Paint Me True

by E. M. Tippetts

  Mike began by invoking his priesthood authority and pronouncing a blessing.

  Then Chris took over. First he invoked his priesthood authority, and then it was time for him to give some additional counsel.

  This is where I pricked up my ears. Not that the other words were unimportant to me, but this part of the blessing was the part that was personal. Chris would do his best to clear his mind and speak as he felt moved to speak by the Holy Ghost.

  I waited.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. After what felt like minutes, he spoke. “Your Heavenly Father would have you know,” he said, “that He has a very special lesson for you to learn.” Then he paused.

  I tried to sit up straight despite the gentle pressure of their palms upon my head.

  The pause stretched into a prolonged silence. Then Chris closed the ordinance in the names of the Godhead and lifted his hands. I looked up at him and he just shrugged in reply.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “That’s gotta be a record for shortest blessing ever,” said Mike.

  “I appreciate it,” I said, and I did. My heart wasn’t on fire with the Spirit right then, but what mattered was that these two guys had cared enough to make an effort.

  I saw them to the door and thanked them again as they stepped out into the chill night.

  “I’m sorry,” Chris said, but I waved that away and shut the door.

  One thing about being older than most of the ward, I felt more settled in my faith. I wasn’t trying out religion as an adult to see whether or not it was something I could sustain. My testimony was burned in deep. If it weren’t for God, I knew I’d be a very different person. How else could I survive the deaths of all my close, female relatives and still get through the day? Adages like “time heals all wounds”, are lies. Let me be clear on that. Each death hurts just as bad today as it did the day it happened. The people I’ve lost were ripped from me and took pieces of my soul with them, and I can feel the wounds every second of every day. Like a Hollywood actress I can call up tears on demand. They’re always there, tickling the back of my throat. There isn’t a moment that I don’t miss my mother, or wish I could pick up a phone and call my sisters.

  But I’ve had holes in my heart for as long as I can remember. One of my earliest memories is my last visit to my Aunt Claire, before she died later that night. All through elementary, junior high, and high school I’d taken breaks for funerals with the kind of regularity other kids got the flu. Still, people were always surprised whenever they heard the family medical history. Many asked how I got through the day.

  Step by step, I guess. The Lord has never given me a major miracle. None of my relatives had a spontaneous remission from cancer. I’ve never seen great white lights or angelic figures. But the Lord gives me small blessings every moment. Turmoil that I can’t purge by whining to a friend disappears when I pour my heart out in prayer. Nights when I wondered how I’d endure, I’d get a full and deep sleep and wake up just strong enough to put one foot in front of the other again. And then there were moments like tonight, when two guys from my ward felt impressed to come check on me. Even though they’d stayed less than twenty minutes, I felt better knowing they cared.

  Twenty-four hours later I was in London, Heathrow, another face in the hordes on the move. I’d cleared customs and immigration and now tried to stuff my passport into my pocket with one hand, hold onto my bag with the other, and follow signs to the trains all at the same time. I’d done this before, and just like before it gave me a thrill to know how far I’d traveled. The glimpses of sky I caught through the windows showed gray clouds, but it wasn’t even six a.m. Given how far north I was, and the fact that it was the middle of the summer, the sun was already up and with luck it’d burn off that layer of cloudcover. Right now, though, I imagined the landscape as watercolor material, the pale gray concrete of the buildings overlain with all shades of greenery.

  I got some pounds sterling out of the first cash machine I found – using a debit card Aunt Nora had given me. We’d fought about that, years ago, and suffice it to say, she’d won. My bank and credit card company charged fees for every foreign currency transaction I made, and Aunt Nora had showed me her checking account balance. It was six figures. That, and she’d broken down in tears and told me neither of her children ever came to visit, so she wanted me to come as often as I liked. Since she doted on me like a mother, I decided to think of myself as a daughter to her, even if there was only a fifteen year age gap between us.

