by Rose, Aubrey
“Oh, Nat, you don’t need to do that. I cleared out a bit of space for you in your old bedroom. Here, I’ll let you get settled. Grilled cheese okay for lunch?”
“Sounds great,” I said, in a tone more cheery than I actually felt. This place was a garbage pit, and everything seemed to be closing in on me from all corners.
I tiptoed through the mess to the back of the house and pushed open my bedroom door. Behind me, my dad clanked pans in the kitchen and I heard the sizzle of butter on the stove.
In front of me was my childhood.
There were boxes in here, of course—where weren’t there boxes?—but my dad had shoved them to one side of the room and left me a path.
My desk stood on the side of my bed, the corkboard still covered with notes and scraps of watercolor paintings I had done in school. I tossed my suitcase at the bottom of the bed and came back to the desk. The wood veneer was coated in a thick layer of dust that came off in a streak of darkness when I ran my finger across the top.
Rubbing the dust off of my fingertips, I moved my gaze to the medals and awards pinned to the wall above my bed. Most of the prizes were academic—a poetry contest, an art gallery exhibition prize for a self-portrait I’d done in pastels. There was only one sports award among them – a third grade ribbon for scoring first place in a croquet tournament. I smirked: I’d kept it up as my sole athletic accomplishment.
Remembering something, I opened the top drawer of my desk. My fingers slid to the back of the drawer, searching for the one picture I had thought to save from high school. At first I thought it was gone, but then my fingertips found the edge of the photo and I pulled it out.
Me and Tommy, standing in our graduation robes the day we’d gotten them at school. His arm was around me, his smile crooked, his dark hair flopping over one eye. That was the week before prom, the week before—
I tossed the photograph back and slammed the drawer shut. If the room had seemed small before, it was utterly stifling now. My heart beat faster and I could sense the monster in me creeping up from below the surface.
Not now. Not now.
I scrounged through my suitcase and pulled out my watercolors. Tucking them under my arm, I left my bedroom.
“The best grilled cheese in the world!” my dad announced. He pulled two plates from the countertop and brushed old crumbs off of them before setting them down on the kitchen table. I could still see the smears of an old meal on the rim of the plate.
“Dad, I’m not...I’m not feeling well,” I said. “Mind if I take mine to go?”
“Not even two minutes she’s here and already she’s trying to get away from me?” My dad smiled, but I could see he was hurt. The monster poked me in the back, and I winced.
“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t think I can...” I waved my hand in the air, trying to explain what I could never explain to him.
“Oh. Sure,” he said. “Is it, you know, your little problem?”
My little problem. That was what he called it. Not the disease that turned me into a brutal animal. Not the genetic condition that my mom had given me, the worst kind of gift I could imagine. Not the thing that drove me away from town and shattered the only relationship I’d ever had. No.
My little problem.
“I just need to be alone a while. Paint a bit, you know.”
“In your bedroom?”
“No, I—”
My voice cut off as my breath caught in my throat. Just thinking about my old bedroom, where Tommy and I had hung out, made me nauseated. My body began to react, my muscles twitching, and my dad must have caught the scared look on my face, because he tried extra hard to be nice.
“Sure. There’s space in the garage, maybe, if you move the tool bench over.”
“Thanks,” I winked and nabbed the grilled cheese sandwich off of the pan with a paper towel before he could put it down on the dirty plate. “Best grilled cheese in the universe, dad.”
“Nat,” he said, and then stopped. He reached out and squeezed my arm. “It’s good to have you home.”
“Good to be home,” I lied.
***
There was actually plenty of space in the garage, if you counted the empty spot under the table saw as space. With a few strategic moves of the boxes and the tool bench, I had a little square of free space under the table that itself was piled high with heavy Rubbermaid tubs I didn’t dare move. There was a couch just next to it, again, covered in boxes.
Looking for a better source of light, I pulled over a work lamp and tilted it so it would shine underneath the table. The warm yellow light would work much better than the ugly fluorescent tubes installed in the ceiling. I turned off the garage lights and the lamp shone happily under the table, illuminating a nice small spot. It was dark everywhere else, and you couldn’t even see the mess piled up on all of the other sides. Perfect.
Munching the grilled cheese as I went, I set up my painting spot carefully. The floor was dusty, but I laid down a half-ripped picnic blanket and put down newspapers under my painting pad. The brushes I laid out on a small terry cloth rag, in order from smallest to largest.
As I worked, I breathed easier. It was even more cramped in the garage than in the house, but it didn’t seem like it when I was focusing on my brushes.
I filled the plastic tub with water and brought it to my chosen spot. Ducking under the table, I settled myself in cross-legged, the paper pad in front of me. I took a deep breath and exhaled. The tension creeping up through my skin was slowly releasing. The monster retreated.
I took another breath and let it out, then turned my attention to the empty paper in front of me.
Most people think that artists have some kind of hidden talent, a gift from the gods. My teachers told me I was artistic, my parents too. They looked at my paintings and saw creativity, saw genius. But I knew that wasn’t true. I painted for hours after school every day, but it wasn’t to showcase my artistic genius or to put down some burning image in my brain.
