by Elle Lewis
“He loves you, darling. He loves us…so much.”
Right. He loved us so much that he was never around, always gone on business, leaving me alone to deal with my mother. Her substance issues had started when I was twelve years old. Thanks, Dad. You spineless, fucking asshole.
“When are you coming home?” my mother asked again. I could hear tears bubbling under her words. “I need you, I need my little star. Don’t you miss me?”
My hands started to shake, my lips quivering. I felt a heart wrenching surge of guilt and anger rush through me. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry or scream, rip something to shreds or let myself fall to pieces. I swallowed hard and closed my eyes.
“Don’t call me again,” I said, and then hung up.
I sank to my knees on the bathroom floor and covered my face with my hands. I wanted to cry uncontrollably. I wanted to let the sorrow roll through me. But I could hear other people in the bathroom, washing their hands in the sink, going in and out of stalls. I couldn’t fall apart here. Not now. I pulled it all back, the same way I had for most of my life. I gathered the pain and the devastating sadness and tucked it deep inside. Stay calm Sloan, just hold it in and stay calm.
It took a while, but after an intense internal wrestling match, I was able to get my emotions under control. Cold, hard anger took over. Anger was the only thing that could keep the tears away and siphon off the suffocating sorrow. I stood up and gathered my things, feeling numb and cold as I walked to the third floor. I didn’t stop at the café. There was no way I could stomach anything right now.
CHAPTER NINE
ROMANTICISM
I stood stoically in front of my easel and began an outline. Today’s class was scheduled to be an open period, with the professor answering any questions about the upcoming project that was due on Wednesday and assisting students with their technique. For the students that did not require any additional help, Professor Imperial gave an extra credit assignment to be completed in class. He wanted a sketch done using charcoal. That was fine with me. I had my own charcoal drawing set that I often used. I got to work, my mind adrift in a frozen sea. I kept it blank, not wanting to think about anything or talk to anyone.
When Millie came in she placed a tote bag full of my clothes next to my easel but didn’t say anything. No hello, not even a smile. She set it on the floor and then went to the front with the other students that needed help with their paintings. A distant part of me wanted to put my piece of charcoal down and ask if she was having trouble with the Impressionist style and if there was anything I could do. I always helped her. We had bonded and formed a friendship over paint and canvases, talking and laughing through dozens of projects.
I stayed put. Everything was so fucked up. I couldn’t navigate through it all. It was humanly impossible. This issue with Millie was like the expired icing on a rotting cake of shit. I knew this situation with her was partly my fault. And I also knew that if I had only been open with her from the beginning, I could simply tell her what just happened in the bathroom. Millie would of course understand and then we would talk about it, maybe over some coffee after class. But no, as usual, I had decided to hide behind a wall. I gritted my teeth and ran the charcoal across the paper furiously.
“Okay class remember—Neo-Classical is all about shapes and strict compositional order,” Professor Imperial was saying. My eyes flicked up and I watched him for a few moments as he wrote on the dry erase board. “Romanticism wanted to break through all of that, evoking imagination and emotion. Think Turner and Delacroix.” The professor was of Italian descent, in his mid-forties with very short receding black hair, dark brown eyes and olive skin. He spoke about art with passion, gesturing with his hands enthusiastically as he taught. Millie was listening intently and doing a very good job of not turning around to acknowledge me whatsoever.
I frowned and then focused back on my sketch. What I saw on the paper made me freeze, disgust creeping up my throat. I had drawn a set of horrific black eyes. His eyes. They bored into me, two black holes that wanted to pull me into darkness. I was so startled that I took several steps backwards and stumbled, crashing loudly into a supply cart. I fell, landing ungracefully on my ass, paint and miscellaneous art supplies toppling on top of me. A big tub of acrylic blue paint landed on my shoulder and exploded over every inch of me. My face and hair, as well as my shirt and jeans were splattered with blue. I looked up to see the entire class staring at me in absolute silence. Professor Imperial’s mouth hung open, his marker still pressed against the dry erase board. Some students were trying to stifle their laughter behind their hands. Millie stared at me with wide eyes, concern written all over her face.
The professor dropped his marker and quickly crossed the room. “Are you alright, Sloan?” He bent down and grabbed my hand, pulling me to my feet. Professor Imperial kept hold of my arm as he addressed the class. “Keep working, use your books as a reference. Neo-Classical and Romanticism are chapters fourteen and fifteen.”
The class did as he said and pulled out their books, breaking off into small study groups. My mind filled with white noise. While all this was going on, I kept staring at the sketch still sitting on my easel. How had I drawn that without even realizing it?
The professor turned his attention back to me. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” He gathered up my art supplies, grabbed my backpack and even picked up the bag that Millie had dropped off. I followed him into his office across the hall, feeling beyond relieved to be away from the whispers and glances of my fellow classmates. Did I seriously just fall into a supply cart? And get paint all over myself? I’m sure I would feel embarrassed about it later, but for now I added it to the long list of things I was trying to block out.
