by M. Leighton
I’m glad I came. Seeing how happy these kids are to have me back reminds me that they deserve better than someone else to blow them off.
I smile, asking who’s in attendance and commenting to each one, slipping easily back into the comfort of my old routine.
“How’s the still life coming, Darwin?” I ask when I hear that he’s present. The director of the art department at the college subbed for me while I was gone to New Orleans, and I’m praying Darwin didn’t lose any ground. He gets discouraged very easily.
“I’m almost finished,” he announces proudly.
“You are? I can’t wait to get my hands on it. And, Alana, what did your mom say about your sunflower from last time?”
“She loved it! She said it was the most prettiest sunflower she ever saw.” Her bright, innocent voice smoothes the ragged edges of my soul. It’s reassuring to know that not all hearts in the world are black.
“I’m so glad,” I tell her, and I genuinely am. These people…they’re my people. They get me, and I get them. This is where I belong. With the wounded, not in the arms of the man who broke me when I wasn’t looking.
“So, what are we painting today?” I ask, reaching out to touch the cool wood of my stool, the slick laminate of my table. They remind me of better days. They remind me that I survived once and that I can again. They tell me that I will heal. Again.
Eventually.
“Let’s paint a boat!” Alana is my joiner. She always has a suggestion, always has an answer, a smile, a cheer, a giggle.
“A boat? What kind of a boat? A pirate’s boat? Argh!”
I’m rewarded with one of those giggles. “No, a littler boat.”
“Like a…” I rack my brain for names of small boats. Only one comes to mind, the only one that can steal my breath. “Like a k-kayak?” I even stumble over the word.
“Yeah! Let’s paint a kayak!”
An image comes to mind. Well, my version of an image. It’s a compilation of all the sights and sounds and smells attached to a specific memory, like the bayou. All those sensory elements work together with the things I can remember from when I could see to paint a very detailed mental picture.
In the space of a few seconds, the smell of damp earth, the texture of the humid air on my skin, the sound of Levi describing it all to me twirl through my mind in a kaleidoscope of brilliantly colored images. With them come vivid sensations—being so happy I feel like my feet don’t touch the ground, being so exhilarated I feel like I could fly, being so optimistic I feel, for the first time in a long while, like everything might just work out in my favor.
The sights, the sounds, the smells, the feelings evoke so much emotion in me that I stagger.
I reach for my stool and take a deep breath, releasing it as slowly as I can.
“A kayak,” I repeat unsteadily. “Let me think on that.”
I busy my fingers with spreading out my things, another habit that I hope can ease my sudden burst of heartache. I jump when a hand touches mine.
I settle when I hear the voice attached to it. “Are you okay?”
Cherelyn.
I’d actually forgotten she’d come with me.
“Yeah. I’m okay. I just…I had a flashback. I’ll survive.”
I hope the smile I give her looks more encouraging than it feels.
“Okay. Just checking. If you need me…”
At this, I genuinely smile. “You’ll go kick some butt for me?”
“I’d kick all kinds of butt for you.”
I put my hand over hers and squeeze. “I know you would, and I love you for it.”
I ponder the kayak. Maybe it will be good for me, cathartic even to get some of the painful things out of me and onto a canvas. Maybe Alana is unwittingly handing me a gift. And maybe I should take it.
“You know, I think a kayak is a great idea,” I tell the sweet little girl. “And I know just the river to put it on. How about some trees, too?” I ask, conjuring in my mind what I imagine the Spanish moss-covered trees to look like on our bayou boat tour. Maybe I can exorcise the vision from my brain, rid myself of the image and the agony of remembering it.
Alana cheers as much for trees as she did for boats, which is what she does for almost anything we paint in class. She’s just happy to be here, and that kind of enthusiasm is contagious. In fact, today it feels like a lifeline.
