The Art of My Life

by Ann Lee Miller

  Jackson peered over Missy’s shoulder at her computer screen. “Homework?”

  “Pretty much,” Missy said.

  Maybe Missy didn’t want her folks knowing what she was doing. But he’d snag his points. He shot a grin at Jackson. “Pretty sweet getting caught by the preacher reading Bible verses.”

  Jackson laughed. “Carry on. I’ll grill you about your parents some other time.” He headed into the dining room.

  Starr stopped in the doorway. “Why don’t you take a couple casseroles home with you? Our freezer is stuffed. Half the people from church brought food when Cal went to jail.” She shook her head, bemused. “It’s almost as if people like us better when they see our warts.”

  After Starr left the room, Missy said, “Three guys from church told Dad they had been to jail when they were Cal’s age. I keep looking at the older men trying to figure out who they are….”

  “Could have been me if Old Man Phillips had turned me in to the police for Cal’s weed.”

  Missy tapped the computer screen. “Maybe it’s your turn to do some forgiving.”

  He’d rather do a back flip off the North Bridge. Geez, he had to get out of here. His knee knocked against her thigh as he stood, and he instantly craved full body contact.

  He had to see her again—someplace where there would be plenty of people. “Want to meet at Flagler Avenue Coffee Shop Tuesday night—to, uh, talk about this some more?”

  Missy’s brows shot up in surprise. Her eyes studied his. “You look… like something is bothering you.”

  On multiple levels. He scrambled for something non-combustible. “I—I need to forgive my folks.” This was the first time he’d spoken the words.

  Missy rose from her chair and folded her arms across her waist, her lips pinched together. “I,” ––she cleared her throat— “I haven’t completely forgiven you for forgetting my eighteenth birthday.” Her gaze focused on the table. She rubbed off a water spot with her thumb, sucked in a shaky breath, and dragged her eyes to his. “I forgive you, Sean.”

  Her eyes dropped to the tips of her Converses, and he watched her pull herself together. He wished for the hundredth time he’d had a clue about her birthday.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day.” She met his eyes, looped her hands around his neck, and singed a kiss on his cheek.

  His arms wrapped around her without his permission. He breathed in heaven. He held on too long and too close. Her parents should really take their duties more seriously. Her damn list floated through his mind, and he broke out of her hold.

  Missy bent over her chair and tapped keys on her computer. “Maybe we can get your family on Skype.”

  “Whoa. Who said I’m ready to do this tonight?”

  Missy looked up. “You just told me you needed to forgive them.”

  “Let me get used to the idea, would you?” But he’d been moving in this direction ever since Missy brought it up the night he found her sitting on Cal’s dock box seven months ago.

  She didn’t look up. “You’ve needed to rip this band aid off for seven years. Suck it up, Sean. I did it. You can do it, too.”

  She was right, but chances were slim his family would be signed into Skype on Valentine’s.

  Missy’s list of contacts popped onto the screen. A green check mark highlighted Chas Fisher.

  Excellent, evidently. Desire and dread dovetailed in his chest.

  Missy clicked on Chas’ name and his brother’s picture appeared. She moved the mouse to video call.

  “You’re not railroading me into this.”

  Missy straightened. “Look, it’s time.”

  “But this is huge—”

  “Oh, and what you did to me was nothing?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he hedged.

  Missy’s brows hiked a quarter of an inch.

  He sighed. “Okay, you win.”

  Seconds later Chas beamed into the camera. “Missy! Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  Fish’s chest constricted. Chas’ voice had changed since he saw him last. Jealousy sprung to life at Chas’ delight over Missy, drowned out by the joy of seeing his brother.

  “I have a surprise for you.” Missy pushed Fish down into her chair in front of the laptop.

  “Hey, bro,” Fish said around the thickness in his throat.

  “Sean! No way!” Chas twisted his head around and yelled over his shoulder, “Mom, Dad, I’ve got Sean on Skype!”

  His parents rushed into the room and hunched behind Chas. Five years melted in an instant. Tears trickled down Mom’s face, and he felt the wetness in his own eyes.

