I threw myself across my bed and allowed myself to think about what had happened at work for the first time. Not that I had any idea what had happened. None of it made any sense to me. Or it did, but my mind refused to accept the obvious explanation. I didn't believe in all that psychic mumbo-jumbo…did I? I was so confused. I pondered it all for a while before finally just deciding to ignore it. It's not like I ever talked to the girl and chances were that I'd never see the guy again. I felt a strange pang of regret at that last thought.
What was it about that guy that had so totally swept me away? There was no way I could be gay. Mom and Dad would totally freak out. Besides, I liked girls. A nagging voice at the back of my mind suggested that maybe I was bisexual, but I quickly told it to shut up and mind its own business.
I thought about trying to paint, but I wasn't really in the mood. I dozed off eventually and didn't wake up until someone tapped on my door.
“Huh?” I grunted groggily.
The door opened and Michael stuck his head in. “Mom wanted me to see if you want dinner,” he said.
I blinked at him for a second before the words sank in. “Yeah, I guess,” I said, sitting up.
He pushed the door open and came in with a plate piled with food. “Thought you might so I made you a plate,” he said with a grin.
“I can't eat all that,” I protested.
His grin grew wider. “I know. I'll help you.”
I couldn't help but laugh. Mikey seemed to be at that age when his stomach turned into a bottomless pit. He could consume huge amounts of food and still not be full.
“Mom still doesn't want me around the rest of the family?” I asked as I cleaned off the small table I kept next to the easel to hold all my art supplies.
“Nope. She's not taking any risks. Apparently, I'm an acceptable loss.”
I laughed again. Mom and Michael were constantly butting heads. It wasn't that he was a bad kid, but he was definitely headstrong and determined to do things his own way.
I pulled the table over to the bed to we could both sit and eat. As he set down the huge plate of food, I noticed his eyes drinking in every detail of the room. He didn't come in my room very often, and when he did it was usually only for a few seconds to give me some message from Mom or Dad. I suddenly felt very self-conscious.
His eyes fell on the painting sitting on the easel. It was my latest work-in-progress, a loosely interpreted landscape using bright primary colors.
“So this is what you do when you lock yourself up in here?” he asked, flipping off the question as if commenting on the weather.
I nodded. He stood up to get a closer look. “Be careful; it's still wet,” I said when he reached for it. He observed it quietly for a few minutes, then turned his attention to some of the other canvases I had stacked around the room. The food was all but forgotten; his reaction to my work my only thought.
After several minutes of inspection, he turned to me with a surprised expression. “These are really good,” he said.
“Seriously?” I asked, suspecting some sort of trick.
“Totally,” he gushed. “I had no idea you were this good. I don't know what I expected, I mean, I knew you painted because you're always bringing home art supplies, but I didn't expect this. I figured that since you didn't let anyone see them that they must be awful. You should get Aunt Lily to look at these!”
I snorted. Aunt Lily was my mom's younger sister. To say they didn't get along would be an understatement. Technically, Mom didn't get along with any of her four sisters, who are all named after flowers, but there seemed to be a special antipathy for Lily. In order from oldest to youngest the sisters are Daisy, Violet, Rose, Lily and Jasmine.
The only time we ever saw any of them was at family events like Christmas and Thanksgiving or the occasional wedding or funeral. I didn't know exactly why she and Mom didn't get along, but they always made a rather obvious effort to avoid each other at family functions. Actually, I didn't know much about Aunt Lily at all except that she was an artist -- which, I assume, is why Michael brought her up.
“Mom would flip if she knew I had seen Aunt Lily,” I scoffed.
“So don't let her find out. She has no idea that I hang out with David.” David was Aunt Violet's youngest son. He was the same age as Michael and they went to school together.
“I didn't even know you hang out with David,” I said, although I wasn't too surprised.
“See, it can be done.”
“I'll think about it,” I said as I started eating again. We chatted about the paintings, Michael pointing out which ones he liked the most, while he devoured most of the food. When the plate was clean, he said good night and left me alone.
Now that the thought had been planted in my head, I found I couldn't think of anything else. Were my paintings really that good? What would Aunt Lily think of them? I decided to slip one of my smaller paintings out soon and take it to her to see what she thought.
With that decision taken care of, my thoughts wandered back to the guy from earlier, which was exactly what I didn't want to think about. I needed to distract myself and painting seemed like the perfect solution. I set my table back up, picked up my brush, and stared at the landscape on the easel. It was far from finished, but it wasn't speaking to me right now. I moved it off to one side and set up another, smaller canvas that was prepped and ready. I stared at it a moment, waiting for it to tell me what to do. Inspiration struck me all at once and I was off.
