by Ashley Logan
Wandering down the hall in a daze, I pause outside the garage door. Opening it as if there might me some terrifying creature on the other side, I relax a little when I turn the light on and see the two easels set up side by side. One slightly bigger than the other, they stand where they have stood for the last several weeks in the empty space left by my father's old truck. Surrounded by a friendly backdrop of snow shovels, winter coats, boxes, toys and a paddling pool, the easels look at home in their center stage position.
Circling around to see the paintings they hold, I sink slowly to the ground and just look at them. Trying to ignore Brad's because it makes my breath catch in my throat, I focus on Ry's painting and the attention he's paid to getting my hair and glasses right, only to focus largely on my mouth. I'm eating an ice-cream and my tongue is wildly out of proportion to the rest of my face and I love it.
Bracing myself, I take a calming breath and allow myself to absorb Brad's painting. He must have been teaching Ry about close-ups or something, because his picture is an enlarged section of my face. The detail in it is amazing, and I wouldn't have believed that he could've produced it in one afternoon, but for the slim streaks of wet paint still clearly shining under the garage lights.
The image casts a diagonal glance at one side of my face. I would almost say this face belonged to someone else. It's young and beautiful and... captivating.
I don't think I've even imagined that I might look this way, but it is definitely me. Half of my glasses are there; my dark hair follows the shape of a rosy cheek pulled high in the throes of laughter while the tiny visible section of my mouth is curled. Behind the slightly reflective lens of my glasses, my dark lashes seem to tease as my eye sparkles with mischief.
An unrestrained sigh escapes me and I shrink away from the easel, uncomfortable to be confronted with such a warm representation when I feel anything but.
After several minutes of staring at my close up, I reach into my bag that I still haven't taken off since I walked in the door. My fingers find the hole in the lining and hook out my phone. Ignoring the fact that I'm saddened by its lack of messages for me, I text Brad.
Me: Are you awake?
A moment later, my phone lights up with his response.
Brad: If you need me to be.
Chewing my lip a moment, I wonder what it is I even need to hear from him.
Me: Thank you for painting with Ry today. I can see that he's enjoyed himself.
Brad: It's no trouble. I enjoy it as much as he does.
My eyes flick to Brad's painting.
Me: His looks great, but you need more practice. I don't look like that.
Brad: Yes. You do.
Did you just txt to tell me I'm a crappy painter? I don't think I like this conversation.
I smile as I sigh, then tap out another message.
Me: How are you doing?
Brad: Peachy. You?
Me: Fine. I just wanted to say thank you.
Brad: You're welcome. Now go to bed. It's late.
Me: You can't tell me what to do. And if it's so late, why are you still up?
Brad: I'm painting. Which I guess is a good thing since apparently I need practice.
Me: [Stacey rolls eyes] What are you painting?
Brad: Shouldn't you be going to bed? I've read that nurses should avoid sleep deprivation. People can die because of it.
Me: Are you trying to change the subject?
Brad: Yes.
Me: Now I'm more curious.
Brad: That wasn't my intention. Seriously. You don't want to know.
Me: Tell me. Please. I won't be able to sleep if I'm trying to work it out. Do you want people to die from my lack of sleep?
Brad: [Brad sighs and drops head] Feelings. I'm painting lots and lots of feelings. It's called therapy and I need it. Okay?
Me: Okay. You think maybe you could leave some of your paints behind next time? I think I might need lots and lots of therapy.
Brad: I'll drop some off tomorrow. For now you should get some good sleep. I hear it helps with recovery.
Me: Thanks for the tip. Take care of yourself.
Brad: You too, Stace.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BRAD
"Is it working?"
Startled from my thoughts, I look down at Bruno. "Huh?"
"You've been up in that thing doing absolutely jack-shit. Are you stuck?"
Looking at the controls to the scissor lift and then the paintbrush in my hand, I touch it to the wall only to find it's dried out too much. Dipping it into my paint, I scan the wall to see where I left off.
