by Lara Swann
There are times that some of the feeling wells up inside me - that I have to run off crying to the bathroom and spend the next twenty minutes trying to recover from the cracking and splintering of my heart - but mostly…I just feel numb. Like some kind of robot instead of myself, just going through the motions.
It feels like all the color and joy has been sucked out of the world. Everything is gray and miserable and not even the thought of my baby can break through the depth of sadness and disappointment I feel. I spend a lot of time stroking my belly, that’s getting more and more prominent with every passing day now, and wishing things were different - that it was a different kind of world that I’m bringing it into.
I don’t even do any drawing. Since I started the course, I have every day without fail - and even before then, I’d have a constant notebook with me to sketch while I was bored, or waiting for something, or to work on something that had caught at my imagination. But now…I can’t bring myself to. There’s nothing inside me that wants to come out. Nothing to express at all.
Wednesday comes and with it, the second-to-last art class before the exhibition. I don’t go. It’s the first one I’ve missed since the course started, but I can’t possibly bring myself to face it. Thinking about it only reminds me of how excited I was, just a week ago, at the idea for the exhibition pieces…
Ash.
The excitement of rushing home to tell him, and then—then my world falling apart.
There’s no way I can bring myself to draw him now - even if I wanted to, I couldn’t risk it now that I’m living here again. Not after what happened last time - not after Dad…
I still shudder to think about it. It’s harder not to, now that I’m living here again - and I can’t help it, I find myself feeling on edge around Dad, even when he’s not doing anything at all. Even when he’s being perfectly pleasant. There’s an underlying tension in my body, a pit of unease in my stomach, that I just can’t shake. I find myself trying to avoid him, even though we’re getting on well enough.
I don’t feel any better for not going to the class, though, and find myself in my room, just staring at the clock as it ticks through the time that I would be there. Eventually I sigh and pull myself up, thinking that maybe I should try and draw something. Definitely not Ash, and not even anything for the class or the exhibition - but just for me. A simple doodle. A little sketch. Anything that might bring some of me back and get me out of this funk. It’s always been a solace before, and maybe part of the problem is that I’m missing everything that made life worthwhile now.
Even if all I do is sit in front of a blank piece of paper and stare at it, a pencil in my hand, it might get the whole process started.
I swing my legs off the bed and walk over to my desk, pulling open the drawer I keep all my supplies in - and then I pause, frowning. There’s nothing there. Not a pad of paper, a pencil, paints…nothing. The whole lot, gone.
My stomach turns, and considering how I left, I have a good idea what’s happened to it all - but I look anyway, just in case they’ve just been moved. I have other supplies too, in a cupboard to the side—but no, they’re gone as well.
The thought tugs at something inside me and that response surprises me. I didn’t think I was feeling anything at all. Eventually, after I’ve given up on looking, I sit back on my bed and think about it for a long time. I don’t know whether it’s the sudden lack of all that, but the slight itch I felt to draw again only gets bigger as I sit there, until the urge becomes overwhelming - and I finally decide to do something about it.
I want to feel again. I don’t want to be stuck like this, desolate and gray and empty. If this might help…
I step out of my room and go in search of my Dad’s study - finding him sitting behind the desk, as is usual for this time of night. The door is open, but I knock on it and wait anyway. He prefers that, and I’ve been going out of my way not to upset him since I came back.
He looks up, then puts down the paper he’s reading and smiles at me.
“Chloe, how are you doing?”
“I’m okay.” I say, walking in and standing semi-awkwardly to the side. “I was just wondering…I can’t find any of my pencils or sketching equipment. I don’t suppose you know where they might be?”
It’s an indirect question and I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to it, but I want to know what he’s going to say.
“Ahh, that.” He pushes the chair back from the desk, clasping his hands together in front of himself and turning to look at me properly. “Actually, I’m glad you brought it up - I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this since you came back.”
He gestures toward the chair opposite his desk and I reluctantly walk forward to sit down, while nerves run through me at what he might be planning to say. I don’t know why, but I think I hate this chair. Maybe because of all the conversations I’ve had while sitting in it.
“What…did you want to talk about?” I finally ask.
“The drawing - the art, Chloe, that you always talk about. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I think maybe now that you’re home and we’re moving past…everything that happened…it might be the right time to put all that aside.” He says, perfectly calmly and reasonably, as I just look at him, stunned. “I think now that we’ve all seen where that’s led you, we can agree that it’s not the right choice for your energies. You’ve got a baby on the way, and when that comes a lot of your time and attention will be on that, of course, but apart from that - I think it’s time you started taking a more active interest in the store. I’ve been thinking about showing you some more of the runnings of it, getting you more involved in everything - and I think that would be very good for you.”
I stare at him as all of that hits me straight in my gut - almost doubling me over with the strength of the feeling. The feelings I thought Ash had sucked away with him.
