The Earth Painter

by Melissa Turner Lee

Mom and I couldn’t resist touching it.

  Mom’s blue eyes grew wider the further in we got. “The hallway looks like a tunnel.” She glanced around again. “I’m not usually a fan of murals, but I love this. The detail is amazing. Look, they even painted mice at the bottom.”

  “We’ve never eaten anywhere like this back in Charleston,” Dad said while ducking his head under the hanging lantern.

  We finally made it to the hostess station and were seated at a booth with a vinyl tablecloth and big plastic bottles of tartar sauce and ketchup. Except for when we visited Grandma, my parents and I never ate anywhere but elegant restaurants. Well, except for occasional fast food. It was nice to feel relaxed for a change.

  We resembled tourists twisting our necks around looking at the dining room. It was painted to look like a castle. I had to reach out and brush my fingers against the wall. It looked so much like real stone. I expected it to feel rough and cold to the touch, but it was just painted sheetrock. High above me, painted vines cascaded off a turret. They almost had a 3D appearance.

  I stopped looking around when a blonde girl, about my age, came to take our drink order.

  Mom started to answer, but Dad said, “Water for all of us,” before she had a chance to order something that would run the bill up.

  I picked up the laminated menu and watched her bite her lip until the waitress left. I wasn’t used to Dad telling Mom no. By her reaction, she wasn’t either. But I got why he was like this now. It wasn’t just him losing his job that had landed us here. It was also Mom’s constant need for retail therapy.

  Mom was getting all huffy with Dad. I glanced at the menu and quickly closed it and placed it back on the table. I needed to get away from her and all the drama.

  “When she comes back, tell her, I want the shrimp plate with fries.” I stood up. “I’m going to find the restroom.”

  I asked the hostess, who directed me down a ramp and through the lower dining room. I didn’t really need to use it, but it was the only thing I could think of to get me away from my mom.

  When I came out from washing my hands, I noticed a room off to the side. The door was slightly ajar, revealing that the smaller private dining room was being painted by someone.

  I inched closer to watch the artist at work. I stopped and stood frozen when I saw him. It was Theo. He must have heard me enter, because he turned to look at me. His face lit up in a giant smile as he jumped down from his ladder.

  “What are you doing here?” He walked closer to me, watching me with that look on his face like he was trying to figure me out.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.” I stepped closer to the wall he’d been working on. The room was a Grecian garden with fountains and statues.

  “I’m painting.”

  “I can see that,” I said while spinning step-by-step eyes wide taking in every minute detail until I was facing him again. “You did all this?” I asked, staring into his gray-blue eyes.

  He combed his fingers through his sandy blond hair with a look of pride on his face. “They had an ad in the paper a few years ago for a painter. I answered it.” He shrugged. “It gives me something to do.”

  Nothing was left out. Ants carried crumbs in the grass. Birds held out worms over nests full of baby birds. Even a tiny mouse hid in the grass by the fountain.

  “You’re very talented. My mom used to work in interior design, but that talent skipped me. She won’t even let me help slap on a coat of primer. She swears I’ll ruin everything.”

  “I’ll let you paint if you want.” He extended his hand offering me his paintbrush. His intense stare was overwhelming. No one had ever looked at me like that. My pulse raced, and my breath quickened until I had to look away.

  “Oh, no.” I shook my head and laughed nervously. “I’d get you fired.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” He took my hand and pulled me over to the wall he’d been working on. He held the brush out to me and grinned.

  “No, really. I’d mess it all up.” Was he flirting with me?

  He laughed. “It’s just paint. If you messed up, I’d paint over it or work it into the picture. It’s not all pass or fail for humans. You usually get more than one chance to get it right.” He extended the brush to me again. “You try, you fail, you try again. Then one day, you don’t fail. I see it all the time at the high school. It’s amazing.” He nodded for me to come over to the wall he’d been working on. “Come paint with me.”