"It's fine."
"You're not."
I look down at his change in tone. "I'm doing okay."
"Is your plan working?"
I point at the wall. "I figure working from the top down makes a nice change, don't you? Or are you talking about my plan for the Rec Center? I got the wood delivered yesterday, and I have to say that I'm glad I've got that studio space in my new apartment. I can store the clean sheets in one room, use the studio while they're wet, and store the completed ones in the other spare room when they're dry. It should work really well."
"Not those plans, dickface. Your 'get Stacey back' plan. I presume that's what you've been thinking about all morning while you're staring through the wall."
"Oh." Getting more paint on my brush, I pretend to be absorbed by my work. "It's hard to tell."
"So she's not banging down your door yet?"
"Not exactly." Sighing, I lean back to view my work. It's shit. I can't concentrate. "She sends me a text message every now and then. Superficial stuff mostly. Just checking in, sort of thing. Making sure I'm stable enough to paint with Ry or whatever. I don't know."
"You're just going to leave it that way?" Bruno asks, coming to stand at the bottom of the scissor lift and staring up at me. "You're not going to hash it out in an argument, or send flowers, or do something... I don't know... sweet or romantic?"
"Wouldn't help. Would hurt my chances probably. Stace is a private and practical woman. She'd rather I do something thoughtful and helpful while she's thinking. She'd rather I wash her dishes, or something than demand answers, or surround her with flowers and let everyone know I love her."
"You're going to wash her dishes?" he asks, his face scrunching in confusion.
"No, fizzle-dick. I'm being thoughtful by giving her space and being available when she needs me to be. Did you not understand the premise for the plan? I need to prove that I'll hang in there for her no matter what, or she'll never trust that I will."
"So you're just going to stare at a wall all day and do fuck all of the work we need to get done, for the entire foreseeable future?"
Looking back at the wall, I look at how much Bruno has done compared to my poor contribution.
"Sorry man. My productivity is shit. I swear I've been painting better at home," I offer, lowering my brush and reaching for the controls to lower myself back to the ground. "I think maybe I should go home and get started on those ply-sheets for the Rec. I primed most of them last night."
Bruno's eyes are glued to mine as I come down and I pause the mechanism when our eyes are level.
"I don't want you working on your own and getting sucked into a misery spiral. I can see it hanging over your head, just waiting for a chance to swallow you."
"I appreciate your concern, but my mood is stable. I'm understandably flat, given my situation, but I'm not depressed. I'm still eating, and sleeping, and working. I'm still going to the gym five times a week. I've had my pins taken out, and soon I won't even need this ugly brace on my shitty leg. Life is okay. I know that it's scary for everyone that I live on my own now, but I'm actually loving the solitude. You're welcome to come over and hang out if you want, but I'm not much use to you here at the moment," I say gesturing at the wall. "I'm not inspired for this right now. Let me work on my own for a bit so I don't have to worry about you, worrying about me. It fucks with my head."
Bruno considers me a long while. "I know what you're saying, and it makes sense enough, but I will always worry about you."
"I love you too, fuckface. You can call to check in with me anytime you like. I'm just processing some shit. Safely. Now get back to work." Lowering myself to the ground, I start packing up my stuff.
I turn to find Jeremiah Stone sitting quietly on one of the couches along this section of wide foyer. Staring at the portion of wall we've covered so far, he has a contemplative look on his face.
"Jeez Stone. Creepy much? How long have you been over there?"
Turning his focus to me, he gives an amused smile. "Long enough to see the show."
"I don't remember selling tickets," I mutter, slinging my bag into my lap. "Aren't we wearing too many clothes for your favorite kind of show?"
Bruno clips me around the ear.
Flipping him the bird, I turn back to Stone. "What I meant to say, was haven't you got anything better to do? An empire to run, or some shit like that?"
Still laughing quietly, Stone shakes his head. "Not many people speak to me the way you do, Jenkins."
