by Shana Norris
I’d tried to change back into something more casual, but she wouldn’t let me. And so we’d ended up leaving just as we were: me looking like I was going on a date, and Aunt Lydia looking like she was ready to garden.
I rested my head against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching as we slowly drove through Aunt Lydia’s neighborhood. Most of the houses looked the same: red brick and small, with grass that was drying out under the summer sun.
A bright flash of red caught my eye as we turned a corner. A huge oak tree stood on the corner of a yard with piles of old tires leaning against the house, and a bright red plaid shirt hung from one of the lowest tree branches. The shirt swayed back and forth in the breeze, the sleeves flapping like an invisible man waving his arms.
I could only imagine what my mother would say if she was there. Some people don’t care about the image they project to the rest of the world. Aren’t you glad we know better?
We didn’t go all the way into Asheville. The restaurant Aunt Lydia had picked was on the outskirts of town, closer to her house. Tall trees half-hid the little brown building, and a bright green neon sign read: Papa Gino’s.
The restaurant was Italian in the way that people who have never been to Italy think it is. Red-and-white gingham tablecloths covered the little tables, and a pizza buffet was set up along one wall.
“Lydia!” A woman’s voice boomed as we entered the dimly lit room. A tiny, gray-haired woman rushed over to hug Aunt Lydia, and she looked too small for the commanding voice that came out of her. “You haven’t been to see us in ages, Capretta!”
“I’m sorry,” Aunt Lydia said. “I haven’t gotten out much. But my niece is staying with me, so I brought her to meet you.” She gestured toward me. “This is Hannah. Hannah, this is Rita Lagasse.”
The old woman scowled at Aunt Lydia. “Don’t be so formal. Everyone calls me Mama Rita,” she told me, before enveloping me in a tight hug that locked my arms at my sides. For such a small old woman, she was pretty strong.
Mama Rita led us to a table near one of the few windows in the place. “Best seat in the house,” she said proudly.
“Thank you, Mama,” Lydia said. Mama Rita took our drink order and then hurried away, disappearing through a wooden door.
“So,” Aunt Lydia said, resting her arms on the table and leaning forward, “what are your plans?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Plans?”
“For your visit. Did you have something you wanted to do or see while you’re here?”
I shrugged. “I just came to visit.” I hadn’t really thought about what I’d do in Asheville. My sole focus had been to get away from Willowbrook.
“Okay,” Aunt Lydia said. She furrowed her brow and tapped her fingers on the table. “Hey, you’re a good student, right? There are a lot of museums you can visit around here.”
Visiting museums sounded exactly like something the Hannah I wasn’t supposed to be would do. She would waste away her summer learning while other seventeen-year-olds were out doing whatever it was that normal seventeen-year-olds did. Steal beer? Watch R-rated movies?
“My life coach says I should expand my experiences and try new things,” I said. “So I think museums are out. I’ve been to plenty of those.”
Aunt Lydia stared at me as if I’d grown another head. “What the heck is a life coach?”
I stared down at my hands as a burning sensation crept up my neck. Apparently, Mom had never bothered to tell Aunt Lydia about Mark. “Oh, um . . .” I said, stammering for an explanation that wouldn’t reveal too much. “He’s someone who helps me when I’m confused about something or having a problem. He listens and helps me figure it out.”
“So, like a therapist?”
I glanced around the room quickly to see if anyone had overheard her. “No, he’s a life coach. It’s different.”
“How exactly?” Aunt Lydia asked.
I was saved from answering her question by the return of Mama Rita, who placed two glasses of iced sweet tea on the table between us. “Here you go, girls,” she boomed. “Now, have you decided what to eat yet?”
I looked down at the unopened menu in my hands. I hadn’t even looked at it since we sat down.
Aunt Lydia must have noticed my look of panic because she said, “How about if I pick something out for both of us?”
I nodded and set the menu on the table. “Okay.”
