Kaleidoscope Hearts

by Claire Contreras

  So here I am, an hour after I wanted to be here, wiping paint off every surface in the room. My one salvation is that the room is an enclosed space separate from the art outside, because if they’d gotten any of this mess on one of the local artists’ work, or worse—Wyatt’s—I would have died. My ass hits the floor when I get tired of bending over, and I look around once more. The canvases they are painting on are still on their designated easels, and I take a moment to look at the one Fin was working on. It’s a gloomy day in his world. The gray sky makes the water below it hit the rocks angrily. The dark blue brush strokes on the ocean almost make me feel like I can hear the waves, and I decide I want to see the real thing. My studio isn’t far from the beach, and I don’t enjoy it as often as I could. I gather everything I need for the hospital meeting into one box and set it aside, next to the door. As I’m locking up, I see the splashes of paint on my arm from the paint fight. Damn kids.

  The temperature usually drops around sundown and, like clockwork, when the sun begins to set, I feel a cool gust of wind hit me. I pull my light jacket closed, as I stroll toward the water.

  I stop at the light a block away and listen for the waves, feeling lighter already. Aside from the other galleries in the area, the ocean was a huge selling point for us when we got the place. If I close my eyes and think hard enough, I can picture Wyatt running toward the beach with his board under one arm, his wet suit practically falling off his body. The memory makes me smile, even though it makes my heart squeeze in my chest. When I first came back to the studio, that was my first thought. Not the gallery, not the painting he was working on that I have put away in the back room, not our daily breakfast together, or the way he would smile when I walked in a room—but remembering the way he ran toward that water.

  Surfing was quite possibly the only thing he had in common with my brother. When I first got together with Wyatt, my mom joked that I purposely brought home the artiest man I could find. Forget the fact that he was highly successful, older, and made the effort to wear a suit to their house the first time they met. My mom saw him beneath it all. Not in a bad way. She grew to accept Wyatt, as did my dad. Vic never really did, but didn’t say otherwise. I think they all saw him as an extension of me. I was already kind of an outsider in their world anyway. I hated going to those pretentious parties and galas my parents attend annually. My dad’s an orthodontist, and my mom’s an English professor, so everybody assumed their kids would follow in their footsteps. Well, Vic became an attorney, and I became a painter. They’re supportive of me, though. They love my work and cheer me on, so even though I know I’m the black sheep in some ways, I’m never made to feel like one.

  When I reach the sand, I take a really deep breath and close my eyes, relishing the moment. Every second counts. Live in this moment. This is life. This is what matters. It’s a simple thought, but it’s so easy to forget. The ocean is there as a constant reminder though. The big waves crashing against the rocks are as cleansing as they are dangerous. I take a seat in the sand and watch the surfers, young and old, and let the sounds wash over me. Instead of drowning out my pent-up sorrow, it cuts me in half. The anniversary of Wyatt’s death was a couple of days ago. It came and went without much remembrance, other than from me and his parents, via the phone call we had to check up on each other.

  A little over a year ago, I was on this very beach for a completely different reason. I saw ambulances drive through the sand and followed them because curiosity got the best of me. God. What would I have done if I hadn’t followed them? How would I have found out? I wore a frown as I walked closer to the water, recalling the small crowd of people—mostly surfers—watching the paramedics work on someone. It was like I was having an out-of-body experience as I reached them. It felt like something was pulling me closer to the chaos, but I instinctively knew I wouldn’t want to see what was going on once I reached it, so I walked slowly. I caught a glimpse of the man on the ground and thought, “Holy shit, that looks like . . . but . . .” and glanced down at my phone in a panic. I looked in every direction—toward the gallery, the beach, and the little colorful wooden shack that sold drinks—all the while my heart pounded in my chest.

  My feet drove me forward, closer to the paramedics . . . closer to the body. And then I saw him. Really saw him. His long, blonde hair fanned over the sand, his brown eyes were closed, and his wet suit was pulled down to reveal a thin torso. My vision began to blur, walls that weren’t there, beginning to close in around me. I felt like I was fading. Like I was there, but not really, because I wasn’t supposed to be looking at what I thought I was seeing. My knees began to buckle when I finally reached him and saw just how white his lips were and how pale his face was.

  “Wyatt?” I heard myself say, but the shriek belonged to someone else . . . someone in a panic . . . someone who felt like she was losing the love of her life, and that person couldn’t have been me. “What happened? He’s my fiancé. What happened? Wyatt!” I screamed over and over as panic rushed through me.

  One of the paramedics held my arms, as I watched them work on him. CPR . . . pumping his stomach over and over . . . Finally, they brought out that machine I’d seen a million times in movies—the one that “clears” and zaps people when they’re dead and need to be revived. When I saw that machine, I fell to my knees with a scream. I clutched the warm sand below me as the paramedic tried to calm me down.

  “Why isn’t he waking up?” I sobbed. “Why aren’t you letting me go to him?”

  “I need you to stay calm—”

  My pleas died out with a howl and the sound of the tide crashing behind us.

  “He was just surfing,” somebody behind us said.

  “He was taking too long to come up after his last wipe out,” another added.