"Is it because you watch them when they don't know you're doing it and it creeps them the fuck out, leaving them speechless?"
Stone laughs again. "You're a riot, Jenkins. You're indifference is refreshing. I could threaten to sack you, and you'd likely thank me, telling me you had more important things to attend to like scratching your balls. If I threatened to remove your balls you'd probably tell me you still had better things to do, but if I loved your balls that much, you'd let me fondle them a while before you killed me." He runs a hand through his hair and relaxes into the couch. "I enjoy watching your banter with Jackson for several reasons - one of which is your strength of heart, you resilient motherfucker. I watch from afar lest you spot me and force my involvement. I'm not interested in participation, only in certain tools I can apply elsewhere. Watching is how I became successful; how I plan to keep being successful. I have many enviable assets, but some of life's challenges can't be cracked with money or power."
He's totally talking about Reeni right now. That girl has happily got him twisted around her little finger at the same time as trying to flick him off like a clingy booger. Staring at him a while, I shrug.
"I don't know what you hope to learn from watching us, but good luck with it." Raising a hand in farewell to Bruno, I slow down as I pass Stone. "And just so you know, not many people talk to me the same way you do either. As an equal. I hope you get her."
I smile to myself all the way to the elevator that I never have to wait for, if Stone's on the same floor. The whole building revolves around him, but he still hasn't won over the girl he wants. Makes me feel a little better that I'm not the only one trying hard and getting nowhere.
MY NEW INDUSTRIAL-STYLE apartment has the bare minimum requirements for living, along with an eclectic mess of secondhand and donated furniture. Most of my floors are covered in old sheets and drop-cloths to protect the floors from my currently rampant painting situation. Wheeling around leaning stacks of ply, I throw my bag on the table and head for the fridge.
While my leftover noodle dish is heating in the microwave, I put on the coffeemaker and circle back around to the table. It was an absolute steal because of its scarred up wooden top and beaten body, but the legs are beautifully turned. They'd be a real feature if the whole thing wasn't an eyesore. The two mismatched chairs I got free with it are pretty drab, and one of them has a split seat, through which you can see its ancient foam stuffing starting to crumble from exposure to an unforgiving world.
Cracking my knuckles, I grab the seat and put it on top of the table as the microwave beeps. Eating my noodles, I study the chair, wondering if it's actually comfortable. Or whether that even matters. I won't be using it. An uncomfortable chair might keep Shermansky or Jackson from hanging around too long. Or mom. Although I'd like for her to be comfortable when she visits.
Finishing my noodles, I take the chair down again and try it out myself. The stupid thing is, I can't wholly tell. My sense of touch is severely compromised in places and it makes it hard to come to an overall conclusion.
"Fuck it," I mumble aloud as I get back into my wheelchair. It'll just have to be good enough.
Dismantling the old seat, I tape up the split, then cover the whole pad in black duct tape before screwing it back to its frame. Shoving it under the table, I curse its ugliness as I head to my workshop down the hall.
Kissing my fingers, I smack my hand to the picture of Stace and Ry hanging on the wall as I wheel into the studio. Rolling past several more recently painted portraits, I pull up in front of the primed ply sheets.
The aim is to complete this mural in pieces and then put it all together on the Rec Center wall to re-create the overall image. This way we can complete the job while we continue the long-term gig at Stone's building.
Lining up the first three sheets of ply, I begin penciling the outlines of people in various states of sporting prowess. The dancers and artists will come later, along with those in smaller groups. It'll be a collage of young and old that's full of color and energy.
I wish I was up to the painting phase already. Colors always pick me up, but boring old pencil must come first. Leaning back, I sigh at how little I've done. I feel like I'm getting nowhere while having to force myself to go on.
Tossing my pencil aside, I head to the kitchen for coffee. Beyond my studio, the whole apartment smells great. Even the smell of coffee is enough to perk me up some. Pouring a cup, I set the pot back in place and sip the black goodness.