Aunt Lydia ordered two plates of ravioli, Caesar salads, and mozzarella sticks. After Mama Rita left, we sat at the table in silence. A long time ago, Aunt Lydia and I had been so close that I used to pretend she was my older sister. No matter how structured and ordered to perfection things were at my house, Aunt Lydia would always let me be a kid when I was around her.
But now I didn’t know what to say to her. The silence stretched on, becoming more and more uncomfortable. I sipped my tea, then carefully set the glass down, wiping away the beads of condensation on the glass. I reached over to adjust the little silk rose in the glass vase on the center of the table so that the leaves were aligned evenly on each side.
Then I realized this was something my mother would do. I let my hand drop back to my lap.
Aunt Lydia had been watching me without speaking. She sipped her own drink, then said, “Do you drink?”
My gaze snapped up to meet her blue eyes. “Drink?” I asked.
Aunt Lydia nodded. “You know. Alcohol.”
I wrinkled my forehead as I stared back at her, wondering where this question had come from. “No, I don’t drink.”
She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t say anything as she studied me for a moment. At last, she said, “Okay. Alcoholism can be genetic, Hannah. Just keep that in mind.”
“My dad has a problem with prescription drugs, not alcohol,” I whispered.
Aunt Lydia wiped her lips with a napkin. “I wasn’t talking about your dad.”
“Who then?” I asked.
“You know who.”
My mouth dropped open. “Mom?” My voice came out high and squeaky, and an older couple at a nearby table glanced my way. I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “You think Mom is an alcoholic?”
Aunt Lydia crossed her arms, but she didn’t say anything.
The idea bounced around in my head, leaving me buzzing.
“Mom is a social drinker,” I said. “She has a few cocktails at parties. She doesn’t sit in front of the TV binging on six-packs every night.”
“Alcoholism has a lot of different faces, Hannah,” Aunt Lydia said with a shrug. “I just want you to be careful.”
I couldn’t think of a response to this. My mom wasn’t an alcoholic—that would mean she wasn’t perfect in public. It was impossible.
Aunt Lydia cleared her throat. “How is your father?”
My jaw clenched as an icy chill raced down my spine. “Fine. Mom says he’s enjoying himself at the . . . the center.”
Even though I couldn’t say the word rehab, I refused to call it a resort like Mom did.
Aunt Lydia nodded. “That’s good. I hope he can get the help he needs there.”
I shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll come back refreshed and ready to get back to work.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Aunt Lydia asked. “Him going back to work so quickly? He almost died, after all. Maybe all the stress of his job is what caused him to start taking the—”
“I’d really rather not talk about this at dinner,” I said. Rule #6: No unpleasant discussions at dinner. It ruins digestion.
Aunt Lydia pressed her lips together, but then she nodded. “If that’s what you want, Hannah. But I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
I would never want to talk about it. I didn’t want to think about my dad, or what he had done.
He almost died, after all.
I hated him for putting us through that, but more than anything, I hated the small part of me that wished he had died. At least then, I wo
uld know that I’d never have to make another 911 phone call, or pretend that it was normal for him to spend his summer at rehab.
I spotted Mama Rita walking backward through the swinging kitchen door with a tray balanced on one hand. Our appetizers and salads. Thank goodness.
“I’m starving,” I lied as Mama Rita brought the food over. “I’m really too hungry and tired to talk. Can we just eat?”
Aunt Lydia smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sure. I promise, you’ll love the food.”
#
After dinner, Aunt Lydia let me drive her car back from the restaurant, saying that I would become more familiar with the area if I spent some time driving through it. As we drove, she told me stories about the city and pointed out a few of her favorite places. I was happy to let her do all the talking while I focused on maneuvering the huge, rumbling vehicle. It was nothing like my tiny car.
“Stop at the end of the driveway and I’ll get the mail,” Aunt Lydia said as I turned carefully into her drive.
