“It’s more of an extra-curricular project,” I said.
“Right,” James said nodding. Meeting my eyes, he asked, “Ready to go?”
“Ready.” I tried to sound more sure than I felt. I could tell by his body language that he was not okay; that he was not happy with me, and nothing I could say at this exact moment would fix anything.
“Bye Matt!” I waved.
“See ya!” He nodded goodbye and gave a bit of a thumbs-up for good luck. James was already hauling back toward the art hallway, and I jogged to catch up.
“So,” I began.
“So?” James echoed; I could hear the irritation. This was a new side of James, a new tone to his voice. “So what was that? What are you doing Amy?”
“What do you mean?” I asked pleadingly. “I was just talking with Matt and-”
He cut me off, “Just talking? You guys looked pretty cozy over there!”
“James…oh my gosh, this is not what you think! Wow - there is nothing going on with me and Matt!”
“Well that’s a relief because I didn’t even know you knew the guy! You never mentioned who was in this group. Who else is in it?”
I was stumped. I couldn’t talk about the group; I wasn’t supposed to mention names. I shouldn’t have even followed Matt out of group today because of this very possibility. It wasn’t just my secret I had to protect; it was theirs.
“James. Can we go? This isn’t as big of a deal as you are making it.”
“Not a big deal? Maybe it’s no big deal to you because you actually understand what you’re doing. In my world, my girlfriend tells me that she has small group, that it’s done at four-thirty, and that we’ll drive home together. In my world, it’s five-fifteen before I find her in a back hallway sitting all cozy-like with Matt Loitermann. I watch him pull her up onto her feet, and I returned his big handshake like we were never in freshman phys ed together. And she tells me it’s no big deal. She also tells me after the fact that she’s not going to art class this week because she’s working on a painting that she can’t tell me about.” He sighed and added, “Not to mention the completely weird morning where you refused to choose a cookie and didn’t want to talk about that either. Why are you being secretive about everything? I feel like I don’t even know you!”
He was angry. His eyes were narrow and cold, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. I panicked. Of all the scenarios I had in my head, this had never been one of them. He gave me just seconds to answer and then strode toward the parking lot, portfolio flapping over his shoulder. Stunned, I didn’t follow. I hoped he’d turn back. After a few minutes, the clock in the hallway ticked loudly as it hit five-thirty; he wasn’t coming back. I wanted to cry; it felt like the deepest part of my heart was being sucked clear out of my chest by some invisible force. But I was too empty; my tears, my emotions, all of it was gone.
“Hey you!” I turned toward a gruff voice in the main hallway. It was the janitor sweeping up the last of the day’s mess.
“Me?” I questioned.
“Yes, do you have a ride? I gotta lock up this hall.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” I scooped up my backpack, and feeling like the shell of my former self, I shuffled down the hall, my feet like cement blocks. It hurt to see James look at me with anger in his eyes, but James was totally transparent - he said things how they were and expected the same from me. I had been avoiding him for weeks, allowing only for superficial interactions. I didn’t tell him about missing art; I was vague with my explanations of where I’d been and what I was doing. And I was caught talking with Matt, and innocent as it was, he couldn’t know that. I didn’t think that things were going to deteriorate this fast. I thought James might run once he heard the truth, but I never imagined that he’d run before I got the chance to tell him.
The main hallway was packed with students mingling at the break of a gymnastics meet. I sidestepped through the crowd, slipping out my phone. Dad was doing a late delivery tonight, so I hoped that Kat would be home.
“Can I get a ride?” I sniffed quietly.
“I’ll be there in 15 minutes. Are you okay?” she asked.
I nodded into the phone and whispered, “Yes.” I waited on the front steps of the school for Kat, thankful that I told her everything over the weekend. I was filled with gratitude when I got in the front seat of her warm car and found a box of tissue ready for my disposal. She didn’t say anything on the way to my house. As we pulled into my driveway she asked “You want me to stay?”
“No. I’ll be okay,” I sniffed.
“Okay,” She paused, “Amy, if you need me just call.”
“I will.” I gave her a small smile and a huge hug and walked up to the door waiting for the quietness that was inside.
The silence in the house was no match for the brawl in my head. James' words rang over and over in my ears, “Why are you being so secretive? I feel like I don’t even know you!” He was hurt, and it was my fault. In an effort to protect myself, I hurt the one person that I wanted to shelter most. Sleep was fitful; the one time I did doze off, I awoke with a start only to re-hear the entire conversation yet again. My stomach ached, and if I had not known better, I would have sworn I was getting sick. I was making myself ill, ruminating on something I couldn’t go back in time to change, no matter how much I wanted to.
Chapter Nineteen
All truth is not to be told at all times.
~ Samuel Butler
Friday morning I awoke tired, puffy-eyed and dreading going to school. I dragged myself onto the bus, sat quietly by Kat and shooed her down the hallway to the band area when she hesitated in the foyer with me. I waited in “our” normal spot, but James never appeared. When the bell rang to signal the start of the day, the pit in my stomach settled even deeper.
