh. “Go wash up for dinner.” She twisted her hands in her red and white checkered apron. “Pot roast and sweet potatoes. Your favorite.”
“Is he downstairs?” I asked as I fished the store bag from my backpack before dropping my school things to the hallway bench. “His room?”
“In the study today.” Nana held her hands together through the cotton fabric. “Better light in there, you know.”
The den was at the easternmost side of the house, which meant he’d been there since morning, the only time of day when light—ethereal in nature—streamed in abundance through the large arched bay window. When I was a little girl, I’d curl up on the window seat and watch the dust float like glitter suspended miraculously in air. I’d collect Mason jars full of it, never knowing I was storing away mites and allergens, only figuring I’d captured my own little bit of magic in that precious glass bottle. That room and what he created within it was magic to me. To everyone, really. Surely that would permeate the air, too.
With quick strides, I jogged down the hallway. I hadn’t shed my boots at the door and I now left dirty puddles in my wake, but I was too excited to worry about that. I’d clean it up later if Nana didn’t get to it first, which I knew she would. She had a real thing for cleanliness.
The door was slightly ajar, and though he wouldn’t likely answer, I still offered the courtesy of knocking.
“I couldn’t remember,” I said, toeing open the door to allow me through after a respectable pause. With a paint tube in each hand, I held up the two shades of blue I’d purchased from the store. I flicked them back and forth like the swing of a pendulum. “Which one had you run out of?”
Though the overhead lights were off—in reality probably never switched on—the last dregs of daylight funneled into the window, giving my eyes just enough assistance so I could see today’s artistic expression. And, like always, it was a breathtaking one. My heart stuttered and my throat instantly lumped up, a ball of emotion lodged within it.
“Wow,” I whispered as I made my way to the canvas propped on his easel in the center of the room. Today’s masterpiece. “You’ve outdone yourself with this one.”
It was abstract—like the good majority of his paintings—but this was different from the others. Where he usually preferred precise lines dissecting the colors, mood, and flow of his work, this painting blurred any boundary between shades and tones. All distinction was gone. It was swirling and twisting, absolute confusion articulated on the canvas with his brushes and oils.
It felt like it could be his self-portrait.
“I love this.”
His deep brown eyes hadn’t strayed from their fixated and focused gaze on his work. When I spoke, though, I could see the way his right eyelid twitched upward, a slight hint of movement, a glimmer of adjustment, like the grabbing focus of a camera lens. His body language, though sometimes reserved to the flutter of eyelids, was something I’d become in tune with over the last six years. I could read the recognition in them—the hellos and goodbyes, the please stay or please go’s. I spoke his language fluently.
“Tommy, this is phenomenal,” I told him, awe infiltrating my tone. “Is this one for the café or for keeps?”
One blink.
We’d be giving this away.
I knew I shouldn’t be saddened by it—that there was no way we could keep all of his paintings without renting out a decent-sized storage unit to house them—but this is one I’d love to have. I felt him in the colors; I saw him in the strokes.
For some reason beyond any logic I could come up with, part of me thought that maybe if I studied this particular work hard enough, maybe I could break that barrier. I knew there was a piece of every artist held within their artwork, and I was sure my dad was in his somewhere. In there somewhere.
I looked to him, noticing that the damp cloth draped around his neck was in need of changing. With gingerly steps, so as not to startle, I crossed the room and took the fabric between my fingers, swiping his chin clean as I swept his graying hair from his eyes.
I’m sure my dad is in there somewhere, I thought to myself again as I stared down at him, at the same tired eyes his mother wore earlier, at the drawn expression and lazy downturn of his mouth.
I offered a small smile, the biggest one my heart was capable of manufacturing and switched my gaze over to the painting. He was in those colors. He was in the textures. He was in the paint. My dad was in there. Of course he was. He had to be.
“I love it,” I said again, because if artists were embedded in a piece of their work, then it almost felt like a piece of me was saying I love you rather than it, and it felt genuine and right and long overdue. “I love it,” I emphasized once more, giving his shoulders the slightest of squeezes.
Then I saw his reply, four sporadic blinks in return, but I pieced them together in my head and in my heart.
And I knew that he loved me back.