As I line my vision out in white paint on my canvas, I dig up all the happiness I felt on that day, all the optimism and hope, and for just this hour I let it eclipse all the hurt Levi later inflicted, all the disillusionment I still feel. And by the time I dip my fingers into the café au lait color paint I mixed for the river Levi described that day, I feel a little more like myself.
Like the me I was before I got annihilated.
Healing Art is an apt a name as ever. It really does heal. An hour later, my smile is coming more readily and I’ve actually laughed a couple of times. I’ve managed to forget the pain that waits for me just outside these four walls. It’s been so effective, I forgot that Cherelyn was even with me. Didn’t even introduce her to the class.
“I’m so sorry, guys. My brain is a little like mush today. This is Cherelyn. She came to watch us paint. Cherelyn, meet the class. Better late than never, right?”
The class greets her in unison, and she greets them back with a totally Texan, “Hi, y’all.”
That earns her a giggle from Alana, who comes racing up to the front to bump me with her little nub. “Ms. Evie, Ms. Evie! He was here, he was here!”
I bend at the knee and reach for Alana’s shoulders. “Who was here?”
“The man from the other day. The one we played the music for.”
The man from the other day?
The one we played the music for?
What music?
Slowly, excruciatingly, realization dawns on me. It takes only one shallow breath for my pulse to trip up into an erratic patter.
I straighten, reaching out with all my senses for any indication of Levi. I listen, I smell, I feel. But I find no evidence of him. He’s as gone as he has been for the last two weeks.
“He’s gone,” Cherelyn confirms from behind me. I whirl to face her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I hiss, both furious and astonished.
“What good would that have done?” Her question is quiet, and I picture a helpless expression on her face to go along with it.
She’s right. It wouldn’t have helped anything. I needed this today and knowing he was here would’ve ruined it for me. In fact, I probably would’ve left, abandoned my class full of kids, and then felt like shit about it later.
No, she did the right thing, even though I’m a shaky mess now and I doubt I’ll ever enter this room again without wondering if he’s here.
Then something occurs to me. “Alana, did he tell you to ask to paint a boat?”
“Yes, Ms. Evie. He said a kayak, but I didn’t know what that was. He told me it was a boat. A little boat. And that’s what we painted. A little boat. A kayak.”
“We sure did. And I bet yours is a great looking kayak.”
“I wish you could see it.” I hear sadness in her voice, a very adult sadness that no child should know. But she’s no average child. Alana is more perceptive than most. She’s familiar with pain and suffering in a way no little girl should be. She knows what it’s like to be different, to be disabled, and she feels bad for me.
“I wish I could, too, sweetie.”
“Maybe one day she will,” Cherelyn adds from over my shoulder. “Maybe even one day soon.”
“You’ll be able to see one day?” In her voice is amazement and glee, and the optimism of a child. The pendulum of her mood swings quickly because, despite her familiarity with the darker side of life, she can still see the brightness of it, too.
“Maybe,” I reply weakly, vaguely. Guiltily.
“You didn’t…you didn’t forget about it, did you?” My best friend lays her hand on my arm, her voic
e rife with disbelief. And with worry.
The sale of all my paintings has netted me more than enough money to afford the experimental surgery that I’ve been waiting years to have. It’s a big deal. A life-changing deal. Yet I haven’t given it a single thought since Levi came to see me that night almost two weeks ago. My life has been a race against a black vortex of despair that hasn’t stopped chasing me since he walked out my front door.
“No. Of course not,” I deny nonchalantly. “I hope I can see soon. I’d love to be able to see this little lady’s paintings.” I tug on the tip of one of Alana’s pigtails that I feel brushing her shoulder.
“I want you to! I want you to!” She jumps straight up and down in her excitement, like she’s on a pogo stick.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell her with a grin. “Now, I bet your dad is waiting for you. You’d better get packed up.”
I hear the patter of her feet as she makes her way back to her easel, but already my concentration is on keeping strong legs. They just have to hold me up until I can get back home. They just have to get me out of here and back to safety. Then they can turn to rubber beneath me. Then I can crumble, I can cry, I can scream, and I can mourn. Then and only then can I stop trying so hard to hold my pieces together.
