Paint Me True

by E. M. Tippetts

  “Listen,” Aunt Nora said, the moment the nurse left the room. “You scan here and only here.” She blocked out a square on her abdomen with her hands.

  “Aunt Nora, they may need-”

  “Scan only here or I get up and walk out.” Her eyes were like ice and her tone like steel.

  The technician looked at me, as if she’d just slapped him in the face.

  “Where do you need to scan?” I asked.

  “I need to check for a tumor in her abdominal cavity. Probably not more than what she says.” His eyes pleaded with me though. This was a man who spent his days taking pictures of peoples insides. It was likely that he went weeks without having a single real conversation with a patient, let alone a negotiation.

  “I think it’ll be okay,” I said to my aunt.

  She glared at him, then at me. I made sure not to let my irritation show. This entire moment seemed balanced on the tip of a pin, and I didn’t know which way it’d drop. Would Nora get the scan and be angry? Run out and cause a scene? Curl up in a ball and cry?

  Slowly, she got to her feet and faced the slablike table where she would have to lay. With another baleful glance at the technician, she shuffled over. I helped her up and the technician began to fuss with her gown in order to make sure she lay the right way and everything lined up as it should.

  “You need to go outside, please,” he said.

  Nora didn’t even acknowledge that.

  “I’ll see you soon,” I said, and slipped away.

  Out in the hallway I paced. These moments, the waiting, they always seemed to last an eternity.

  That afternoon, when Nora fell asleep, I went to tour the park. It was somewhat difficult to pin down which park my aunt was thinking of. Along the river were several open spaces, some on college grounds, some not. Oxford had a fair amount of greenspace. I chose the most obvious location, a broad expanse of public park with gravel paths cutting pale lines through the lush grass.

  There was plenty of open area away from trees, and I took dozens of pictures with my phone of what looked like the prettiest backgrounds. I wanted some dreaming spires in the distance, but all of my attempts to frame such a shot came to nothing, and I decided that I shouldn’t let reality get in the way of a great picture. George Washington had probably not stood up and pointed as he crossed the Delaware, and Aunt Nora might not have been in line of sight of any dreaming spires the day she and Paul made the park their own place. The picture, I decided, was symbolic. I was putting in elements that filled out the rest of the story. My subjects weren’t just falling madly in love, they were falling madly in love in Oxford, in autumn.

  I looked wistfully at all the bicyclists who zipped past on the road. I wished I had the courage to join them, but not only did the cars all drive on the wrong side of the road, the roads were narrow and twisting, and the cars shot down them so fast that if I were to cross in front of one, there was no doubt who would live to tell the tale. It wouldn’t be me.

  When I got back to the hospital, the nurse on duty, a small man who spoke with such a low voice that I had to lean indecently close to hear him, told me, “The oncologist should be by today to discuss her scans.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll be here.”

  The doctor was busy for the rest of the day, though. I waited the long hours in Nora’s room while she slept. It didn’t seem right, her sleeping so much. No matter how hard I worked to compose my second painting for her, her sleeping figure was like an anchor that dragged on me. I couldn’t cut loose and create.

  That evening, my Dad answered Skype immediately. “What’s wrong?” he asked. It was voice only, which meant he was walking around somewhere with his phone to his ear. Or maybe he was on his hands free device.

  I turned off my video. “Dad, do you happen to have Keeley or John’s phone numbers?”

  “Your cousins?”

  “Yeah.”

  He sighed into the phone with a blast of static. “I don’t know, hon. Nora doesn’t have them anywhere?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to snoop, and I don’t know whether to bring it up. She never talks about them. But...”

  “What did the doctors find?”

  “I don’t know, but she’s scared. Deep down, I can tell she’s worried that this could kill her.”

  “She’s like you, honey, a veteran. She’s seen enough other people die this way that she knows too much about what’s in store.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Eliza, are you okay out there? Do you need me to come join you, or we can get other family-”

  “What other family? I don’t think Mark would be able to take time off work, and he barely knows Nora.” Mark was my brother.

  “I know. I just don’t like the idea of you facing this again, and alone this time.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I can come out-”

  “I’ll keep the offer in mind, but right now, I think that I’m best off not calling in the troops. It’ll make things seem even worse to her. That’s why I’d like to call her kids without having to ask her for their numbers. They should know, but-”

  “Yeah... honey, why don’t you think again about that? Either let Nora know what you’re doing or leave it be. I don’t know the details, but I gather Nora’s estranged from everyone in her family but you. The fact that her kids either don’t know she’s ill, or know but haven’t even called, means there’s a situation there and you don’t want to get in the middle of that.”

  “And if I find out she’s terminal?”

  “It’s good to think ahead, but that’s thinking too far ahead. You don’t know any such thing yet.”

  That made sense. “Okay.”

  “Call me anytime, all right?”

  “Thanks. Oh, and I should have said before, Hattie’s house-sitting Carrie’s house. You know, my friend-”

  “With the really right wing political agenda? Yes.”

  “I don’t know that it’s an agenda. More like a dogma.”

  “Ah, I see. My mistake.”

  I giggled. “Dad, don’t.”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “You’re making me laugh at my friend.”

