Blank Canvas

by Mere Joyce

  I look into the glass, and see myself staring back.

  Only, it’s an altered version of me, and one looking happily stunned. It’s an almost ethereal me, completely unexpected and unexpectedly overjoyed.

  I imagined my hair would be cut straight across my back and darker, or at least brighter, in shade. Instead, Rebecca has taken the opposite approach. The cut is just above my shoulders, the strands blown out into a long bob. My whole head has been dyed an even, white-blonde color, with actual strands of white and silver strewn throughout. And on my right, the hair framing my face has been accented with an undercurrent of black peeking out through the strands.

  It’s like something from another world. My pale skin looks even paler than it did before, but it doesn’t look as off-color, as sickly. It’s oddly natural, and if it weren’t for the grey bags under my eyes, the tone would be delicate, even radiant.

  I look hip. Slightly dangerous.

  I look alive.

  “What do you think?” Rebecca asks, waiting anxiously for me to react. Slowly, my shocked expression turns into a grin. A huge, ridiculously goofy grin.

  “It’s exactly what I needed,” I beam, biting my lip.

  Because it is exactly what I needed. Staring at my reflection now, I make the decision. This, right here, is the first moment of the rest of my life.

  Chapter Thirty

  I have one more stop to make before I leave the mall. I ride the escalator down to the lower level, my fingers continuously creeping up to my hair before I can stop them. I don’t want to ruin any of Rebecca’s work, but it’s difficult to keep from testing the shortness of the hair, from revelling in the way my hands believe there’s more to grasp than there actually is. I feel airy as I glide from one shopping level to the next, my past no longer tugging me down. In captivity, my hair was mine, and I cherished its length. But I’ve held on for long enough. It’s good to release myself from its power.

  I walk past several shops, mothers with strollers and men and women in business suits passing in the opposite direction, all of them immersed in their own pockets of the universe. Once, I sat in this mall for about an hour simply watching people flutter by. I don’t recall why I did it, with whom, whether it was summer or winter, on a school day or weekend afternoon. But I do remember the little girl with pigtails and a back brace, the old man holding a coffee cup in a trembling hand, the teenaged couple sharing sloppy kisses and a fountain drink.

  I haven’t people-watched in a while, but as I make my way past shoe stores and gadget stalls, I try and take more notice of my surroundings, try to memorize the way my fellow shoppers look and act as they go about their days. I used to study them as subjects I’d like to paint. Now, I view them as subjects of life, totally oblivious to the horrors of the world or else all too familiar with them, but coping nonetheless.

  I hope, for their sake, these people fall into the former category. But for my sake, I want to believe the latter is true for at least a couple of the bright faces I pass. I want to be assured others can do it, so I know I can do it, too. I don’t need anyone’s permission to be happy, I guess. But sometimes I feel like I’m never supposed to be carefree again. Is there a limit to a person’s potential happiness? Is there a line, which once crossed keeps certain people away, leaving the unadulterated joy for purer souls? My hair is shorter, and my own pocket of the universe is warmer because of it. But is a haircut enough to send me on the path to sunny days?

  If others can manage to crawl out of the darkness and thoroughly shed their shadows, I’d like to believe I’m capable of it, too.

  It’s a nice thought, anyway.

  Looking for the photo shop, I get lost briefly, because it’s moved since I last paid any attention to its whereabouts. When I arrive where I think it should be, I find instead a candle store, the strongest scents of pine and fragrant floral wafting out from the store entrance to greet me. I have to backtrack, find a directory, and locate the photo shop around the corner from the candle place. I make my way down the correct corridor, and at last find what I’m looking for.

  “Hi, what can I do for you?”

  The cashier at the shop is a pretty girl, plump, with an eyebrow piercing and bright, shimmering lips coated with gloss. She eyes my hair appreciatively, and a tremor trills down my spine in anticipation of the moment I get to share my new look with Wesley and Autumn.

  “I-I have an order to pick up,” I say, fishing the confirmation page I printed last week out of my messenger bag. The girl––her nametag reads Clarissa––unfolds the paper and enters the order number into her computer.