Then I can fall apart again.
CHAPTER 25
LEVI
EVEN AS I punch in the phone number for Evie’s best friend, Cherelyn (whose number I got from the art gallery), I realize how desperate I’m going to sound. That doesn’t stop me from hitting the green button that makes the call, though.
She answers in her professional voice, probably since she doesn’t recognize the incoming number and assumes it’s business-related.
“Cherelyn, this is Levi Michaelson. Don’t hang up,” I rush to say.
Silence greets me, but silence I can deal with. A dial tone is a different story.
“You don’t have to say anything. Just listen. Then you can decide whether you’ll help me or not. Please.”
Again, there is only silence, so I keep going.
“I screwed up. Thirteen years ago, I screwed up. I was young and dumb and drunk, and I made a terrible decision. What I should’ve done that night was let my father take Rachel to the hospital while I stayed with Evie, whether he wanted me to or not. But I didn’t. I’ll be the first to admit that there is absolutely no excuse for what I did. The fact that I didn’t trust my own father to take care of Rachel, the fact that I was worried about my girlfriend and my baby, the fact that I’d been drinking all night and could hardly focus—none of those reasons are good enough to excuse what I did. No reason is.”
I pause, hoping she might say something, but she doesn’t, so I continue.
“It’s haunted me since that night. All these years, it’s followed me. For a long time, I couldn’t sleep, barely ate, but even that’s getting off too easy. I should’ve paid a bigger price. Even losing Evie isn’t enough punishment for what I did.”
“Agreed,” I hear on the other end of the line. Short, abrupt. Hostile. But at least she’s listening.
“I should’ve made it right a long time ago, but I was backed into a corner. After Rachel killed herself, I wanted to go to the police. Tell them everything. Find the girl we hit. I didn’t give a shit about my father’s career, but he made a point of reminding me that if he went down, he was taking me with him. That I’d be an accessory to a hit-and-run, and my future would be over before it started. That alone wasn’t enough to keep me quiet, but he’d kept tabs on Evie. He knew she’d survived. He told me she was fine, that she’d moved on, and that we’d only be doing her more harm by forcing her to relive that night. I’m ashamed to say that I was dumb enough, or maybe desperate enough to believe him.
“It wasn’t until last year that I found out she’d lost her sight. My mother was hospitalized with a fractured hip and she mentioned it when she was out of her head on painkillers. Until then, she’d refused to discuss it. Ever.
“A few weeks later, I heard some buzz about a blind woman who paints. She was about the right age, graduated from Columbia. I thought there was a good chance it could be her. I didn’t bother asking Dad about it. I knew he’d lie, so I went to check it out myself.
“I didn’t have a plan. I had no idea what I’d do if it was her. I just wanted to know, to see for myself that she was okay.”
More silence, which makes me wonder if this was such a good idea. The only reason I keep talking is because if there’s a chance in hell of getting Evie back—which is what I’ve realized I want more than anything else in my life—of making her understand all this, I’ll need her best friend’s help to do it.
“So, you got to see. Now you can leave her the hell alone.”
“That’s the problem. I can’t.”
“Of course, you can. You just disappear, like you did before. Simple as that.”
“It’s nowhere near that simple. And I didn’t disappear. I was trying to do the right thing. Trying to stay away from her. But Jesus, I can’t. I…I’m in love with her. I can’t just walk away. Not without a fight.”
“Then you need to try harder. Do the right thing. Stay away from her. Don’t be in love with her. Walk away. It’s what you do best, right?”
Christ! I sigh and rub my forehead.
I deserved that. I deserve all of this. And more.
