by Mere Joyce
“You don’t have to explain,” he says. I droop my head, and sulk silently for a moment. But then the words aren’t willing to stay inside any longer.
“It all just seems so small, s-so unimportant.” I start babbling, and then I can’t stop. The words come shakily from my lips, but they come nonetheless. “I-I should be able to get over it, t-to stop seeing it like it’s some monstrous thing, straight out of Hell.”
“Maddie, what are you talking about?” Dad asks. He reaches a hand over to my arm. His touch is warm, and only acts as a further reminder of how utterly preposterous my current existence is.
“I’m talking about The Painter!” I say. Dad visibly shrinks back at the name. I suppose he’s shocked to hear me say it, to say anything about my abduction.
“You don’t . . .” he starts, trying to comfort me with the press of his hand against my wet sweater. I cut him off before he can talk me out of saying anything more.
“No, I do,” I tell him. I’m cold, the rain slick and icy against my skin. I draw my knees up and hug them to my chest. “I’m blocked. In everything I want to do, I-I’m blocked. I-I can’t sleep without dreaming of him. I can’t eat without thinking of him. I can’t even walk through an art gallery, let alone p-paint anything. And it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? He––he’s just a person. He’s not a super villain, not some devil sent from the Underworld. He’s just a man with a serious mental illness. I-I should p-pity him, not fear him.”
“You never have to pity him,” Dad says, his voice dark. I look up at him, at the blond hair matted to his forehead, at the tanned skin going pink around the edges of his nose. When he talks, I notice he’s missing a tooth in his bottom row. I wonder when he lost it.
Dad slides closer to me, putting his whole arm around my back. “There are monsters in this world, Maddie,” he says in the same, serious tone. “And that man is one of them. Trust me, if I could kill him, I would.”
I’m surprised. He’s telling the truth, which is disconcerting. Before this moment, I never would have thought my father capable of hurting anything. He won’t even kill spiders in the house. But it’s clear he’s honest about this threat.
“Dad,” I whisper, and I move in to hug him from the side. He holds me tight, and I breathe in the scent of his aftershave.
“You never have to be ashamed of feeling afraid,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “We’re all afraid, probably more than you know. What you went through––”
“It was horrible,” I continue, my voice an echo of my increasing frustration. “But not as horrible as it could have been. I’m not ignorant. I haven’t exactly had the best of luck b-but I haven’t had the worst, either. He, The Pai–Jared Anderson, he is just Jared Anderson. He is just a man. His house was just a house. I-I was fed. I got to b-bathe. I was inside, out of the cold. I was never h-hit, never––never physically broken. I’m still alive. And I-I know that, Dad. I know it, and in the daylight, all the details seem so unthreatening. But then I try to do something, like go to the gallery. And I’m blocked again. And it’s so stupid. But I-I can’t get away from it.”
“That’s not how it works, sweetie,” Dad says quietly. “I wish it were. I wish so much. But it doesn’t go away all at once.”
“I know,” I sigh. I’ve heard these words before. From my therapists, my parents. I’ve even told them to myself, but they still haven’t helped. “I want it to go away, though. I’m sick of having breakdowns. I don’t want to live the rest of my life so afraid. It’s not even like I fear what will happen. It already happened, and I survived. So what am I still afraid of?”
Dad doesn’t have an answer for me.
“We should probably go inside,” he says instead. He squeezes me tight, and then lets go of me as he stands, his movements slow, a bit stiff. The sight of him standing on the deck, dripping in the rain under an off-putting sky, is a melancholy one. But he’s standing there simply for my sake, and I smile at him through my gloom as I store the picture away in my mind.
Our talk hasn’t fixed anything. I’m still petrified of the easel, and still fed up with my own terror. I’m mortified by my behavior at the gallery, and devastated I failed so spectacularly to make today’s outing successful. I’m just as lost before, and just as tired.
