Especially after her father died two short years later. He lived on in artistic echoes—her journal, the clouds, the mural.
At some point during Daly's teen years, Laine brought her a poster of a Tuscan landscape and suggested she hang it over "that immature landscape."
Daly tore the poster into tiny pieces and refused to talk to Laine for weeks.
No sooner had Daly put an end to the silent treatment than did her mother bring her a poster of her favorite singer—the one she liked to believe would one day be her husband. Daly couldn't bring herself to tear his beautiful face and rippling muscles, so she hung him on the ceiling right above her bed.
This time Laine was the one who resorted to silence.
Neither raised the topic again for years. Daly kept her mural, and Laine quit bothering her about it. Clearly, her mother hadn't stopped obsessing though, because when Daly returned from her senior class camping trip, her bedroom had been cleared of its furniture, the walls painted over in the exact same boring shade of taupe as the rest of the house.
Laine had walked up behind her, put a bony hand on her shoulder, and said, "Now you're an adult. It's only natural you gain some independence. You'll find your things have already been moved to your new basement studio. You're welcome."
You're welcome? You're welcome for stealing the one thing that mattered most to me? For not even giving me the chance to say goodbye?
Her father had died all over again, only this time it wasn't an accident; it was murder. Laine had blotted out his existence stroke by deliberate stroke.
Maybe Laine didn't need him anymore, but still, she should have understood; Daly didn't want to say goodbye—not now, not ever.
She'd looked helplessly at the wall, her father buried beneath its surface. He was gone forever.
Rage flew through her veins. Her mother had gone too far this time. If she was going to take something special from Daly, then Daly wasn't going to waste any time returning the favor. She marched right up to the top level of the house, which had long ago been converted into one giant library. Laine's special place.
Daly might have knocked all the books from the shelf, thrown them out the window, started a fire even—but she didn't need to. Only one book really mattered. Thanks for making this so easy, Mom.
She scoured the shelves until she found the L section. Lawrence, D.H. Ah-ha! Daly yanked the book from the company of its neighbors and marched down to her new basement studio. Pushing the dog-eared book between her mattress and box spring, she smirked. Serves her right.
A momentary burst of doubt pricked at her mind. Maybe she was actually helping her mother in some sick and twisted way, forcing her to quit her addiction cold-turkey, so she could reclaim a life that actually meant something.
Laine was definitely an addict—no better than a woman crying at a Weight Watcher's meeting while noshing on a Kit Kat bar. She was a glutton, too. Classic literature served as her Ben and Jerry's of choice, Lady Chatterley's Lover her favorite flavor.
She didn't want to get better.
The missing book would cement Daly's perfect revenge.
Less than a day passed before Laine noticed the theft. A soft knock sounded on the door to Daly's dungeon. Laine's voice broke through the wooden barrier, "Daly, have you seen my book?"
"Which one?" Daly asked, stifling a giggle.
"Lady Chatterley's Lover." Her mother's voice was weak, sad; Daly's revenge was working.
"Can't say that I have. Why don't you read something else?"
Laine left without another word.
But the thought of taking something that couldn't be replaced nagged at her. She allowed Laine to suffer in composed silence for a long five days... before the melodrama became too much to bear. Watching her mother drift around the house like a homeless waif, or sit in her favorite wingback chair staring at empty hands, proved more depressing than satisfying.
Eventually, Daly jammed the book behind a box of shredded wheat in the pantry, hoping Laine would assume she'd accidentally misplaced the useless thing herself—but she'd always suspected Laine knew the truth.
After that whole incident, her mother slept with the paperback book nestled to her chest like a teddy bear. Daly couldn't have stolen Laine's favorite toy again even if she'd wanted to.
***
Daly snuck into the house, praying her mother hadn't returned from work yet. She tiptoed across the oak wood floors as quietly as she could, but the house ratted her out.
Creak! The floorboards tattled as she attempted to shift her weight onto the first stair.