The car stopped with a groan and Aunt Lydia hopped out. She slammed the door shut behind her and then waved me on as she headed toward the mailbox. I eased the huge Land Rover forward into the carport next to the house. As I got out of the car, I noticed a huge pile of boxes on the front porch that I hadn’t seen before.
“I couldn’t find the size you wanted,” said a voice behind the boxes. “So I bought the closest I could get. Sorry.”
I stepped back from the porch as a girl popped up from behind the pile. Her overalls were paint-splattered and looked four sizes too big. She wore a fitted white T-shirt that had ridden up to reveal a stretch of brown skin of her lower back.
She looked at me, blowing a lock of dyed orange hair out of her eyes.
“You’re not Lydia,” she said, narrowing her brown eyes.
I shook my head. “No, sorry.”
“Where’s Lydia?”
I pointed back at the driveway, where Aunt Lydia was still at the mailbox, sorting through a stack of mail.
The girl brightened. “She’s actually checking her mail? This is progress.” She waved her arms wide and called out, “Lydia!”
“Hey, Ashton!” Aunt Lydia called back. She started up the driveway toward us, smiling brightly.
“I got the canvases, but not the size you wanted,” the girl, apparently named Ashton, called.
“What?” Aunt Lydia called back.
“I got the canvases!” The girl yelled louder, cupping her hands around her mouth. “But not the right size!”
“Bring them in and I’ll take a look!”
The girl blew her hair out of her eyes again and then looked at me. “Do you think you could help me carry these things to the studio?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Sure.”
I wasn’t sure exactly where we were going. If Aunt Lydia had a studio in the house, I hadn’t yet seen it. Ashton had a key to the house and opened the lock, pushing the front door open.
“I’m Ashton McNeil, by the way,” the girl called over her shoulder.
“Hannah Cohen,” I told her.
“Lydia’s niece?” Ashton asked, raising her eyebrows. “She’s talked about you before, but she didn’t say you were coming.”
I couldn’t help feeling surprised that Aunt Lydia had mentioned me to this girl.
“It was kind of a last minute thing,” I said, shrugging. “I decided not to go to Paris, and to come to Asheville instead.”
Ashton snorted. “Oh, yeah, I decided not to go to Paris last week, too.” She smirked as she hefted the boxes into my arms.
They were heavier than they looked, with paint fumes rising up from the cardboard and stinging my nose. Ashton picked up the stack of canvases and hefted them onto her shoulder as she walked into the house. She seemed to know the house well enough to know exactly where she was going.
In the hall, Ashton reached up to pull at the string to the attic. The wooden ladder unfolded and then she began to climb, expertly keeping the canvases balanced on her shoulder as she went up. My mouth went dry as I looked up at the ladder. I’d always had a fear of heights. Anything more than three feet above ground was enough to make me dizzy.
“Bring those boxes up,” Ashton called back to me as she disappeared into the hole in the ceiling.
It’s just an attic, I told myself. Taking a deep breath, I put one foot on the bottom step. I tried to peer over the side of the boxes to watch my footing, but it was nearly impossible. I went up the ladder slowly, my pulse pounding in my ears.
When I finally made it into the small attic area, I quickly moved away from the gaping doorway in the floor. The roof was low, the exposed rafters only an inch above our heads. Exposed bulbs lit the room and the floor had been finished with sheets of plywood. All around the attic were canvases stacked against the angled walls and some on easels. Most had only bits of paint splashed across them, leaving pencil outlines uncolored. Others were completely blank.
Aunt Lydia followed behind us and tossed the mail onto a paint-spattered table.
“Working hard today?” Ashton asked as she placed the blank canvases on a table. She gestured for me to set the boxes down nearby.
“Not today. Hannah and I were just coming from dinner,” Aunt Lydia said. She sighed, rolling her eyes toward the exposed rafters of the ceiling. “Just imagine if I did work. Maybe I’d actually finish something.”
“You’re going through a dry spell,” Ashton told her.
“I’m going through a dry life,” Aunt Lydia corrected.