Art wasn’t about talent for me, not ever. It was only a way to push back the monster.
When I was painting, all of my attention was outward, on the page. I focused on the materials. My hands caressed the soft hairs of the watercolor brushes. My palm kneaded the gray gum eraser into a ball as I sketched out the patterns I wanted to use. My fingertips slid over the raised bumps of the thick watercolor paper.
That’s what nobody understood.
The thing on the page didn’t matter at all. I didn’t even look at the painting when I painted. I looked at the paint. I watched the water flow across the page, and I saw which way it wanted to go without knowing why it wanted to go that way. I saw the paint sucked up into the brush, spreading thinly on the wet page, creeping through the swollen fibers of the paper.
I watched, and let the paint move itself.
Soon three pages covered themselves with color. Colors worked under my fingernails, too, rich colors that clashed against each other and muddied when they mixed. Raw sienna and ultramarine. Alizarin crimson and indigo.
My head tilted, my body bent over, my eyes fixed on the single point where the tip of the paintbrush was sweeping long dark green lines across the ochre space in the background. The paint flowed from the well inside of the brush onto the paper, coming down through the space between bristles that stayed glued together with only surface tension.
From this angle I could see quickly the sheen of the page, the space of seconds where wet became damp and then dry. If I’d had better paper I might have had longer to work, but these pads were two bucks each and it’s hard to beat that, especially when I didn’t care overmuch about the final product. Sure, I mean, I would have liked better paper, but I wasn’t about to cry over it.
The secondhand paints I’d gotten from a rich friend. She’d taken a class or two at a local art supply store and quit after that. She gave them to me with a shrug and not a second glance, but for me they were as precious as jewels. Tubes full of sapphire and aquamarine an
d ruby.
My eyes traced the line across the page, then again. I stuck my tongue in the space between my teeth and my cheek and focused. The line was dark, dark, the page turned dark, and then—
A loud creak shuddered the wood bones of the house as the garage door opened up.
I started up from my bent position and smacked my head directly into the top of the table.
“Ow!” I rubbed the top of my head. Who the hell was it?
“Hello?”
Light poured in from outside and I raised my hand to my eyes, peering around the stacked boxes and crates. The figure that stood in the middle of the garage door was a thin bent silhouette, violet on dry paper, sky blue behind him. Then he stepped forward, and I saw that he was leaning on something. A cane.
My breath went out of me.
He smiled, and I could see a ghost of the scar on his chin. The scar I’d given him five years ago.
“Hello, Tommy,” I said.
“Your father tells me you’ve been having a great time on the coast.”
Tommy leaned on the trunk of his car, a silver BMW. Did he know that I was too embarrassed to invite him inside? I couldn’t let him see the mess my dad’s house had become.
“I’m surviving.”
Guess you could call it that. Surviving. Sixteen hours of credit stood between me and a community college art degree. None of the remaining requirements were studio classes, or I’d have been done two semesters ago. I spent all of my evenings and weekends working to pay off my student loans. The rest of my time was spent painting.
“That’s what we’re all trying to do, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Survive. To the best of our ability.”
Tommy smiled a dazzling, movie-star smile at me.
“So what have you been up to?” I asked, darting a glance down at the BMW.
“Oh, not much,” Tommy said, waving one hand breezily.
“You’ve obviously been doing well with whatever you’re doing, so congratulations.”
“Thanks. I got lucky with a few real estate deals. And I’ve branched out to some other ventures...”
His words trailed off and I got the feeling he wanted me to ask for more details. But I really didn’t care about what had gotten him his fancy car. I needed to get something off of my chest.
“Tommy, I wanted to tell you something. About prom night—”
His attitude of careful nonchalance evaporated as quickly as water off of thin paper. A look of anger swept through his features once, replaced by a smile that never touched his eyes.
“I’d rather forget all of that.”
“I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. Really. I know I left right after it happened, and I didn’t get a chance to tell you in person—”
“Apology accepted,” Tommy said, his smile even wider. More forced.
A buzz came from Tommy’s pocket, and he pulled out his phone, frowning as he read what was on the screen.
“One second,” he said. “Business needs me.”
My dad came outside just as Tommy had turned away, his phone to his ear.
“Yes? Yes, well, I told you to get it done.”
“Hey, sweetie,” my dad said, pulling me into a side hug and kissing the top of my head. “Looks like you’re popular in this town, huh?”
“Dad, did you invite him over?” I whispered.
“I thought you might like to see a familiar face,” he said.
“I don’t care what you have to do, it’s got to happen,” Tommy spat into the phone.
“Thanks, dad,” I said. “I’m going to try and ease myself back in, you know?”
“Sure, but—Tommy!”
Tommy turned with a broad smile, tucking the phone back into his pocket and leaning hard on his cane to walk toward us.
“Heya, Pops.”
I couldn’t help bristling a little at Tommy’s familiarity with my dad. My dad, on the other hand, seemed like best buddies with my former boyfriend.
“You trying to steal my daughter away?”
“If I thought I could steal her, she’d already be in my pocket,” Tommy said, grinning. “How are you doing?”