  I felt my forehead scrunch as I tried to make sense of his gibberish. “So I should try to fail?”

  He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “No I didn’t say try to fail. Try and risk failing. That’s how people learn.” Theo stared down at me and squinted, studying me just as he had the first day we’d met.

  I shook my head. “No…I… I’m sure my parents are missing me by now.”

  He relented with a shrug. “It was nice talking with you.”

  “Yeah, you too. Your paintings are beautiful. Keep up the good work.” Well that was pathetic. I crept toward the door, ready to leave. “See you tomorrow.”

  “No you won’t,” he answered.

  I turned back to face him wondering why.

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “Oh, right. Then I’ll see you Monday.” I walked out the door and somehow ended up back at the table but didn’t remember how. My mind was still in the Grecian garden room down the ramp.

  “Where’ve you been?” Mom asked. “I was about to come check on you.”

  “I ran into a friend from school. He’s the one who painted all of this, and he’s painting their private dining room right now.”

  “He?” Dad glanced over at Mom and smiled. “You were talking to a boy?”

  I let out a sigh. “Just a friend.”

  “Your mother used to be just a friend, too.”

  I was glad when the blonde girl walked over to our table with her arms full of food. She served us and left us to eat.

  Mom and Dad unrolled their flatware and started eating. Our food was on metal trays rather than on fine china. I genuinely liked the atmosphere—not having to worry about dressing the right way or using the right utensil for the right part of the meal. Plus, the food was excellent.

  Awkwardly pushing our plates to the center of the table, Mom and I watched as Dad pulled a few ones out of his pocket to leave as a tip. An older woman rang us up at the register.

  “Are you the owner?” Dad asked. The salesman in him always made polite conversation.

  “Yes, I am. It’s been in the family for years, but we bought it from my husband’s parents when they retired eight years ago.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Mom added. “My daughter knows the boy who paints for you.”

  “Really?” The old woman’s gaze fell on me. “For two years we struggled here. People didn’t come to the fish camp so much anymore. They were driving into town to the nicer and pricier seafood restaurants. The walls needed to be repainted, and all I had in mind was to have them touched up. I usually handle the hiring around here, but my husband hired the painter. Didn’t know what to think of all of this at first, but then people started talking about us. We were featured in the newspaper and on the evening news. Now people come from all over to eat here and see the artwork and how it’s always changing.”

  “Wow!” Dad looked over at me. “Sounds like your friend’s done a great job for the place.”

  The woman handed Dad’s change back to him. “He sure has. He’s been painting the place all this time, and I’ve never met him. He always deals with my husband. I think they have something worked out where he’s paid under the table.” She looked a little embarrassed and concerned for a minute, realizing that maybe she’s said too much. “Well, you folks have a nice weekend, and when you see your friend, tell him, he’s doing a fine job.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  We were in the car heading home when something the woman said struck me.

  “She said Theo’s be
en painting there for six years!”

  “So?” Dad asked, glancing back at me through the rearview mirror.

  “He’s my age. That would have him starting to work there at age eleven.”

  “Twelve,” Mom turned and grinned at me. “Did you forget what tomorrow is?”

  I flung my head back against the seat, “My birthday.” I sat still for a minute, thrown by the subject change, then sat up again. “Twelve is still pretty young to start working. She can’t be right about when he started.”

  “She’s elderly and was probably confused. Remember how Grandma got near the end.” Mom spoke while reapplying lipstick.

  I leaned back. “The lady at the fish camp wasn’t that old.”

  “Then maybe he’s a prodigy. He is quite talented for a high school student.”

  Thinking about all the detail in his paintings made that plausible, and she did say he was paid under the table - probably because of his age when he started. How nice to know what you’re good at so young.

  I sat back and tried to forget my birthday again. It’s not like whatever Mom had planned would be for me. Somehow, it would turn out to be a day to celebrate Mom. I could count on that.