"Daly, Daly, are you home?" Laine called from the library.
Daly dropped her bag on the floor with a thud. "Yeah. What?"
"Just wanted to make sure it's you."
Who else would it be? But knew better than to say anything aloud.
"Could you come here for a moment?"
Daly groaned and jogged up the half flight of stairs. Why won't she just leave me alone like usual?
"You're home early." Laine meant to ask a question.
"Yeah, I guess." Actually, she'd returned late. Her class had ended hours ago.
"Hmm." Laine forced a smile and repositioned herself in the chair. She scratched at her scalp with a pinky finger, upsetting the high-held graying bun, and then began to knead circles in her cheek, alternating between pulling her skin tight and mashing it in toward her mouth.
Although she hated finding any positive in her mother, Daly wondered if she would age as gracefully. Laine's slow aging had been aided by the fact she never smiled—no crow's feet.
"Did you need something else?"
"Oh, yes. What would you like for dinner tonight? I'll get it started as soon as I finish up here." Her eyes darted to the bookmarked copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover on the side table.
How many times have you read that thing? Daly wanted to ask.
"Don't worry about me. I'll make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."
Laine nodded. "Be sure to use the almond butter instead. It's healthier."
"And the low-sugar jelly. Yeah, I will." She turned to leave.
"By the way, I just brewed a pot of Colombia roast. Have some."
Daly stiffened but shook off the comment. She hated coffee, a detail her mother should have known.
She decided to make herself some tea instead. One bag of organic green tea, two tablespoons of pomegranate juice, a dash of lemon, and a heaping spoonful of sugar would do the trick. She stirred the ingredients together in a mug and drifted to the oak dining table. The PB&J could wait until later.
She took a sip, then turned the mug around in her hands to study the artwork. The words "Take Back the Night" danced across the surface. "Shatter the silence. Stop the violence." A pink starfish-like figure stood on a slanted crescent moon.
Daly had taken back the night at Laine's side, long before she understood what she was marching for. She'd looked forward to the events every year. First, they made special tee shirts, then they gathered with dozens of other women behind a banner and strode down the city streets. They'd even traveled as far as Chicago for the rallies.
"Shatter the silence." Daly now knew the organization benefited women who had been victims of sexual assault. Still, was shattering the silence necessary? Silence offered refuge, safety, familiarity. If nobody talked about the pain, it just might go away.
Laine reappeared, carrying a mug with the words "We're there in a crisis" scrawled across the front, the slogan for the local crisis pregnancy center where she worked as a counselor. Daly had never quite understood it. Could six years of study in social work really melt a frozen exterior? And why wasn't she at work today, anyway?
"Have you given any more thought to my offer?" Laine asked, emerging from the kitchen as she poured another cup of coffee.
Hardly an offer—more of an ultimatum: go to school for something "useful," and Laine would take care of the tuition bill. Go to school for what she wanted, and she'd be on her own.<
br />
"No, I don't need to."
"You should think harder about your options. Nursing might not be so bad. You can paint pictures for your patients, but nobody's going to pay you to do your hobby for a living."
Daly gritted her teeth and swallowed the comeback clawing at her throat. "That's your opinion," she said evenly.
"No, that's the real world." Laine rested a hand on Daly's shoulder. "I'm only trying to look out for you."
Daly's skin burned through her thin blouse. If Laine insisted on pressing her, she wouldn't be able to keep her cool for much longer. Instead of throwing a barbed comeback, she pushed her chair back and headed to the basement. Her mother wouldn't dare follow her there.
Who did Laine think she was, anyway? Like she knew anything about living a complete life! She didn't have a life outside of her stupid books. Did she even know fictional characters couldn't love her back?
Well, Daly would show her. She would make a living doing what she loved. She wouldn't waste her life; she would make something of herself, far away from this Podunk town. She needed just as much physical distance between them as the emotional distance they'd been working on for years. Guess that meant she'd be moving to China... or to Mars.