“This is your studio?” I asked as I looked around the dusty attic. Sweat prickled along my hairline as the heat closed in on me. I didn’t know how Aunt Lydia could stand to work up there.
“I was going to use the guest room,” Aunt Lydia told me, “but then I thought maybe I’d better save that room for, you know, actual guests. Be thankful you’re not smelling turpentine while you sleep.”
“Seriously,” Ashton said. She picked up one of the canvases and handed it to Aunt Lydia. “This is the closest I could find to what you wanted. It’s not quite right, but maybe it’ll work?”
Aunt Lydia scrutinized the canvas. “Maybe. I don’t know. I had this dream about the perfect painting and the size of the canvas was so clear in my head. It’s silly, but I thought if I could find that size, maybe I could paint the picture and finally finish something.” She laughed and tossed the canvas onto a table already full of other paint supplies. “It probably doesn’t matter. I’m a failure regardless.”
“Don’t talk like that.” Ashton turned to me, frowning. “Tell your aunt not to talk like that.”
Ashton seemed to be waiting for me to actually follow her orders, so I said, “Um, don’t talk like that?”
Aunt Lydia rolled her eyes. “Thanks, girls. But maybe it’s time I admit the truth. My painting days are behind me. I should go back to overseeing other artists’ work and give up on my own. It won’t be the first thing I’ve given up in my life.”
Ashton spoke before I could. “I don’t want to hear those words come out of your mouth again, Lydia Montgomery. You are not a failure. You’re a genius. One day the rest of the world will see it, too. So sit down and paint.”
Aunt Lydia cast me an amused look. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, giving Ashton a mock salute.
Ashton grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the ladder. “We’ll be downstairs if you need us. But don’t call us unless you’re on fire or something. Otherwise, I expect you to work.”
I heard Aunt Lydia sigh as we descended the ladder. Ashton folded the wooden steps and then pushed the attic door closed, leaving the string swinging back and forth over our heads.
“Come on,” Ashton said, waving for me to follow her to the kitchen.
She grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and then poured herself some Corn Flakes before sitting down at the counter. I sat in the barstool next to her, watching Ashton out of the corner of my ey
e for a moment. She had a nose ring; a small green stud, which made my own nose hurt to think about.
“So, um,” I said as Ashton ate, “how do you know my aunt?”
“I’m her assistant,” Ashton said, tapping her bright blue fingernails on the counter. “It’s for my college applications. Lydia is writing one of my recommendation letters.”
I nodded. “So do you paint with her?”
Ashton laughed. “No one paints with Lydia. She needs solitude to paint. Which I totally get, because I’m the same way. I can’t focus with a lot of distractions. Mostly, I go out and buy her canvases and paints and things. And tell her to get to work. I make sure she stays in her studio for a few hours each day.”
I didn’t even know that Aunt Lydia painted. In her old life, she was always just the owner of the museum and spent her time thinking about other people’s art. I’d never heard her speak of creating art herself.
“So, how long are you here?” Ashton asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “A few weeks, I guess. Or until I feel like going home.”
Ashton gaped at me. “I wish my parents would let me leave until I felt like coming home!”
I shrugged. “Well, both of my parents are gone right now, so it doesn’t really matter.”
“In Paris?” Ashton asked.
I bit my lip, then nodded. “Yeah.” I didn’t want to explain to a girl I didn’t even know about my parents.
Ashton drained the last of her milk and then wiped her mouth with her hand. “Well, this isn’t exactly Paris, but it’s not too bad. If you want, I could introduce you to some people and show you all the best places to hang out.”
I looked Ashton up and down. She didn’t look like the type of girl my mom would approve of me hanging out with. Her face was painted with sparkly eye shadow, and her orange lipstick matched the orange streaks in her hair. She certainly didn’t look anything like Natalie.
Step outside of your comfort zone, Mark had told me. Do things you wouldn’t normally do.
Hanging out with Ashton definitely counted.
“Okay,” I agreed. “That would be nice. Thanks.”
