Painting Sage

by Rachael K Hannah

  “Sheila, are you serious?” he asked, the tone of his voice clearly conveying that he didn’t believe me. “I thought this is what you wanted.”

  “No. Not like this. How does that make me look? Really? It’s bad enough you’re my boss. Now people are going to think I’m someone who you-know-what’s her way to the top. And what about your kids?”

  “They can come with us.”

  “All three of them?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “And you think their mothers are going to be just fine with that?”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “Abby, no. But I’ll be… I mean we’ll be flying back and forth almost every other weekend or so anyway. I’ll end up seeing the boys just as much as I would if we stayed put here in Brooklyn. I already told you, Abby’s getting very nasty about custody and the house lately, and I’m going to go along with her wishes because it’s not worth putting Miles and Finn through an ugly battle. Julia’s another story. She’ll work with me now. Sage is practically in college anyway; September will mark the beginning of her junior year, right? She can visit between Julia and me until then. Sage loves planes. In fact, she and her mom can travel together if they want and get to see all these places they’ve never been to before. And like I said, you and I will be in the city every other week or so. Who knows? Maybe Sage can even end up going to a college out there. The kid needs a change of pace from all this… this craziness—”

  I seriously couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “No, the kid doesn’t need a change of pace,” I cut him off. “I think you feel like you need the change of pace because you’re still not sure how to deal with… with… all of this, so maybe if you just—I don’t know—fly away to Chicago, you won’t have to deal with your Julia issues, and your daughter will somehow magically be cured of her mental illness!” I felt my voice rise to an almost uncontrollable volume that frankly shocked me as much as it did him. I rarely ever got angry, let alone yelled, and it was certainly the first time ever that the yelling was being directed towards him.

  “Julia issues?”

  “You know something?” I continued, “Why don’t you call Julia? Since you two are always on the phone or meeting up for some reason anyway, and you can ask the two of them to live with you in Chicago. Hey! You can see if Connor’s job can transfer him out there, too, and anyone else from the old neighborhood and you can all relocate and rehash your Bronx historical drama—only this time in Chicago!”

  “What you’re saying doesn’t even make sense, Sheila. Let me get this straight? First, I’m moving to Chicago to get away from my Julia issues. Not because it’s a good career move or a chance for personal and professional growth. But then, I secretly want to cling on to the past… and what? Take her with me?” he demanded.

  I jammed the chopsticks forcefully into my container before slamming it onto the coffee table. Maybe it was his assumption that I would blindly follow him wherever he went. Or guilt and dread over the inevitable whispers and assumptions I’d certainly face at the office on Monday about what really got me that promotion. Or perhaps it was plain exhaustion from spending all day with Sage. But none of what Mike was proposing made sense to me at that moment. It was like he suddenly got this idea in his head, and everyone around him would have to adjust to his expectations automatically. Like we were all supposed to be happy for him, and somehow rework our lives so that all the pieces of his puzzle fit neatly together. It was his plan, to fulfill his needs, and I was just supposed to go along for the ride.

  “Yeah! Maybe that’s exactly what you want!” I accused.

  He looked like someone had side-swiped him on the freeway.

  “Sheila, you’re acting crazy.”

  “Honestly, Mike. Sometimes when it comes to you and what you want, I don’t even think you have the slightest clue.”

  Without saying another word, I stormed off to our bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

  Chapter 11

  Kith and Kin

  Julia - May

  “I understand what you’re saying. The thing is, I don’t need a new house right now… or the headache that goes along with it, Dad. Our home is just fine for the two of us. Besides, I think it goes without saying that Sage has dealt with enough this year. The last thing she needs is to get uprooted and replanted all over again, not just with home but with her school as well. It would all just be too unsettling for everyone involved. Look, I know you mean well, but it just isn’t going to work for us. I’m sorry.”