She would show everyone who'd ever said her dreams were too unrealistic, and she would show them right now. Time to paint. She unpacked her watercolors in a flurry and selected her favorite Filbert brush from the large pot, bouncing the wooden stem in her hand to warm up.
Although the energy coursing through her made it hard to keep still, she forced herself to sit at the battered architectural table that Laine had picked up for her at a secondhand store—a gift for her eighteenth birthday. No sense in doing this unless she planned to do it right.
Snap, snap. The magnetic clips closed around the edges of twenty-two-by-thirty, deckle-edged, cold-pressed parchment.
Art flowed from her fingertips through the Filbert and onto the paper. With each stroke of the brush, her fury lessened. The canvas didn't mind Daly's abuse; in fact, it soaked up the torrent of emotion. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. Shatter the silence. Stop the violence. Midway through the process, the art pushed Daly aside and took control. She was a willing hostage, the art a gracious terrorist.
"Paint now," her captor commanded. "Ask questions later."
After more than two hours of furious activity, she'd finished. Daly stepped back to examine the work, an all-too-familiar landscape spiraling across the canvas.
The graying purple mountains caught her eyes first. They were crumbling, dying—not in the bold, powerful manner of a landslide or an avalanche, but in a sad, pathetic way. Time seemed to have taken a toll on the range. They'd stood long enough and needed the chance to sleep, even if slumbering meant death.
Her eyes darted to the other top corner of the painting. The sun suppressed the mountains, apparently wanting to be the only beautiful piece in the sky, unwilling to share—not even if the mountains only served as a backdrop to its brilliance. The mountains threatened the shining orb, but for some reason, they didn't use their strength to their advantage.
At last, Daly noticed the picture's final element: the clouds, peaceful and content. They surrounded the mountains in a wispy embrace, soothing them, assuaging them and helping them to rise again. They reprimanded the sun for not sharing the sky, and pointed out that everyone could fit together, that they improved one another, were more beautiful together than apart.
Upon further inspection, she realized the clouds had a shape. The gentle curves and soft tones felt familiar, yet strange. Looking past the swirls of cumulus and cirrus, she discerned a face—it was her father's, but also her own.
Chapter 3
Will I ever be worthy of my dream? Will my mother ever love the real me?
Something was missing from Daly's life, something important. Although the landscape painting had poured out of her, creativity had since abandoned her. She'd tried to tempt it back by sitting poised over her sketchpad for several hours each day, but the art never came out to play; the page remained blank, mocking her with its potential.
Maybe she should listen to her mother and give up. But if not art, what can I do with my life? Become a nurse, a teacher, a counselor? The thought of being anything like Laine made her want to cry.
She'd never hit a block before, so why now? Surely, Rick hadn't served as her personal muse, and Laine had always said hurtful things. Nothing important had changed, not really. Well, at least there was one person who had always supported her, who would continue to do so forever.
She flipped through the stiff pages of her journal until she found her father—a sketch more beautiful than anything she'd since created, although her skill as a twelve-year-old seemed laughable now. His penciled likeness lived on, suspended in time—never to die, never to disappear. She needed to keep him away from Laine, in case she found a way to ruin this special memory, too.
Now the emotions coursed through her—rage, disappointment, out-and-out hatred—all the blessed feelings Laine dragged to the surface on a routine basis. With one last caress, she said goodbye to her father and thumbed through the diary until she found a fresh page.
She dug through the hexagonal cabinet that had served as her project center in childhood, extracted a worn box of half-broken crayons, and began to scribble furiously. She felt like an imposter, a child using her mother's lipstick to scrawl smiley faces on the bedroom wall.