But at least I’ve got my father, my mother, my sister. It’s something, maybe the only thing, so I stand up and follow my father inside.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I’m ready to wallow in self-pity for the rest of the night, but my sister has other plans. Once dinner is over, and the sun has set, I hear her pounding up the steps to my room. She throws open my door, and grins at me as if my day hasn’t been a total wreck.
“Come on,” she says, beckoning me just like she did the night we saw Wesley’s band. I’m not in the mood for another surprise adventure, but her wide smile is impossible to resist.
“Where are we going now?” I ask, dragging myself to my feet. Autumn goes to my closet and fishes out a sweater for me to throw on over my shirt. My previous outfit sits in the laundry bin, still damp from my basking in the rain.
My sister’s not exactly bashful about rifling through my things. Sharing clothes, make-up, and shoes has never been a problem between us, probably because neither one of us has ever given a whole lot of thought to what we wear. Autumn used to clothe herself in sweatpants and huge sweaters. Over the years she’s traded in the loose look for tighter yoga pants and breathable tops, but despite the differing fit, the style has remained essentially the same. My own wardrobe consists of plain clothes gifted from Mom, and mismatched outfits bought as cheap as possible with the assumption they’d be at some point covered in paint. Our styles rarely overlap, but on the occasions they do, we see each other’s closets as an extension of our own.
Autumn waits at the door while I put on the sweater and slip on my running shoes.
“We’re going for a walk,” she says, but by the way she’s trying so hard not to smile, I’m positive she has a definite destination in mind.
“Yes, because the weather is so nice,” I say in a light, peppy tone. It’s dark and wet, the storm having come and gone over the dinner hour, but the rain is still drizzling down. When we reach the second floor, Autumn runs into her room and grabs two clear plastic umbrellas.
“We’ll be back!” she calls to Mom and Dad while we’re still heading down the stairs to the front hall. A muffled response sounding something like ‘don’t get too wet’ comes from the living room, and before I have time to again wonder how my parents are even letting us out like this, we’ve left the house.
Autumn gives me one of the umbrellas, and once they’re open, we head out into the night.
“I love the rain,” Autumn says, walking close to me. It’s a pretty night, the rain sparkling in the glow of the streetlights, the neighborhood quiet except for the gentle patter of water on pavement. For all my pointless fears of painted eyes and what they mean, walking like this doesn’t bother me. Just as I enjoy sitting in our backyard during the lonely hours of the night, I find the dark streets near my home oddly comforting.
I was abducted three blocks away from this spot. But tonight I’m not alone, listening to music loud enough to drown out scuffling feet stealing up behind me, so lost in my thoughts I don’t notice the sick creature stalking my steps. Tonight, I’m not afraid of what’s lurking in the shadows.
“I love it, too,” I tell Autumn, as she veers off to jump in a puddle along the curb, soaking the bottoms of her pants.
“I’ve officially signed up for Fitness Camp,” she says a moment later, after she’s bounced back over to where I walk in the middle of the road. She’s more bubbly than usual tonight, her movements almost hyper. I wonder if she has pent-up energy from an inactive day, or if she’s just working extra hard to lighten the mood from this morning’s episode.
“I’m glad you’re going,” I say, as we round a corner and head past an array of houses, various windows dotted with steady yellow
light and the flickering blues of television sets. “It sounds like a great camp. Plus, you need all the exposure you can get. I fully expect you to have your own studio someday.And I fully expect to get a free membership.”
“We’ll talk discounts,” Autumn says with snarky smirk, and I feign indignation at not being given the royal treatment from the onset of her future plans.
“Some sister I’ve got,” I say in mock glumness, and Autumn sighs dramatically before leaning her shoulder against mine, our umbrellas bumping together overhead.
“Worst ever,” she says, her smile complacent for a moment, before she bursts into another fit of high energy. “Oh! Did I tell you about the trip I’m doing? It’s a canoe excursion to an island about a mile off the bay. We paddle there, and then spend two days at a cabin in a yoga and meditation retreat.”
“Meditation?” I laugh the word, giving my sister a quizzical look. “Aren’t most summer camps about, like, nature walks and playing Capture the Flag?”