  My father remained quietly still as he looked off into space, entangled in one of his famous Grandpa Thomas long and pensive stares (as Sage would say). As I allowed him those few moments to let my words thoroughly sink in, I embraced the silence that was the tranquil beauty of St. Martha’s simple courtyard. The atmosphere was almost eerily calm on that beautiful spring day in May. In its own strange way, the air itself seemed to exist in direct contrast to my own inner turmoil that had affected me so profoundly.

  As we sat together on Dad’s favorite bench, parked directly beside—almost touching—the dark, wilting branches of a lofty willow tree, he let a slight but still gruff, wheezy whistle escape from his lips. For a moment, there, it seemed as if the breath of life itself was even too powerful for his withering body to take, and I was once again grimly reminded of the finality of our condition. Dad finally turned towards me; only this time, his face was no longer hardened with stubborn resolve but rather tempered by bitter acceptance.

  “Julia, I get it. You have no use for Norwood anymore. You haven’t for a very long time.”

  His biting words were caustic, and my entire body cringed as I felt my lips immediately fix themselves into a deep and twisted scowl. “Dad, that’s not what I’m saying—”

  “I’m not talking about what you’re saying. This world is full of people who say things all the time—and not a lick of what they say is embedded in actual truth. This is about how you feel… and what you’re about to do.” My father laughed bitterly and shook his head from side to side as if completely amused by the apparent absurdity of my words. “Really, Julia? Not what you’re saying? Don’t try that lawyer talk with me, where you’re dancing all around the subject but ultimately stand for nothing. I’m interested in action, not words.”

  His Grandpa Thomas stare wandered, traveling up towards a towering oak that stretched out across from us—its extended branches like loving outstretched arms preparing for a warm embrace as it shielded us both so tenderly from the ever-intensifying rays of the sun. Then he pulled on the brim of his flat cap, just a tiny bit, but enough to secure it firmly in place.

  Undeterred, I attempted once again to make him at least try to understand my point of view. “The bottom line is that I can make money if I sell the house, enough to help us get by for a long time. I’d still go to work, of course, but it’s extra money that we could use. Enough so that I don’t have to rely on Mike’s help—”

  “Michael should help,” Dad interrupted, then returned his focus to the willow.

  “I don’t want to rely on his help, though. It’s just a matter of—”

  “Foolish pride.”

  “You’re being stubborn,” I objected. “Besides, aren’t you the one who is always pushing less involvement from Mike, not more?”

  “Julia, he’s the girl’s father. It’s not right that you should have to deal with this all on your own. I see the toll it’s taking on you. You’re the one running around all over the city. You’re up here in the Bronx looking after me. Then you’re trying to fix everything and make it right with Sage. All this is on top of going to work full time. Now what? You’re supposed to sling real estate as well?”

  “I know; it’s a lot.” And it was. Admittedly, I was overwhelmed, but there was simply no way around it. Between juggling everything that came along with Sage, supporting my father throughout his final days, teaching full time, and dealing with every other problem and responsibility that seemed to fall into my lap needlessly, placing a hous
e on the market was probably the last headache I wanted to contend with. Not to mention, calling the house a fixer-upper would be a generous overstatement. It was a complete mess. Realistically, I would never move back in, so if I agreed to hold on to the house, it would be in name only, and it would just waste away. It seemed wrong to allow our family home to sit there abandoned with no one to care for it, just so that I could spare my father’s feelings. Even putting my personal needs aside, how fair would it be to the community? Could I really leave an abandoned house just sitting there, waiting for no one, for the simple sake of preserving family memories? I had to sell. The house needed to go.

  “Look, Jules. No one is saying that you must pack up and move on from where you’re living now. It was just a suggestion because I thought it might be nice to hold on to something special in our family. History—that’s something lost on the new generation. I didn’t think it would be lost on you. But if you think selling the house is the right move for you, so be it. Who am I to stop you? I’ll be dead soon enough.”

