Kaleidoscope Hearts

by Claire Contreras

  “I’m not ready,” I say, my voice cracking as I pick up a roller back and continue painting. I hear the metal roller handle he’s holding clatter to the floor, followed by approaching footsteps. I know he’s behind me, but I refuse to turn around. I know if I do, I’ll cry. I know if he keeps talking, I’ll cry. I don’t want to cry in here. I want this project to be about hope and life, not pain and loss.

  “That wall,” Micah says, standing beside me as he points at the wall. “That wall is your life, Elle. The blue isn’t ugly, and it’s not sad, but we’re painting over it because its time is over. The nurses who walk in here won’t forget how it looked. The kids who stare at these walls all day won’t forget, and maybe they’ll miss it sometimes, but we have to give them something that makes them happy to look at. Life is short, and brutal, and painful, and it takes loved ones away from us as quickly as it brings them into our lives, but it’s also beautiful. Wyatt would want you to move on and be happy. Date, get married, have kids, travel . . . do whatever makes you feel alive. The longer you mourn, the less you live, and you know how short our time here can be.”

  Imaginary fingers curl around my throat and squeeze so tightly that I can’t even respond. I don’t even realize I’m crying until Micah pulls me into his chest, and a loud, wet sob escapes me. I hear something drop on the other side of the room and feel Dallas’ arms wrap around us so that we’re standing there, all three of us crying for the missing pair of arms that would’ve covered us all. I call it a night shortly after that, because I can’t look at the wall without crying. As I head out, I see Oliver leaning his elbows on the counter with his face buried in his hands. I wonder if he’s tired or if one of his patients isn’t doing well.

  I keep thinking about the damn blue wall, and even though I have reasons not to, I want to comfort him. Sorting through the negative memories in the past, I focus on the good ones and cling to those. Without further hesitation, I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his middle, laying my cheek over his back. His body stiffens.

  “We go out as friends. No date,” I say against him, and feel him let out a long breath. I drop my hands when he straightens and turns to face me, his eyebrows furrowing as he scans my face. “Okay?” I ask in a whisper. He doesn’t respond. Instead, he brings one of his hands up to cup my cheek. I shiver, as he runs the pad of his thumb over it slowly.

  “Okay. A friends date,” he responds. He holds my gaze as dips his head. I start to lose composure. Oliver knows my date rules include no kissing, and we’re not even on a date, friends or otherwise. But, when his breath falls over my lips, my eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t kiss me though. His lips land on the very corner of my mouth, like they did so many years ago on the roof of my parents’ house. You would think with the one-man band going on inside my chest, that he’d done something more risqué. My eyes open slowly as he backs away from me, his eyes examining me as if I’m some sort of ancient artifact.

  “It’s still a yes, right? I didn’t break any rules.”

  I nod slowly, enthralled by him, despite inner thoughts screaming NO. If that was his friendly kiss, I don’t think I would survive a real one from him, even now that I know better.

  “You’ll send me the rest of the rules? Even if we are just going out as friends?” he asks, with a sparkle in his eyes that makes me nervous.

  I nod again.

  “At a loss for words?”

  “You caught me off guard,” I whisper.

  He tries to hide a smile, but I see the dimples deepen in his cheeks, so I know it’s there.

  “You just made a really bad day a whole lot better for me,” he replies, cupping my face and running his thumb over my bottom lip.

  “You want to talk about it?” I ask, leaning into his touch.

  He shakes his head and smiles sadly. “This is enough.”

  I can’t help it; I smile back. We stand like that for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes, his finger on my mouth and my heart in his hands, until the hospital speaker calls out his name.

  “I should go. You have work and, unlike some people, I need sleep.”

  Oliver nods, drops his hand from my face, and steps toward the patient rooms.

  “Good night, beautiful Elle.”

  “Good night, handsome Oliver,” I say with a smile.

  He grins as I turn to walk away.