“There are those things,” Autumn says, her expression serious, but also content, peaceful. “But I like meditation. I saw this video once, all about meditation for teens. I liked it. I mean, it’s been useful sometimes, you know? Helps to clear away . . . stuff.”
I understand her meaning, even if I find it a bit hard to picture. My sister, age thirteen, is part-child and part-woman, a jarring mesh of personality that nevertheless suits her. I love how she’s found her own passion, her own means of progression and escape, a pastime and a plan for her future. Most of the people I used to spend time with never gave much thought to what they wanted to do when they grew up. It makes me proud Autumn shares my thirst for over-planning.
We walk down a couple of streets until we turn and cross to a large field usually reserved for soccer games. The field is unlit by any overhead lighting and is clearly not intended for night time visitors, but tonight it’s not dark, or empty. Colorful lights blur near the center of the field, and when we spot them, Autumn grabs my arm and breaks into an excited run.
“This is it!” she calls, and I follow her, my curiosity buzzing. There are a few people standing to one side of the colorful streaks, and when we’re closer I recognize them as teens, children, and adults, families crowded together watching under umbrellas and hooded ponchos.
“What is this?” I ask, and Autumn grins, running until we’ve reached the other onlookers. When we stop, I peer onto the field and finally comprehend the sight before me. It’s a group of kids, nine in total, their ages difficult to guess in the darkness. From what I can see there are three boys and six girls, and all of them are holding umbrellas with colorful lights shining in strands down each rib of the canopies. The lights are bright, and are constantly moving as the group runs around, doing cartwheels, flips, tumbles, splits, handstands, and a dozen other gymnastic feats.
“We had to make them for a class project last year,” Autumn says, her eyes dancing with anticipation. “LED lights, all powered with rechargeable batteries. They were so cool we didn’t want them to go to waste. So, every so often, some of us come out in the rain and use them.”
She steps back from me, and flips on her own switch, lighting up her umbrella with orange, pink, blue, green, and purple lights. I laugh as she runs out to the field, joining the others in their chaotic dance. It’s obvious this hasn’t been a thoroughly planned outing. There’s no choreography here, no well-practiced moves. It’s just energy, leaping, spinning, sprinting energy.
And it’s dazzling.
“Pretty great, isn’t it?” I look to my left to see a woman who I assume is the mother of one of the dancers. She’s holding a large thermos between her hands, and the hood of her sweatshirt is pulled up to shield her face from the rain.
“Y-Yeah, it is,” I agree.
“They just came up with the idea one day. No reason to it. It’s completely crazy. But it’s also pretty great.” She’s proud, and I wonder which fearless acrobat belongs to her. “Want some hot chocolate? I always make enough for the group. Hank, bring over a cup!”
Before I can respond, a man joins us, a stack of Styrofoam cups in one hand. The woman pulls off a cup and pours it full of steaming chocolate, and I take it gratefully. It’s warm, delicious. I sip it slowly, watching in awe as my sister twirls her umbrella and does a series of one-handed cartwheels. She’s incredibly graceful, her lean body flexing and bending so naturally it’s stunning.
The rain drums against the plastic umbrellas, droplets sliding and flicking off the edges in a shower defying gravity. Both on the field and off, people talk, laugh, and even holler. Four of the girls dance in a circle and bellow ‘Ring Around the Rosy’ as loud as they can, their voices off-key and broken with delight. When the rhyme finishes, they flop to the ground, their umbrellas held upright like markers of their graves. Then the others run to them, hop over their prone bodies, and one-by-one grab their arms to pull them back to life.
When my hot chocolate is almost gone, Autumn jogs back over to me. Even in the soft glow of the lights on her umbrella, I can tell her cheeks are flushed with activity. Her hair is soaked, as are her clothes, and she’s obviously loving it.
“This is insane!” I tell her, and she pants through a giggle.
“I know!” she yells, both arms raised high above her. She throws her head back, shakes her wet hair like a dog drying its coat, and then brings her arms back to her sides and steps in close to me. “I’m happy you came,” she says in a subdued voice. “I’m happy you trust me enough to have come. I wanted you to see this. Especially today.”