  I cringed. Far be it from my father to hold back on those punches. He always knew the exact amount of pressure to apply while twisting my arm behind my back—metaphorically speaking, of course.

  “Dad, would you stop talking like that?” I protested weakly, sounding more like a petulant child than anything. “You’re being negative, and it’s upsetting me.”

  “What do you want me to say? I’m not about to mince words with you, Julia. I’m a realist. You know that. The bottom line is this: I can’t stop you. If you can make—what—a few thousand bucks on this thing, I get it. Houses in New York City go for quite a chunk of change, even so-called dumps like mine. I understand. These are tough times, and your bank account needs the extra padding. But what if you just forgot about all that, for just one moment, and gave it a chance? Get a few coats of fresh paint. Put in some new windows and a gate.”

  He paused abruptly, searching for the right words. “Or maybe get rid of the gate altogether and put in a wooden fence. Wouldn’t that look nice? Then you could clean it up again, varnish the floors… You could have a real place for yourself there, even if it were just for a little while. Then, after some time passes, and you don’t need it anymore for whatever reason, sell it. But don’t just throw the towel in yet. You’re not a quitter.”

  There was an unmistakable element of nostalgia emanating from his voice, peppered with heartfelt desperation. It was as if saying goodbye to that house meant letting go of something so powerful—far greater and more meaningful to him. Something he wasn’t quite ready to part with. It felt strange. My father rarely bestowed sentimentality on anyone, let alone anything. In all our years, the one time I saw him cry was about ten years ago when a stray dog ran out in front of his station wagon, and Dad couldn’t brake in time. Yet there he was, clinging on to a mere symbol of what once was as if doing so would somehow make good of all that was yet to come.

  “Dad, the neighborhood has changed… and so have I.”

  Despite it all, I wasn’t about to move backward just so I could appease him. I was determined to live my life in my way, and even though I didn’t have all the answers, I knew that my path was different from his—and there was nothing wrong with that.

  “All the more reason to stay. If everyone leaves, if everyone gives up, what does that say? What kind of message does that send? But if some people stay and help and keep it alive…” his voice weakened, then crackled, before trailing off completely.

  I didn’t have the heart to verbalize it out loud for us both to hear, but the neighborhood had changed a very long time ago. More importantly, I had never belonged there, to begin with. And even though I knew he understood that on some level (he had to have witnessed it while I was growing up), my father was one of those old-timers who insisted on sticking around and standing by his home, come hell or high water.

  He was not going to let anyone tell him that his day was over, that he no longer belonged, was no longer relevant. In a lot of ways, I had to admire him for his perspective. If there was one thing I could say for my father, and the others like him, it was that they possessed a passion for community history and displayed a fierce loyalty like none other. They would fight tooth and nail for their people, for their homes. And even though my father’s bark was big, and talking to him sometimes made about as much sense as slamming my head into a brick wall, he had values—a code.

  Resolving to place all resentment and frustration aside, I gently took my father’s hand into my own. His was so frail and cold, the cancer having withered his entire body down to its barest essentials.

  “Dad, I don’t really know how to keep the house alive. And, truthfully, I want more out of life. I need to move on. There has been so much going on lately. I feel like I can barely hold my head above water. Now that Mike is moving to Chicago… not Westport where he’s just an hour away in bad traffic…” I paused, taking a deep but shaky breath, “… this is really the first time I’m going to be with Sage… completely alone.”

  “Chicago?” Dad huffed indignantly. “You’ve mentioned that nonsense before. Not gonna happen.”

  “Dad, he’s leaving this week—”

  “Jules.” Dad placed his other hand over mine and squeezed so surprisingly tight that it almost felt as if my fingers would snap under his, like slender, brittle little twigs. “You need to listen to me. Michael is not going. He thinks he wants to go to Chicago. He thinks that by doing this—by breaking new ground—he’s accomplishing something, that he’s important, relevant, that he exists. Well, let me fill you in on a little secret. Businesses come and go. Jobs pay the bills, until they don’t. But your family is your family. And whether that man likes it or not, that’s what he’s really been looking for this entire time. You and Sage are the only family he has left. You are the only family that was ever really there for him… Maybe those two little boys love him, too.”

