“Thanks, Miss Zoe.” Izzie’s cheeks heat as Miss Zoe smiles before she walks away to talk to someone else.
“I think—”
“Do you think I looked like Mommy too, Daddy?”
My breath catches in my throat at Izzie’s simple question, but it’s not as simple and innocent as she means it to be, she’s asking me to talk about Natalia and no matter how much I want to, I can’t. I can’t go there, I can’t think about her and tell the kids things that she used to do or say without spiraling.
“I…”
“Of course you did,” Nate answers, his gaze running from me to Izzie. “Your mom loved dancing so much, she would practice every single day.”
“She did?” Izzie asks, soaking in all of the information that Nate is giving her.
“Stop,” I whisper, my voice a mere croak as I take hold of Clay’s hand.
“Whenever she danced, no one could stop looking, she was mesmerizing, just like you are, princess.”
My nostrils flare and my breaths turn to gasps the longer he’s talking.
“I said…” I clear my throat, my eyes lifting to Nate and narrowing, fire burning behind their depths. “Stop.”
As soon as he hears my threatening tone, he spins to face me, his eyes wide.
“Tris…”
“I said stop.”
I step forward, taking Izzie out of Amelia’s arms and holding her to my chest before taking hold of Clay’s hand again and stepping around Nate.
“Let’s go and get burgers and ice cream,” I announce.
“Is Uncle Nate coming?” Clay asks.
I turn my head back toward Nate and grind out, “Uncle Nate is busy.” I warn him with my eyes not to disagree with me before turning away from him and walking out of the theater, barely able to keep it together.
A Great Big World—You’ll Be Okay
Ingrid Michaelson—Be OK
It’s been over a week now since I met with Nathan, and there hasn’t been a night that I haven’t dreamt of that day. The day my life took a nosedive right into the ground and I felt like I was slowly being suffocated; like someone was holding a pillow over my face, only allowing me up every few minutes for a much needed breath before pushing me back down again.
He reminded me of everything that I lost all those years ago, but I can’t think about that right now, not when I’m back in the same very town, only a tunnel width away from where some of my best—and worst—memories took place.
Mom walks in from work and kisses me on the cheek. “Hey, Harmonica. Any luck on the job front?”
I tap on the keys of my laptop. “Nothing that I want to do.” I let out a breath and tilt my head to the side.
My fingers are itching to paint, art is my world, the air that I breathe. Without it, I feel like I’m not able to quite catch my breath.
She sighs as she sits down next to me. “You can’t sit around moping and waiting to hear back from your attorney all day. I think every time I’ve come in you’ve been curled up, staring at your phone like it holds all of the answers that you’re searching for. I know you’ve only been back two weeks, but it’s not healthy. There’s no time like the present to get back into the working world.”
I know that. I know if I had a job that time would go by quicker, but something that I can’t quite place my finger on is stopping me.
“Come on, Harmony, don’t you think you should start looking for a real career instead of entertaining your hobby? You’re not getting any younger, y’know.”
I wince as Gerry’s words ring through my head like a shrill bell. A real career; it was a real career. “I… Never mind.”
“What’s that, hon?”
I shake my head. “Nothing, Mom. Just a stupid pipe dream.”
She stands up and shrugs off her lightweight jacket. “No dream is ever stupid, Harm. What is it?”
“It doesn’t matter, I couldn’t do it anyway.” I face the laptop again, scrolling through the local jobs but finding nothing that piques my interest.
“Your dad and I didn’t raise a quitter. Tell me what it is you don’t think you could do.”
Her face is serious and I know she won’t let this go; I wish I never started to say anything.
“I loved working at the studio, but there’s nothing like that around here, not without going into the city anyway. I’d...” I hesitate before looking at her. “I’d love to open my own.”
Her smile couldn’t get any bigger as her eyes crinkle at the corners; she looks like the cat that caught the canary. “Then that’s what you’ll do.”
She says it so simply before taking the laptop from me and typing something into the search bar.
“What are…” I trail off as I watch her looking at different spaces to rent. “Mom, I… I couldn’t afford any of these.”
“You have savings, do you not?” she asks like that’s the only part of the problem, like my measly savings will solve everything.
“I have a little in my checking account, but most of it is in the joint savings. I can’t touch that until the divorce is over and I get my half.” She logs onto her email, turning the laptop away from me. “What are you doing?”
She holds up a finger, typing on the keyboard before sliding the laptop back onto my knee. “I have a day off work tomorrow, and we’re going studio hunting.” She taps the screen with her pointer finger at one of the properties. “This is the place, but we can look at the others too.”
“I… What?” I stare at her, dumbfounded.
“I’ve arranged to view three places tomorrow, be ready at nine.” She stands up. “What would you like for dinner? I’m thinking chicken.” She says it so nonchalantly, as if I’m not sitting here with butterflies swarming in my stomach like they’re trying to escape and an excitement that I haven’t felt for what feels like years.
I can’t believe this is happening. Am I really considering going along with this? The flip in my belly is my answer. I’m actually doing this. The thought of teaching children again makes my heart soar.
