That was my answer. That had always been my answer – back before I’d become the biggest critic of my own dreams. “I’m a thirty four, mom. People who do what I want to do start when they’re like fifteen.”
“That is when you started.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, but then they don’t stop for ten years in the middle.”
“Then be the first of your kind, lady. Why are you so adamant to quell this creative spark of yours? There are millions of people who would give anything to have a fraction of your talent. Myself included.”
I stared at the floor. “I don’t want to turn out like Dad.”
“What? What do you mean?”
My face contorted, but I got hold of myself before tears could take hold. “I’ve redirected every single goal I ever had to avoid it.”
She inspected my face a moment, then she gave a sad sigh. “That’s why? Because of your father?”
I nodded, sucking on my lower lip to steady myself.
“There are worse things in this life than being like your father,” she said, then she paused. “That’s why you walked away from art school?”
I nodded and inhaled a harsh sob. Hearing her phrase it like that resurrected every pang of guilt and regret and lost hope I’d been forced to contend with as I said goodbye to my professors.
Leaving my dreams behind was the worst heartbreak I’d ever known. Give me another Cole. Hell, give me a thousand Coles – Cole I could handle again. The anguish of that choice I made when I was nineteen made Cole look like a hangnail in comparison. I wouldn’t wish it anyone.
Yet I’d been wallowing in it for weeks, feeling that pain all over again at every mention of the job at Chalice.
She squeezed me. “Damn it Chuck, I told you to keep it light.”
“What?”
She took a slow breath. “When he came to see you, he promised he’d -”
I pulled from her. “You knew?”
She nodded, giving me an almost piteous smile.
I shook my head as though I might be able to loose the thoughts. “You talked to him?”
She touched my hair. “Honey, I’ve always been talking to him.”
If the earth had split beneath me at that moment, I would have happily let it swallow me. I glared at her. “What? You’ve just been grabbing coffee with a known drug addict who just so happens to be the source of my genetic material, and you didn’t think to share that information?”
“He is an addict, no one would say otherwise. He’ll tell you that himself, but he has been clean for fifteen years now.”
“Fantastic! That just makes him a deadbeat, absentee father! When did you start talking to him again?”
She touched her face. “You were eight.”
“What?! What about those years that you couldn’t sleep because you thought he was going to show up in the night and take me or something?”
She settled back onto her hip, curling her legs under her. “I was scared for a while. He was a different man when he was using. When he started to get clean, we started talking. Your grandmother almost killed me for it.”
I clenched my fists, took a deep breath, and paused. The words I wanted to ask were dragging through my throat like hot coals. “Why didn’t he come see me?”
She frowned. “He didn’t want to take the chance of disappointing you.”
I laughed. “Yeah, because not having a father wasn’t a disappointment in and of itself.”
She wiped her eyes, and I thought to rein in my snide, but there was no guarantee it could be curtailed. I felt certain that anger was the righteous response to this news, but somehow instead of angering me, it deflated me.
She touched my arm. “He didn’t want you to get attached and then fail you if he relapsed. And he did. Many times.”
“So he waited until I was fucking nineteen?”
She nodded. “It took that long for him to feel sure he wouldn’t relapse again.”
I scratched my head roughly.
“He tried to convince me so many times it was his fault. That he’d caused your – your crisis. Said he shouldn’t have sprung on you like that, but I thought you would have told me if -”
“I thought it would upset you!”
She shook her head. “I wish I’d known. He’s stayed away ever since because he felt he’d done you harm. I’ve tried to convince him that wasn’t the case, but now - I don’t know what I would have done to change your mind, but – I just wish I’d known.”
We sat quietly for a moment.
“You still talk?” I asked, finally.
She nodded.
“Where is he?”
She smiled and gestured to the painting on the wall. “He teaches at Mass Art. Fuller is one of his.”
I turned toward the painting, suddenly seeing it anew. Part of me wanted to rally against the painting, as though it were some interloper sneaking into my otherwise perfect world. The other part of me wanted to soak it in with new eyes.
My dad taught this painter. My dad.
“Is he still married to that lady? Have you met her?”
She had a far off look for a moment, but she smiled. “Oh no, that intolerable woman – she’s long gone. And I never met her, thank god.”
“Why ‘thank god?’”
She gave me a half smile, signifying that she expected me to know the answer to this question.
I did.
“Because I love him, Faye. Always have.”
At that, I began to sniffle again. I wiped my hand across my nose. Gross, I know, but better than letting it drip down my face.
“I don’t know what to do, Mom.”
She ran her hand over my hair “Yes you do. And anything beyond that, we can figure out later.”
Familiar footsteps clomped up the porch steps, and the door opened. Stellan crouched right down beside us.