  “Text me when you get home,” he calls out. I leave the hospital feeling much lighter than I did when I walked in. When I get to my car and press a hand to the spot his lips touched, I swear I can feel it tingling. I close my eyes and try to remember if Wyatt ever made me feel that way. I loved him—I really did—but every time I’m around Oliver, it’s something I question. It makes me feel terrible for even comparing the two. Maybe I just loved them differently. Maybe Oliver has been more of a familiar, teenage-hormones kind of love and Wyatt was more of an adult, predictably stable kind of love. I can’t decide which is best, or if either of them are, really. Not that I have to. Wyatt is gone, and there’s nothing I can do about that. So why does going on a just friends date with Oliver make me feel like I’m making the ultimate betrayal to his memory?

  I’M PACING THE gallery when a woman opens the door and makes me stop in my tracks. She smiles as she lifts her sunglasses into her hair. She’s older—probably the same age as my mom—and carries herself with the grace of a prima ballerina.

  “Are you the owner?” she asks, looking around once before settling on me again.

  “Yes,” I respond, and walk to her. “Estelle Reuben. Have you been here before?” I ask. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her. In the past, Wyatt and I hosted painting reveals in our gallery, so I figure maybe she came to one of those.

  “Actually, I haven’t. I think we may have met once in New York,” she says, tilting her face to examine mine. “You’re Wyatt’s . . .”

  “Fiancé.” I fill in the blank. Fiancé, ex-fiancé, fiancé before death, I never really know what to say to a stranger who knew of me.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she says, smiling sadly. Her face muscles don’t move much when she smiles, and it makes her look a little more grim than it does compassionate, but I return it nonetheless.

  “Thank you. Do you collect?” I ask, figuring she must, if we met in New York.

  “Yes. I’ve had my eyes on that one for a very long time.” She lifts a delicate hand and points at my main attraction, the eye that watches over the gallery.

  “Oh,” I say in a whisper.

  “How much for it?” she asks. “I’ve tried to buy it in the past to no avail.”

  My eyes widen as realization washes through me. “Priscilla?” I say, turning to face her. Priscilla Woods has been calling—and has had her husband’s assistant call—for almost a year now. I keep turning down their offers, although they’re big sums, because she wants my two favorite paintings, and I haven’t been ready to give them up.

  “You remember,” she says smiling. “I’m in town for a couple of days, so I figured I would stop by to see if you’re ready to sell these pieces to me.”

  “That one isn’t for sale,” I say, clearing my throat to make sure I’m heard.

  “And the other? The shattered hearts with wings?”

  I look away from her, toward where the painting hangs on the opposite wall. “It’s called Winged Kaleidoscopes,” I reply, suddenly feeling a lump settle in my throat. Wyatt painted it shortly after we got engaged. He painted three, sold two, and kept one for the gallery. I was never sure if he would sell it, even though the meaning behind it always made me tear up and smile. Ultimately, it was his painting to do with what he pleased.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says, and she walks to stand before it. “It reminds me of a rebirth of some sort.”

  I nod and swallow, hoping to stay put together enough to get through a conversation. “It’s very much a rebirth.” It’s a rebirth of my heart, of my hopes of love, of my love life, and the birth of our relationship.
r />   “It doesn’t have a price tag,” she says.

  “Some things don’t have a price.”

  She turns to me and tilts her head. “Nothing tangible is priceless.”

  “Maybe not, but the memories behind them are.”

  My response makes her nod in understanding. Her eyes dart away from mine and look back to the painting. “So you’re not willing to let go of the memories it holds?”

  I stare at the painting in silence. I know that no price will ever be enough to cover those memories, but they’ll forever be embedded in my brain, so maybe I should stop thinking about his paintings in terms of that. In the past couple of weeks, I’ve managed to turn over a new leaf. I feel like I’m headed in the right direction, yet when I’m faced with something like this—the reality of letting go, really letting go, of the past three years of my life—I stall like a car switching gears. I take a long breath, inhaling the ever-present smell of wood and paint, and when I let it out, I have my mind made up.