  The train to Oxford was already in the station, its silver gray cars stretching off down the platform like an articulated metal snake. I selected a car about halfway down its length, stashed my luggage in the metal rack and sank into a seat facing forwards. I fished out a can of Dr. Pepper that I’d bought on my way through the airport and drank it as fast as I could. I needed to stay awake, or else I might sleep through my stop.

  As the engine spun up and the train began to move, I took out my British cell phone – one I’d bought a couple of visits ago – and switched it on. The UK had pay-as-you-go phones that never expired. I could keep my number and prepaid minutes for as long as I wanted, a deal I wished I could get in the US. The phone chimed to let me know I had a message.

  “Hello, my name’s Colin Radcliffe. I’m a nurse at St. John’s private hospital. We’ve received your aunt into care and she asked one of us to call you. We’re located in Summertown. I’m sending you a text with directions from the train station.”

  Sure enough, there was a text with the directions. I loved modern technology.

  The train pulled into Oxford at 7:48, and I stumbled off with my luggage. I needed to sleep, but more than that, I needed to help Aunt Nora. I bought another Dr. Pepper in the station and downed it fast, then went out to the taxi stand and explained I needed to get to St. John’s hospital in Summertown. For a few confused minutes the cabbie at the front of the line argued with me about the location, then said, “Oh, right, you mean the private ward in the general hospital.” I knew nothing about the hospital system in Oxford, so I just had to take his word for it. He claimed, looking at the directions on my phone, that this was the right place.

  He helped me load my bags into the car and then we were off. I tried not to look. Walking around Oxford was pretty easy. The roads twisted and turned and changed names sometimes, but you could pick a direction and work your way to where you wanted to end up. Driving, though, required knowledge of the one way streets and weird intersections. I ignored how often the driver turned in what seemed like the exact wrong direction as we darted down the narrow lanes, dodging bikes and pedestrians.

  Yet at the same time, I willed myself to be alert. If the hospital was giving my aunt a hard time, then I needed to be ready for a fight. I hated hospitals, but I had enough experience to know that it never paid to be easygoing. You had to demand what you wanted and make sure you didn’t let the staff rest until you got it.

  When I opened my eyes again, we were in Summertown, a part of North Oxford known for its beautiful Victorian homes. The cabbie took us down what looked like a residential street, only a large parking lot opened up on our left and there was a hospital set back from the road. He went around the side to a smaller building with a sign that read, “St. John’s Oncology Centre”. My heart just about stopped. My aunt was being treated for cancer?

  I got out of the cab, paid the fare plus tip, and thanked the cabbie when he hauled my bag out of the trunk and left it on the curb where I directed him. The car pulled away in a cloud of gray, oily fumes as I hefted my suitcase and went through the sliding glass doors. Ahead of me was a reception desk, and behind it was a woman with a scowl.

  “Hi,” I said, making no effort to hide my accent. “I’m here to see Nora Chesterton? I got here as fast as I could.”

  The scowl melted and the woman sat up straighter. “You came all the way from the States?”

  “Yes, I just landed in Heathrow at six.”

&
nbsp; “You didn’t? Oh my, you must be shattered.”

  “I’d really like to see my aunt.”

  “I’ll ring the ward.”

  While the woman chatted to whomever was on the other end of the line, I did my best to stay upright. The room seemed to sway slightly and my eyelids felt like they had lead weights attached to them.

  “Right.” The woman looked uncertainly at my baggage.

  “I didn’t have time to drop it off,” I said.

  “Why don’t you just pop it back here? They’re quite eager to see you. Go round the corner and through the fire doors.”

  “Thank you.” I hauled my bag around behind the partition and desk.

  “That’s all right then. Nurse Radcliffe will meet you once you go in.”

