“Um, well...”
“I brought you a casserole. Why don’t I take it inside for you, cut you a slice.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“You’re a painter, aren’t you? That’s what Sister Mason said when I was asking ‘round about you during Relief Society.” She peered up at me with narrowed eyes.
“I am a painter, yes.”
“What kind?”
“Gospel art. The kind of stuff they sell in LDS bookstores.”
“Riiight, I haven’t been to Godstone in ages. That’s where the LDS bookstore is here. Did you know that? Is painting very lucrative?”
“Excuse me?”
“I got the impression Nora flew you out here. Is that wrong? I know some artists make a lot of money, but I’d think for gospel art, you’d be just barely making ends meet. About how much do you make?”
This woman made annoyance a fine art. It was as if she could see every vulnerable spot and hit it with pinpoint accuracy. I felt like I was being pricked with a hatpin over and over. She had me backed up to the door. I nearly stepped in the stupid casserole.
“Look,” I snapped. “Sorry to be rude, but I’ve had a rough day and unless you’re offering to prepare my tax return, it’s really none of your business how much money I make.”
“Or don’t make.”
“Or don’t make.” I stood my ground.
Louisa looked me over. “Are you not going in?”
“No. I remembered I left something at the hospital.” I stepped away from the door.
She rolled her eyes. “Fine then.” And for the second time that day I saw her pivot on her heel and stalk off. This woman had issues.
I waited until she was around the corner before I let myself into the house. I scooped up a happy, wriggling Pip and went back to the computer, where I logged into Skype. My dad was on.
He was nearly always on, given he had an iPhone. I hit the icon to call him and Skype played its plinky notes, then the high pitched ringtone.
“Eliza!” My dad’s pixellated face smiled out at me. I couldn’t tell where he was. The background was too washed out with light, but I guessed he was at home.
“Hey, Dad.”
“How are you?”
“Um, I’m kind of in the UK.”
“Oh?” He squinted out of the display at me. I saw his gaze take in the wallpapered wall behind me. “Is Nora okay?”
“No, she’s not.”
His smile faded. “Cancer?”
“Probably.”
“Honey, I am so sorry. How bad is it?”
“I don’t know. Her ovary ruptured-”
My dad winced in response to that.
“-and they’re going to do scans and then surgery and we’ll see.”
“Well... drat, honey. I’d thought you’d call with different news.”
“Hmm?”
“Never mind.”
“Wait, what?”
“A young man called last week, asked what your favorite food was, introduced himself to me. His name was Len?”
“Oh... right.”
“I take it you’re dating him?”
“Um, yeah, I was. Not anymore, but we went out for a while.”
“Not anymore?”
“It’s all good.”
“He was an interesting guy.”
“Very diplomatic.”
“I wasn’t being diplomatic. I’m guessing you never went to that restaurant with him? Or did you go and break his heart?”
“No. Things are over, and no one’s heart got broken.”
“Okay. How does that work?”
I tapped my fingernails against the edge of the desk. “Len broke up with me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We were all wrong for each other. He took me to a steakhouse as a grand last date.”
“I see.”
“Yeah, it was weird, but that’s Len.”
“Kind of classy, I have to say. Though it’s too bad. I liked the guy.”
“How long did you talk to him?”
“Oh, I dunno. Twenty minutes? He introduced himself, asked about your favorite restaurant and he was real pleasant. Laughed when I asked him if I needed to get my shotgun and promised me he’d never dream of hurting you. We talked about you for a few minutes-”
“What about me?”
“Well... let me think. After the shotgun comment I asked him why he was taking you to a steakhouse and he just said... what did he say? He said you did a lot of things with him that weren’t your style, like eating microwave burritos and going to children’s movies, and that he couldn’t get you to tell him what you’d really like to do, so he said he got up his courage and called me, and thanked me for getting through the gun threats early in the conversation. I didn’t have the heart to press the guy, though I was burning up with curiosity, wondering if he was gonna propose to you. I didn’t even have a restaurant to recommend him, and he already knew you liked steak. I tried to get a read on what he’d be like as a son-in-law, just in case.”
“Dad, I’d never even told you I was dating him. Why did you think-”
“Two words. Jeremy Carlson.”
“Dad! He was insane, okay? I’d been on three dates with him.”
“Robert Oaks?”
“I told you I was dating him!”
“Before he proposed to you, what? The tenth time?”
“Dad...”
“Guys have been lining up for you since you turned eighteen.”
“Rub it in.”
“Rub what in?”
“That I’m thirty and unmarried and-”
“Whoa there. Guess I hit a nerve. Honey, relax. The right guy will be worth the wait.”
I buried my face in my hands.
“You sure no one’s heart got broken this last time around?”
“Yes!”
“All right.”
“Can we talk about cancer again?”
“Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, it’s okay. Thanks for letting me vent at you.”
“Did you vent? I didn’t notice. Does that make me compassionate, or just a clueless male?”
“Definitely compassionate.”
“I’m relieved. Anything else you need?”
“Not really.”
“So, I’ll talk to you later?”
