“We having pancakes?” Izzie asks and I turn to face her, relishing in the smile on her face and the fist pump she does when I nod. “I love pancakes, did you know that, Daddy? They’re my favorite, especially with cream and chocolate sauce.”
“Is that right?” I chuckle.
“Uh huh!” She nods emphatically. “My tummy is sooo ready for pancakes!”
I snort at her face and the way she rubs her tummy, looking down and talking to it. I flip the pancakes over as Clay stumbles into the kitchen, a book in his hands.
“Morning, Clay.”
“Morning,” he mumbles back, climbing up onto the stool next to Izzie and opening his book.
“Daddy’s making pancakes!” Izzie tells him.
“I can see, I do have eyes,” he mumbles, not looking up from his page.
“Clay,” I warn. “What do you want on top?” I ask him, trying to get his attention.
He doesn’t answer me so I take the pancakes off the griddle when they’re ready, piling them all up on a big plate and bringing them over along with chocolate sauce for Izzie.
“Put that away, Clayton,” I say in my no-nonsense tone.
He huffs and slams his book closed, pushing it away and folding his arms over his chest. His gray eyes narrow underneath his glasses, but I can’t take him seriously with all of his light brown hair sticking up in different directions.
“What topping do you want?” I ask again.
“Chocolate,” he mumbles.
“Ah! He speaks! Did you hear that, Izzie?” I ask, ruffling his hair and making it look worse as I place three pancakes on his plate.
She nods and giggles, bouncing up and down in her seat before grabbing the sauce and turning it upside down, pouring half of the bottle over her pancakes.
“That’s enough there, little miss sugar.”
She sticks her tongue out at me while picking up the can of whipped cream, giggling again when it makes a noise as it sprays out of the bottle and then she scoops a spoonful up, trying to get it all into her mouth but ending up with half of it on her face.
I catch Clay’s gaze as he shakes his head slowly, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth as he silently tells me not to tell her that she has cream on her face. I wink in reply and he dips his head, hiding the full smirk that is now on his face, but I see it and it makes my heart beam.
He can be a loner at times, not wanting to interact with people, and I blame myself partly for that. Had I been more active with him when he was Izzie’s age; if I would have made a conscious effort to spend time with him instead of locking myself away in grief and panic, then maybe he wouldn’t be this way.
That’s on me and I plan to change that as of now.
Once we’ve all had our fill of pancakes, I clear the plates and pull open the kitchen drawer, lifting the flyer out and holding it up in the air.
“So… there’s this new art workshop that has opened especially for kids, who wants to go?”
“Me!” Izzie practically screams, her hand shooting up in the air.
“I’ll stay home with Amelia,” Clay grunts, holding his head in his hands.
“No,” I say, my lips spreading into a grim line. “You can’t stay home, you’re going to go to this class and have some fun.”
“I hate art.”
“Is that so?” I ask, stepping forward. “What about that?” I point to the book on the counter. He looks down at it and then back up to me, a frown on his face. “You know that’s a kind of art, right?”
“I want to paint a pretty picture for Edward,” Izzie says, trying to hop down from the stool. I help her down and listen to her as she looks up at me, her head tilted all the way back as she tries to meet my eyes. “He can put it in his car, can’t he, Daddy?”
“I think he’d love that, pumpkin.”
“Yay!”
“Why don’t you go and brush your teeth and wash up. I’ll be up in a minute to help you get dressed.”
I watch as she spins around and walks away, her doll dragging along the floor as she talks to herself.
“Clay?” I ask, turning back to him. “Try it this once and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to go again, okay?”
He worries his lip, looking away from me as his eyes squint in thought.
“Fine,” he relents, getting down off the stool and walking past me. “I’ll go, but I know I won’t like it!”
Waking up to Mom’s face hanging over the edge of my bed wasn’t how I envisioned my day starting out.
“Today’s the day!” she singsongs, pulling open my curtains and basking in the sunlight that streams through the window. I groan and pull the covers over my head, but she pulls them off me and onto the floor.
“Alright, I’m up.”
“Happy opening day!” She flings her arms wide before letting them drop back down to her sides. “Get dressed and meet me downstairs, I have a special breakfast prepared.”
She walks out of the room and I swing my legs over the side of the bed before padding to the bathroom, brushing my teeth and washing my face. A roll of nerves washes over me like the water running out of the taps and I look up into the mirror, staring into my chartreuse colored eyes.
I’ve never been able to distinguish exactly what color they prominently are but at this moment in time, they’re a strange bright green with yellow swirling through them like daffodils in a meadow. I look more alert than I feel and I guess that’s a good thing since I hardly slept last night.
I shake my head to rid it of my nervous thoughts, everything will be fine.
“Harmony!” Mom calls up the stairs and I chuckle, she’s more excited than I am.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” I walk back into my room and pull on a striped, long-sleeved shirt and my denim overalls before making my way down to the feast that is spread out on the bright red table. “Jeez, are you feeding the five thousand?”
The table is covered with plates of bacon, pancakes, eggs, and an assortment of jams for our toast.