  I went down the hall and pulled open the fire doors, doors that every public building in Britain seemed to have. They were just plain doors that swung shut automatically and which always had instructions on them insisting they stay closed. I was ready to demand information from whomever stood on the other side. Only, no one did. I stepped through onto clean industrial tile in a broad hallway that was lit with a mix of fluorescent lights and skylights. The natural sunlight made everything seem so much more alive than the usual artificial lights. The nurses’ station was just ahead and to the left. A guy stepped out from it and I stifled the urge to gasp audibly.

  He was gorgeous. Light brown hair and liquid brown eyes. His scrubs fit well on his tall frame and revealed well defined biceps. I tried to see his hands, where they grasped a folder of records, which he scanned. Was it too much to hope that he’d not have a wedding ring? That he’d maybe wear a CTR ring as well? That last wish was ridiculous, I knew. If he was a Latter-day Saint, I’d have met him at church during my last visit. Unless he was new...

  His eyes scanned down the page he was reading, then paused. He looked up at me. “Oh, hello,” said the familiar voice. He’d been the one who left the message on my cellphone. “You Eliza Dunmar?” Those calf eyes gazed at me through thick lashes.

  “Ah...” I said.

  He put down the records he’d been reading held out his hand.

  I shook it. His skin was warm, or mine was cold. I didn’t know which. “Yes,” I said, “I am.”

  “Right, so your aunt is in room-”

  “Why is she in an oncology ward?”

  He gave me a wry smile. “Excellent question. Not normally the place a person with a broken arm gets sent. The public hospital thought that she might need her brain scanned for a tumor.”

  “A tumor?” Alarm bells went off in my head.

  “Well, her behavior’s been a bit erratic. She won’t let anyone x-ray her arm.”

  “What?”

  “Simple break, should be easy enough to set, but she won’t allow an x-ray. That plus the mystery of how she fell-”

  “What mystery?” I said. “I thought she slipped.”

  “Mmm...” He picked up another set of records, flipped it open, and scanned down the page. “Arrived unconscious, first was disoriented and accused the hospital staff of kidnapping her, then yes, she did say she’d slipped and fell. So it’s really just the x-ray she needs.”

  “Did she say why she didn’t want one?”

  “Says she thinks it’s unnecessary and just an attempt to inflate fees. This from a woman who’s stayed two days in two different hospitals for a broken arm. She needs to go back to the other hospital, get her arm x-rayed and have it set. It’s that simple.” He closed the folder.

  “Okay, let me talk to her.”

  He gestured for me to follow him down the hall.

  When I stepped into Nora’s room, shock hit like a punch in the chest. She looked so much older than when I’d seen her, eight months ago. She’d lost weight and her skin had a papery texture to it that made it seem like it could part with just a touch. In reaction to our shadows darkening the door, she lifted her head. “Eliza?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” I went to take her hand, which felt bony and fragile. “How are you feeling?”

  “Been better. That nurse there’s been cutting back on my painkillers.”

  I glanced back over my shoulder, but the nurse had already left. “So how did you end up in this place?” I asked.

  “Just trying to get to people who will talk sense. All these ridiculous tests they want to run.”

  “Okay, so they say you need an x-ray and that’s all. Did anyone else tell you different?”

  “They say I’m acting crazy.”

  “They’re probably not used to anyone refusing an x-ray.”

  “You can set a bone without an x-ray.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with getting an x-ray?”

  She sighed. “I hate medical equipment and tests and all that garbage.”

  “Okay, but if you keep refusing treatment, they’ll start requesting more scans and stuff.”

  “I’m not refusing treatment. I’m refusing an x-ray. X-rays don’t treat anything.” Her hand had tensed up to the point that her bones dug into my flesh.

  I didn’t want to fight with her. “Okay, well, howabout this. You get an x-ray and I’ll paint you a picture of anything you want.”

  Her hand relaxed and a light appeared in her eyes. “You bribing me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  “We-ell, maybe I should’ve broken my arm sooner.”

  “And maybe now is not the time to admit that I’d paint you a custom painting anytime you asked.”