  “I’m ready to let go of it,” I say, my voice steady and determined.

  Priscilla turns around and claps her hands in front of her with a happy squeal—the exact opposite of everything she looks like—with her fine pearls and perfect bob. It makes me smile a little, and I feel less sad about selling the painting.

  “I can deliver it to your house,” I say, knowing it’s sold, because when somebody with money sets their eyes on something, they don’t walk out without it.

  “I live in New York,” she responds. “I wouldn’t expect you to fly all the way over there to deliver something.”

  “We do it all the time. I wouldn’t feel right shipping it to you. Not this one.”

  She offers me a small smile. “I’ll be taking it myself. We own a jet, so it wouldn’t even fly in a closet. It will be well taken care of.”

  The way she speaks about it—as if it was a child—makes me feel slightly better about the sale.

  “I’ll draw up the paperwork for you.”

  “Do I have time to run across the street? I’m supposed to meet my girlfriend for lunch,” she says, looking at her watch.

  “Of course. I just need some information from you. I’ll have it ready and packed up by the time you finish.”

  “Perfect. I can’t wait to hang this on top of my fireplace and show off my new painting,” she says.

  Her painting. I try not to let the words puncture me, but they do anyway. When she leaves and I finish the paperwork, I take down the painting, gripping the edges of the canvas as I set it down on the floor. I fold my legs beneath me and let my fingertips graze each shattered heart, colorful and beautiful, and the wings that lift them up. Tears slide down my face as I touch each one and say my goodbyes. I begin to cover it, one layer, two layers, three . . . stopping to wipe my face with each wraparound I make. I think about the serious look on Wyatt’s face as he’d mixed the watercolors . . . the look of elation as he’d gotten to the ivory wings when his vision came together on the canvas.

  “Do you like it?” he’d asked. His face had beamed when it became clear that I loved it.

  “I never want to sell it,” I said, as he laughed and wrapped his arms around me, squeezing me into him.

  “One day we will. When we get sick of looking at it.”

  I hope he doesn’t think I got tired of looking at it, because I’m not. I don’t think I will ever tire of staring at his paintings, but this isn’t about that. This is my goodbye, I say to myself as I stand up and, with a heavy heart, hand a piece of my past over to somebody else. She will never know the history behind it, but she will appreciate it nonetheless.

  ON DAY FOUR of Mia-hiatus, I call her, and after we’ve had a long conversation about things, I drive over to her studio. I push the door open when I get there and take a moment to admire the photographs she has hanging on the wall. She’s changed them all since my last visit. To the right, there’s a black and white photo of a woman lying in bed. She’s facing away from the camera, and the white bed sheets are bunched up at her bottom, so all you see is the curve of her naked back and lush black hair covering half of her shoulder. The lighting and the pose create a photo that is absolutely stunning. The wall facing the door features a family: The dad is wearing brown corduroy pants, a navy blue, button-down shirt, and, on his head, a Chewbacca mask that covers his face. The small boy beside him is dressed similarly and wears a storm trooper mask. Mom stands on the other side of their son and wears tight brown pants, a white shirt, and has styled her brown hair like Princess Leia. As I laugh at how adorable it is, I startle when Mia rounds the corner to greet me.

  I glance down and notice she’s wearing a red wrap dress and no shoes, which is funny because I’m wearing the same dress in black. We give each other a quick onceover and laugh.

  “Hi,” I say sheepishly.

  “I’m sorry I’m such an asshole, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you sold that painting,” she replies, repeating what she said in our phone call.

  “It’s okay. I was fine. I’m sorry I said what I said—it wasn’t my place.”

  We both let out a breath and walk forward with our arms held out, wrapping the other in a tight hug.

  “You’re such a bitch sometimes,” she says against my neck.

  “It’s why we’re friends.” We pull away from each other, and I look back at the wall in front of us. “I really love this picture.”

  Mia smiles. “Isn’t it awesome? It’s their Halloween card this year.”

  “That one is stunning,” I say, nodding at the one of the woman’s back.