I honk my horn twice, trying to hurry up Mom. It’s nearly nine and I’m sitting in my car waiting for her because she left her keys in the house. Seconds later, she pulls open the front door with extra enthusiasm and dangles the keys in the air at me. I chuckle at her exuberance and shake my head as she dances down the front steps and slides into the passenger seat.
“I’m so excited,” she singsongs with a wide smile on her face.
I drive away from the house and ask, “What’s got you in such a great mood?”
“What hasn’t? I have my Harmonica back home, the weather has warmed up, and I’m going to look at properties for my baby to finally open her own studio like she’s always wanted to do. Life is great.”
She sighs a happy kind of sigh and it makes me smile. I admire her outlook on life, I know she wishes more than anything in the world that my dad was still alive, but she’s learned to look on the positive side of things. She’s still here, so why waste it by being pessimistic?
The day after his funeral, she turned to me with a big smile on her face and announced she was going to start volunteering to be a “baby cuddler” at the hospital in the neonatal unit. I was confused at first, that was until she explained that they were crying out for volunteers to go in to cuddle and comfort the babies that were going through withdrawal symptoms from drugs and other substances.
My heart both hurt and blossomed with love for her as she said, “Where there is life, there is death. One cannot be there without the other, so celebrate life with your loved ones when you have it, and treasure the memories when there isn’t anybody to share life with.”
On top of her volunteering, she works at a kindergarten. She loves children, she says they keep her young. Kids have always been drawn to her beautiful, carefree nature and she once told me that I have the same pull.
My heart pangs at that thought and I push it to the back of my mind, pasting a smile on my face instead of getting lost in a
nother bad memory. I’ve decided that today is going to be a good day.
The first property that Mom arranged to see is only a ten-minute drive from the house so we get there in no time. I give her a sideways look as I glance at the outside of the building, knowing that this isn’t the place. I don’t even have to step inside to know.
“We may as well go inside while we’re here, hon,” she says softly, patting me on the hand.
Instead of seeing it as a waste of time, I get out and meet the realtor who opens the door and smiles in greeting. “Ms. Jameson?”
Mom nods her head in confirmation and I watch as she opens the white, uninteresting door to the shabby brick shop in front of us. She waves us into the small space and I immediately want to plug my nose; it smells of damp and mold.
My gaze follows the path of the mold growing in the corner where two of the walls meet, screwing up my face. I turn and see that I’m wearing the same expression that Mom is as she looks around the room too.
“It needs a little bit of work, but once it’s fixed up it would be the perfect space. Don’t you think?” The Realtor starts her spiel and I partly tune out. “Ms. Jameson?”
Mom shakes her head. “This is all for my daughter, it’s her you should be addressing.”
She purses her thin lips at me and forces a smile out. “Of course. As I was saying…”
“Harmony, please, call me Harmony,” I reply.
“Alright, Harmony. It’s two hundred and fifty dollars under your preferred price, and only a month's overhead is needed in advance, as well as a security deposit of…”
I know it’s rude, but I tune out again, walking away from her and peering around a corner into a battered, old kitchenette. I decide not to waste any more of our time and stop her there. “I’m sorry... Claire, was it?” She nods. “I’m sure it’ll be perfect for somebody else, but it’s not what I’m looking for. Would we be able to move onto the second property, please?” I say politely.
She smiles at me and gestures toward the door. “Of course. Do you have the address?”
I nod yes and she locks up after us, making her way to her shiny, expensive looking car.
“I like to see the positive side in any situation, but that place was a dump,” Mom says, chuckling at her own comment.
“Agreed, maybe the next place won’t be so bad?” I cross my fingers by my sides before getting into my car and driving to the next property.
I’m wrong. So, so wrong. It’s worse.
We drive into a questionable part of the neighborhood and my heart starts beating against my ribcage like a prisoner trying to get out of its cell. I’ve never been a snob; my parents weren’t wealthy people when I was growing up. I didn’t have the latest trends and newest gadgets like everybody else did, but they always made sure that I never went without.
This part of town though, it screams “dangerous” and I don’t want to get out of the car. My suspicions on the neighborhood are confirmed when Claire slips out of her car, her head snapping around warily as if she’s waiting for someone to jump her and steal her expensive looking things.
I decide to put her out of her misery and call out to her. “Claire?” Her head whips around toward me. “I think I’d like to see the final property, if that’s okay?” I give her a warm, reassuring smile and she nods, not bothering to insist we take a look inside as she climbs back into her car and speeds off.
Mom made sure I knew the last space is a little over my budget and on the other side of town, through the tunnel that clearly separates the—to put it bluntly—rich from the poor.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’m dreading being over that side of town again. Every time I’ve come back for visits I’ve avoided it like the plague, but I think that it’s time, it has been ten years after all. The saving grace about it is that it isn’t in the center of everything, it’s off the beaten track, a little further out from the main town and not too close to the college that I attended.