  “Oh yeah, came in this morning,” she smiles, returning the paper to my hand. “It’s nice.” She heads into the back, and while she’s gone I glance around the shop at the picture frames and cameras on display. I’ve never been interested in photography, but I can see its appeal. Capturing magnificent moments at the perfect second, snapping exquisite expressions or dazzling sunsets, or beautiful shots of fish and coral under the sea. Our family photos are either all posed, or blurry, out of focus, or off-center. None of us are professionals, but I like our pictures because they’re honestly us, imperfect and blurry and true.

  Still, there’s something to be said for the grandeur of a well-taken picture. There’s passion in anything, and there’s talent to be had in a medium like this.

  “Here we go,” Clarissa says, coming back out into the shop with a large canvas carried across her body, her arms stretched out on either side to reach the ends. I knew how big this would be when I ordered it online last week, but still my stomach drops when I see it. I’ll be taking the bus back to school after this. I didn’t plan out the actual logistics of carrying the canvas with me.

  Clarissa brings it around to the front of the desk, and turns it so I can see the finished product. When I do, I momentarily forget the irksome details of how I’ll get this home without damaging it or hurting myself.

  “It’s great,” I say, stepping back to get a better view of the overall product. The canvas is big, fifty-five by thirty inches, and from afar, what can be seen is a picture of my family, taken about four years ago on a summer camping trip. Mom says it’s always been her favorite picture of the four of us, which is why I chose it.

  But the camping photograph isn’t the gem of this piece. Upon closer inspection, the one picture of my family is actually compromised of dozens of smaller pictures of us, fitted together in just the right rotation to make the larger image. I spent two hours last Thursday compiling photos from the flash drives Mom keeps in the basement office. There are ones from the same camping trip as the larger picture, as well as older photos, some taken with the digital camera and others scanned from prints taken years and years ago.

  I’ve included some pictures from my parents’ wedding in the early nineties, Mom’s dress puffy and ornately sequinned. I’ve got pictures of me and Autumn with our cousins, ones of my parents and their friends, and ones of me and Wesley, me and Autumn and Wesley, all of us and Wesley. I also used photos taken while I was gone, photos of Mom and Dad and my sister at a beach, at Thanksgiving, at a park on a sunny day. And at the end of all my compiling, I still needed one more picture, so I used my laptop’s camera to take a snapshot of myself.

  To thank Wesley, I made him a batch of cookies. It was only a start, and I can excitedly imagine another million ways to thank him in the future, with words and trips and kisses and maybe even more baked goods. I have plans to thank my family as well, to make new memories with them to help dim the dreariness of days gone by. And this is my start.

  For years, the space over the fireplace in our family room has been empty. Mom wanted to hang a picture there, but I refused to let her because I wanted to paint a masterpiece to be displayed in its prominent place. I never got around to it before, and in the last couple of months Mom has casually let it slip she’s been looking at ordering a print to hang up. I’m sorry I won’t be fulfilling my insistent promise. I’m sorry I can’t paint her som
ething beautiful. I’m sorry I never even attempted it in the days when I still could. But this is better than a print ordered from some furniture warehouse. It may not be exactly what either of us imagined, but it’s excellent, in its own unexpected way.

  I pay for the picture, and slowly make my way out of the store, my arms outstretched just as Clarissa’s had been, my legs unable to take more than small shuffling steps. When I catch my reflection in a glassy window display, I look like a stranger with short hair and a straight, slow walk. I feel rather like an idiot, too, but it’s not an entirely bad feeling to have. I almost laugh out loud at my image in the glass. But then I save the exclamation, because I still have to get the picture out of the mall and onto the bus.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I manage to get the picture onto the bus, and I ride it back to a stop close to home. In the last remaining minutes of school time, I put the picture in my room, and jog back to the school so I can meet Autumn after the final bell rings.

  She doesn’t hold back her opinion about my hair.

  “You should have taken me with you!” she complains as we make our way through the neighborhood. “I could have skipped class.”

