by Jewel, Bella
Who am I? I repeat the question over and over in my mind. My heart rate races when I reach the end of the first one and haven’t ripped out a single page. Trying not to panic, I reach for another magazine. Why should I be worried that I can’t relate to anything in a glossy magazine? Maybe it’s a good thing.
No one else seems to be having this problem. Pages are being ripped with abandon, and each one feels like a stab into my flailing identity.
Josh crouches down and whispers in my ear, “It’s okay, Emerson.” He rests his hand on mine, perhaps aware that I’m close to bolting.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” I whisper.
“I’m going to help you find out. Okay?”
I nod, managing to fight back the tears and take a few deep breaths. “Thank you.”
I can’t look at him as he stands, but the light squeeze he gives my shoulder lets me know he heard me. The physical contact sets my entire body ablaze, conjuring up both the strong emotions I painted earlier.
Something fundamental inside me has begun to shift. I love Mereki with all my heart, but my life is passing me by while he slips further and further away. He always wanted me to be strong and fight for my dreams, never settling for anything less than greatness. With that thought in mind, I find myself pushing the door of the gallery open the following evening with an open mind and a hopeful heart.
“Welcome back, everyone,” Josh says in a voice that makes my heart race. “Tonight’s class is all about self-expression. What you do here is so intensely personal, and it’s a completely safe space. We are ever-changing creatures, and it’s important to listen to your inner voice. There is no one who will be more honest with you if you allow yourself to listen.”
I don’t like the sound of this. My inner voice is not to be trifled with.
Josh continues, “If you had to describe yourself, could you do it? What words would you use?”
Zoey’s hand shoots up. “Punching bag, janitor, taxi driver.” She pauses briefly. “I’ve felt like a punching bag for my family in various ways for almost two decades, and I’m so tired. But I let that happen and I don’t blame them.”
“This exercise is going to be perfect for you, Zoey,” Josh says, waving at the rest of us to gather around.
We all congregate behind Zoey. Josh sets up a blank canvas on her easel. He dips a paintbrush in the black ink and hands it to Zoey who glances around with a nervous expression. “Consider how you feel about what you just told me, and then mark the canvas to express it.”
Zoe nods and stares at the blank canvas for a few moments before, out of nowhere, her hand darts out and smacks the paintbrush against it. She sits back, drops the brush in the ink pot, and looks up at Josh. I can’t take my eyes off the dark ink blotch that’s exploded over the light background. It is strangely beautiful.
“What did you leave on the canvas?” Josh asks.
“My frustration,” Zoey replies.
“There’s more to you than this.” Again, he picks up the paintbrush and hands it to her. “Turn your frustration into something else entirely. Use colour, too, if you wish.”
He turns to the rest of us. “If anyone else wants to try this, I think it’s a very interesting exercise, but there’s no pressure.”
We all return to our stools, and I glance around at my fellow students who are eagerly reaching for their paintbrushes.
I feel Josh before I see him. His powerful presence both intimidates and excites me.
“What words would you use to describe yourself, Emerson?”
“I’d rather not use words,” I say.
“Okay. That’s good. Just mark the canvas with whatever you feel. Or leave it blank if you want to.” He squeezes my shoulder and walks away.
Closing my eyes, I allow my mind to see beyond the limited vision of my eyes, and what I see is startling.
Without thinking too much about what it means, I pick up my brush and paint a heart split down the middle.
Brooke leans across to see what I’ve done. “You have a broken heart?”
I fix my gaze on the two mirrored shapes. “I do, but I know how to fix it.”
“Go ahead and fix it then,” Josh says, approaching my workspace.
He moves to the front of the room and turns on some classical music. I don’t recognise it, but it is inspiring and non-intrusive.
My first marks are pale and hesitant. I am being a coward. I close my eyes and refocus on the canvas in my mind. When I open them, I make more confident strokes, revelling in the way the brush glides across the paper. Perhaps it’s muscle memory mixed in with a healthy dose of nostalgia, but it comes so naturally, and I can’t help wondering how I managed to turn my back on my passion for so long without completely fading away. At regular intervals, I close my eyes and float like a feather above it all like I did that day at the markets all those years ago.
By the time Josh announces our time is up, I’m staring at the very thing I’ve needed but haven’t been able to find. I shake my head, swallowing the lump in my throat. My skin starts to crawl, and a sharp pain shoots through my hand. When I glance down, I’m shocked to see that I’ve broken the paintbrush I’m holding. Rather than draw further attention to myself, I close my hand around the splintered wood and compose myself as best I can. The walls are closing in on me, and I feel lightheaded.
“Everything okay?” Josh’s voice startles me.
“Yep,” I reply.
“Will you tell me about this?” he asks, gesturing towards my canvas.
“I need to learn to fly again,” I whisper.
“You didn’t paint a broken heart, did you, Emerson?” I stare into his emerald eyes and know he gets it. “You painted wings.”
I nod slowly, gritting my teeth. “I forgot how to fly.”
“Something tells me it’s coming back to you.”
The air between us crackles with electricity, and my breath hitches, unable to deal with what’s happening.