“Yeah. Love you.”
“I love you too, honey.”
The call cut off and I went to eat a slice of tuna casserole. Only, my hand shook. It was hard to get bites of casserole into my mouth without stabbing my lip. I tried to take a deep breath, but it went in shaky and came out like a sob. The fork hit the floor with a clang as my tear ducts began to burn. I can do this, I thought. I helped my mom and my sisters and my aunt. I can do this. I can do this...
I retrieved the fork, rinsed it, and choked down some more casserole before I gave up on that and went upstairs. I wanted to paint, but I hadn’t really planned out the portrait as well as I’d have liked. I knew from experience that if I just painted without enough forethought, it’d make me irritable. I was very intellectual about my art. If I didn’t know where I was going, I’d flounder and start touching up what I’d already done and mess around with it until I’d screwed it up past redemption and then I’d be in a really foul mood.
But right then I didn’t care. I wanted painting to make me happy, even if I knew that it wouldn’t. The bedroom next to the one I stayed in was set up as a studio. I busied myself arranging the lights and preparing my paints, then I put brush to canvas and dove right in.
Half an hour later, I was still painting and the tightness between my shoulderblades had eased. The brush moved easily over the canvass. I didn’t love the portrait that was taking shape, but it was a decent start. I could touch it up into the painting I wanted it to be. This was going to work.
For the first time in my life, going with my instinct worked. Finally my formal training and my subconscious desi
res were coming together without hours of sketching and measuring and laying out gridlines and experimenting with color palettes that I always did to wrestle the subconscious beast of inspiration into something beautiful and comprehensible. My heart felt light enough to lift me off my stool.
I hadn’t had a breakthrough like this in almost a decade.
When I got to the hospital the next morning, my aunt was awake, her eyes bright. “Good morning,” she chirped as I came in.
“Good morning.” I hadn’t slept much, but the hours I had gotten had been deep and refreshing. Now I felt I could put my game face on. The fact that my aunt looked so well made it easier than I’d feared.
“So, I’ve been thinking about what I’d like a picture of.”
“And you decided?”
“Paul and I had a ritual. I’d like a picture of that.”
“And I’d love to hear about it.” I sat down in the molded plastic chair, smoothed my skirt, and got ready to listen.
Her eyes unfocused.
I had my first Oxford tutorial fourth day I was here, and it was awful. The tutor was a stuck up grad student who’d corrected all of the American spellings in my essay and made bucket loads of snide remarks about foreign students who bought their way into the Oxford experience. I think he called us parasites, though since he also complained that colleges used us to fund their other activities, I don’t think that’s an apt term.
Anyway, he made me cry. I held it in until I was across the quad and in the Porter’s Lodge, but then I lost control and the tears just streamed down. I felt so lost and inexperienced, like I’d been thrown in the deep end of the pool by people who just stood back and laughed while I flailed. I decided then and there that I was going home however I could. I’d pack and get a bus to Heathrow and just go. But then...
“Mi’lady?”
It was Paul’s voice, and I was mortified. I couldn’t let him see me like this, but I didn’t want him to go away. He’d only taken me out that once and I hadn’t hardly seen him since. If I didn’t answer, he might disappear.
I looked at him, tears still streaming down my face.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t seem all right.”
I dabbed my face with my fingers. “I guess I don’t feel well.” I looked down at his brown leather shoes. He caught me under the chin with one finger and made me look up.
It was hard to meet his gaze. Those eyes were intent, focused. I couldn’t hide from him.
“What happened?”
“Just a bad tutorial.”
“Those are never worth crying over. Trust me. I don’t cry over them.”
“I don’t feel like I fit in here.”
“Also not a bad thing.” He took me by the arm and pulled me through the gate and onto the sidewalk.
I was mortified. I couldn’t go out, looking like this.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ve just had a bad tute myself. Let’s go.” He put an arm around me.
“Go where?”
“Well, I can either go get a pint with my mates, or I can take a beautiful woman out for a picnic. I know which I’d prefer. Howabout you?”
My knees turned to mush at that. I started to walk and nearly ran into a girl. She gaped at Paul, then looked at me as if I were a mouse and she were a snake. Only, I was safe with Paul’s arm around my waist. He didn’t spare her a glance as he guided me past her and across the street.
We went to a sandwich shop where he ordered me a prawn cocktail sandwich. He barked orders to the people behind the counter like a lord ordering his serfs, and they hopped right to it and made the sandwich and packed it up in a bag with some slices of cake. Paul paid and then guided me out of the shop, past more jealous looking girls, and walked me to the park. We sat in view of the river and he laid out his sweater for me to sit on.
Even though there were the usual crowds of people milling around, eating, studying, and strolling, I felt like we were the only people in the world. Paul set out our lunch and then leaned back while I ate. I asked if he were hungry and he just chuckled and shook his head.
“Do you feel better?”
“Much.”
“Good.” He shut his eyes like a cat stretched out on a sunny windowsill.