I almost went to art second hour, but realized that I didn’t have my painting with me; so I went to my last day of study hall and stared at my watch, willing the time to pass. I managed to finish the last of my calculus homework and tried to read a chapter for history. James’ words echoed in my head making it hard to pay attention.
I reached for my phone, but recalling his disdain for texting, I grabbed a pen instead.
James,
I’m sorry that I’ve been so absent lately. It is nothing that you did, and I want nothing more than to explain everything in full. I’ve avoided telling you something because I’m scared, but it’s not what you think; there is NO other guy. I know I’ve screwed things up, and I know I don’t deserve you to hear me out, but I’m asking you all the same - please. I’m doing my painting review in private next week with Mrs. Ropert - will you please join us?
~Ames
I slipped the note through the vent in his locker before I lost all nerve. As soon as I heard the descending fluttering paper stop, I double checked the locker number and made a mental note to myself that I indeed put the note in the right locker.
If there was any chance I could fix things between James and me, it needed to be soon. I needed to finish the painting this weekend. I headed home focused and ready to work. Strangely enough, when I arrived, Dad was in a talkative mood.
“So you’ve been spending a lot of time working on your paintings lately,” he noted casually.
“Yup, trying to finish this one for next week’s critique,” I said.
“Are you getting your other school work done?”
“Of course Dad,” I said with a smile.
“What is this painting about? I saw it the other day when I was putting clean laundry in your room.”
I hesitated, but I wanted to be truthful. Kat understood. Matt admitted his own mom had been the one to notice his behaviors. Maybe Dad wouldn’t balk. Maybe as Mrs. Millen suggested, there would be some genetic link.
“Well,” I paused, “It’s not a light, happy subject as you probably guessed by looking at it. I’ll tell you all about it if we can go grab a coffee.”
Dad looked surprised. We hardly ever went anywhere
together unless it was a necessity. “That would be nice. Kind of like a father-daughter date.” He smiled, and I found myself wishing we had more moments like this; moments where we were actually talking and making eye contact.
The coffee shop was a perfect neutral spot to talk; I didn’t feel like as much of a child when we were out of the house together. Sitting at a bar height table in the corner, I explained the real reason I had been going to see Mrs. Millen. Dad asked a few questions here or there, but mostly let me talk.
“Alright Amy, so how does the painting tie in?”
“Well we had to paint a quote. The quote that I chose was from a fortune cookie I got this winter; it said, ‘Worry often gives small things a big shadow.’ I thought about all of the things that make me worry, and one of them was driving. So I painted myself on the boardwalk at the preserve -”
“I thought that was the preserve!” Dad interrupted excitedly.
“And I put my car keys in my hand. They are the ‘small thing’ that is casting all the dark shadows around the edges. The thing is Dad, I used to think the shadows were the most important part; but they aren’t going to be. I need to finish it this weekend. And I’ll share it with you when I’m done.”
We sipped our coffee quietly. I couldn’t believe he didn’t have any questions to ask me about the OCD. Not one. “Dad?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you have any questions about anything? Don’t you think it’s kind of weird?” I asked.
“I might have.” He paused. “But Lisa had OCD. It caused her a lot of trouble when she was in college, but she kind of grew out of it - or into it. I don’t know. Somehow she got past a lot of the trouble it caused her, but I know it never completely went away. It was one of the things that caused her and Brian some trouble. I’m just glad that you’re seeing Mrs. Millen and working on it in your group.”
After all the hiding I did, I wasn’t surprised that someone I loved had managed to hide it so well from me. I did wonder what exactly the issues were with her and Brian, but it really didn’t matter. Feeling more conversational than I had in a long time, I added, “I’m hoping it doesn’t cost me James. I didn’t tell him about it, and I wasn’t honest with him about what I was doing after school. I wasn’t ready to tell him about any of it, and then I got caught in a lie.” I felt my face flush. I didn’t want my dad to see how upset I was, but at the same time, I did. I wanted to be done with the hiding, done with the fear, done with the depression. I wanted James to know the truth and still love me. Most of all, I wanted to admit the truth to myself and have myself still love me.
Dad swirled his coffee stirrer and said, “Well, if he was smart enough to fall for you to begin with, I think if you tell him the truth he should get over it.” I waited for him to finish. “Us guys can be a little slow to come around, but give him a chance. You’re young, and you haven’t been dating that long. Even if you had known about your OCD for years, it’s not something you would’ve necessarily shared right away.
He seemed like a nice enough guy though; that was him at Lisa’s funeral right?”
How observant my dad could be even when I didn’t think he was paying any attention.
“Yeah that was him.”
“Invite him over for a cookout next weekend…if he takes it okay that is.”
I agreed, and we finished our coffee like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey Amy?”
“Yeah Dad?”
An expression flashed across his face that was too short to read. He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. In the middle of the change was a small light blue stone. He gently picked it out of the change with his thumb and forefinger and laid it on the table. The word breathe was etched on it. He slid it toward me.
“I think she would have wanted you to have this,” he said quietly.
“Lisa?”
He nodded, “It was in her pocket when she came into the hospital.”