She chuckles and motions for me to sit down before sitting down in the seat next to me and pouring me a cup of coffee. “I thought I’d set the day up with a hearty breakfast.”
“Well, thank you, Mom,” I say sincerely, picking up two pancakes and pouring the syrup over them.
She smiles softly and butters a piece of toast, biting into it while reading her newspaper and leaving me to my thoughts.
We finish breakfast off in silence and I help her wash up the rest of the dishes, not able to take my mind off what I think today will be like. I can’t calm my mind from thinking the worst and I don’t know why I am because I like to see the best in every situation. Well, I do nowadays.
Before I know it, it’s time to leave. I slip on my navy-blue Chucks and pick my car keys up off the table in the entryway, swirling around and nearly bumping into Mom.
“Whoa! Don’t sneak up on me like that,” I say, hand on my chest, feeling my racing heart.
She swats at my arm. “Get out of your own head, missy, I was standing here the whole time.”
I roll my eyes, opening the door and walking out to get into my car. Mom locks up and skips down the path, climbing into the passenger side before I pull away and drive toward my studio. My studio; I still can’t believe it.
My hands tense around the steering wheel as we near the tunnel.
“Stop fretting, today will be everything you’ve ever wanted—and more,” she says.
My muscles relax at the sound of her voice and I know that today is going to be okay. Even seeing the studio in front of me as I park gives me a sense of peace and I stop to let the calm wash over me, ridding myself of any negative energy before I step inside. I don’t want to bring that into my creative space.
When I’m here it isn’t about me—it’s about the children.
I get out of the car, giving Mom a beaming grin that she returns as we walk up the path, the sign hanging above the door reading, “Willow Arts.” Mom questioned me on
the name but I couldn’t explain it to her completely, I said that it “came to me,” but I know the real reasoning behind it.
I unlock the doors and take a deep breath, looking over at Mom. She gives me a thumbs-up and I open the doors, walking in and gazing lovingly at the walls that are soon to be scattered with the paintings and drawings from the students that will fill these rooms.
I flip the switch, the light illuminating the large room with a warm glow, and I know I’m ready to face the day.
My paint-splattered coveralls from the last studio hang loosely from the hook on the wall and I pull them on over my denim overalls, smiling as I think back to the day they became the work of art they now are.
“Before you walk into the studio, I want you to think of something that makes each of you really, really happy. Can you all do that for me?” All six children look at each other then back at me with a nod, grins spreading wide across their faces. “Well, alright then. In you go.”
I wave them through the little entrance and they stare in confusion at the pile of white coveralls I have in the middle of the room, surrounded by paints and sharpies in every color that you could ever imagine.
I smile at their innocent faces and pick a pair up as I speak. “Art makes me really, really happy. Before I walked in here, that is what I thought.” I pause and pull the coveralls over my clothes. “I want you guys…” I point at each of them. “To make me your work of art.”
They stare at me as if I’ve gone completely mad as I walk over and step onto the plastic sheeting that I’d set up earlier. The plastic crackles in the silence of the room, alerting me to the fact that they haven’t moved yet.
I motion toward all of the paints and sharpies, spreading my arms out and saying, “You have your tools, now do your worst.”
They hesitate, looking at each other. I want this to be a place where they can let out any unspent energy and creativity, a place they aren’t afraid to express themselves. I want this to be the safe place they can come and learn different techniques and have the experience to play with different tools, knowing that there is no such thing as a mistake when it comes to art.
That’s the pure beauty of it, nothing is ever wrong. It’s all about how you express yourself and letting your emotions rain down on the page like a thunderstorm, letting it wash away all of your worries and cares like a steady flowing river.
An older looking boy steps out of the group and kneels, looking through one of the several pots of paintbrushes and pens.
“There aren’t any drawing pencils here?” He phrases it like a question.
“What’s your name?” I ask and watch as he looks down and plays with a hole in his jeans.
“Daniel,” he replies sheepishly.
“Well, like Daniel here has pointed out, there are no drawing pencils in this studio, nor are there any erasers. We don’t need to mark out where our creativity goes because with art, there are no right and wrongs.”
There’s a chorus of “ooohhhs” and I inwardly fist pump the air as they all kneel beside Daniel, picking up the paint bottles and squirting a mixture of cerulean and fuchsia paints into the palettes.
Daniel is the first to walk over to me; he hesitantly touches the tip of his paintbrush against my coveralls, painting a wavy line. He stops and gazes up at me for approval, and when I nod, smiling, the other five make their way over to me and each make their mark while giggling with each other about drawing on their teacher.
I revel in the sound of their laughter, watching as the humor of it all drains from their faces and is instead replaced with concentration and inspiration.
A girl of around seven or eight flicks her paintbrush and I startle as I feel the cold splatter land on my face. Everyone stops what they’re doing and looks toward the girl with wide eyes.
“I… I’m sorry. I…” I break out into laughter and she lets out a nervous giggle of her own.
“I bet that was fun, wasn’t it?” She bites her lip and nods, confirming that it was.
“Well, do it again!” I exclaim and she looks at me in wonderment before flicking paint onto my coveralls again.