  “Miles and Finn.”

  He nodded.

  Unable to believe him, I shook my head sadly in response. In a lot of ways, I thought Dad was projecting some of his own feelings concerning family onto Mike, which was a bit unusual considering how critical my father often was towards the both of us. The truth of the matter was that Mike was going, and in doing so, he was breaking Sage’s heart.

  “You’re the one who always comments on how messed up Mike’s family is,” I said, “how they don’t stick around and run when the going gets tough.”

  “That’s just me running my mouth.” Dad smiled. “Not saying it isn’t true about Mike’s own father and the others from their clan, because it is. The Sloane family is a real mess. But Chicago? That’s not home. Something about it all don’t sit right with me.”

  “It would be nice if you’re right. It’s so hard with Sage, Dad. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with her.”

  “Well, she’s a hard-headed child. And we all know where she gets it from.”

  I nodded in agreement. “I know. Mike is incredibly difficult and unpredictable. You never know where his feet will land. I’ve been saying it for some time now: Sage is becoming more and more like him each day. You see it, don’t you?”

  “Who’s talking about Mike? I was referring to you.”

  “Excuse me?” A short, snorty laugh escaped from the back of my throat. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  What could best be described as a highly amused, Cheshire grin instantaneously spread across my father’s face. “Julia Patricia Ann Brody, you have been a challenge since day one. Do you remember that time, way back when you kids were at St. Dominick’s, and Father Joseph came by the class to talk to you all about Holy Orders and receiving the call? Well, you got up from your desk and gave Joe a piece of your mind, sassing about how women should be allowed into the priesthood, and how it was an embarrassment that some other religions and Christian churches allowed it when we didn’t.”

  “Dad, please. That hardly constitutes what I’d call ‘difficult behavior.’ There are plenty
of Catholics who feel the same way,” I objected. “That’s not a groundbreaking comment to make; I was just pointing out what everyone’s already thinking.”

  “You were in second grade! Boy, do I remember that phone call. The monsignor called me that afternoon, all in a tizzy. You caused quite the stir, you know. I probably threw a few extra bucks in the collection plate that Sunday to apologize on your behalf. Oh, well. What can you do? And then there was that time when that little McElroy kid from up the block made fun of you because your mother had passed—called you an orphan. You gave him a hollerin’ and a bop in the face so hard. You knocked his two front baby teeth straight outta his mouth! And this was on a Friday during Lent of all things!”

  “Lent?” I rolled my eyes. “I mean, how does giving up meat make you closer spiritually to someone who was publicly executed via the Roman Empire? Meanwhile, fish is more expensive these days—arguably a greater luxury… Never mind, I can’t follow the logic.”

  “I think the only reason why you didn’t get booted out of school that day was because everyone in the parish felt sorry for me. They probably saw me as this poor schlep, doing the best I could, raising you like a little boy ’cause there was no mother around to teach you right. I was their charity case. The teacher had no idea what to do with you either—I think you scared her!”

  I smiled sheepishly in response; it was probably true. Even growing up, I always recognized that look of sympathy everyone bestowed upon my father—the brave Irish fireman widower who didn’t know any better. I had heard them talk: Tom’s a stand-up guy but one of six boys. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t know the first thing about bringing up a girl proper, how to fasten barrettes into that impossible black hair of hers. Everyone felt this need to come to their hero’s aid. And so, extended family, neighbors, and even the wives of men from my father’s station came by the house to offer us help in the form of free childcare, assistance with chores, or the staple casserole of some sort. Looking back, I was genuinely shocked that Dad had never remarried, considering how much positive attention he always managed to garner from every direction.