A bell breaks us from our heated moment, and both our gazes snap to the opening door. I gasp when someone I haven’t seen in a long time appears. I feel cold all over as memories from the day I met her flood me. My breathing is laboured, and I have to hold on to my stool when I start to sway.
Josh makes a beeline for her and they hug, warmly. I don’t want to look at them for fear of recognition, but I can’t help the quick glances. My past is catching up to me.
“Everyone,” Josh says, after several minutes. “I’d like to introduce you to a very good friend of mine and the owner of this gallery, Madeleine Gibson. She’s just returned from a two-month trip to Europe.”
He then goes around the class, introducing us. I sit there frozen, but when he introduces me, I nod my head, allowing my long hair to shield my face.
“Thank you so much, Josh,” she says, warmly. “Lovely to meet you all.”
When she disappears behind a door at the back of the room, I exhale. With any luck, she won’t come back out before I leave.
“That’s all we have time for this evening,” Josh says. “Please bring in an object of your choosing next week. It can be any three-dimensional object—probably best if it isn’t anything too large.”
“Will we be drawing it?” Tennyson asks.
Josh cocks his head to the side. “You’ll just have to wait and find out.”
Chapter 17
During my lunchbreak, I return to the gallery, filled with both trepidation and determination. No one is in the gallery when I arrive, but my presence is alerted by a bell. I need to speak to Madeleine, just not in front of Josh.
Within a few moments, Madeleine appears through the door at the back. I have no idea if she’ll recognise me, so I stand my ground, studying one of the paintings on the wall as I wait for her to approach me.
“Can I help you?” she asks. “Are you looking for something or just browsing?”
I push my hair behind my ears and turn to face her. She smiles, but when her eyes widen and she rocks from
toe to heel, I know she recognises me. “Emerson?”
I nod. “Long time no see,” I say, feeling both happy and desperately sad.
“Oh my goodness. I can’t believe it’s really you. I thought you’d have shown up years ago.”
“I’m sorry. I . . .” My determination has left me, and I’m now stuttering words while I wade through my frazzled thoughts.
“Come to my office.” She places her hand on my back and ushers me to the back of the gallery and through the door.
Her office is a chaotic mess of canvases, paint pots, half-finished sketches, and paperwork piled high on every surface. A large, glass desk takes centre stage, and the chair behind it is more like a throne.
“When did you arrive in Melbourne?” she asks once we’re seated.
“Oh. Well.” This is so awkward. “Five years ago.”
“What?” Her eyes widen with the disbelief I was anticipating. “Why has it taken you so long to look me up?”
I chew my bottom lip until I’m about to draw blood. “I didn’t exactly look you up,” I reply honestly. “I’m still in shock that I’ve ended up taking an art class at all, let alone one in your gallery.”
“You were the girl last night who didn’t look at me when we were introduced.”
I nod. “I was shocked to see you and panicked. I’m sorry. That was rude.”
“Why on earth would you panic, sweetheart? I don’t understand.” She shifts forward in her seat, props her elbow on the armrest, and leans forward. “Why didn’t you call me when you moved to the city? I could’ve helped you.”
“Why do you think I needed help?” I ask, defensively.
She takes a deep breath and sighs. “You’ve lived here for five years, and you’re taking an art therapy class. I could be jumping to conclusions, but something tells me you could’ve used a friendly face.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s true that I haven’t thrived in the city, but she was a big part of my most painful memory, and I never planned on seeing her again.
“The girl you met five years ago is long gone. I’m not the naïve teenager with stars in her eyes, and I’d really appreciate you keeping our connection between us. I don’t want Josh or anyone else in the class knowing about the silly dreams of my past life.”
“Why are you doing Josh’s class if you’ve turned your back on your passion and your incredible talent?”
“His class is just an itch I felt like scratching. I certainly didn’t seek it out.”
“I think Josh would love to know who you are. Actually, he—”
I cut her off. “Please, Madeleine. I know it seems strange to you, but I don’t talk about my past with anyone, and I’d appreciate you respecting that.”
She stands and moves over to a stained-oak sideboard. Picking up a jug of water, she pours two glasses. “If you’re not pursuing your dreams, what do you do?” She raises an eyebrow, and I feel as if she’s looking straight into my soul. It’s disarming, and I squirm uncomfortably in my seat.
“I recently started working at Carrie’s Cupcakes just up the street.”
“Oh. How long have you been there?”
“Not long.”
She looks pensive. “So you happened to take a job up the street from my gallery, but you’ve never been in here. I’ve been away for the past two months, otherwise I might’ve run into you sooner.”
I shake my head.
“I feel like maybe you wanted this to happen, Emerson.”
“What do you mean? I lost your card. I had no idea it was your gallery.”
She holds up her hands defensively. “Look, I meant it when I said I would help you in any way I could. At the time, I meant with contacts and maybe some mentoring, but I think now you need someone to listen.”
“Did you sell my drawing?” I ask. Ironically, I hope she was never able to find a buyer.
“I bought it as a gift for a friend.” Her eyes softened. “I did consider keeping it, figuring it was a good investment. I believed you’d be a famous artist one day and that I’d have one of your originals.”
“You gave it away?”
