Not Today, But Someday(22)

“Are you implying she’s a witch?” I joke with her.

“Not at all,” she laughs.

Emi and I trade – her apple for a tissue – and she tries to compose herself again. “Mom’s had a lot of practice.”

“With you?”

“Some with me,” I admit. “Although I must be immune to some of that. I had to seek outside therapy. She couldn’t fix me entirely.” I smile and shrug, then realize that I’ve just told her more than I’ve told any of the friends I was once close to.

“Why’d you need to be fixed?” I open the door to my art room, motioning for her to enter. “Are these all yours?” she says, eyeing all of the artwork on the walls, on easels, on the floor. The overhead lights are off, leaving only the museum lighting over each of the paintings. This is how Mom likes to leave the room all the time when I’m not using it.

“Uhhh, yeah.”

She starts on the left side of the room, looking first at the paintings centered in the wood paneling. What she says about them will tell me if she truly is the artist I’ve assumed she is. But she’s silent, and I watch as her eyes jump back and forth, up and down, taking in every element of each piece of work. On the third one, the largest one in the room, she walks backwards about ten feet. She swipes at tears with the tissue before they have a chance to fall. “It hurts,” she says. “That one. That’s how I feel. It’s so... empty and... and... ugly... and angry.”

I turn away from her so she can’t see my eyes start to water. “Thanks.” I have to clear my voice and repeat the word to make an audible sound.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” she says quickly.

“I’m not taking it as one,” I assure her, disguising the unsteadiness in my voice.

“I wasn’t always like this,” she says. “Empty and angry.”

“And you won’t always be,” I tell her. “I don’t think that’s who you are, Emi. You can’t let what happened to you turn you into someone else. You’re in control,” I say, remembering the words of my therapist. “Not your dad. Not what he did. You make the choice.”

“What made you paint that?” she asks. That piece was an emotional breakthrough for me. I think I was fourteen.

“I had a lot of shit going on,” I tell her, standing motionless and trying to sort out what to tell her. She startles me, placing her hand on my shoulder. I turn around quickly.

“Sorry,” she says, taking a step back. As I start talking, she walks back over to that painting.

“Dad died suddenly, when I was ten. In a car wreck. He was drunk.” I stare as I tell her the last part. She turns her head to look at me, her expression one of pity as she puts one hand over her mouth. I shake my head. “Don’t feel bad. That was his choice.”

“It’s awful.”

“When I was ten, it was sad. And I was angry that he died, and even more so when I found out he’d been drinking. But that was just, you know, the typical reaction you have when someone dies. As I got a little older, though, I started blaming myself. Dad and I got along fine, but we were never that close. I mean, it seemed like we were, but when I learned about other dads, and how involved they were, I realized we had a strange relationship. Like, he was a part-time father. And I was content with that, not understanding that as his child, I could have asked for more. I could have pushed for more. Had I been more of a part of his life, maybe he wouldn’t have needed to drink as much. Maybe he would have felt the need to stay home with us that night, instead of going to a bar.”

“It’s not your fault,” Emi says quickly. I walk over to her and we look at the painting together.

“I realized it wasn’t my fault as I painted this,” I tell her. “I know it sounds weird, but I don’t consciously remember painting parts of it. Sometimes I just get so focused that... I don’t know... I transcend reality or something.”

She looks at me seriously, nodding her head. “That sounds a little crazy,” she says. Her lips remain in a soft line, but her eyes smile at me.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I respond, pushing her shoulder playfully.

“It’s brilliant,” she says.

“Again,” I repeat, “tell me something I don’t know.”

“Shut up.”

“Seriously. Thank you. I see it and think there’s something there, but it’s a little too avant garde for most people’s tastes. It’s not a field of wildflowers or an image of lovers on a rainy day.”

“What is it, exactly?” she asks. “I mean, is there anything literal there?”

“Sure,” I tell her. “It’s how I feel. I can’t get much more literal than that.”

“I guess not.” She moves on to the next painting, and then another. I cross the room to the other side, flipping on the lamp I’d chosen to work with this morning. Grey. I think there may have been grey.

“Is this him?” she calls out, her voice echoing. She covers her mouth as she realizes how loud it can be in the art room, with no curtains, carpet or furniture.

I know which painting she’s talking about without looking. I tried to paint him, from memory. It was rough, and disproportionate, but Mom loved it. “Yeah, I did that when I was twelve.”