  “Yeah, boudoir shoot for her soon-to-be husband. Lovely girl.” She turns her blue eyes to me. “When are you going to let me shoot one of those for you? You’d be perfect.”

  I make a noise. “I would suck at that. I don’t know how to look sexy on purpose.”

  Mia laughs. “That’s what makes sexy, sexy! If you try too hard, you end up looking like an idiot. I’ll help you though—you know I know how to work my magic.”

  “Yeah, clearly,” I say, waving around her studio.

  “Hey, do you want to be in a shoot for me this weekend?”

  “A shoot? I came to take you out to lunch and grovel for forgiveness, not schedule a sexy shoot!”

  “I know, but I have this model I’m shooting, and the girl just canceled on us because she’s too sick to do it, and to top it off, this is a major shoot for a local magazine, and I’m supposed to have these pictures to them by next week. This is huge, Elle. This could be my moment.”

  “Shit,” I say, letting out a slow breath.

  “Yeah, shit. Every model I’ve worked with has given me a ‘maybe,’ and I can’t deal with maybe right now.”

  She looks like she’s about to cry, and I hate to see her this stressed over a job.

  “Okay. I’ll do it,” I say. I mean, I’ve done this for her before. How bad can it be?

  “Ah! Thank you!” she says, giving a little jump and hugging me again.

  “Is this . . . okay, remember that time you made me take pictures with a guy on the beach? Is this like that?” That wasn’t so bad until Wyatt showed up. We’d been frolicking in the water and doing our best not to look at the camera and pretend we had chemistry—which is hard to do with a guy you don’t know, no matter how cute he is.

  By the time we got comfortable with each other—comfortable enough to go in for the make-believe “we’re about to kiss” shot—Wyatt showed up. He made me so nervous, I couldn’t get back to feeling natural with the guy. Needless to say, that was strike one for him in Mia’s book. It was terrible.

  Mia’s laugh snaps me back from my thoughts. “No, this will be indoors and much more intimate, so it’s a good thing you haven’t found a boyfriend yet.”

  “Yeah, thank God for that,” I say halfheartedly, before I let her get back to work and head to my own studio. I make a mental note to grab a sandwich along the way.

  Later, as I’m setting up for the kids to arrive, I get a te
xt message from Oliver that makes me frown.

  Rule #1- no short dresses.

  I stare at it for a long moment, look down at myself, then outside to see if he’s stalking me.

  Are you stalking me?

  ??

  Are you watching me from somewhere right now?

  The phone starts to vibrate with his name on the screen.

  “Does that mean you’re wearing a short dress right now?” he asks in a whisper.

  “Yes, and from the sound of your voice, I’m guessing you’re in the hospital.”

  “How short?” he asks, ignoring my statement.

  “Friends, Oliver,” I remind him.

  “Just tell me how short it is, for the love of God. I need a visual.”

  “Just above my knees.”

  “What color?”

  “Black.”

  I hear a door open and close before his breath is back on my ear. I shiver as if he’s standing behind me.

  “Is it tight?”

  I laugh. “Are you going to try to have phone sex with me at three o’clock in the afternoon? From work?”

  He exhales. “I sent you a text message to tell you not to wear a short dress to our friend date, and you’re telling me you’re wearing one right now, in plain sight, for everyone to see.”

  “And? You act like I’m wearing lingerie.”

  “No, but every male in Santa Barbara is going to be looking at those legs of yours and wishing they were wrapped around their waist, and seeing the tops of your tits and wishing they could pull the dress down to get a better look . . .”

  “Oliver!” I interrupt, completely flustered. I’m starting to get hot flashes and breathe heavily, and he’s not even there to do any of those things to me. “Friends!” I shout. “Friends! I’m not going out with you if you keep saying these things to me.”

  He doesn’t speak for so long that I actually look at my screen to make sure he’s still there.

  “What does me saying these things do to you, Estelle?” he asks, his voice grating over me, making me shiver involuntarily.