“Better thanks to you.” My dad turned to me, his hand still on Tommy’s shoulder. “This guy helped me out a lot last month with the electrical bill. I can’t thank you enough for it.”
“Not a problem. Anytime.”
My stomach tightened as my dad continued to beam at Tommy.
“Dad, you know you can always ask me if you—”
“Don’t worry about it one bit,” Tommy said. “I know it’s hard when you’re surviving out there on your own.”
He winked at me, and my eyes fluttered back down to the ground. I felt so guilty. I hadn’t even known that my dad was having trouble paying the bills. If I had known, I would have gotten a second shift. I would have worked overtime. I would have...
Meanwhile, my dad and Tommy chatted amicably about the mess of a football game that had happened the night before.
“The problem is, he’s not built to take a tackle. One game, one bad hit, he’s out.” My dad gestured ferociously at the ineptness of the pick.
“Sure, but someone has to catch him first.”
“First game he plays against Dallas. You watch and see.”
“I’ll bet you a beer you’re wrong on that one.” Tommy smirked.
I couldn’t stop staring at his cane. What did his leg look like now that it had healed? Was it completely scarred? I didn’t know, and guilt washed over me in waves whenever I considered what I had done to him.
“Taken. You’ll see. He’s gonna crumble under a good defensive push.”
“What do you think, Nat?” Tommy looked over at me.
“You’re speaking Elbonian to me,” I said, picking paint out from under one of my fingernails. My croquet victory had been the beginning and end of my career in sports.
“What are you doing tomorrow night if you’re not watching the game?”
“Um. Unpacking my suitcase. Cutting my toenails. Anything but watching some guy throw a ball to another guy while the other guys try to get the second guy.”
“You don’t appreciate the statistics behind it,” my dad said, shaking his head. “Football is an art.”
Tommy’s eyes were locked on mine, and I had the strange feeling that he was looking me up and down even though his gaze stayed on my face. A predatory spark flickered in his dark irises and then disappeared.
“Well, then, Natalie,” Tommy said. “Maybe I could take you out tomorrow night. If you’re not too busy cutting your toenails, that is.”
He smiled at me so innocently that I thought I’d imagined what I’d seen before.
“Um,” I said. I looked at my dad, who raised his eyebrows knowingly. Fine. There was no way out of this. “Sure. Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise,” Tommy said. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear a dress.” He pointed at my dad. “I’m not going to forget about that beer.”
“You sure won’t, cause you’ll be buying it for me after the Dallas game,” my dad said, clapping Tommy on the shoulder.
“I have to get back to work. See you tomorrow,” Tommy said.
“See you,” I repeated hollowly.
My dad had his hands on his hips, watching as Tommy pulled out of the driveway and sped away, the chrome wheels twinkling in the sunlight.
“I can’t believe I stood there and let him trick me into a date.”
“He didn’t trick you,” my dad said, chucking me under the chin. “He’s a good boy. Always has been. And he’s doing well for himself.”
“I can see that,” I said.
“What’s wrong with Tommy?” My dad frowned.
“Nothing!” I threw my hands up in the air. “He’s perfect.”
“If this is about what happened—”
“It’s not,” I said. I really, really didn’t want to relive what had happened after the... accident at prom.
&nb
sp; “I know he’s human,” my dad said. “And maybe that scares you, with... what you are.”
What I am. What I am is a monster. I want to run inside and grab my suitcase, and go far, far away. But I couldn’t do that to my dad, not again.
“It would be easier if you were like everyone else, sure, but Tommy understands. We all love you just the same. I mean, I was human, and I married your mom.”
“And look how well that turned out.”
My dad’s face crumpled, and I immediately regretted the snark.
“Dad, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Look, I know it wasn’t your fault… how it ended.”
My dad shrugged, but I could still see the hurt in his eyes. He took a deep breath and when he spoke he chose his words very carefully, “I know it scares you. What you are. What she was. But you’re nothing like her. You can’t live in fear of what she became and what it did to this family. It’s not fair on either of us.”
I wasn’t so sure. I could do no wrong in my dad’s eyes. But he’d fallen in love with her. He’d married her knowing what she was. He’d had a child with her, knowing what that child might become. I loved my dad with all my heart, and his faith in me was reassuring, but he wasn’t necessarily the best judge of character.
“I’m sure I’ll have a great time with Tommy tomorrow,” I said, trying to patch over my words and change the subject. In fact, I was sure that I wouldn’t have a great time. When I was a teenager, I could talk to him about school, but now? There was nothing we had in common. Not to mention the fact that when I looked at him, I was wracked with guilt.
“Sure you will,” my dad said, perking up a bit. “He’s a good kid.”
I stood outside as my dad trundled back into the cramped house, looking down the street. Looking at the raw umber of the dirt yards and the hard blue sky and trying to see a way through all of it.
A date with Tommy Calloway.
“Welcome home,” I said to nobody in particular.
Chapter Four
Hutch
Lacey was… Lacey was something.
Or Chrissie, maybe. Was that her name? Chrissie, short for Christine. She was certainly something. For a human anyway. What she lacked in raw animal passion she made up for in sheer unadulterated enthusiasm.