It turns out you did have something left to lose.
My art…the one thing I’ve done all my life, that has always been there…just…not doing it anymore?!
Not even putting aside the attempt to make a real success of it - that was always a difficult dream - but…giving it up completely. The total absence of any of my materials, followed by that comment, makes his intentions obvious. He wants me to stop. For good.
Maybe it shouldn’t be surprising, with what happened before I left - with what he saw of my sketches - but it blows me over anyway. The devastation and loss that hits me immediately takes my breath away and I’m speechless for a long while, just looking at him.
I open my mouth to object - to try to reason with him, to argue for at least a little of what I’ve always had - but then I stop myself. The determination in his eyes already tells me that this isn’t something he’s going to give in on - and I can’t help the shiver that runs through me as I remember what happened last time I argued with him.
“Okay.” I say, the word that comes out sounding nothing like me at all.
He beams at me, standing to walk over toward me and patting me on the shoulder in a proud way - I flinch as he does, unable to help it, and he obviously pretends not to notice as he smiles at me.
“Good girl. I’m glad, Chloe.”
My stomach is churning and I feel like I might be about to faint, but it’s easy enough for me to excuse myself a moment later and retreat to my room, everything within me spinning.
No. No, no, no…I can’t. I can’t lose that too. No. This isn’t…this isn’t okay.
I can’t stop the thoughts that run non-stop in my head, and I have to stop myself from pacing in case someone hears. For some reason, I feel scared of that right now. I don’t want anyone to know what I’m thinking or feeling.
Somehow, what Dad said broke through the barrier inside me, and now emotions are streaming out faster than I can control them. I push my hand against my mouth, biting down on it and trying not to let a sound escape as I blink tears away from my eyes.
I know immediately that I can
’t do this. I agreed only because I didn’t feel like I had the slightest choice - I didn’t mean it, I just wanted to get out of there.
I force myself to finally think about what I’ve been avoiding - what it would mean to live in this house, with my parents. To raise a child here. To be completely dependent on them for the rest of my life. To have my life under so much scrutiny…and not only that. My child’s too. I clutch my belly and ache for it, at the idea of growing up in this environment. With Dad watching and judging everything. With…the temper he had, even if it was just that once, and the way he grabbed me..with me still on edge whenever he’s around...
The tears fall from my eyes as I remember everything Ash and I said - all our plans for how we were going to raise a child, what we wanted for it. Maybe he is some kind of drug dealing thug, but he had great ideas about kids. I still want all that. I want this child to be mine, not my parents’.
It’s that thought that solidifies it all for me. For my baby, I can’t stay here.
Whatever it means. However hard living in the world might be, outside the protection and care of the family I’ve known all my life.
You’re just going to have to wisen up, Chloe. Learn. Do better. That’s better than staying here and being the same too-naive girl you’ve always been.
I almost pack my things right then, the moment the conviction hits me - leave the house in a rush and get away as fast as I can - but for once, I stop myself. I’ve run out of this house so many times now, that I can’t even count it. I’ve run away from all of my problems and thought things would be better if only I wasn’t here. I’ve never once thought it through.
I can’t do that anymore. Not if I’m going to raise a child - alone, by myself, with no support. I need to be better than that.
It’s hard - so hard - but I force myself to stay the night. To sleep on it. To think on it.
Stupidly, I start asking myself what Ash would do - what he’d want. I don’t know why I want the advice of a biker criminal, but then again, the voice in my head isn’t that. It’s the Ash I know. The Ash of my fantasies and dreams. The Ash I still fantasize about, even though I’ve tried so hard not to.
He wouldn’t want me to stay here either. He’d want me to leave right now, but I ignore that. I’ve already decided I’m staying. One night - to see how I feel after a bit of time.
When morning rolls around, I still feel exactly the same way - only a little less emotional and a little more resolved. It’s enough time that I have another thought about it, too, and this time before I leave I sit down and write a note - to Mom.
I tell her what I’m doing and why, I try to explain why it’s so important to me to be able to live my own life and pursue the things that are important to me - and how much I want to raise this baby the way I want to. I hesitate, but then I mention how uncomfortable I feel around Dad after that incident before I left the last time, too. I tell her that I’d still love her to be part of my baby’s life if she can accept all that, but that I’ll understand if she can’t. I sign it with how much I love them both and always will - and then I leave it in the kitchen, in her baking cupboard. I want her to find it before Dad can.
After that, I feel so much better about what I’m doing - like for once, I’m finally making the right decision, and I quietly pack up my things and slip out of the house. I look back once as I walk down the street, and this time I don’t tell myself I’m never, ever going back. I don’t know what the future might hold, I don’t know what - if anything - will ever change. I’m confident in my resolve to never live there like that again, so I don’t need to make unnecessary resolutions like that.
“I guess it’s just you and me now, huh?” I say quietly to my belly, telling myself I will get this right.