  As they chatted, his heartbeat slowed to normal. Missy sank into the chair beside him.

  Chelsea was out with Luís Angel, Dad said.

  Mom sent Chas to find Susanna.

  Missy kicked Fish under the table and mouthed, now.

  She was right. He didn’t want to spit all this out in front of his siblings. He sucked in a breath for courage. “I… I need to clear the air.” He coughed. “When you guys moved to Peru, I was angry for a long time. Probably still mad.”

  Mom started to say something, but he cut her off. “Let me get this out. One day I was living at home with my family, looking forward to my senior year. The next, I was alone—with the Koomers, but it wasn’t the same. Then I was in a sh—crappy apartment, putting myself through college working nights at a convenience store.”

  Dad said, “We tried to help you, but you refused to let us pay for anything.”

  Mom wiped more tears away. “We wondered if we made a mistake when you all but cut us off. We almost came home for good when we visited five years ago.”

  Something in his gut told him their coming home would have been a mistake.

  Dad cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Son. We didn’t set out to hurt you. We thought it was the right choice at the time. Now, I’m not so sure….”

  A teenage girl who had to be Susanna rushed into the room, looking shy and eager at the same time, with Chas on her heels.

  Grief that he’d missed her growing up years hit him first, then self-loathing that he’d let anger rob him of seven years’ worth of his family.

  Forty-five minutes later, he closed Missy’s laptop, feeling drained, but more at peace than he’d felt in years.

  Missy beamed at him, squeezed his hand. “I’m proud of you. I know that wasn’t easy.”

  Her praise made him sit straighter in the chair. “I should have done it a long time ago. It kills me to say this, but thanks for forcing the issue.” He shifted under her scrutiny, locking away the evening, and stood. His hand pulled from under hers, and he missed her touch. “How did you manage to be dateless on Valentine’s Day?”

  “I had a date—with you.” She shot him a grin. “Maybe the best-ever Valentine’s.” Her tone was flippant, but her eyes held a seriousness he didn’t want to dissect.

  He looked down at Missy’s upturned face, feeling exposed, soul-weary, and with no will to resist the physical pull toward her. “You’re the one who said it was a date,” he whispered as he bent down. His lips touched down on the softness of her mouth.

  Jet engines surged to life, propelling him where he had no business going. He used the last of his strength to throw on the brakes and end the kiss. He felt light-headed, staring at the shine of Missy’s lips under the florescent lights, surprised only their lips had touched.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day.” His voice was hoarse.

  He stepped out the door and shut it firmly behind him, grateful for the cold night air of reality.

  No way was he going back in there—not for fifty casseroles.

  Starr handed a bucket of cleaning supplies to Missy and grabbed the mop and broom from the back of her mini-van.

  Aly pulled into Henna’s driveway behind them.

  Thank God Missy offered to move in with Henna. Henna’s getting lost on the way to Walmart last week preyed on Starr’s mind. She could burn the house down next.

  Leaf was the
logical one to keep an eye on Henna, but he took off for parts unknown the minute the pot garden disappeared. If they’d screamed at each other, she’d never know if she had to rely on Henna to tell her. Her parents had always split off like repelling forces rather than fight things out. She couldn’t imagine her father sober enough to get angry.

  Aly and Missy hugged and chattered about Missy’s moving in while Starr filled her lungs with the last clean air she’d breathe until they were finished.

  Now, if she could just get the job done without dredging up a bucket full of emotion. You had to do a lot of things you didn’t want to do in life because they were the right things to do. At the moment, she dreaded shoveling filth and memories from her mother’s house as much as she had dreaded waiting for Cal to step into court in manacles.

  Aly cradled a bulging box of cleaning supplies.

  Starr caught a toilet brush before it tipped out of the box. She felt like hugging the girl. “Thanks for helping us.” Starr’s arm snaked around Aly’s shoulders and squeezed as if the thought morphed into action of its own accord.

  Aly’s eyes widened. “Missy always says I’m the sister she never had.”

  Missy shot her an impish grin. “Marry Cal, and we can be official.”

  Aly coughed. “There are a few complications with that.”