Staring at my new walls, I grow easily bored and even a little uncomfortable. So much white makes it feel clinical, but at least there are some rough textures to break up the monotony. If I could paint some of them, I would, but I guess I'll just have to hang paintings on them for now.
My eyes alight on the table and chairs.
Setting my coffee on the counter, I wheel over to my pile of old drop sheets and pull one off the top. Moments later, the table is on it. A few minutes more and I've got a selection of colors open and ready next to the perfect brush.
The music goes on loud, and I begin.
When I stop, I have the same beautifully scarred wooden table top, but its shapely legs have now been wrapped in striped stockings of blues, pale orange, pinks, a vibrant red and highlights of white. Not a full rainbow by any means. They look like rock candy and the dented wooden surface is now a lead character instead of something to be hidden backstage. The colors look great against the white backdrop and I immediately reach for one of the shitty chairs; inspired.
When I eventually stop for more coffee, I check my phone and find several messages from Bruno and three missed calls from Damon.
I call him back.
"Dude where the fuck have you been?"
"What no 'go for Damon' bullshit?" I ask, checking the time. "What's up?"
"What's up?" he repeats, anger still in his voice. "You don't answer your phone. That's what's up. Jackson's on his way over to check on you."
"Why? I'm all good. I had the music up loud, but I'm great."
"You're great, huh? Just left work early to pine over your lost girlfriend on your lonesome."
"She's not lost. She's at work. She'll be home in an hour. Is it too late to call off the dogs? How long do I have before Jackson turns up?"
A knock at the door answers my question.
"Never mind. He's here. And I'm not pining, I'm painting. It's perfectly healthy," I proclaim as I open the door for Jackson and wheel back to the kitchen without even greeting him. "You can go back to whatever it is you were doing Shermansky. I'm getting Jackson a coffee. Later."
Tossing my phone on the table, I turn to face Bruno. "You even want coffee? Or now that you know I haven't strung myself from the rafters, are you heading off again?"
"Fuck you. Give me coffee," he says, walking around my drying furniture with caution as he surveys it all. "Is there anywhere to sit t
hat I won't come off looking like something from a psychedelic hallucination from the Wonka factory?"
Filling a cup and adding milk, I hand it to him. "Try the couch. But don't touch the base with your legs."
Glancing at the freshly painted polka-dots covering the white wooden base of the crimson velvet couch, Bruno throws me a 'good grief you have gone fucking crazy' look.
"You can always sit on my lap, if you'd prefer," I suggest, sipping my own coffee. "I'm sure Scar won't get jealous."
Lowering himself carefully to the couch to keep from getting paint on his jeans, Bruno blows across the top of his coffee as his eyes scan the open-plan living space.
"So," he begins, leaving the word to hang there like a bad smell.
"So I painted my shitty furniture?" I offer.
"Yeah," he agrees with a nod, still captivated by the surrounding mash-up of color. "About that. Why, exactly?"
"It was old and crappy. And the white walls are boring." Looking around, I smile. "I don't notice them now though."
"No," Bruno agrees. "Definitely not looking at the walls." Sipping his coffee slowly, his eyes eventually come to rest on me. "This is what you've been painting?"
"Only tonight. That's why everything is still pretty wet. You like it, I can tell."
"It's not what I was expecting," he says slowly, as he views the room again with a small smile. "But yeah, I do kind of like it. It's really fucked up, but it kind of works."
"I know, right? It's like Willy Wonka meets industrial, eclectic chic. Who knew I excelled at interior design?"
Bruno laughs. "I don't know about excelling, but it sure beats sitting in a dark room and crying. Why didn't you answer your fucking phone?"
"Didn't hear it. Music. Carried away in the rainbow? It doesn't matter. I told you I was fine."
"You're not fine."
"Well I'm not perfect, but I'll do well enough for now. Hey, isn't it Ladies' night? Shouldn't you be gyrating half-naked on a stage somewhere?"
"I danced early," he replies in a flat tone as if he doesn't appreciate my change of subject.