Soon all six of them are doing it and I make a mental note to give myself a pat on the back later for thinking of such a great ice breaker for them all.
“Okay, now that my coveralls are a work of art, I want you all to each take your own set and decorate them however you want to. Splat them, draw on them, paint an intricate design... it’s your choice.” I wipe my face with a cloth. “I want to know who you are as an artist. For the next ten minutes, I want everyone to be as silent as a mouse and concentrate on your own work. Spread out around the studio and do your thing. Go!”
I smile, thinking back to that day as I stare down at the paint-splattered coveralls I’m wearing, but it’s time for a new chapter in my life.
I step out of them and hang them lovingly in my office before pulling a plain white pair from a box sitting on one of the tables and pulling them over my clothes.
“Easels are out, the plastic sheet is up on the walls ready for the coverall decorating, and I’m on parent watch to make sure they don’t stick around,” Mom says, wiping her hands off on a cloth after opening the paint bottles.
My stomach rolls from the nervous vibrations making their way through my body. “Would you mind if I took five upstairs until the kids are here? Nothing like making an entrance.”
I wink at her, but who am I fooling? The woman gave birth to me.
“Is everything okay? I didn’t want to do this now, but you seem off today.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Having last-minute jitters is all,” I reply.
Again, who am I fooling? Gerry’s constant comments from when we were together have been playing through my head like a movie reel: making me feel like I won’t succeed, making me feel like I’ll be a failure and won’t make an impact on these little people’s lives.
She narrows her eyes at me before perking up and pasting on a fake smile. “Alright then, they’ll be here any minute, go take a breather,” she replies, shooing me up the stairs into what I’ve turned into my personal studio.
I open the balcony doors to let in some fresh air, breathing in the sweet smell of the flowers that grow out here before turning around and bracing my hands on my knees.
I'm surprised when I read the address on the flyer. Places like this are never part of the community, and by community, I mean the “good” side of town. There's a clear divide with the tunnel. One side is lower class and the other, to put it bluntly, is the rich side.
The rich side is full of health stores, designer shops, and spas, so to have a place like this on the outskirts is unusual to say the least. It’s always about appearance with this side of town and this doesn’t fit in with the appearance the rich like to have.
I pull up to the building and my eyes widen as I stare in awe. You’d never know this was an art studio if you were to drive past. Its balcony is the first thing that catches my eye; I can envision leaning against it, watching the sunset with a glass of red wine in my hand.
“Look at all the pretty flowers, Daddy,” Izzie whispers, the awe in her voice evident.
My eyes follow the path of the flowers that wind around the balcony and down to the cobblestone path. There’s something magical about the place, I can feel it already and we haven’t even been inside yet. I also can’t deny the sense of calm that washes over me the longer I stare, and when I turn to face Izzie and Clay, I can see that they’re under the same spell as I am.
“Ready?” I ask them.
“Yeah!” Izzie shouts but Clay shrugs and pushes his door open, the book he had this morning still tucked safely under his arm.
I hold my hand out for Izzie when I’ve got her out of her seat and she places her small one inside mine, then together we walk up the path with Clay two steps behind us.
We walk through the open doors, my head turning as I gaze around the studio, marveling at the wooden beams that run across the ceiling with
copper lights hanging from them. It’s a stark contrast to the modern, cold feel of our home and I can’t deny the warmth that washes over me from standing in the place.
The few paintings that are on the wall bring a smile to my face and memories invade my mind at the sight of them. I'm drawn to them like a moth to a flame, not able to stop staring as I try to remember the names of all the different colors.
I start to take a step toward them when a woman walks around the corner, catching my attention. Her face is open and her eyes twinkle when she catches sight of us. “Our first students! Welcome!” she says, her arms open wide and a huge smile across her face. “Who do we have here?”
“I’m Izzie!”
“Hello there, Izzie.” She crouches down, holding her hand out to her. “That’s a really pretty name.”
“Thanks.” She smiles, shaking her hand in only the way a little girl can with a frown on her face before wandering over to the easels that are sitting in the corner.
When Clay doesn’t say anything, I rest my hand on his shoulder and smile at the woman. Her brown hair has a smattering of gray, but it’s her eyes that capture my attention. The dark blue hue of her eyes sparkle when the sunlight hits them.
“This is Clay, I’m their dad.” I hold my hand out to her but she hesitates, narrowing her eyes at me slightly. I tilt my head to the side, wondering why she’s looking at me like that. She shakes her head, pasting a smile on her face as she places hers in mine, shaking it and then stepping back.
“I’m Matilda but please call me Tilly,” she tells me.
I nod in reply and crouch down in front of Clay, giving him a reassuring smile. “Try it this once.”
“Okay.” He nods, the expression on his face still unsure.
I squeeze his shoulder gently before standing up and watching him walk over to Izzie. “He’s a little… erm…” I search for the right words but Matilda waves me away.
“Don't worry about it. We will get him to love art by the end of the session.” I smile awkwardly, the memories that I pushed deep down inside worming their way back up. I don't want to go back there, I don't want to think about what I did. “You can pick them up in an hour.”
Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks Series Book 1) Page 9