  Chapter 4

  It was a little after nine o’clock on Saturday morning when I lumbered to the kitchen carrying the script from drama. My plan was to pour myself a bowl of cereal, and start memorizing the monologue, but I couldn’t get to the cabinets.

  Teacups, platters, and Mom’s best china were stacked on every available surface of the kitchen. My first thought was that she was unpacking things she hadn’t gotten to yet, but then I saw the cake and remembered what day it was. Mom walked in from the screened porch at that exact moment. “Do you like it? I baked the layers last night so they’d be cooled for icing this morning.” She walked over to the kitchen table where the rosette covered cake set and picked up a women’s magazine. “Looks pretty close huh?”

  Mom’s cake and the one on the cover were nearly identical. “Yeah, Mom it’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you. It’s been years since I’ve decorated a cake. I learned how in Mrs. Powell’s class and used to do it in design school to make extra money.” Mom put the magazine down, cleared away a stack of dishes, and pulled out a cereal bowl. She poured me a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice and set them on the table. I wasn’t allowed to touch anything in the kitchen. Mom’s rule.

  I plopped down, took a bite and unfolded the photocopied monologue. I rested my cheek in my hand while I read over it and chewed.

  “Elbow’s off the table and sit up.”

  I pulled my arm off the table and looked at my mom. “Mom, no one’s here. Can’t we ever just relax and be comfortable? I mean we’re in our own house. Whose gonna know?”

  “The way you behave at home is the way you’ll behave elsewhere. So, no we will not put our elbows on the table when we are home. How you turn out and the way you act in public is a reflection on me. I didn’t give up my career to devote my time and energy to your upbringing only to have you turn out acting like…”

  “Fine.” I cut her off and sat up, placing my napkin in my lap.

  “No reading at the table.”

  “Dad reads at the table every morning.”

  Mom fluttered around the kitchen busying herself with cleaning and drying plates and platters. “Your father reads the newspaper to educate himself on current events so he can make conversation with people at work.”

  “Well I’m reading a monologue for drama so I can have it memorized by Monday and not look like an idiot.”

  Mom stopped and seemed to think over my words. “Fine, but don’t plan on making a habit of this.” Then she went back to cleaning trays.

  “Who are you doing all this for anyway?” I waved at the stacks around the kitchen.

  “You, sweetie. It’s your birthday. I couldn’t let it go by without doing something special, plus I wanted something nice for our guests.”

  “Guests! Who’s coming?” Please don’t let it be anyone from Charleston. I’d never told my parents about how my friends got when I couldn’t afford to go shopping with them anymore. But I had a feeling the same thing had happened to Mom.

  “I’ve been wanting to reconnect with some old friends we lost touch with when your father and I married and moved to Charleston, so I Facebooked some of them who still live around here and invited them. My best friend from high school is coming and bringing her daughter.”

  I relaxed, and my stomach settled. I scooped up a spoonful of cereal and ate it when someone knocked on the door.

  Mom put down her work. “I wonder who that could be. We aren’t starting until one.” She walked to the door but glanced out the blinds before opening it. “Good grief. What is she doing here?”

  That made me too curious. I got up and peeked out from the kitchen to see who was at the door when she opened it. It was Nanna—my dad’s mom.

  I rushed out to hug her. “Nanna!”

  She grabbed me and held me tight. “I wasn’t about to miss the day you become a woman. Stand back and let me look at you.”

  Mom backed away towards the kitchen. “I’ve got work to do if we’re going to have the party ready.” Mom took a stack of plates outside. She and Nanna were far from friendly with each other, so it was probably best for Mom to be outside if Nanna was inside.

  I put away my script and sat with Nanna in the kitchen while I finished eating. She asked about my classes. I asked her about my Aunt Connie. Nanna had moved to Atlanta a few years back to be near my dad’s sister and children.

  “I made you something.” Nanna pulled a wrapped gift from her bag.

  “Thanks, Nanna!” I ripped off the paper to find two scrapbooks.