  “I called nine-one-one when I noticed he wasn’t coming up,” a third one said. “I hope he pulls through!”

  The paramedic helped me get up as they put Wyatt on a stretcher, and I let her walk me into the back of the ambulance. I sat there beside Wyatt’s feet, staring at his face.

  “Will he be okay?” I asked, half sobbed, half shrieked.

  Nobody answered. They just kept on tapping him, breathing into his mouth, and pumping his stomach. They pronounced him dead on arrival when we got to the hospital, before they even wheeled him in. I knew he was gone before he even made it onto the ambulance, but it hurt so much more to hear them verbalize it. For days, I felt lost. He was only thirty-five and an excellent swimmer. The only thing I could think about was that those brown eyes would never look at me again. Those hands would never paint again. Those lips would never smile again. And coming back to this beach now, always brings back the memories.

  The autopsy said he’d had a heart attack while he was in the water and that there wasn’t enough water in his lungs for him to have drowned. The only thing I kept thinking was—he was only thirty-five.

  I no longer cry when I come here. It’s not filled with bad memories anymore because I know Wyatt loved this place as much as he loved the gallery. Today, though . . . today I cry. Today I let myself remember the look on his smiling face when we had breakfast in the morning. I close my eyes and take a breath, hoping to smell dry paint and gloss on him and hug myself tight at the memory of being in his arms at night. I let those thoughts break me open and hope that, even from a distance, the waves can wash away my pain. Tomorrow I’ll be okay, but today I let myself bleed, and that’s okay too.

  THE THING ABOUT life is that you never know when it will show you something that touches you so deeply that you can’t help but be grateful for everything . . . even the bad. That’s how I feel when wheelchairs holding kids pass by me as I walk down the halls of the hospital with the box of supplies in my hand. I round the corner on my way to Jen’s office and stop dead in my tracks when I see Oliver leaving a room, still talking to whomever is inside. Apparently, his residency keeps him in the hospital for endless hours, because every time Vic mentions his name, he’s here. I’m sti
ll standing there when he closes the door and walks toward me. Those green scrubs and that doctor’s coat really do nothing to diminish his good looks. If anything, it makes him look even better, but it’s that confident stride of his and the lopsided smile on his face that makes my heart thunder.

  “You’re early,” he says, stopping in front of me.

  I frown. “No, I’m not. I’m on time.”

  Oliver grins. “On time is early for you. You’re always fashionably late.”

  “I used to always be fashionably late. Now I’m on time.”

  “I’m impressed,” he says, his green eyes playful, as they scan my face. My hands full with the box I’m carrying, I’m forced to blow out a breath to get a strand of hair out of my face. Oliver chuckles, grabbing the hair and tucking it behind my ear. It’s a simple motion, but somehow he makes it feel intimate. His eyes are on mine, his hand still behind my ear, when he steps closer. I’ve never been happier to be holding a box in my life, because the way he’s looking at me makes my heart trip, and I’m not sure what I would do with my hands if they were free.

  “What?” I ask, my voice a whisper.

  “You’re so grown up,” he says, dropping his voice to match my whisper. It ignites little butterflies in my stomach to take flight.

  “You make it sound like you’re so much older than me.”

  Growing up, Oliver loved reminding me that he was older. Sometimes he would say it in a lighthearted tone—other times it sounded like a curse—though the curse was only when it was paired with, you’re Vic’s baby sister. And then one time he said . . .

  He smiles softly. “I’m old enough to know better.”

  My mouth pops open, and I take a step back so he’s forced to drop his hand. That. He said that.

  Oliver clears his throat, as he seems to recall the same memory.

  “I have to go. I don’t want to be irresponsibly late,” I say, rushing off before he can stop me.

  What is he doing?

  What am I doing?

  I stop in front of a sign that reads: Jennifer Darcia, Assistant Coordinator, and I knock on the door. She calls for me to enter and I do, bumping the door with my hip to close it. I place the box down on one of the empty chairs in front of her desk and smile.

  “Hi. I’m Estelle,” I say, letting out a heavy sigh.

  “Take a seat. I’m Jen,” she replies.

  We shake hands, and I sit down in the chair beside the one that holds the box. She looks like everything I picture as being Oliver’s taste—blonde hair, bright blue eyes, nice smile, and big boobs. The only thing that throws me off is that she’s older. I’m pretty sure she has ten years on me, which would give his little statement a whole new meaning. Maybe that’s his deal—he’s into older women, and I’m too young for him.

  “Thank you so much for doing this for us,” she starts. “I’m always looking for new things to keep the kids entertained, but lately the clown shows and movies aren’t cutting it. I just want them to do something different, or at least with someone different, you know? If they have to be here, they might as well have a chance to interact with people other than the ones giving them their medicines.” Her eyebrows draw together as she speaks, and I can tell she’s passionate about the kids. I decide I like Jen.

  “I’ll do my best to keep them happy,” I say with a reassuring smile.

  “Thank you.” She pauses. “Oliver says you two go way back.”

  I startle at the sudden change of subject. “Yeah, he’s my brother’s best friend.”