Professor Imperial’s office was half office, half personal art studio. He was very talented, mostly producing abstract works in an array of colors. The modest space had two supply cabinets, as well as several easels and canvases. A light wooden desk was pushed against the far-left corner, a laptop and scattered paperwork on top.
“I don’t want to get paint all over your office,” I said
He put my things on his desk and waved a hand. “There is already paint everywhere.”
He pulled a roll of paper towels from one of the supply cabinets and handed them to me. I began wiping blue paint off my face and hands.
“You’re lucky it was acrylic paint and not oil,” he said as he shifted through supplies in the second cabinet. “Oil would never come out, but maybe if you add this to the wash with detergent.” He handed me a bottle of paint thinner. “You will have to run a rinse cycle afterwards, but it may help pull some of it out of your clothes.”
I had paint thinner at my place but accepted the bottle anyway. It was a nice gesture and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. While I cleaned up, Professor Imperial kept himself busy by organizing his supply cabinets.
There was nothing much I could do right now about the paint on my clothes. I was able to get a lot of it, so that it wasn’t dripping down my body, but now it was worked into the cloth. Most of the paint came off my face and hands but there was still a ton in my hair. I gathered the small mountain of paper towels that were now full of blue paint and threw them in the trash.
“I am assuming you would like to go home for the day?” Professor Imperial asked me.
“If that’s okay.”
He nodded. “You are a very talented young artist Sloan. One of my best students.” He smiled warmly and shrugged. “Life can become crazy. If you need extra time for your project, just let me know, alright? Send me an email.”
I gave him a small smile. “Thanks.”
He waved a hand. “Things happen. Drive home safe, I will see you Wednesday.”
I gathered my things and lef
t his office. I hoped that Millie would be waiting for me in the hallway, wanting to talk. But she wasn’t.
I walked down the quiet corridor alone.
*
It was raining heavily by the time I got home. After my customary routine of turning on all the lights, I took a hot shower. I watched as the blue paint mingled with bubbles and then swirled down the drain, feeling numb inside. It was a familiar feeling, the icy steel of indifference, an emotion that existed somewhere between anger and despair. When it becomes too much, things just—turn off.
I didn’t have a washer and dryer and usually washed clothes on Sundays at the laundromat. I stuffed my paint streaked clothes in a plastic bag and tossed them in the corner. I would wash them when I had the chance.
I put on a pair of sweats and a white tank top, then went into the garage. I wanted to paint. My finger hesitated over the garage button. Normally, I worked with the garage door open. I liked the earthy smell of the air outside, the sounds of trees whispering, the rain. But there were things out there hunting me. I took a second to think it over. Darrow had not shown up again, not since the day in the gardens. There was a possibility that the warrior—things—were guarding me. If Darrow managed to get passed them, a garage door wasn’t really going to be much of a deterrent. So, what was the point of keeping it closed? Other than for my own sense of security? Sudden anger flared within my chest. Fuck it. If he wants me, he can come and get me.
I opened the door, the sound of tinkling rain on pavement immediately rushing into the quiet space. The smell of wet grass came with it and I took in a long deep breath. There was an old beat up stereo next to the red couch. I always kept a few CD’s on top of the stereo. I shuffled through the cases, stopping when I got to Made in Germany by Rammstein. I put the CD in, hit play, and cranked the volume.
Professor Imperial’s offer of an extension was kind, but I didn’t need it. With the way I was feeling, I knew I would be able to produce the painting quickly. I pulled on a cooking apron that was covered in splats of old dried paint. Some artists wore entire smocks, but a regular cooking apron always worked fine for me. I used a paper plate as a palate. Paint was expensive, so I cut costs where I could.
The loud heavy metal mixed with the tumult of falling rain, chasing my thoughts away. My mind emptied as I worked, filling the canvas with the bold style of the Romanticism period. I used deep reds and blues, somber yellows and browns, sweeping my brush across the canvas with passion, giving the painting movement and emotion. As with any art project, time seemed to fall away. Hours felt like minutes. Nothing else existed except me and the vision I was bringing to life. A deep calm settled over me, a purposeful trance. The longer I worked, the more anger drained from my body, as if the colors were leaching it from my skin. I finally took a step back and admired the finished painting.
I smiled an actual sincere smile. Extension my ass. The painting was gorgeous. My stomach rumbled. I realized I had hardly eaten today. I threw out the paper plate, screwed on the caps of my oil paints, and turned off the music. After closing the garage door, I brought my brushes into the kitchen where I let them soak in a glass filled with warm soapy water and paint thinner.
I glanced at the yellow clock. It was midnight. I started making some mac and cheese and then picked up my cell phone, debating on calling Millie. I wanted to try and fix what was going on between us, but I still wasn’t quite sure what to say.
Before I could decide, I noticed there was a missed call notification from an unknown number. My stomach clenched. I went to the call log and saw that it was a Washington number and then checked my voicemail. It was empty. Why did people do that? Call and then not leave a message? I’m trying to screen your call, hello.
