A Holland and a Fighter

by Lori L. Otto

  “How far along are you?” one mother asks.

  “Oh,” I say, smiling. “I just passed thirty-one weeks.”

  “Are you so excited?”

  “I’m… ready to meet him, yes. It hasn’t been the easiest one. Those two girls at the back are mine,” I tell her. Another thing I love about Nate’s Art Room is that, while people who attend or send their kids here do know who my parents are and who I am, they don’t really pay much attention to our lives. They appreciate that we’re normal people, too, who like to share with our New York Community–on our terms. This is one of the ways we’ve done it all my life.

  “You don’t look old enough to have girls that age!”

  “Oh, I am. Trust me. Thirty-five here.”

  “What is your secret?”

  “Sunscreen and fresh air. Lots of both… and just living life.”

  “Are you concerned at all, being a high-risk pregnancy? I’m a nurse, so… I was just wondering.”

  Having been on the low-end of the high-risk scale, I liked to pretend I wasn’t on it. Sadly, feeling unwell so often has put it top of mind at times, but no one has ever come out and asked me the question before. I start to move to the next table, a natural move as the instructor of the class. “No, not at all,” I lie, maintaining the kind smile. “Let me know if you have any painting questions.” I nod and look to the next table, zoning out as I stare at the blurry blobs in front of me.

  “What do you think?” the young boy, Peter, asks me after I realize I’ve been silent for a good minute and a half.

  I blink to focus on his obvious portrait of his older brother, Zion. It’s incredible. “Oh, my gosh, Peter! That is… Zion, look at that! What do you think?”

  “I think Petey’s a pro! And I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’.”

  I grin, turning his paper toward me. It’s a bunch of abstract shapes that don’t appear to be related to one another.

  “Well, you definitely have a different style than your brother, but all’s not lost. I don’t think you’re finished with it. Also, it could be that you’re working on a mixed media piece, and you don’t even know it.”

  I talk to him about how to connect the shapes with a stroke from a larger brush; a darker paint, and possibly oil. Since we’re using very heavy paper, I go to the back room and get a few extra supplies for his table. “Watch this.”

  After squeezing out the black paint on the palette, I immediately feel sick to my stomach. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.”

  In the bathroom, I stand over the sink, eventually talking myself out of throwing up. My face flushed, I decide to splash some cold water on it, wiping away the makeup I’ve messed up afterwards. Edie meets me outside with some iced water.

  “Oh, thank you, Eeds.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m good. I shouldn’t have opened the oil paint. I was just excited about Zion’s artwork.”

  “Memi’s working out in the courtyard with him, showing him what you meant. She told everyone what happened.”

  “Great,” I say, mildly embarrassed.

  “You’re doing really good in there, Mama.”

  “Really well,” I correct her. “And thank you. How’s Granddaddy’s painting?”

  “It’s bad. Really bad. He’s good at a lot of things, but he’s not good at this,” she says with a frown. I laugh at her honest response.

  “Is that what you told him?”

  “I told him he was doing really good,” she says with a shrug.

  “What? How do I know you’re not lying to me, then, if you lied to him like that?”

  “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But I don’t lie to you.”

  “You do,” I argue, challenging her with a smile.

  “Well. I didn’t right now, for sure. And I usually don’t.”

  “That’s good enough for me. Right now, for sure.” I set down my water and give her a hug, returning to the room to face the class again.

  A few of the students have questions before our time is up. We offer to let them keep the paintings in the studio overnight so they can dry out properly. For a few of them, we even make arrangements to deliver them to their homes in instances when they don’t have a way to come back tomorrow.

  “Let’s look at your painting, Dad.” He turns it upside down so I can see it from the other side of the table. “Is this us?” I ask, trying to stave off the laughter at his stick figure family.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “I guessed it, right?” I look up at him adoringly, wanting to put my fingers over the images of my daughters. Over Jon. Over the mop of strawberry blonde hair of the figure that towers over all of us–my little brother. “This was pretty ambitious, Daddy. But… you did it perfectly.” Its childlike quality nearly brings me to tears. It’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever created–my dad’s not the most creative person. “Oh, look. You even painted the baby. I’m holding the baby. Ohhh…”

  “Yes. It’s a portrait of all of us. There’s Trey and Coley. I envision this being early next year. After their wedding, you know. I thought they might get a dog.” I hadn’t noticed the addition, but it’s adorable. “The Holland/Scott family. If we’d had more time, I would have painted all the brothers and their families, too.”

  “Maybe another class, Daddy. I’d love to see it.” I go to his side of the table and give him a hug. “I know you did this for you, but… can I have it?”

  “Really?” he laughs. “You’d want that?”

  “It’s… my favorite thing.” I start crying.

  “Well, Contessa, don’t cry.” He holds me tightly. “Of course, you can have it. I’d be honored if my daughter, the artist, wanted to hold on to it.”

  “I’m going to frame it and hang it prominently in the living room.”

  “Oh, don’t do that,” he says, blushing. “Maybe a guest room,” he suggests.

  “Then I won’t see it every day. My room, then.”