“You know, even if I’d had a plan, even if I’d known what the hell to do, I could never have planned for Evie herself. I had no idea how amazing she’d be. How beautiful. And witty. How charming, how insanely talented. I could never have planned for how she’d get under my skin and tear my whole damn life apart. But she did. And I can’t go back to life before her. I want her under my skin. I’m glad that she tore my life apart. It was shit before she came. And it will be shit if I can’t get her back. I just don’t know how to do that. But I have to try. Are you listening to me?”
There’s a long, long pause and my guts twist with dread. She’s gonna tell me to stay the hell away, never call again. All the things she should say and has every right to say.
“You should’ve told her the instant you started caring about her.”
I exhale.
“I know. I should’ve. But it happened so fast. I mean, hell, nobody plans on falling in love. I mean, Christ Almighty! How the hell was I supposed to know this would happen?”
“Maybe you’re not in love. Maybe you’re just infatuated.”
“I’ve been infatuated before. This is different. I…I feel like I can’t breathe. All the damn time. When I’m with her, everything is right. But when I’m not, nothing is. The world, the sun, the air. Can’t you understand that?”
I hear a hissing sound, like she’s frustrated and exhaling through her nose. “So you’re saying you kept this from her because you love her. That’s bass-ackwards if I’ve ever heard it.”
“I know. She deserved answers, explanations. She deserved so much better than what she got, what I gave her, but I was afraid of losing her.”
“And you ended up losing her anyway.”
I squeeze my forehead, squeeze at the pain aching behind my eyes. “Yeah, I lost her anyway. But I’m hoping you can help me with that.”
“Why on earth would I help you when you’re the one who destroyed her?”
“Look, I get it. I get what you’re feeling, and I get what she’s feeling. I understand her anger. I understand why she hates me. I understand how betrayed she must feel. I understand it, and I don’t blame her. Not one damn bit. I was even going to walk away, leave her alone. Let her move on from the whole thing without a constant reminder of the accident in her life. But I’ve tried, and I can’t.”
“Keep trying. Maybe it’ll get easier.”
“It’s been twelve days since I left her apartment. Twelve days and I can still smell her like it was yesterday. I smell her everywhere I go and I was in New York for over a week! When I went to her class, I don’t…I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I hop
ed that seeing her would make me realize how much better off she is without me and make it easier to do the right thing. Or maybe I hoped that she’d be able to feel me and she’d change her mind and put me out of my misery. But honestly, I don’t know. I don’t really know what I was expecting. But I can tell you what happened. It made it worse. Seeing her, watching her, hearing her only made it worse. I can’t give up on her, on us. Do you hear me? I can’t let her go without a fight.”
“Look, I don’t know what to tell you, but—”
“I…I didn’t know what was happening until it was too late. I blinked and she’d become everything to me. All I want is to be with her, to make her happy. I need her to know what the trees in Central Park look like at midnight because I can’t sleep without her. I need her to know that fall doesn’t smell like fall in New York because nothing smells like it should without her. I need her to know that I still hear all the sounds I’ve always heard, but the only one I want to hear is her voice. And her laugh, and her crazy stories about people she can’t see. Nothing is the same without her. She changed something in me, and I don’t want to go back to the way I was. I’m a better man because of her, and I have to make this right.”
“Levi, I don’t—”
“Just tell me this,” I interrupt her again to say. “Does she hate me or is she as miserable without me as I am without her?”
“You can’t expect me to answer that.”
“No, but I hope you will anyway.” When she says nothing, I add, “Tell me there’s a chance, even if it’s a small one. Tell me I haven’t really lost her. Not really. Not forever.”
“I don’t know. She’s very hurt, but…”
“But?”
My heart slams up into a faster pace.
A but.
That tells me all I need to know.
“Fine. She’s miserable. You’ve done an excellent job of destroying what she’s worked so hard to build.”
She doesn’t pull any punches, but I wouldn’t expect her to. She’s loved Evie longer than I have, but I already know what that instinct to protect her feels like.
“I can make this right. If she’ll just give me a chance, I can make this right. I can help pay for the surgery. I can help—”