I decided to call the number. It rang as I dumped pasta shells into the boiling water.
“Hello?” A deep voice answered.
“Yeah, I’m returning a call. Who is this?”
“Hey Sloan…It’s James.”
“Oh. Hi.” James said he would be in touch, but I was surprised he had called. Considering what he had been through, I had half expected him to walk away and not get involved at all.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I just finished a painting and now I’m making some food.”
“You paint?”
“Yes.”
“Are you any good?”
“I’m alright,” I responded.
“Just alright?”
“I mean, I’ve painted for a long time. So, I guess I’ve advanced from stick figures.”
He chuckled. “How was your day?”
How was my day? I couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked me that. My day had been absolute and total shit. Between the phone call from my mother, the tension with Millie, and my epically embarrassing crash into the paint cart. “Eventful,” I answered.
“These one to two-word responses are great but, would you mind elaborating?” There was a smile in his voice. “Has anything happened with...you know…” His rich voice quickly turned serious, “Them?”
“Yes and no,” I answered. “I haven’t actually seen any of them. But something interesting happened in the dream last night, although it’s hard to explain.” I hopped up onto the counter next to the stove, my bare feet dangling over the tile floor. “And then my neighbor said he saw two people on my roof early this morning. Two people with wings.”
“On your roof?”
“Yes. I think that one of them could be the golden warrior that I saw from the garden, the one with the sword. I think he is protecting me.”
“Why?”
I chewed on my lip, feeling hesitant. God this all sounds so fucking crazy. After a moment I said, “Because the man with black eyes keeps mentioning a guard.”
“In the dreams?” James asked.
“Yes, he has mentioned it twice now.”
“How can you be sure it’s true? If it’s just a dream?” he said.
It was a valid question. I felt as if the dream last night had established a connection between Darrow and me. As if I could feel a shadow of his thoughts. I did not know for sure, but I sensed that the warrior beings were presenting a setback and that Darrow was currently working on a way around them. Knowing this information was like the moment when I suddenly knew is name. It simply manifested in my mind. “Like I said, it’s hard to explain.” I slid off the counter and grabbed a colander from a cabinet, and then placed it in the sink. “I know it sounds strange, but I just have a feeling.”
“What about all of this isn’t strange?” he asked sardonically.
I exhaled. “True.”
“Can you try explaining it to me in person tomorrow night?”
I emptied the pot of water and pasta into the colander, steam billowing up from the hot noodles. “What did you have in mind?”
“I went through my attic today and found some of my research. I have a ton of books, but what I really want to show you are my journals. There’s a lot of information in them. It never helped me, but if you look, maybe you will be able to see something that I missed.”
I did want to see them, although my mind focused on a trivial point in what he said. “You have an attic?”
He laughed. “Yeah, I have an attic.”
I poured the pasta back in the pot and squeezed the packet of cheese onto the mound of shells. “So, you live in a house?”
“By Shorewood Beach, overlooking Puget Sound. It’s not much, just a small cabin, but the views of the water and the Olympic Mountains are incredible.”
I could picture him, overlooking the water at sunset, the fading light reflecting in his brown eyes.
; “What about you?” he asked.
“Same.” I stirred the shells and cheese and then added pepper. “I’m in Issaquah, a small house in the mountains, not overlooking any water, unfortunately.”
“You like the water?”
“Yes…a lot.” I wanted to add that I missed the beaches back home. Instead, I grabbed a spoon and took a huge bite of mac and cheese. James was far too easy to talk to.
“I thought that maybe you lived in the city.”
“Oh. I mean, the city is cool. I appreciate it. The buildings, all the people. But I kind of prefer to be out in the open, around nature.”
“Me too.” There was a smile in his voice again. “We do have a lot in common.”
My cheeks felt a little hot. I took another bite of food, not sure what to say. After a moment I asked, “So what did you have in mind for tomorrow? I work in the city, but I could meet you halfway? Sometime after 5:30?”
“I’ll be in Seattle tomorrow, so we can meet there if that’s easier for you. There is a good coffee shop on 12th. It’s called Café P something—”
“Café Presse?”
“That’s it.”
I knew it well. It was one of Millie’s favorite places. “Meet you there at six?”
“Sounds good. See you tomorrow, Sloan.”
“Okay…goodnight.”
I hung up and ate the rest of the mac and cheese thoughtfully. I was looking forward to combing through his journals. But I couldn’t deny that I was also looking forward to seeing him. It was an incredible relief to be able to share all of this with someone. I tossed my bowl into the sink and put it from my mind.
I got into bed and immediately curled into a little ball underneath my comforter. For the first time today, I allowed myself think about my mom. I wondered who she had hired to find my number. Probably a private detective of some kind. I felt surprised and touched that she had made the effort to contact me, but then of course she had called me while messed-up on something. My mind flooded with memories of her, good and bad, bringing on a wave of emotion. I felt as if my heart would burst.