I glanced at him, but kept my eyes down. I wasn’t angry at him anymore. Not sure I ever really was. Mom said something about clouds lifting and shifted out of the way so he could collect me and move me to the couch. After a moment of him snuggling me into the crook of his neck, softly whispering how much he cherished me, my mother returned from the kitchen with a cup of tea and tissues. She set them next to the crackers and cheese on the table.
“Tell me you’ll call them tomorrow. Promise me that,” she said, hovering by the arm of the couch.
I felt like a child being given permission to come home from a miserable week at camp – freed and protected, not a desperately stumbling adult about to blow off the best job prospect she’d seen in a year.
I stared at my hands in my lap, watched as Stellan interlaced his fingers with mine. Could I do it, could I choose just the possibility of something better over a paycheck? Could I say I had enough hope?
She offered me a cracker with cheese. I took it, and I nodded.
We ate Brie and Butter Crackers, sipped tea, and spent the afternoon on the couch watching a Monty Python marathon on PBS as the snow fell outside. And we laughed.
Stellan and I woke the next day to another snowy morning. Mom left for work, taking my Santé Fe with four wheel drive to battle against the snow. I had nowhere to go that day, and there was no way she wasn’t going in to work. She had curating to do.
After breakfast, and a couple hours of internal struggle, I finally called Chalice. Dennis seemed sincerely disappointed when I broke the news, even tried to change my mind. Somehow, my mother’s words had given me permission to say no.
“I’ve decided to pursue something else,” I said. Felt like a complete jackass when he asked me what that was and I answered, “I haven’t actually figured that out yet.”
Oddly enough, he seemed to respect it. He left the door open, saying to check in with him if I ever changed my mind.
I smiled. I knew that such a day would never come. Even if I decided to work at Arby’s, I knew I’d be happier.
As I
sat there with the phone in my hand, I felt a sudden inspiration.
I pulled up a blank message for Jackie. Think you might like some help down at the bakery? Looks like my calendar just opened up, and I’m told I make a mean Swedish Apple.
Jackie responded within second with pure elation, promising to call after dinner. I smiled and searched for the words to send my mother, telling her the deed was done.
Yet, before I could press send, my phone lit up – incoming phone call from the 617 - Boston. I stared at it a moment, contemplating letting it go to voicemail. Was my mother calling me from a museum phone to celebrate the momentous joy of my life as a mooch?
I made my way down the hall toward the living room, watching my phone. I finally answered.
“Hello?”
“Is this Faye?”
The man’s voice was soft, almost cautious.
“Yes?” I said.
“Hey, Fayebell.”
I froze by the fireplace holding the phone to my ear.
I swallowed. “Hi, Dad.”
Stellan moved on the couch, closing his laptop and turning toward me. I leaned against the fireplace for support, letting it warm my legs.
“Your mother tells me you’ve decided not to go back to that marketing job.”
Wow, they really do talk.
I pressed my finger to my other ear as though there was some cacophony I was trying to drown out. Hard to do when the din is in your own head, ladies and gents. “Well, it’s not the same job, but yeah – yeah.”
He mumbled something to someone on the other line, then shuffled a moment. “Well, I talked to a couple people and – I hope you don’t mind your mother talking to me about it. You can tell me to fuck right off.”
Before I could say anything, my phone buzzed again – Evan was calling. I ignored the call. “No. No, it’s okay.”
He whistled, softly. “Okay – uh. Okay. Well, I talked to a few people and, if you had the notion, you could always come take a few classes. Get back into the swing, maybe.”
My mouth fell open, but it took a moment to speak. Whose idea was this, and why did it feel like I could fly? “I can’t afford them.”
“Honey -” He paused. “That’s not an issue. I know you’re more into the cartoon side of it all, so my classes might not be your cup of tea, but Jerry would love to have you back. And you might not know this, but your Dad works here so – there’s that whole free tuition thing. I know your Dad’s a flaming asshole, but why not milk nepotism for all it’s worth, right?”
I laughed. I really laughed.
He heard me and chuckled back. “I’ll send home a schedule with your mother. You can have a look and decide. No pressure, ok?”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“Alright. Alright, yeah. Okay, kiddo. Alright. You be good.”
I swallowed. Did I have more to say? Did I have a million things I wanted to say? “Okay,” was all I could manage.
He was gone, and I was left with the phone to my ear like a toddler on an imaginary call with Big Bird.
I knew the Jerry he spoke of – Jerry Hallowell. He’d been a teacher of mine, and one of the professors I found hardest to say goodbye to. We shared many of the same heroes, and in some cases, my heroes shared drinks with Jerry Hallowell. He was head of his department now.
I stared at the wall, finally taking the phone away from my ear.
I turned and smiled at Stellan, who had been perched on the edge of the couch, watching me for the duration of the conversation, as though readying himself to run across the room and catch me.
I didn’t move. Instead I pulled up Evan’s number and pressed send. I needed to talk to someone who didn’t know about the bomb that had just gone off in my chest before acknowledging the look on Stellan’s face.