  “Sorry,” I tell her. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “It’s so great, though,” Autumn gushes. “Really beautiful. You’re beautiful, big sister. And I’m totally going to steal the look. I couldn’t pull it off, though. Not like you. You’ve got that whole crazy-pale thing going. I’d look weird with white hair, wouldn’t I? But it’s good on you. So good on you. I can’t believe you didn’t take me to the mall! It would’ve been awesome to see you right after it was done. Seriously, I love it.” She babbles on until we get home, and while I like her compliments, I have to convince her I need to study alone so she’ll head to her room, leaving me free to sneak out and head next door.

  Wesley’s reaction to my hair is even better than Autumn’s. When I get to his house to recruit his help in hanging the picture, he says nothing after he opens the door and sees me standing on the porch. He only brings me directly into the most delicious kiss, bursting with tenderness and want.

  “I n-need your help,” I grin against his lips, as he runs his fingers through my sleek strands. His touch sends shivers of warmth down my neck.

  “Anything,” he murmurs in reply, and then he kisses me again.

  We get back to my house and into my room, tiptoeing up the stairs so Autumn won’t hear us. It’s odd having Wesley in my room. He’s been here before, but not for a long time, and not since we were too young for it to mean anything more than two friends playing games with innocent naïveté.

  We steal a few heated minutes lounging on my bed, the scene forbidden and glorious. As I kiss Wesley, I can’t stop thinking about how his head is against my pillow, or how tonight when I go to bed I’ll have his lingering scent to lull me to sleep. It’s wonderful, and when we stop to catch our breath, I giggle when I realize I already need to smooth out and straighten my hair.

  Eventually, we bring the picture downstairs, and I run out into the garage to find a hammer and some nails to hang it up with. Wesley uses a kitchen stool to get up over the fireplace, and he holds the picture in place while I judge the height, making sure it’s even.

  “They’re going to love this,” he says when he starts tapping in the nails, trying to be as quiet as possible not to disturb Autumn. I can hear her stereo blaring above us, which means she probably wouldn’t even notice if Wesley pounded the hammer into the wall. As it is, he puts in the nails with quiet care, and we hang the picture without interruption.

  When they get home, Mom and Dad don’t say much about my hair, but I can read their wavering thoughts. They like it, Mom especially, and they’re encouraged, optimistic this change could be the start of me overcoming my trauma. But they’re also worried this, along with my evening spent with Wesley and my suggestion to visit the art gallery on the weekend, means I’m pushing for too many changes. Plus, they’re bothered I skipped school and went somewhere without anyone knowing. Honestly, my lack of disclosure may be their biggest concern of all, and it’s kind of thrilling to have a lengthy conversation with them about something so mundane.

  Wesley left after we got the picture hung, so no one suspects a thing while we eat dinner and discuss my unplanned trip to the mall. Only when Dad’s clearing away the plates after the meal is over do I tell everyone I’ve got a surprise for them in the family room.

  “What kind of surprise?” Mom asks suspiciously, and I roll my eyes in amusement as I drag her by the arm down the hall. The family room is closed off with a door, which makes it easy for me to conceal the picture until all three members of my family are gathered together.

  “I wanted to d-do something for you, in place of something else I c-can’t,” I say. They’re perplexed by my cryptic statement, so I open the door and let them see the picture for themselves. It sits perfectly over the fireplace, the grey-blue hue of the wall a nice accompaniment to the soft palette of the mosaic.

  I watch Mom for her reaction. This gift is for everyone, but it’s a little more for my mother than anyone else. When she sees the picture, I examine the emotions as they ripple across her face. There’s confusion, followed by surprise, and then an unsettled mixture of solemn appreciation. Seeing this is like total defeat, like a direct confirmation I’ve decided for certain I’ll never be able to paint again. I almost want to tell her I still will, or at least I still want to, but I push my desire down into my stomach where it shifts uncomfortably and then fizzles into nothing more than crestfallen resignation.