  The yearning and hurt that warred in Aly’s face embedded in Starr on a primal level. Love for Aly poured into her like water from a lock. How could she have thought Aly wasn’t good enough for Cal? “You’ve already been part of the family for years. Whatever does or doesn’t happen between you and Cal won’t change that.”

  Aly’s lip quivered.

  The silence stretched into awkward.

  She didn’t know what to do with the rush of emotion eddying and forging new tributaries inside her. First, she’d super-glued with Evie. Now Aly. She grabbed the bleach out of Aly’s box. “Come on, girls, let’s do this thing.”

  All day—as Henna puttered around the house accomplishing little—dust bunnies of memory skittered around Starr—setting the alarm and getting herself off to school every morning from kindergarten on, eating a spoonful of margarine dipped in brown sugar for an after-school snack in an empty house, doing homework by flashlight under her sheet to diminish the marijuana fumes.

  The mayor’s words—she always looked so sad and alone—haloed around each scene from her childhood. With every bag of garbage taken to the curb, every dirty mop bucket they emptied, Starr felt lighter. The memories remained, but the pain ebbed away.

  The little-girl Starr had never woken up on her birthday with her parents standing by her bed singing Happy Birthday, holding cake and balloons, but that all changed with Jackson. He loved her, all of her—her dancing, her heart, even the hurts and emotions he had to beg to see. She needed to find a way to tell Jackson how grateful she was, how much she loved him.

  Missy pulled up a corner of the carpet in the living room. “Look at this hard wood! Mom, did you know there were wood floors under the carpet?” Missy held up the grungy rug with two fingers.

  Starr sprayed furniture polish on her rag and buffed a circle on the wood. “I had no idea. Text Dad and Jesse, and see if they will rip out the carpet.”

  Aly sunk onto the still-damp-with-upholstery-cleaner couch in slow motion. Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes widened and fixed on a stack of paintings Starr had propped against the wall to be taken to the attic.

  Starr followed her gaze. She hadn’t taken the time to examine Cal’s work when she cleaned his studio to get it ready for Missy.

  Cal had pictured a summer squall on the beach. Sunlight poured through a gap in the clouds onto a man whose peaceful face tilted up toward the light. Around the man, indistinct figures lurked in the shadows, some running from the storm, some hunched against it. A few drops of rain splattered into the light, splashing against the man’s bare chest. He was walking and looked as though he had just stepped fully into the light.

  Behind the man, whose colorless hair was ruffled by the wind, the jetty jutted into a choppy sea back-dropped by a nearly-night sky. A casual observer could easily miss the shadowy items littering the rocks of the jetty—a Ziploc baggie of weed, as familiar to Starr as the veins on her hand; a mangled box of Trojans, a cracked bong, rolling papers fluttering above the rocks like moths, a crushed Bic lighter, a spoon that might have been bent in a tub of ice cream wedged between two rocks near a discarded syringe.

  Oh, God, not heroin. Starr folded her arms across her waist and squeezed. Her eyes skimmed over the crushed Coors cans, a broken bottle of Jack Daniels still half covered by a paper bag.

  Her eyes flicked back to the man bathed in light. This was the central image, the message. The man, who had to represent Cal, had stepped out of the darkness and its clutter and walked into the light. There was a sense of joy about the painting that ran inside and filled her up.

  Henna spoke from the kitchen doorway. “It’s not just run of the bill.”

  Her mother’s voice startled Starr. “When did Cal paint this?”

  “The night the kids made hay with my garden. He didn’t sleep a blink. Every time he comes over, he messes with it—a dog with his home.”

  A sob escaped Aly, and Starr looked at her. Tears slicked Aly’s face, but she was smiling. She must have been crying the whole time Starr had been lost in the painting.

  Missy crawled over and hugged Aly’s jean-clad leg, her focus, too, on the painting. “I just hope he means it. I’m sick to death of his running over my heart.”

  The cocktail of hope and doubt in Missy’s words swirled in Starr’s stomach. Starr stood from where she’d been crouching to buff the floor and sank beside Aly on the couch. She rested a hand on Missy’s shoulder and one on Aly’s back. Wetness slipped down her cheeks—tears of sadness for Cal’s past, joy for his present and future.