As we approach the tunnel, I breathe in deeply, my knuckles turning white from the force of gripping the steering wheel. Without me having to say anything, Mom grabs my hand but stays silent. She knows how hard this will be for me, even after all of these years. I give her hand a squeeze and let go, letting her know that I’m alright as I concentrate on driving the rest of the way.
We arrive on the street that the property is on and I slow down, gazing at the trees that line either side. It’s beautiful and a hopeful feeling spreads through me, replacing the anxious one about being over on this side of the tunnel.
Every building we pass is made of a beautiful red brick. I don’t know what it is about this area, but it has me smiling from ear to ear, and as I take a look out of my peripheral vision, I notice that Mom is too.
The building we pull up outside of is no different to the rest, yet it feels different. It oozes character and already has my creative juices flowing with possibilities of what I can do. I’m already envisioning a sign hanging outside the entrance.
I find a parking spot and we both step outside to meet Claire on the sidewalk in front of it. Her knowing smile has me grinning wider as she passes me the keys and gestures for us to go first.
Mom and I walk up the cobblestone path and admire the arrangement of green, white and pink flowers winding their way over the black metal balcony above the doors. My hand shakes with excitement and apprehension as I slot the key into the lock and turn it, opening the double doors to my sanctuary.
The whole shop front is made up of little square windows with black frames around them, making the already large space look even bigger as it lights up the room with sunlight. There’s long, dark wooden beams that run the length of the ceiling and from them hang copper colored light fixtures. The plain white walls are calling to be filled with colorful paintings and drawings from the little artist’s souls that will eventually inhabit this room.
I’ve already made up my mind before hearing anything or seeing the rest—this place is mine. I can imagine the high wooden art benches sitting underneath the hanging lights and the messy corner that the kids can let out any built-up energy in. I can picture the easels set up in the opposite corner, ready to be gifted with the imagination of a child. But most of all, I relish in the feeling of the laughter that will bounce off these walls, the laughter that can only be produced by a child letting go and having fun.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and I place mine on top of it. “If you don’t get this place, I’ll personally have you locked up.” Mom squeezes gently.
Claire steps forward, sensing that this is “the one.” “It’s practically ready to set up shop apart from the teensy bit of TLC it needs upstairs, but I—”
I stop her there. “There’s an upstairs?”
She smiles and points around the corner to a set of wooden stairs. I walk toward them, brushing my fingers against the dark wooden handrail as I climb them. “It used to be two apartments but the people who bought it, bought both and had the stairs installed to connect them. Unfortunately for them, near the end of the refurbishment they ran out of funds and decided to rent it out. So the upstairs is—”
“Perfect,” I say on an exhale of breath as we come to the top of the stairs.
Old, exposed beams crisscross the high-roofed ceiling and the walls are painted a shabby white, but most of that has worn off, showing the same red brick that is on the outside of the building underneath it.
The old wooden floor needs sanding and a coat of varnish but other than that, I wouldn’t change a thing. Where others would see it as a work in progress, I see the untold beauty that it will eventually become.
“Where do I sign?” I ask, turning to face Claire.
She purses her lips and says, “There is the monetary details to talk over. It’s four-hundred and fifty dollars over your rent budget, and they’re asking for two months overheads in advance.”
My gaze flits around the room, my dreams to teach children how to appreciate art and express themselv
es creatively flying out of the window at her words. My heart sinks as the fog of happiness starts to clear from my mind.
Art is about the freedom to create anything you have ever imagined. The colors, the shapes, the emotion; there’s something to be said for getting emotions out onto paper, whether it be with a paintbrush or your fingers. Every brush stroke and fingerprint has a story to tell, and I want to convey that to kids.
“Oh,” is all I manage to say back.
“She’ll take it,” Mom butts in.
I turn toward her, my mouth open in shock. “But—”
“No buts, she’ll take it,” she says, grabbing Claire by the arm and talking numbers with her as they walk back down the stairs.
I follow them down after taking one last look at the room. I’ve never had a personal studio before, but this place is beautiful, right down to every shabby brick. I can’t wait to paint my first masterpiece in here.
“That’s great, I will have the papers drawn up, ready for you to stop by the office and sign within the next few days hopefully.” She smiles wide, shaking both of our hands before we all walk out of the property. “I’ll be in touch,” she says when we get to the bottom of the path.
The smile hasn’t left Mom’s face even when Claire has left. I turn toward her as we both climb into the car. “I can’t let you spend all of your savings on this.”
She scoffs. “Let me? Dear, I think you’re forgetting who the parent is here. And before you start thinking it’s some sort of charity, it’s not. I’ll be a silent partner, and I want to help out at the sessions every Saturday.”
I nod, agreeing to her terms but already working out how I can get the money back to her. “I’ll pay you every cent back when I get my half of the savings.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” she retorts in her no-nonsense tone and swivels around in her seat to face me. “I want to be involved in this part of your life, Harmony. You’ve been gone for the last seven years, I don’t want to miss anymore of it.” She stares at me for a beat. “It’s just sitting there collecting dust, what do I have to spend it on?”
Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks Series Book 1) Page 6