She scratched and scrawled, wearing her crayons down to nubs, clutching the nubs between the tip of her thumb and index finger until they became particles, using the pad of her thumb to roll the particles around on the paper until they disappeared. In the end, she had produced a garish combination of colors with a disproportionate number of browns, sepias, and tans. The piece bore a comic resemblance to Laine's preferred decorating palate. At least Daly's inspiration had been transparent, even if the work didn't possess the organized chaos of a Jackson Pollack, or even the earnest intention of a Kindergartener—it was a big sloppy mess, just like her life.
S-H-I-T. She wrote the letters across her work in violent red and orange. After days of zero productivity, this served as her grand return to art. She'd lost her boyfriend, lost a whole year of life, thanks to that useless algebra class, and now her talents had bitten the dust, too. She refused to lose anything more. She needed this scholarship to art school, or she'd never amount to anything.
She filled out her application in its entirety, except for the part about her GPA—she remained cautiously optimistic about that. She needed to focus on creating a portfolio to impress the socks off the graduate committee. SHIT probably wouldn't leave a good impression on the admissions' committees, but the watercolor landscape she'd painted a few weeks ago might.
Why did she wait so long to do something so important? Maybe she didn't deserve her dream, after all.
Daly sighed and closed her eyes. As always, her father waited behind her eyelids. His memory urged her to aim high, just as he'd taught her all those years ago. The fork in the road stretched clearly before her: she could choose to be like her father... or she could end up like her mother.
"I choose you, Daddy," she whispered, then opened her eyes and reached for her charcoals, ready to claim her dream.
Before she could build on this momentum, though, the front door swung open and Laine bustled inside. "Why hello, Daly. How was your day?"
"Fine." She sighed and placed a sheet of wax paper between the pages of her sketchpad. Was the universe trying to tell her something by sending her mother in at that exact moment?
She waited for Laine to scamper up to her library so she could gather her supplies and retreat in peace, but Laine didn't go away. She lingered near the half wall, smiling at Daly. Could fake smiles cause crow's feet?
"I hope I'm not interrupting a bout of creative genius." She cleared her throat and angled her face toward the floor.
"No, no, you're fine."
"Well, that's nice." Laine waved
a hand dismissively. "Anyhow, I've brought a visitor this evening."
She stepped aside to reveal the silhouette of a large-bellied, soft-skinned stranger. "Daly, this is Meghann. She comes to the center for counseling and such." Laine turned to take the visitor's jacket and folded it over her arm. "Meghann, this is my daughter, Daly."
Meghann strode right up to Daly, and offered her hand in greeting. "Hi, Daly, it's good to meet you." Her high-pitched voice sounded like that of a teenage boy going through puberty.
Daly stared at Meghann. The girl couldn't have been more than twelve, and yet here she was, small and thin with a contrasting bulge at her midsection. As she wiped the charcoal from her hand onto her trousers, Daly did her best to keep her eyes focused anywhere but there.
"Hi." She gripped the extended hand.
Meghann pumped Daly's hand and grinned.
Daly had no idea what to say next to ignite a conversation. She reached for anything—she had manners after all. "So... do you, umm—"
Laine cut in. "Didn't mean to be a bother, Daly. You carry on... Meghann, why don't you come with me to the kitchen? We can begin our first hands-on culinary lesson."
The flaming-haired girl smiled at Daly and shrugged as Laine pushed her toward the kitchen.
Daly got up and resituated herself at the kitchen table. Her mother was up to something interesting, and the art provided a ready opportunity to spy. She spread out her supplies and sketched absent-mindedly while half-listening to Laine and her new protégé.
She should have sat on the other side so she could see what they were up to.
Thump, thump, thump. Three steps meant Laine had moved to the sink—probably showing her charge how to wash and peel potatoes, the first ingredient for her famous grass-fed beef stew.
Daly sketched a big round O and added a head—the face a comical, spastic mask, the hands reaching out toward... what? Laine? Daly chuckled to herself.
"No, no, like this." Laine's voice rose over the din. "Grip and push away, grip and push away, in one fluid motion."
A Colorful Life: Drawn in Broken Crayon Page 2