  “I believe the term he used to describe you was his ‘favorite person, ever,’” she says. She’s smiling, and I get the impression she wants me to tell her something private about Oliver, but the thing is, her statement floors me to the point of speech loss.

  “He said that?”

  Jen nods. “He did.”

  “That’s . . . interesting.” Considering everything, I want to add, but don’t.

  “Let me show you your new work space. You said you are available three times a week, correct?” she says, standing up.

  “I’m available upon request, kind of like a clown minus the face paint—unless you need me to face paint—but I can’t promise you the stuff I work with will come off easily.”

  She laughs and puts her hands up. “No, thank you. I don’t want to be held responsible for that disaster.”

  Jen takes me to the next wing and shows me where to go and who to speak to, before heading back to her office. As I walk the hallways, I take in the outdated murals that adorn the walls. The only contrast to the blue that covers the walls are the fish that swim in all different directions. Looking at it makes me feel like I’m suffocating. Who would paint a fish tank on the walls of a children’s hospital? For a place that’s supposed to be comforting to the children and parents that have to see this every day, this is unacceptable. I’m shaking my head in disgust when a laugh snaps me out of the moment.

  “I take it you don’t approve?” Oliver says, appearing beside me.

  “Don’t you have a job to do?” I ask, dishing out my annoyance at what happened earlier and at the hideous hallway in front of us. I move to brush past him, and I bump his arm slightly.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, making me stop dead in my tracks. I don’t turn around. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he continues. “It’s just . . . seeing you and then you . . . I just . . . shit.” He laughs.

  I turn and face him. “It’s okay. Apologies have never been your strong suit, after all.”

  He cringes, and this time I walk away for good.

  EVERYBODY HAS A different definition of moving on. For me, selling the house I shared with Wyatt is a way for me to move on with my life. For my mom, moving on means dating. So here I am, sitting across from Derek, who’s actually a really nice guy. He’s been attentive, holding the door open for me, waiting for me to take a seat before he does, and asking me about my day while listening intently. He’s not bad looking either. He’s in shape and has a good sense of style, but for some reason, I’m not really here with him. I keep zoning out as he talks about his job as an architect.

  “I’m not boring you, am I?” he asks in a polite tone.

  “No, not at all. Sorry! It’s just,” I sigh, “this is a little weird for me.”

  “I understand. My mom was telling me about, you know,” he says, waving his hand in my direction.

  “Yeah. I’m okay talking about it. It’s just weird to be out with another guy.” I offer him a small smile.

  “It’s your first date since you lost him,” he says with an understanding smile.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you still . . . how do I say this . . . it sounds weird to say hung up on him because it’s not like it’s your ex-boyfriend and he’s moved on . . . ” he says, letting his words hang.

  “No, I’m okay. I mean, I’m okay with everything, really. It’s just I’m sitting here thinking about what will happen next—will you try to hold my hand or kiss me good night, or I don’t know,” I shrug and laugh as I look away from him. “I think I just made this weirder.”

  Derek laughs. “What if we just take this one step at a time? No holding hands if you don’t want that, and no kiss if you don’t want that. I mean, we haven’t even gotten our entrees yet.”

  “You’re right,” I say, smiling and feeling a little bit less uncomfortable. It is just dinner. I have the bad habit of jumping ahead of myself in every aspect of my life. Sometimes I need to learn to rein in some of my anxiety and just breathe. I start to tell Derek about the hospital and the kids I worked with the other day. I tell him how much it opened my eyes to the things I have and take for granted. Dinner goes by quickly after that, and when we reach my brother’s house, the sun has gone down.

  “Looks like you have company tonight,” Derek comments, as his headlights flash over the cars outside.

  “Yeah, Victor loves having people over. It’s a shame he can’t remember to turn the porch light on,” I say, makin
g him chuckle.

  “I’ll walk you up and make sure you don’t trip.”

  We reach the door and stand there awkwardly, not knowing what the right thing to do is.

  “So . . . kiss or no kiss?” he asks. I can’t see his face, but the smile in his voice makes me feel comfortable.

  I take a moment to think about it. I haven’t had a pair of lips on me since Wyatt, but I can’t say I’m not curious to know what it would be like to kiss someone else. Kissing Wyatt always felt easy. It felt comfortable, familiar. Taking a deep breath, I lean forward. Derek’s hands hold the upper part of my arms, and his lips press to mine. A moment later, the light turns on and the front door opens. My eyes pop open, and Derek and I jerk apart from one another like we’ve been caught doing a lot more than just kissing. It feels like ninth grade all over again. Our heads snap to Oliver, who’s holding the door open, arms crossed over his black t-shirt. His green eyes bounce from me to Derek and back again.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know you were out here,” he says, though he doesn’t look sorry at all.

  “A gentleman walks his date to the door,” Derek says, smiling at me.

  I return his smile. “Thanks for the date.”

  “It was my pleasure. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Maybe we can do it again soon?”

  I glance at Oliver who’s brazenly watching our conversation, and I glare at him before looking back at Derek. “Sure. Call me.”

  I wait until he’s halfway to his car before I face Oliver again, narrowing my eyes. “Well? Weren’t you leaving?”

  “No, I just heard a noise outside and came to check it out.”