  Henna walked across the newly spotless living room, blotting out Cal’s picture for a moment, and laid a hand on Starr’s shoulder. “Cal’s a good boy.”

  Starr wanted to yank her shoulder out from under her mother’s brand. Henna had no right to offer comfort. She was the one who had grown the pot that plagued Cal’s life.

  But something stayed her.

  Starr filled her lungs. I forgive you, Mama. For everything. All over again. She breathed out the bitterness and let it soak into the fifty-year-old carpet Jackson and Jesse would rip out tomorrow.

  Cal could find a different supplier easily enough. But if the painting were true, he wouldn’t go looking.

  Henna had always offered Cal unconditional acceptance, something Starr had never managed. She’d always resented Henna for it, but now part of her was grateful Cal had been fully embraced by someone, even if it hadn’t been her.

  The four of them who loved Cal stared, unmoving, at his heart as if someone had posed them as an estrogen American Gothic. Aly sniffled. The yellow kitchen clock shaped like a frying pan ticked from one second to the next.

  Henna’s fingers jerked into Starr’s shoulder. She slumped across Starr’s lap and slid to the floor beside Missy, trailing her long, gray-white pony tail and the scent of patchouli oil.

  “Mama?”

  Chapter 25

  April 5

  The best news in the world can come at the perfect time and at the worst time. Sadness weaves through the joy, making it somehow richer, weightier. I wish you good news, even if it’s couched in pain.

  Aly at www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

  Cal scooped a grounder in his glove—the only action he’d seen in right field all game. He rifled the ball to first base, too late for an out. The chance of another ball coming his way was as slim as the possibility of Aly visiting in the twenty-three days he had left in jail.

  His hair stood out in corkscrews all over his head in his shadow on the sand and grass-sprouting rec yard. Aly liked it long. He wouldn’t cut it as long as there was a shred of hope they had a future.

  Every day that went by withou
t a visit from Aly or an answer to his letter shrunk his hope like an aging helium balloon. All that remained was a lifeless skin of truth. Aly was done with him. His twenty-sixth birthday had come and gone, the first one she’d not acknowledged. Even during their separated years, she’d mailed him a goofy card. April Fool’s baby. Monumentally appropriate.

  She loved him, but seeing him in jail garb in court must have been the final straw. He’d set off to win her and couldn’t even stay clean for nine stinking months to stay out of jail. Maybe he did have a problem with weed.

  Aly called him a pothead. Mom thought he’d inherited Leaf’s marijuana addiction. Fish said he needed rehab all the way back in high school. Since middle school, the two months after Henna gave him the Escape was his longest period of non-incarcerated sobriety.

  He’d quit the night they burned Henna’s garden three months ago, but he’d nearly smoked Leaf’s stems and seeds on the way down the coast. He’d get help when he got out of jail. It was probably too late to make a difference to Aly, but he’d do it for himself.

  The next batter walked.

  Once the inevitable kiss-off went down, he’d have to move away to survive. Being quasi-related to Aly and seeing each other for holidays, had been awkward when they were disconnected, but not as bad as running into her around town with her husband and kids for the rest of his life.

  He focused on seeing Aly one last time, telling her he understood why she didn’t want to be with him. He’d finally grown up. He would always love her. He’d kiss her without asking permission because he couldn’t chance her turning him down. He’d breathe in her scent and go far away.

  But the prayer he prayed at seventeen screamed through his gut. Aly!

  Twenty minutes later Cal flopped into the chair in the video visitation room and shot a grin at the camera. “Hey, M—” His brain told him he was looking at Aly, not his mother. But beyond that, only shock registered. His fingers reached for the monitor as if he could touch her, then fell away.

  He hadn’t seen her in sixty-seven days. His eyes skimmed over her wind-blown hair, falling in pieces from her ponytail, the tiny gold hoops in her ears, the dark smudges under her eyes, the pallor of her skin. A collarbone peeked from the wide neck of her sweater. She clenched her arms across her waist.