  He nods. “I should probably autograph it.” He takes one of his nice pens out of his shirt pocket, as if he’s always prepared to sign a contract, and meticulously signs his name in the corner.

  “Thank you, Daddy.” I hug him again.

  After Mom has hung the other paintings to dry, she finally comes to take Dad’s. “Adorable, isn’t it?” she asks.

  “Incomparable.” I wipe my eyes. “What did you paint?”

  “The girls,” she says, nodding across the room. Sure enough, in her illustrative style, there’s a divine work of art from her, too. “I’m holding onto it.”

  I laugh. “Darn it.”

  “Feel free to visit it regularly.”

  I walk around the room, looking at the work hanging up, admiring all the different styles done by today’s students. I can pick out Edie’s without even seeing her well-practiced signature at the bottom. Her innate talent is evident. I have a harder time finding Willow’s, but I should have guessed by the subject matter–a bunch of stars on a dark background.

  I finally get to Zion’s and breathe a little shallower instinctively. My mother did a perfect job showing him what I had intended to do, and the technique brought out his watercolor strokes beautifully. I hope he was happy with the end result–even if it still wasn’t quite as good as his brother’s.

  After everything is cleaned up, the five of us go outside into the courtyard for a picnic my dad had prepared. The old table isn’t the most comfortable in my current state, but I find it easy to forget about it when I’m surrounded by the people I love on this beautiful day.

  “Livvy, you did so well in there.”

  “I’m glad you suggested it, Mom. I wish I’d been doing this weekly. I really think I’d be in a better frame of mind if I’d had a creative outlet all this time. I mean, I know this about myself. I don’t know why I couldn’t think of an alternative.”

  “Maybe because you’ve been busy feeling under the weather,” Dad says. “Sometimes you need help seeing the l
ight, that’s all. We have our weekly drawing classes. We have an instructor, but I know they’d love the assistance. There’s always room for more people to mentor the class. You know this.”

  “I’d love that–for as long as I’m able to keep up.” My palm soothes the kicking baby, who’s obviously been awakened by the meal. “I love this place,” I tell them, suddenly contemplative and grateful. “It’s as much home to me as my apartment and your house.”

  Mom and Dad clasp hands across the table. “It’s pretty great,” Mom agrees.

  “It’s where Jon and I met. I mean… it’s where we fell in love. It’s where I spent so many amazing days with Granna.” Nate’s mother had become a surrogate grandmother to me, as she had become very close to both of my parents once they opened Nate’s Art Room. “It’s where I honed my art skills. I hope this place never closes. It does so many good things in this city. For kids like Peter, who are so naturally gifted.”

  Dad smiles. “I see you and Jon running it someday… in the far, far future of course. And then maybe Edie will want to. Who knows?”

  I’d thought the same things many times. It was a part of the non-retirement plan Jon and I had. This could be just a part of the work we do. He shared my affinity of the place.

  “I know Jon and I would be honored to. And we wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “I would call it Edie’s Art Room,” my daughter says.

  “Well, then,” I scoff, “we haven’t done a good enough job teaching you its history. I will tell you tonight about the grand gesture of love that created this place to begin with. And then the only alternate name you may ever consider would be to change it from Nate to Jack. Period.”

  My mother smiles, looking at Daddy.

  “Granddaddy’s not an artist!” my oldest daughter argues. “Did you see his watercolor?”

  Immediately, I tear up and choke out tears. “You have no future as an art critic, Eeds. The sentiment behind that painting, it… he… you’ll never understand what that means to me. And you apologize to him right now.”

  “Mama, don’t cry,” she says, shocked. Willow’s eyes start to water, and she comes from behind to give me a hug.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, wiping my eyes with a napkin. I look at my father, who appears to be swiping at tears, too, but he’s looking away from us, trying not to let us see. Mom clings to his bicep and rests her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I repeat, turning around and embracing my youngest, who hates to see me cry. “Mama’s okay.”

  “Sorry, Granddaddy,” I hear Edie say softly. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “Oh,” he laughs. “My feelings aren’t hurt, bunny. You can always be honest with me. It’s okay. Go give your mama a hug.”

  She quickly comes around the table and throws her arms around me. “Sorry, Mama.”

  “I’m sorry, too, Eeds. You know Mama gets emotional because of the baby.” I take a few deep breaths, calming myself. “But I do need to teach you more about empathy… and just… being polite.”

  “Empathy?”

  “Yeah. Understanding and anticipating how other people feel.”

  “But Granddaddy said I didn’t hurt his feelings.”

  “And that’s what it means to be polite. We’ll discuss this at home tonight with your father, okay?”

  Her face is drawn as she sits back down. “Fine.”

  Once I confessed to my parents that I wasn’t feeling great after we ate lunch, they insist on coming back up to the apartment with me and the girls until Jon gets home. Dad does a puzzle with them in the library upstairs while Mom does a load of laundry and watches the news with me.

  “How are the girls doing with their reading goals this summer?” she asks.