We barely spoke. I just ate first the sandwich and then the slice of cake that he pushed into my hands. Then we lay on our backs and watched the clouds roll past. It was a sunny October day, and the shadows were lengthening. The clouds were distant and fluffy and watching them overhead made me feel like they took up my cares with them and carried them away for good.
Aunt Nora’s eyes were shining. “I know it seems silly. Just an afternoon in the park, but...”
“No, it doesn’t sound silly. I think I may know the sandwich shop, even.”
“We went there a lot after that. It was on the way to the park. We’d go on walks or sit by the water and eat. I never took any pictures, though. Not sure what would capture that moment, really.”
“Let me think about it and then we can figure out the composition.”
The memory had restored the light to my aunt’s countenance. I tried to think of a time I’d felt like I’d been rescued from my mundane life. There were countless memories when I wished I could feel that way. The hours I’d spent in the hospital waiting room as my mother fought to live and lost. The torrent of phone calls I’d gotten when Lindsay’s cancer was diagnosed. I was in school and in the course of one class I’d feel my phone buzz over and over again as my family filled my inbox with message after message about cancer and treatments and options and last minute reunion plans.
The sound of my father overcome with tears when he called me to say that Rachel was gone. She’d been determined to have surgery, despite her weakened state. The doctors had warned us she might not make it, but nothing ever stopped Rachel. She was demanding and imperious and infuriating, and it made no sense that a mere operation could have ripped her from our world.
I squelched these memories, wadded them up like paper and threw them to the back of my mind. Now wasn’t the time to see them, or to wonder if I’d soon have more to add.
If Nora noticed my clenched fists, though, she gave no sign. She sat up, her legs crossed, and fiddled with a fold in her sheet. For a moment, it was easy to forget she was sick. It was like I had the old Aunt Nora back.
I got out my sketchbook and got to work, blocking out possible poses and angles. Later, I’d make a trip to the park, but right now I wanted to find a good composition for the characters. I tried sketching the figures from above, but that didn’t really pull the viewer into the picture. I tried several different angles, and finally decided on one with my aunt sitting with her back to the viewer, eating her sandwich. Paul lay propped up on one elbow, his attention entirely on her. Even with my aunt’s back in the field of view, I still felt this drew a person into the picture. They would have some hint of what passed between Nora and Paul and would instinctively step closer, as if hoping to overhear what the two lovebirds said.
I shaded in Paul’s hair and filled in more of his facial features. He was entirely focused on my aunt and looked at her as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. It was easy to imagine him, his gray eyes intent. I’d find an open spot in the park, I decided. I wanted the painting to convey that these two people created their own space. They weren’t hidden away somewhere, out of sight, but rather could make the rest of the world disappear no matter where they were, they were so enraptured with each other.
Someone behind me cleared their throat and I glanced at the time. An hour and a half had flown by. I sat bolt upright and turned to face the stern expression of the nurse who stood in the doorway. She had high cheekbones, skin as dark as undiluted coffee, and brown eyes that were narrowed in a way that said she would tolerate no misbehavior.
“Ms. Chesterton has an MRI over at the hospital.”
“I don’t want any scans,” muttered Nora.
�
�Aunt Nora, please,” I said. “You promised. No running away.”
The nurse lifted her chin and looked down at me with approval.
“I’m not running away-”
“Get up. You’re going,” I said.
Her shoulders drooped as if she were a puppet and someone had just let her strings go slack. “Please honey, don’t make me do this.”
“You have to do this. I don’t want to lose you, okay? It’s not your time. Let’s go.” I put my hand on her arm but she pulled away from me like a sullen child.
“Ms. Chesterton,” snapped the nurse.
I put up a hand to hold her back. I got the impression that, imposing as she was now, she could dial it up even further, and that wouldn’t work on my aunt.
Nora looked up at me, tears in her eyes. “I hate all this.” In that moment she wasn’t my older, stylish aunt who breezed through the world with unstoppable confidence. She was just a woman, and she was scared. That was the worst part of cancer, the way it reduced people, casting them down to the depths of humility and fear.
“I’ll come with you. It’ll be okay. Just think about Paul and the painting I’m going to do for you-”
“Listen, I don’t want anything but the smallest area possible scanned. No extra scans, no extra radiation, do you hear?”
“I’ve told them how you feel. Colin passed it all on.” I took my aunt firmly by the arm and hauled her out of bed. This, I knew, was the loving thing to do, but my aunt looked at me as if I’d just betrayed her to her worst enemy.
There was a wheelchair waiting for her in the hall. The nurse and I loaded her on and we set off. My aunt sat rigid and stared straight ahead. The nurse was happy because she was getting her job done. I forced myself to be optimistic. We’d find a benign tumor, or a cyst. Yes, a cyst.
We went out the front doors, across the parking lot, and into the hospital. After a couple of turns, we rode the elevator down, then went down another hallway and into a room with a big, bulky MRI machine. It was an older model than the ones that had scanned my sister, I noted, as the nurse and a man in scrubs with tired looking eyes and a scruffy attempt at a goatee exchanged information and my aunt’s records.
Paint Me True Page 9