* * *
It was several days later when the next life altering event took place. It couldn't have seemed less significant at the time; it was just another ordinary school assignment: research your family history and write a ten-page paper about your findings. We were supposed to interview older family members and go back as many generations as possible. Piece of cake, right? Yeah, I thought so too.
My first stop -- Mom -- was like hitting a brick wall. “The past should stay in the past,” she said in the tone of voice she used to let you know she'd said all she planned to say on a certain subject. “Why do you need to know anyway?”
“It's for a school project,” I explained.
She pursed her lips. Grades were a big deal in my family. “Well, they can't fail you if you just don't know,” she said after a moment's hesitation. I read clearly into that hesitation - she knew, she didn't want to tell me. Now my curiosity had been piqued.
I decided to go over Mom's head. I drove myself over to Grandma Allen's house. Grandma Allen is my maternal grandmother. She's your typical grandmother type, complete with wrinkles and shoulder length white hair. I've always thought she was quite beautiful. She carried herself with a kind of elegant grace. She lived alone in a small well-kept house in a quiet suburban neighborhood; Grandpa Allen had died when I was too young to really remember him.
Grandma Allen was surprised to see me and even more surprised by my questions. She immediately became evasive.
“What has your mother told you?” she asked delicately. We were sitting on a big comfortable couch in her living room. The whole house was comfortable; it just seemed to exude a sense of peace and calm.
“Nothing,” I answered. “She said the past should be kept in the past.”
Grandma sighed. “That sounds like your mother. She never could seem to understand that we must learn from the past in order to avoid making the same mistakes in the future.” She reached over and patted my hand. “I'd like to tell you the things you want to know, but your mother and I have struggled with our relationship over the years. We've found a sort of peace in recent years and I'd hate to do anything to upset that.”
I nodded, but my face must have betrayed my disappointment.
“However,” she said with a small smile. “I know someone who wouldn't hesitate a second to go behind your mother's back…”
I raised an eyebrow inquisitively.
“Why don't you talk to Lily?”
“She could help me?”
“She's done
a lot of genealogy work. She probably knows the family better than I do.”
“I didn't know that,” I said thoughtfully. It seemed like everything was pushing me towards Aunt Lily these days.
“Do you know where she lives?” Grandma asked.
“No, I've never been to her house.”
She stood up and left the room for a minute. When she returned, she was carrying a small notepad and a pen. She sat back down and began to write. After a few seconds, she ripped off the page and handed it to me. I looked down to find detailed directions to Aunt Lily's house.
“Do you think you'll go today?” Grandma asked.
“Probably not,” I told her.
“But you will go see her?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Good. Now come on in to the kitchen. I have some cookies I made this morning.”
* * *
It was Friday before I managed to get to Aunt Lily's house. I ended up taking two paintings with me. One was the landscape I'd been working on and finally finished, and the other was the last painting I'd done, the one I'd started the day the guy was almost run over in front of Dairy Queen. It had turned out to be an abstract figure of a nude male done in shades of blues and white. It was very different from anything I'd ever done, but I was quite pleased with it.
Grandma's directions turned out to be quite easy to follow. Lily lived in the country in a big two-story white farmhouse. She had a huge lawn with towering pecan trees scattered around. As I pulled into the driveway, I noticed a large barn in back. I was out of the car and halfway to the front door when a large, wooly white bear came barreling around the corner. At least that's what I thought when I first saw it. I quickly realized it was just an enormous shaggy dog, but I wasn't sure if that was any better. I froze in place, unsure if I should make a break for the car or what. Was he aggressive?
When he caught sight of me, the colossal canine came to shuddering halt. He eyed me uncertainly from beneath a heavy fringe of hair for a few moments. He must have come to the conclusion that I was no threat however, because his entire rump - he didn't seem to have a tail - started to wiggle back and forth as he lumbered over to me, mouth agape in a friendly doggy grin. I rubbed his head and was surprised to find that his fur was quite soft.
“I see you've met Elmo,” a voice said, causing me to jump. I looked up to find Aunt Lily coming around the same corner from which the dog, who I now knew was inexplicably named Elmo, had just come. As if she had read my mind, Aunt Lily continued, “Ironically, his name means `protector', but your only worry with him is that he might lick you to death. He'd be the first to run and hide if you posed any real threat.” By now she'd reached the two of us and she rubbed Elmo's head affectionately. He beamed up at her with a look of total devotion.
Aunt Lily was in her thirties. She wore her long straight brown hair in a braid hanging down her back almost to her waist. She was a little taller than me and very slender.