  “Willow already met hers. She’s trying to be the top reader at the library in her age group now. I keep telling her she’d have a better chance if she read books that were actually written for her age group instead of the books Will keeps choosing for her, but I’m not her literary mentor, as she keeps reminding me,” I tell her with a chuckle. “And Edie doesn’t understand why fashion magazines don’t count toward the goal. So… she’s protesting and trying to change the rules. She believes it’s discrimination.”

  This makes my mom laugh. “I don’t know why this surprises me at all.”

  “Yeah, it shouldn’t. Matty even made a nice, glittery poster with her, and they picketed in front of the library for an hour a few weeks ago. I can’t believe you didn’t see it on the tabloid sites. We nearly killed him for it.”

  “You know we don’t like to look at those. It’s always invasive nonsense that’s no one’s business but ours.”

  “I know. I always worry that you will see, though, and think we’re doing a horrible job at parenting,” I admit with a shrug.

  “Well, that would never happen.” She puts her hand on my knee. “You just told me one of my granddaughters is out-reading everyone in her age group and beyond, and the other one is standing up for what she believes. I see nothing wrong with either of those things.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “I’m immensely proud every day of what you and Jon have done, and what you continue to do. I can’t wait to see what will become of little Auggie, either.”

  I confide in her quietly. “That probably won’t be his name.”

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “Huge fight about it. Jon hates it. We’re starting from scratch. The kid’ll probably be named Bobby George Scott, for all I know,” I tease sarcastically. “Hopefully he can keep the last name. I may need to clarify that.”

  “God, no. So not even Jonathan Augustus?”

  “No. Literally from scratch. No Augustus at all.” I frown.

  “But he’s Auggie to me!”

  “I know. He’s Auggie to a lot of people.” I smile, and it’s bittersweet, because I did kind of fall in love with the name. I fell in love with a baby named Auggie. I still love the baby, but it’s hard to separate the two. “He’s Froggie to the girls. Still. We haven’t told them yet.”

  She puts her hand over her heart. “Well. I think Memi might just call him what she wants. Memi doesn’t care what’s on the birth certificate.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see how long that lasts ya,” I say as a challenge. “Don’t tell him I told you. We want to keep it between us. We don’t want any outside interference.”

  “Okay.”

  Jon comes home a few minutes later, surprised to find my parents here. He listens to them brag on my instructor skills–ones he’d seen many times in the past–before they finally head home.

  After dinner, we corral the girls into the library upstairs and talk to them about empathy. I could tell that Willow was born with it–or that she had been around Uncle Will enough to glean it off of him, because he could read people like no one I’d ever met–but our 9-year-old needed a good lesson in it. We decided to have an open discussion with them both, defining what it means and talking about the consequences when one doesn’t use it.

  And then, I told them the history of Nate’s Art Room, start to finish. They learned about Nate and where he fit into my mother’s life. They learned about the night Nate died; the same night my dad’s feelings for Mom were rekindled at a New Year’s Eve party. And they learned about how, as a wedding gift to my mother, Dad had opened up Nate’s Art Room and the Nathaniel J. Wilson Gallery on the second floor, to always keep Nate’s memory alive, knowing that the man would always have a place in Mom’s heart.

  I think both girls had a newfound respect for their Granddaddy that night, and more empathy for their Memi. After the conversation, Edie vowed that she would keep the gallery, but change the name of the charity to Jack and Emi’s Art Room when it became hers someday in the “far, far future.”

  There aren’t many nights that I go to bed wanting to high-five my husband for the great parenting we did that day, but this night, I wanted to, and I did.

  Chapter 12

  I can’t calm
down.

  My eyes wide open, I stare at the darkness around me, trying to identify a recognizable shape. I see spots in my vision. I’m sure of that. I can see the moonlight peeking through curtains, but there are definitely spots in my vision. I try to sit up, but I can’t.

  My pulse beats loudly in my ear, uneven and annoying and I want it to stop. But I don’t. I want it to slow down. Calm down.

  Pulse points.

  Breathe.

  Where are my pulse points?

  I’m sweating.

  I grab the webbing in my left hand between the thumb and forefinger of my right, but I barely feel anything. No numbness. No pain. Just panic. And the drumming gets louder and louder and faster.

  I kick Jon. Nothing. I kick him again. Twice.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I can’t calm down,” I tell him, out of breath.

  “Do you need the monitor?” he asks, his speech slurred, as if he’s not quite awake.

  “No!” I shout. “Wake up!”

  He sits up, grabbing his phone to turn on the lights through the app. Spots in my vision, but I can see the room now. I can see him. He looks over at me as I lie flat on my back. “Do you want me to rub your neck?” He stretches lazily.

  “No! Call 9-1-1.”

  “What?” His body turns to face me, and he takes my hand in his, rubbing my wrist. No, he’s feeling my wrist. “You’ve got to calm down,” he tells me, worried.

  “I can’t!” I tell him for the millionth time. I think. “Call 9-1-1.” He’s out of bed quickly, pacing the room in his boxers with the phone to his ear.

  He speaks urgently to an operator, telling them who I am. How I am. Where I am. And how fucking fast they better get here. Good. I need him to be stern.

  He pulls on some jeans and a t-shirt, then makes another call to the concierge downstairs, warning them. After that, it’s a call to his brother.