“Why today?” I ask, confused by the earnestness of her features.
“Because,” Autumn says, “today you needed a reminder that it isn’t all scary. Life can still be beautiful.”
She leans in, kisses my cheek, and reaches a hand under my umbrella. A switch I didn’t realize existed is flipped, and above my head, around my head, colorful lights brighten the night.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Later, when the house has settled into the stillness of sleep, I sit on my bed and draw. Feet snuggled under a deep mound of blankets, a half-eaten chocolate cupcake left over from dessert beside an empty mug and a bottle of water on my nightstand. My room is warm, and I’ve cracked the window to fill it with the music of the rain.
It started as a simple sketch. I couldn’t sleep, and my fingers itched to recreate the magic of the dance in the field. So after I rummaged for a sketchbook and a pencil, neither difficult to find hidden in the drawers of my dresser I sat against my headboard and began pencilling rough outlines, of ten figures in mid-motion. Full-bodied work is not my talent, but I couldn’t resist putting my art therapy techniques into action and making a quick picture of the scene replaying in my mind.
I enjoy making the sketch. Enjoy it so much I’ve now slowed down, taking more time to distinguish one body from the next. It’s not a perfect rendition, and nothing anyone would ever hang proudly on a wall for guests to admire, but I like the way it’s turning out. I’ve captured the action, I think, the constant movements of the figures in the rain. And even though they’re all faceless, I’ve defined my sister with bolder lines and the hint of features, as she stands in profile-view, with her umbrella raised high and one leg straight out behind her, almost like a ballerina.
“It needs color,” I mumble, more than once, as I try to differentiate between the black sky and the glow from the umbrella lights. Some artists could do it, and for a while I try, but I simply don’t possess the skill. Color is my friend, my ally, and the more I stare at the picture before me, the more I’m certain it’s needed.
I glance up and gaze around the room, pencil tapping against the sketchpad.
“Color, color...” I look at my dresser, and try to recall if I’ve put anything worthwhile in there. I’m about to get up and search, when I glance over to my closet instead. “Oh!” I lay the picture to one side and scramble out of bed, the floor cool against my feet. The sensation sends an automatic tingle throu
gh my arches, and I shudder, curling my toes and pausing until the creeping chill passes. Then I reach for my closet, sliding back the door and carefully avoiding my framed paintings as I dig out the plastic school container of pencil crayons buried in a box near the back.
“Perfect,” I smile as I flip open the lid and see the remnants of the stash I once used for decorating school notebooks and binders. I crawl back into my soft, warm bed, more comfortable than I’ve been at night for a long time. I pick out a few choice colors, sharpen them with the little plastic sharpener also in the container, and then I begin to add more life to my work.
I start with the lights. I make them shine, make them streak through the night. I love the contrast of the soft, misty colors against the grey-black outlines of the pencil. And when I finish the umbrellas, I sharpen another batch of pencil crayons and put faint touches of shade to the dancers’ clothing.
It takes time. I’m clumsy with the pencils, and I make more than a few mistakes. Even once it’s finished, the picture is far from exquisite. But it’s beautiful to me. I hold it up under the light of my lamp, and prickle with satisfaction.
So I can’t paint. Portraits, acrylics, brushes and a blank canvas might be permanently out of reach. But Autumn is right. There’s still beauty to be captured, and art can still be inspiring, delightful, fun. I’ve had fun drawing this picture. My technique is amateurish, but I can learn, improve. If I work at it, this could be my new form of expression.
It’s not the same. Pencils are harder, firmer against the paper. The grip is tighter, my fingers pressed more deliberately against the thin wood. Even the smells are different, the wood shavings and graphite reminiscent of school days, not artistic nights. But I could learn to appreciate them, and they could become as dear to me as painting once was.
I can at least try.
I put away the pencils and pencil crayons, and lay the picture on the floor next to my bed. I’m wide-awake, but I switch off the lamp and nestle into my covers.