She nods. “I gave it to Josh.”
“Josh the art teacher?” I ask, shocked.
“The one and only,” she replies. “That’s who I bought it for. I mentored him through his studies, and I believe we have a special bond. When his father passed away, God rest his soul, Josh practically lived in my gallery, and I ended up giving him a job. When I came back from the trip where I’d met you, it was his job to unpack the artwork I had accumulated on my travels.”
I take a long sip of water, trying hard to process what she’s saying.
“When he came across your drawing, he stopped and stared at it for so long. Then, for the first time since his father died, he smiled, and I knew it had made the impact I hoped it would.”
I suck in a deep breath.
“I’ll never forget his words.” She fixes me with her gaze. “He said it made him feel hopeful.”
“I can’t believe it. I honestly just can’t believe it.”
“What happened to you, Emerson?” Her eyes are soft, and her words are whispered. “You were so full of life and passion when I met you five years ago. I’ve thought of you so many times over the years and wondered if you’d ever call.”
I pause, unable to tell her because I don’t tell anyone. “Life happened.” I stand and give her a strained smile. “Please don’t tell Josh about me or the drawing.”
“I’ll respect your wishes, but Josh is a good man—a phenomenal artist and tutor. Open your mind and your heart again. You never know what might happen in the big city.”
I reach for my bag. “It was good to see you again, Madeleine.”
“Emerson?” She calls out as I’m about to open the door, and I turn back to face her. “Whatever happened to the boy you were with then? What was his name? Malaki? I guess he isn’t a boy any longer, but I remember the way he looked at you like you were the centre of his universe.”
“Mereki,” I correct her, swallowing the enormous lump in my throat. I place my hand over my heart. “He’s here with me.” I walk out the door and allow the tears to stream down my face as I move through the gallery. I step onto the street swiping at my face, taking some deep breaths as I stare up at the night sky. Mereki had told me I’d drawn a guide to my own happiness, but I never thought I’d need it again with him by my side. Now another man possesses my roadmap, and he has no clue what it means to me. That drawing was created with love and sold with hope, but my life was ruined because of it.
Crossing the road, I glance up and see two magpies attacking each other. The screeching is like fingernails running down a blackboard, and I cup my ears in an attempt to block it out. With the sound muffled, I can’t help but watch their violent behaviour. It’s a welcome escape from my own torment. Since when did I will others to suffer for my own selfish escapism?
In the next shocking moment, one of the black and white birds crashes to the concrete right in front of me, battered and bloody. The victor’s screeches fade away into the distance while the victim stares directly at me before giving up its fight for life. Revolted, I retch and only just manage to make it to the slip of grass a few feet away before gracelessly emptying the contents of my stomach.
Chapter 18
Since the last class, I’ve made a point not to think about Josh, Madeleine, or my past.
When Wednesday rolls around and I make the decision to go back to class, Josh appears to be genuinely happy to see me. I hand him my enrolment form and payment details to confirm my commitment to his class, then take my seat next to Brooke. Just after seven, when everyone is seated, he walks to the front of the class and leans against the long table, crossing his legs at his ankles.
“For those of you who don’t know, as part of this course, I offer an optional full-day class at my place down on the Mornington Peninsula, and it’s this coming Saturday.” He glances around the room at the si
x of us in attendance this evening. “I know it’s a long weekend, so you might have other plans, but will any of you be making the trip?”
“I’m in,” Zoey says, raising her hand.
Everyone else confirms their attendance, leaving me to stare at my fingernails.
“Do you have plans this Saturday?” Josh asks, directing his eyes on me.
“I’ll have to check my calendar,” I say, refusing to commit.
His smile dips, but he recovers quickly. “Okay. Did everyone remember to bring in an object?”
“Oh, man,” Eric throws his hands in the air. “I forgot.”
“It’s no problem.” Josh reassures him. He retrieves a box from the open shelves and holds it out for Eric. “Choose anything from here.”
Eric studies the contents, then pulls out a piece of rope, knotted in two places. “Thanks.”
Josh places the box on the front table before addressing us. “First exercise for this evening is drawing from memory.” He picks up a calico bag. “You each have one of these, and I’d like you to place your item inside.” I place my object, a piece of driftwood, into the bag and pull the drawstring tight. “Right. Now, using any of the supplies available, draw, paint, sketch or sculpt your object.”
“What’s the point of this, Josh?” Brooke asks.
“Honestly? There is no point other than switching your mind off. You might find it relaxing.”
I reach for the pencils and start sketching my object from memory. Last Sunday morning, I’d returned to the river on my own and picked up a piece of driftwood, struck by its tortured form. There was a kind of beauty in its jagged lines and gaping holes.
With confidence I haven’t felt in far too long, I put pencil to paper. Closing my eyes, I remember one of the times in my life when darkness was no match for the shining light of Mereki and me together in our place by the river. My mind takes me back to when I was maybe fourteen or fifteen and in a horribly dark mood. As usual, my mother was taking out all her frustration and humiliation on me.
“You wait and see, Emerson, you silly girl,” she said, then took a long drag on her cigarette. Her gaunt cheeks hollowed into deep canyons as she inhaled the smoke.