There were no pleasantries when Evan answered. “Do you think Patty would mind if I called her?”
I laughed. “Well, hello to you to. No, I’m sure she would love that.”
“Fantastic.”
“You hoping to catch up, or you hoping to maybe make out?”
He scoffed. “Definitely make out.”
“Nice! How’d you get her number?”
Evan coughed. “You were about to give it to me.”
“Oh, you dick!”
I hung up, texted him her contact info, and finally turned to face my honey.
“You alright?” He asked as I approached.
I thought a moment.
Yes. I was.
I nodded.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I took a moment, mulling over what it was I was feeling. “Not yet, if that’s okay?”
He nodded and gestured for me to come to him.
I did, getting pulled down for a few kisses and a long, deliberate hug. I snuggled into him and grumbled from the folds of his shirt that he forgot deodorant that morning. He then proceeded to try mashing my face in his arm pit as I screamed.
Ah, l’amour.
I pulled free of him, and he grabbed my hand, tugging me back down for a kiss.
I let him return to his work. He was putting the final touches on Gorilla Warfare, hoping to be ready to go ‘live’ with it in the next week or so.
I was nervous, but excited. Not just by the assurance of both he and Evan that the game would be met with a good amount of appreciation, (and by appreciation, my Virgo and my billionaire meant money) but because something I’d created, something I was proud of was going out into the world.
Money or no, I was ready to say I’d made something, and though cash money would be a nice thing to have, oddly enough, I wasn’t so worried about that anymore.
The fire called to me. I settled down into my favorite chair and reached for something to read on the side table. I spotted a dog-eared page, picked up the book, and began reading.
I was three pages in before I realized what I was reading. I tossed the book onto the floor.
Stellan looked up from his work. “What’s up?”
I grumbled. “Pussy, King of the God damn Pirates, that’s what’s up. I swear to God, this book is mocking me.”
He raised an eyebrow, and I reminded him of the absolute derision I felt for the brain cell melting power of its pages. “I feel like I get stupider every time I read it.”
“Did you just say ‘stupider?’”
“See?!”
He laughed. “Write that in comic form, please?”
I grinned at him and bent down to pick up the book from the floor. “I will.”
“And burn the book.”
I was enticed, turning to the fireplace with a wicked grin. Yet, I didn’t throw it in. “Still can’t do it. Feels sacrilegious.”
“Pussy.”
I flipped him the bird. He blew me a kiss.
I turned the book over in my hands, skimming the back cover before deciding that despite my seething hatred for every page, it might be someone else’s Keats. And even if not, I just couldn’t burn it.
I then remembered that my mom had a stock pile of books to donate in her trunk. Perfect. I decided to head outside and add it to the mix.
I stopped in the hallway, glancing back at Stellan. “Are you working for long?”
“No, I can stop. Why?”
“Cause I’m gonna fuck your brains out when I get back in.”
I headed toward the kitchen.
He called after me. “I fucking love you, you know that right?”
“You bettah! Now take off your pants!”
My slippered feet hit the snowy deck, and I pulled my sweater tight against the flurries. The birds were riled by my appearance, but not enough to scatter from the feeders. I cracked mom’s trunk and tossed the book into one of the bags, stuffing it under a book on Monet so no one would mistake my mother for one who would read such ‘Avant garbage.’ I shut the trunk softly to avoid upsetting the birds.
They were in a snow inspired tizzy.
This was Grammy Jensen’s favorite time to watch them, when the snow was falling. I gasped at a flash of red and watched the male Cardinal peck through the seed. He was joined by his Missus, their colors bright against the crowd of brown and black sparrows. I watched a moment, enjoying the chaos. At this rate, the feeders would need to be refilled by the end of the day.
I turned back toward the stairs and stopped. A small brown and black bird landed on the railing between me and the door. He tilted his head to the side, watching me. Then he hopped once, ruffled his feathers and sang.
Madge-Madge-Madge-put-on-your-tea-kettle-ettle.
He stared at me, waiting for a response.
I smiled.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michaela Wright is an American author with a 'bordering on unhealthy' relationship with Deep Fried Mars Bars, Scottish Accents, Iced Caramel Lattes, and commas. Her long standing love of history and ghost stories (and a staunch belief in soul mates) has resulted in many a randy love story, often told over the backdrop of some of the darkest moments in history. These interests have inspired a Google search history that has most likely resulted in an FBI dossier on her, but that's neither here nor there.
Author of WRITING MR RIGHT, and the Gothic Mystery Series, THE NAMESAKEN, Michaela lives in Chelmsford, Massachusetts with her daughter and a cat named Chapter. When she isn't writing, she's performing aerial silks in her backyard or hula hooping, and on some occasions, sipping a Cider with friends until her own fake Scottish Accent comes out.
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