  I swallow the words of unspoken comfort, and remind myself it’s not all sadness I see in the shallow lines of my mother’s face. She’s also grateful I’ve done this, taken the decision out of her hands and put up something she loves much more than a generic painting of flowers, or a stranger’s photo of a famous city.

  “This is awesome!” Autumn stands close to the fireplace, her eyes scanning the many pictures contained within the main image. “Maddie, this is so cool. How did you do this?”

  “I-I did it online. I-I picked it up today at the m-mall.” Autumn is vocal with her opinions, but Mom and Dad both are more reserved, and neither one has responded yet. I bite my lip, flexing my toes in a rhythmic fashion as I wait for either to acknowledge the piece.

  “My favorite picture,” Mom says with tight lips. She looks at me, and a conversation, a year’s worth of conversation, passes silently between us. “It’s lovely, Maddie. Thank you.”

  “I-I just thought––well, it’s different, but it’s . . . it’s something,” I say, the words so heavy they nearly fall straight from my mouth to the floor. I want to tell Mom I heard last week’s phone call. I want to confide, and tell her she can talk to me. The syllables tremble on my lips, but they’re too afraid to come out. Even after all my recent accomplishments, I’m still too afraid to accept what I heard.

  “It looks great,” Dad chimes in with a lighter voice. Mom nods, first at me, and then at all of us.

  “You’re right,” she says, her own voice unconvincingly cheerful. “It’s the perfect thing for the space. Thank you, Maddie.” She hugs me, and I lean into her embrace, smell her perfume and pretend this moment is more joyous than it is.

  “I’m craving something sweet,” Dad says when our silent hug lingers for too long. “Why don’t we get some ice cream, to celebrate Maddie’s present?”

  “Oh, yes!” Autumn leads the brigade, agreeing wholeheartedly with Dad and working to make this moment halfway decent. “We can go to Saunders’. It’s a weekday, so they won’t be too busy.”

  “S-Sounds good,” I say. I pause, glancing at the picture and thinking of the boy who helped me hang it, the boy who would be undeniably useful in improving this evening’s mood. “Can I bring Wesley?”

  Mom’s face clears, an honestly pleasant smile sliding up her lips at my suggestion. “Yes, of course,” she says in a gentle voice, and I turn to follow Autumn as she ra
ces for the front door.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Wednesday is a good day. At school, I notice myself being noticed, and it’s strangely enjoyable because it’s my look drawing observation, not my story. I don’t fade into the background, and I can’t hide behind a curtain of hair. It’s a bit unnerving, but not nearly so uncomfortable as I imagined. There was a time I loved standing out in a crowd. I don’t crave such attention anymore, and I doubt I ever will again. But it’s nice to be someone worthy of a passing glance.

  By the end of the day I’m relaxed and content. I’m allowed to walk home from school if Autumn walks with me, and it’s a beautiful day, so I’m eager for a nice, languid stroll. Art Showcase is tomorrow, which means Autumn has to do a final run-through of the routine she and her dance mates will be performing tomorrow night, but I don’t mind waiting until she’s done. While she’s backstage, I wander around the floor of the auditorium as the set-up for the big event begins.

  I figured being here would make me nervous, jittery. Instead, I get a small rush of excitement as I watch a sculptor setting up his booth, his finished piece of abstract design already on display. I study the form, made of polished glass and clay, and watch the boy as he pushes his glasses onto his head so he can closely examine the precise angle his of creation. The attention to detail would be either comical or annoying to someone who is not a perfectionist, but I recall many times where I’ve acted in a similarly deranged way.

  There’s a stand along the far wall of the auditorium full of brochures from colleges and universities offering arts programs. After I’ve made my way around the mostly empty display tables, I sidle up to it, the bright colors and confident, attractive model students pulling me in. I scan the brochures, lifting a few at random, lifting a few more purposefully. Some of the schools boast strong programs for music, for performance art, for dance. I flit through the brochure for Eastern U, Wesley’s chosen school, and although it’s close to home, I’m pleased to see it seems like a respectable choice. I’m glad he hasn’t settled just to stay in town.