I gingerly picked it up. Breathe. The one thing that I had to do in each moment to make it to the next - something that Lisa would never do again. My chest felt tight as I stared at the word. I fingered the smooth surface of the stone, imagining Lisa’s fingers doing the same. And then, as each breath entered my body, I focused on letting it linger. I slowed down my breaths until the tightness disappeared; it was as if Lisa herself were still giving me advice.
“Thanks Dad,” I said, “for everything. For coming here…for understanding.” My emotions felt calm and on track for a change.
He smiled at me, “I’m sorry we haven’t done more stuff like this. Your old dad is still trying to figure this stuff out.” He looked away, the smile falling quickly; I could tell he was genuinely sorry.
“Me too Dad. I could have asked you to do more too. But this was good. Thanks.” I smiled at him, and he raised his eyes and smiled back. Neither of us had ever put in the effort to be more than coexistent roommates. Maybe now we would. It would be about time.
Chapter Twenty
The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.
~ Ernest Hemingway
My weekend quickly disappeared beneath layers of paint. On Saturday Dad surprised me by making my favorite sandwiches for lunch and knocking on my door to drop them off. He said he didn’t want his favorite artist to starve to death. It was sweet of him, and other than making some food, he kept his distance and allowed me to paint without distraction.
Monday came all too quickly, as it always does, but I was done! My epiphany that completely redirected my painting worked well, and I was excited to share it with Mrs. Ropert. I was even more excited to share it with James. I carried my portfolio to the art room and slid my canvas into my long narrow slot on the wall. Glancing around the room, I wished that I hadn’t missed the whole last week of class. My classmates made tremendous progress on their pieces. I looked further with both curiosity and nervousness for James’ canvases. He never said it, but I had the impression that the “same soul in two bodies” was supposed to be us. As I suspected, his canvases were nowhere to be found. The pit that formed in my stomach after our fight was growing rapidly. Luckily, Mrs. Ropert was in her office. I cleared my throat as I neared her door. She turned in her chair and smiled.
“Good morning Amy.”
“Good morning Mrs. Ropert.”
“Are you going to be back in class with us this week?” she asked.
“I am. I actually finished this weekend.”
“Wow! I didn’t think you were going to finish quite that soon.”
“Well I didn’t necessarily plan on it, but like I told you it’s something really personal, and I needed to get it off my chest so to speak.”
“Well I’m glad you’ve finished.”
“Can we do the review this afternoon?” I asked adding, “In private?”
“Of course Amy. Would right after school work for you?”
“I think so.” I waited, not sure if I should mention James or not. “Mrs. Ropert?” She nodded for me to continue. “I painted this particular quote, so I could share something with James that I didn’t know how else to share. It’s okay if he comes right?”
“Absolutely Amy. Art can be a wonderful medium for expressing all kinds of things. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
Second hour I volunteered to do some cleaning around the art room. Italian opera and sunlight bathed the room with light and buoyancy. Brushes needed deep cleaning, paints needed to be sorted, dried up empty tubes discarded, unused folio slots emptied of random debris. I worked hard and furious for two reasons; it kept my mind fairly occupied, and it served as a thank you to Mrs. Ropert for allowing me out of class last week.
Fifteen minutes into class everyone was perched on their stools, paints mixed and working. James was half-heartedly adding more layers of paint to his canvas. He looked exhausted. Timidly I walked over and stood facing him. I didn’t invade his space; as much as I wanted to peek at his easel to see what he
was working on, I respected the distance between us. When he finally glanced up, I looked directly into his eyes. They weren’t sparkling like the eyes I’d fallen for, but they weren’t angry like the eyes I feared last Thursday.
“I’m having my review after school today,” I paused waiting for a response. When he didn’t say anything I got increasingly nervous. “Would you come?” I asked.
“What time?”
Breathing out I answered, “Three.”
He looked at his canvas, added a few careful strokes of paint, and then looked back up. “I’ll be there.”
On the inside I let out a huge sigh of relief; on the outside I did nothing that would let on how nervous I was. “Thanks,” I said quietly. “See you then.”
The rest of the day dragged. I couldn’t concentrate on anything in my classes, but for the first time in months it wasn’t because I was worried about something stupid; I was worried about opening myself up. There was risk in sharing this painting with James. I wanted to believe that no matter what his reaction was, that he would respect the confidence in which I presented it. But there was no guarantee; it could be a disaster. He could tell everyone he knows that I’m crazy, that he dated a girl that had OCD and couldn’t handle it. He could also keep it to himself and refuse to ever discuss it with me. He could make fun of me. He could do any of those things, and the crazy thing is they would all hurt; but not as much as the pain of trying to keep this to myself. The burden of the secret had been partially lifted, and I now that I remembered what it was like to breathe without all the weight, I wanted to get rid of the rest. Kat had been the first step, my dad the next; only one more major confession remained, and I couldn’t wait for it to be done.
When the final bell rang, I stood up; my palms were clammy, and my knees wobbled. Focused, I headed to the art room. I slid my canvas out of the folio slot and perched it on an easel. The late afternoon light in the room was the perfect compliment to the deep earth-tones of the preserve on my canvas. I slipped my hand into my pocket and smoothed my thumb over the word on Lisa’s stone. I tried to focus on breathing steadily, but waiting was agonizing.
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