  “That is all you, honey.”

  “I hate how you do that!”

  “Yes, I feel the anger.” My dad could deliver irony with the most dead serious tone I’d ever heard.

  “Night, Dad.”

  “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  He waited for me to cut the connection.

  I went upstairs. It was late, but I was in no mood to sleep. The first portrait of Paul rested against the easel in the studio. It had turned out all right. I moved it over to the wall, got out my paints, and started to work. I’d done even less pre-planning this time around. It’d been impossible at Nora’s bedside, but I hoped some of the magic that had happened last night would happen again.

  I let my mind wander to Nora’s story about the park. She’d told me only that one, short story, but I surmised that there were hundreds more. The park, she told me, was their place. That second date hadn’t really ended; it carried on every time they went back to the park.

  Me and Len... our second date had been like that too, but in a different way.

  “Um, hey,” he had said on the phone a week after our first date. “You doing anything tonight?”

  The casual ask out without even a whole day’s notice. I was tempted to say I was busy, just on principle, but the truth was, it was Friday night and I didn’t have anything to do. Hattie was on a date Jenna was at work. “Well...”

  “I could rent a movie,” he said. “Or I’ve got Winnie the Pooh from Netflix.”

  “I dunno. Is that one gospel appropriate?” I asked. “Those British can be kinda racy.”

  Stupid joke, but Len cracked up. His sense of humor was always a little... off. Or a lot off, actually. “That a yes?”

  It wasn’t, but since I could think of worse things to do than watch a chi
ldren’s movie, I said, “I guess so.”

  “Okay, I’ll come by at... seven? I could bring dinner, but it’d be microwave burritos.”

  “No, that’s all right.” I’d slaved yesterday over a lasagna with white cheese and white asparagus – it was a gourmet lasagna, and the thought of eating it alone didn’t exactly fill me with joy. “I’ve got dinner,” I said. “You bring the scandalous European film.”

  “Disney is-”

  “From Eastern Europe. That whole style of animation is. How uncultured are you?”

  “I bet you can’t take an animated character in World of Warcraft from level one to level eighty-five in a weekend.”

  An original response. That was about the only compliment I could think of for it. “Since that would involve trying-”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Ye-ah. See you at seven.”

  “Okay, see you.” He sounded cheery as he hung up.

  At seven on the dot, he was at my door with a bottle of Martinelli’s sparkling cider – not the alcoholic kind. The kind that’s basically carbonated apple juice in what looks like a wine bottle. He presented it solemnly, and it sort of did go with the lasagna, which he regarded with open surprise when I produced it from the oven. “You do art in a lot of media,” he said.

  Talk about a stilted compliment. “Thanks.”

  I couldn’t tell, as we sat down to eat, whether this was a serious date, with the gourmet food, us being alone at my house, and the movie to follow, or if this was some kind of light hearted, jokey date. Did Len think we were two lonely souls on a Friday night, or something more?

  He didn’t try to put his arm around me during the movie. Instead, he was asleep before the end of the opening credits, and he snored so loud that I couldn’t hear the dialogue. Not that I needed to; it was the same Winne the Pooh I’d seen a million times as a child.

  I turned off the movie and went upstairs to work on a painting.

  Len’s snoring stopped just as I’d begun laying down brushstrokes. I was working in watercolor, which I had to do all in one sitting. Otherwise, it was hard to get the colors to blend exactly how I wanted. I gritted my teeth and kept on working.

  I was dimly aware of his footsteps on the stairs and braced myself to have to talk to him. I can’t talk and paint at the same time, not very well at least. A lot of artists are like this, something about switching hemispheres of the brain to do our work. Even just paying attention to Len’s approach was slowing me down.

  He appeared in the doorway and I shut my eyes, ready to be ripped out of my zone.

  He didn’t say a word, but instead came into the room and stepped behind me.

  That was even worse. No one came into my studio. It was my space, set up exactly as I wanted it. Since Len didn’t speak, though, it was either break my concentration and tell him to get lost, or keep on working with him there. Neither was a good choice, and since I didn’t know how bad the conversation with him might be, I endured having him there, like a rock in my shoe, intrusive and constantly irritating.

  At least his silence let me slip back into deeper concentration. I layered on the colors, letting the water flow into the paper, its threadlike tendrils giving texture to the shapes I’d sketched out. As I worked, the pencil marks faded and the pair of hands, holding a smoke gray lamb came to life, with the blood vessels standing out just so, and the lamb’s adoring eyes directed upward, at the benevolent face out of frame.

  Hours could slip by while I did this. I often looked up from a painting to find that, much to my shock, I’d skipped lunch and it was past time for dinner. This time, when I came up for air, I saw that it was only ten. I’d worked fast and the painting was small. I put my brush down and turned to Len, who hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “So,” he said, “when you look at something, do you see all those colors?”

  “Do I see the colors?”

  “To make flesh colored hands, you used dark blue and bright red and even a little green. I wouldn’t have thought those colors had anything to do with flesh tone, but they blend right in to make the shadows and highlights. Do you see those colors whenever you look at human skin?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Len cocked his head, as if waiting to hear more.