  She laughed then and patted my hand. “I’m glad you’re here, honey.” She even talked like she was an old woman. “You really think I’m being that silly?”

  “I think they’re used to following their procedures. They don’t do creative compromises.”

  “Well, I suppose you’re right about that. I don’t want an x-ray.”

  “But you’ll get one?”

  “I want it on the smallest possible area. The need to zoom in as much as they can.”

  “All right, I’ll tell them.”

  “The less radiation they put into me, the better.”

  I wasn’t sure that her idea would cut the radiation dose, but now wasn’t the time to point that out. “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  I found Nurse Radcliffe back out at the nurse’s station with a manila folder in one hand and a pen in the other. “All right?” he said when I approached. He didn’t look up.

  “Yes.”

  “Mmmm?” Now he did look up with those soulful eyes of his.

  I had to remind myself that “All right?” in Britspeak meant, “How are you?” He hadn’t asked me about Aunt Nora at all.

  “She’ll have her arm x-rayed.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t twist her arm too hard, I trust? We’re quite certain it is broken.”

  “No, no twisting.”

  He put the folder down and turned his whole attention to me. “Then what did you do?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I bribed her.” I tried to keep my tone flat, but it came out flirty anyway. I was tired. My inhibitions were low. Now that I could see both his hands, I saw no wedding band and no CTR ring.

  “With what?” he asked.

  “With art.” The words should have shut the conversation down, but I said them in a way that invited him to ask.

  “Art, eh? You’re going to buy her-”

  “Paint for her. I’m a professional artist.”

  He blinked with surprise, as most people did when I said that.

  I clasped my hands behind my back and tried not to tilt my head and swing my shoulders just so, but my body wouldn’t listen. I was being a fool.

  Even worse, it seemed to affect him. He smiled. “You’re quite useful to have around. You got her to switch just like that?”

  “You’re welcome. Can you book her x-rays?”

  “I’ll give the hospital a ring and we’ll get this sorted.”

  I nod
ded and turned to go. A quick glance over my shoulder let me know he watched me leave. We exchanged another smile.

  When I returned to Aunt Nora’s room, she looked agitated again. “Eliza, have you been to my house yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’m worried about Pip.”

  Pip was her little Maltese. “I can go check on him, as long as you’re okay?”

  “I’ll be fine, now that you’re here.”

  I gave her a gentle half-hug, the best I could manage while she lay down. “I’ll go look after him.”

  My anxiety level ratcheted up as the cab got closer to Nora’s house. It wasn’t far from the hospital, but it was far enough for me to have time to worry my stomach to shreds. What if the paramedics had broken the door down and her house had just been left open? What if Pip had run away? What if the thawed out peas on the floor had attracted in wildlife? Would I find an urban fox in residence?

  As the cab turned the corner of Charlbury Road, though, I saw the house and there was no visible damage to the door. It was shut, which meant it was locked. She had one of those front doors, common in England, that had no knob. If it was latched, it was locked.

  Many of the upper story windows were shuttered and only the ground floor had lace curtains that allowed light in, but no prying eyes. It was a grand house built of Cotswold stone that had been in the Chesterton family for a hundred years – according to Nora.

  “Go ahead and pull into the driveway,” I told the cab driver. The house had a semi-circular drive of gravel that crunched under the cab’s tires.

  I got out, paid the driver and thanked her as she helped me carry my bags to the doorstep.

  It occurred to me that the paramedics might have used a back door instead, so that signs of their entry wouldn’t be so obvious from the street. My aunt had given me a copy of her key years ago and I used that to let myself in. The lights in the foyer were off. “Pip?” I called out. “Hey boy!” My voice echoed hollowly.

  Turning on lights didn’t drive out the empty, abandoned feeling the house had. I made my way to the kitchen first, where I expected to see plates out on the counters and fragments of crockery on the floor, only the floor was clean.