Maybe it will take a long time. Maybe I still don’t really know what I’m doing. But I’ll keep going - keep trying - keep learning.
That will have to be good enough.
And strangely, now that I’m out of that house and walking away, a kind of hope starts coming back to me. Not for anything that I thought I had - any of the perfection I thought my life was turning out to be - but that things will get better, and life with my baby will work out somehow.
Some of my tension slides away from me, and I hadn’t realized just how much the idea of raising my baby there was sucking all the brightness out of it.
I stroke my belly again, and I’m surprised to find I even manage a small smile.
For my baby, if nothing else.
* * *
I take Nathan up on his offer to stay for as long as I need - it’s a small place and I still don’t want to impose for too long, but this time I’m not to proud to say when I need the help.
“What are you going to do now?” He asks gently, as we clear a corner for the small bag I’ve taken from my parents’ house.
“I don’t know.” I say, looking back at him as I consider it. There’s so much to work out, so much to do, and I just…don’t know. “But…I guess I’ll work it out.”
He throws an arm around my shoulder and squeezes it, giving me a small smile. “I’m sure you will.”
The very next day, I get started on trying to form a life for myself. It’s hard, but Nathan helps and…it’s strangely satisfying, too. He arranges an interview at the place he works, and I make a plan for how quickly I can try to afford a deposit to rent my own place. We even talk about finding a bigger place the two of us and splitting the cost in half. The thought makes me smile.
At least you might not be alone. It won’t be the same, but still…
I start drawing again too - and it quickly takes over every other waking hour, even though I don’t intend it to. Nathan’s place isn’t big enough for me to work there, but while I’m still on this course - the two weeks left to me - I can work in some of the studios at MICA, so I take that opportunity. The thought of not ever doing it again is enough to send me running back to it - needing it - and as I slowly start letting myself feel everything I’ve gone through, absorbing all the hurt and sadness at what happened with Ash, I find that it’s the only real outlet I want.
It’s always been how I’ve processed things - and even though I have no intention of going back to that whatsoever, when I start drawing…it’s Ash that comes out. The first time I realize what I’m doing I freeze, then anger flares through me and I rip the page up…but then I pick it up again, remembering Dad doing exactly the same thing and wanting no part of that.
Seeing Ash - even just in my mind, just on the page - is raw and painful, but I start thinking maybe that’s what I need. To go through all that raw pain - to get it out of me. To draw everything about him, until there’s nothing left, until he’s totally out of my system.
I’ve long since given up on the idea of the exhibition, but as I agree to a starting date at the call center for a couple of weeks’ time - after I lose access to MICA’s studios - I spend as much time as I can there, my creativity coming back in a flood I couldn’t possibly have expected.
They say art is about feeling and emotion - and I have so much of that right now that I need to get it out of me.
I draw and I grieve for everything we had, sketching him in every way imaginable. Cocky. Arrogant. Roguish and handsome. Dangerous. Manipulative. Untrustworthy. Warm. Loving. Gentle. Affectionate. Underhanded. Deceitful. Violent.
Everything and anything - and through it, I get the feelings of betrayal, the hurt and the pain out. It’s not enough to stop them from keeling me over at times, and it all comes back to me again and again, but it’s something. I’m not sure I’ll ever quite get over it - right now, everything that happened still feels raw and sensitive - but I hope that maybe this will help in some way.
And spending so much time and energy on Ash during the day, thinking of him, picturing him, imagining him…by the time I get home, I’m so drained of it that mostly, I get to just collapse into bed. I still cry myself to sleep every now and then - and I can’t help thinking of him.
If I’m honest about it, I think he understands already. But I still want to say them.
And also, say sorry. And tell him I still love him, and that I totally hate him for that, and why can’t he just get out of my head?!
I think about our baby and all our plans, and feel overwhelmingly sad at the idea of carrying them out alone, even though I’m still kind of excited about them and the baby anyway. I think about going to the scan and finding out the gender all alone and feel like crying, at what should be such a happy thing.
I wonder what I’m going to tell our little one, when they grow up and start asking about him. I wonder whether he’ll get out of prison at some point and demand to see our child and how on earth I’ll deal with that.
I feel guilty that I didn’t stick by him, and guilty that I ever associated with a drug dealer at all, and just…everything.
It’s all messed up in my head, and even as the sharpness and intensity of the emotions recedes a little, the conflict of them doesn’t work itself out at all.
I pour all of that conflict into the sketches I do to try and capture Ash on a page, the way I never nailed down who he is in real life - and then I firm the drawings and start painting…and slowly, even though I’m not thinking about it consciously, a set of pieces for the exhibition come together. The more I recognize the three that I want to be the three, the more I focus on them and the exhibition goes from being a back-of-the-mind thought to something that suddenly feels so overwhelmingly important.