  “I don’t look at people and see them as dark blue or green, but if someone asked me how to paint a person so that the light seemed to come in from one side, or directly behind the subject, I know what colors to start with to achieve that effect in the end. It’s just watercolor technique.”

  “It’s really interesting. When you look around a room, do you think that the light looks like it’d be best done in watercolor or... or oil paint or... I guess I don’t even know what kinds of paint there are.”

  “Depends on the effect you want,” I said. This moment, I thought, was an acrylics moment. Warm full spectrum light with the blackness of night visible through the window.

  He glanced at his watch. “I should go. I’m really sorry I fell asleep. I’ve worked a lot of long hours this week. They’re switching out the back office software at the firm, and it’s a nightmare. Midnight last night I got a call that a new Windows patch broke all of our remote desktop capabilities.”

  He might as well have spoken Esperanto, that’s how much sense he made to me.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Just try not to come in here, especially not with shoes on. Make sure there’s no paint on them that you might track around the house.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry, didn’t even think.”

  My doorbell rang.

  Len looked at his watch again in confusion.

  Dread poured into me. I darted to the doorway, slipped my feet into my slippers, and dashed down the stairs. Hattie stood on my doorstep, a baffled look on her face. “Whose car is-” Her mouth dropped open.

  Len had slipped down the stairs behind me. He paused for a moment, looked from me to his cousin and back again. Warm air from my house spilled out into the chill night. “I’ll see you later,” he said. He put on his jacket and went out the door without a backwards glance.

  Hattie watched after him, then looked at me. “Long story,” I said. “You okay?”

  “Not really. Mike spent more time on his cellphone than talking to me tonight. Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, sure. Want ice cream?”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Two scoops or three?”

  “I hate you.”

  “I have chocolate chocolate chip.”

  “You’re evil.”

  The night was much better after that. Hattie and I ate ice cream while she recapped her non-relationship with Mike. “I felt like maybe he hadn’t even asked me. Like I misunderstood and intruded on an evening with him.”

  “Then keep away from him, if you don’t even know if he wants you around.”

  “I think I could really like him if he’d just not be so self-centered.”

  And so we’d talked about Mike. Len’s name never came up.

  Until two days later, at church. I could see Hattie standing toe to toe with him in the foyer as I approached the glass doors. Once I was through the doors, I had audio to go with the video.

  “What is that supposed to mean? You were just hanging out at Eliza’s house? At ten? She have computer problems or something?”

  Normally, Len blew his cousin off. More than once I’d see him ignore her when she accosted him to find out the name of the newest guy in the ward. “I keep track of the membership for the Church, not to provide you with the latest news on who’s available,” he’d say, if he bothered to say anything.

  She insulted him all the time in public. “Nerd!” she’d declare or, “Loser!” He’d smile as if he considered both compliments.

  That morning, though, he looked like she had thumbscrews on him and was cranking them down as tight as they’d go. “Just mind your own business,” he said.

  “Just answer my question.”

  He looked over her shoulder, saw
me, and jerked his gaze immediately back to his cousin. “I...” he began.

  As I drew close, he shrank away and still didn’t look at me. I could read his emotions clearly. He didn’t want to hear my excuse for why he was over. It would confirm to him that I wasn’t interested and had just used him a couple of weeks back. I’d been lonely, so I’d kissed him, and it had meant nothing to me. Clearly, it had meant something to him.

  I couldn’t be that awful. It was either be Len’s girlfriend, or be a user. I chose the lesser of two evils. “He was over to watch a movie,” I said. “Stop torturing him.”

  His expression shifted from guarded discomfort to surprise, then he smiled. The effect was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

  Hattie turned to me. “What?”

  “Leave him alone, all right?” I couldn’t defend my decision to date him, but I could at least beat her at her own game. “Sorry if he doesn’t measure up to your standards.” I showed her my back and went into the chapel.

  I made it to a pew about a third of the way from the back before she caught up with me. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Sorry. I gotta ask, though, why?”

  “He can be nice. He asked. I figured why not and...” I shrugged. “He’s nice.” Not exactly a valiant defense of the guy, but it was all I could muster. I remembered him snoring on my couch and winced. Well, I could figure out how to break up with him later. This didn’t need to be a long term thing. I just didn’t want to kiss him out of loneliness and dump him immediately thereafter. I wondered if two weeks later counted as “immediately”.

  Jenna strode in, then, smiling a sly smile like a cat who’d gotten the cream. Hattie pelted her with questions about what had her grinning, and she told us about her latest project at work... I think. I didn’t really listen as my mind was still on Len. He entered the chapel with a smile and an easygoing stride. All throughout the meeting, he stole glances back at me.

  “Oh,” whispered Hattie at the end of the first hour, “when I turned on my phone this morning, I had a message.”

  “From Mike?” I said.

  “Yep.” She grinned. “He apologized about last night!” Her eyes sparkled like those of a little girl on Christmas morning, all eager anticipation. “I’m going over to his place after church for lunch.” Mike’s parents were both professional chefs. He could cook a souffle with one hand while playing his Nintendo Gameboy with the other.