  “I’ve been keeping a scrapbook of you since you were a baby.”I opened the book and started looking through it, but Nanna tapped me and handed me something. She leaned close, looking back towards the door and whispered. “Here’s your card. I put some cash in it so run and put it up and don’t let your mother know. It’s for you, not her.”

  I hugged her tight. “Thanks.” Then went and put it in my book bag. When I got back to the kitchen, we looked through the scrapbook together, laughing and pointing at different pictures. Then, I noticed that none of my baby pictures had my mom in them only my dad.

  “Nanna, I know you don’t like Mom, but you shouldn’t have kept her out of my scrapbook.”

  “She’s in there, later. I can’t help she missed out on the first year of your life.”

  I felt my forehead wrinkle. “What do you mean she missed out on my first year?”

  Nanna shook her head. “It’s nothing. All forgotten now.”

  “No, tell me what you meant by that.”

  Nanna looked at me debating whether or not she should elaborate. I guess she decided to. “When your mother had you, she got a severe case of the baby blues. She didn’t want a thing to do with you—wouldn’t touch you or even look at you. I came down to Charleston for about a year to help your dad.”

  I just looked at her. I’d never heard that before.

  “I warned your dad when he started dating Heather in high school that she was too high maintenance, but all he saw was a pretty face. She’s always been so self-absorbed. When they told me you were on the way, I thought, finally she’ll have to get over herself and take care of this baby. I was sure it would be the thing to make her grow up. But no. She came home from the hospital and locked herself in her room.”

  That sounded like Mom whenever things didn’t go her way. “Hormones?”

  Nanna shook her head. “I suppose that was part of it. But for some reason your mother was convinced the hospital had switched her baby. She wouldn’t believe you were hers. She said you didn’t look a thing like her or your father. We kept telling her that you looked like Grandpa. You know your dad’s dad died in an accident when Randall was little. Your grandfather was redheaded and sprinkled with ginger from head to toe. I used to tease him that I liked my me
n spicy.” Nanna looked at me, her cheeks a little red. I think mine were, too.

  “Anyway, Your mother wouldn’t hear it. So when you were about a year old, after months of medication and counseling, the therapist ordered a DNA test to set your mother’s mind at ease once and for all. It proved you were indeed your mother’s daughter. Heather finally came out of her room and started taking care of you, but always with a chip on her shoulder about it. And instead of thanking me for helping, she ordered me out of her house.”

  I had no idea about any of that. I sat in silence and finished looking through the book. Nanna pulled out another gift for me.

  “A new sundress! Thanks Nanna.” Nanna went out to help Mom while I brushed my teeth and put on sweats. I went out to find Mom and Nanna redoing everything the other did. Nanna would straighten a table cloth and put the centerpiece on it, and Mom would follow behind and do it again. Mom didn’t even try to be subtle about it.

  Then, Nanna mentioned how people decorated for parties down in Atlanta.

  Mom looked at me and smiled. “Sweetie, why don’t you take your nanna in and get started spreading ribbon sandwiches.” Mom put the tray on the long table she was going to use to set up the buffet. She walked over to the tables were Nanna was and then adjusted and readjusted the cloths.

  Nanna and I went back in and got out the spread to make ribbon sandwiches. We sat down and started spreading the two-colored versions of the pineapple, pecan, cream cheese spread to make double-decker sandwiches mom would later cut the crust off of and slice into thin finger sized slices. We had half a tray made before Mom came in.

  Mom stood by us for half a second. “Um…Sweetie? She wouldn’t even look at Nanna”

  I counted to ten in my head before I looked up at her. I knew that tone. “Yes, Mom?”

  “I always use this spreader to make those sandwiches.” She held up a flat knife that was a little wider than the one Nanna was holding.

  “Does it really matter which spreader we use?”

  “I suppose not.” She stood there a few seconds before going over to the counter to slice the prepared sandwiches with the electric knife. The buzz started and then it stopped. Mom came back to where we were.