“He's gigantic,” I said. “What kind of dog is he?”
“Shh,” she said with a wink. “Don't let him hear you call him a dog. He thinks he's a person. He's an Old English sheepdog.”
I'd stopped petting him, which apparently didn't sit well with him since he suddenly butted me with his huge head, causing me to stumble. Aunt Lily laughed.
“He likes to be the center of attention. Come on back to my studio.” She started back the way she'd come and Elmo and I rushed after her. It occurred to me that she didn't seem the least bit surprised that I was here. I assumed Grandma must have let her know I'd be coming.
She led us to the old barn in the back yard, which I realized now had been converted to her studio. As we ducked inside, I was expecting to find a typical dusty barn. I was surprised to find she'd completely remodeled the interior. It was open now to the roof, where several expansive skylights had been installed, letting in lots of natural light. The floor was poured concrete and the walls had been covered with sheetrock. The whole place was air conditioned. A large potter's wheel stood in the center of the room. A table nearby held an assortment of small metal tools that looked like a cross between dental instruments and torture devices. A counter built along the wall held several unglazed pots, a large lump of clay, and various bottles and jars. A shiny metal, barrel-shaped contraption stood against the back wall. Aunt Lily followed my gaze.
“That's my kiln,” she said. “I was just about to start my last pot for the day. I have an order I have to fill by next week so if you don't mind, I'll work while we talk.”
“That's fine,” I said, looking around for somewhere to sit. I found a stool by the counter and brought it closer to the wheel. Aunt Lily slammed the lump of clay into the center of the wheel and started it spinning. Elmo flopped down nearby and started snoring almost immediately.
“So talk,” she said as she dipped her hands in water and began to shape the clay with her fingers.
“I, uh, had a couple things I wanted to talk to you about,” I said nervously.
She glanced up at me. “Calm down, Jacy,” she said with amusement. “Contrary to what your mother has probably told you, I don't bite. I know you want to talk to me about our family, but that can wait. What's the other thing?”
“I, uh, paint,” I said feeling very lame indeed. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.
“Paint what?” she asked. Her eyes were glued to the clay, which was slowly beginning to rise between her hands, almost as if it were alive. “Houses? Paintings? The town red?”
“Paintings,” I answered.
“Cool. Artistic ability seems to run in our family. What medium?”
“Oils.”
“What style?”
“Abstract.”
“Do you speak in sentences longer than one word?”
I felt my face heat up. “I brought a couple with me. I thought maybe you could take a look at them and tell me if they're any good.”
“Sure. Why don't you bring them in?”
When I stood up, Elmo's head immediately came up.
“He'll probably accompany you,” Aunt Lily said, still not looking up.
Sure enough, when I started for the door, Elmo lurched to his feet and followed eagerly after me. He trotted along with me all the way to the car and back, his enthusiasm never flagging for a second. Once back inside, he reclaimed his earlier spot on the floor and once again commenced snoring.
Aunt Lily had molded the clay into a definite pot form while I was gone. Its shape was beginning to emerge and it looked as if it would be a squat round pot.
“Hold one of them up,” she said. I did as she asked, holding up the landscape first. She tore her eyes off the clay long enough to look over the painting. Her eyes widened a bit when she saw it. She quickly turned off the wheel.
“What about the pot?” I asked.
“I can throw it later. I want a closer look at this.” She quickly rinsed her hands off and dried them on a towel, before reaching out for the painting. “May I?” she asked.
I handed it to her and stood by while she examined it closely. After a few seconds, she said, “You said you brought a couple?”
I handed her the other one, to which she gave equal attention. I shifted nervously from foot to foot while she looked them over. Finally, she looked up at me. “Have you had any formal art training?”
“Just a few classes in school,” I told her.
“Good,” she said. “Don't get any.”
My heart fell. She must think I'm hopeless, I thought despondently.
“These are incredible,” she said.
“What did you say?” I asked, sure I misheard her.
“I said these are incredible. You have a very powerful, naturalistic style. Formal art training would probably ruin you.”
“So…they're good?” I asked, feeling a little confused.
“No, you aren't listening. They're incredible. I'd like to show these to a friend of mine. Would you mind?”
“I don't know. Not many peo
ple have seen my paintings.”
“How many do you have?”
I shrugged. “I don't know, between one and two hundred, I guess.”
“One or two hundred?” she repeated with disbelief.
I nodded.
“Where are all these paintings?”
“In my bedroom.”
“Where do you sleep?”
I laughed. “There's room. They're stacked up everywhere - against the walls, on top of my dresser, under the bed, in the closet…”
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