Pure Red

by Danielle Joseph

  “I’d love to see you play. Mind if I tag along?” Helga’s eyes twinkle. It doesn’t take much to excite this lady. God, does she have to be such a poser? Who says I want her swooning over Dad while I’m trying to score some baskets? As if I need any more distractions during the game.

  I tap my knife harder and faster against the table. I wonder if they can kick you out for annoying repetitive noises.

  Dad clamps down on my wrist, abruptly ceasing my noisemaker. “Helga asked you a question, Cassia.”

  Man, I wouldn’t have agreed to go out to dinner if I knew she was going to be all up in my business.

  I wiggle free from Dad’s hold, but I’m still gripping the knife. “It’s really hot on the court, you’ll sweat a lot.” Probably melt like the Wicked Witch of the West.

  “I played tennis for years. I’m used to sweat.” Helga laughs.

  Dad’s leaning back in his chair, sipping his wine like he doesn’t have a care in the world. How does he do that? Let everything go? I adjust my cover-up so it doesn’t slide off my shoulders. This is the only piece of fabric that Mom saved. I can’t afford to get it dirty. “Fine,” I murmur. “But don’t be late. Coach hates tardy people.”

  The waiter takes our orders. Dad picks lamb and Helga and I both ask for Greek salads. Surely, we can’t have anything else in common besides our choice of dishes. I go to the bathroom twice before dinner arrives. Once because I really have to go and the second time to call Liz. I don’t even wait for her to speak.

  “Liz, she’s so annoying. I’m not even going to say her name, but you know who I’m talking about.”

  “Your dad’s girlfriend, I mean, friend … ”

  “Don’t say that! She’s the lady from Hell. All cheery and crap, wants to go to the game on Thursday.”

  “So what’s the bad part?” Liz asks.

  “Hello?” I want to smash the phone against the bathroom wall. Would do it, too, if I didn’t remember that’s how Liz broke hers. “It’s totally fake. How could anyone be so happy about meeting some guy’s daughter?”

  Liz laughs. “If she gets too nice, then spill your drink on her or flick hot sauce in her eye.”

  I open the bathroom door and peek around the corner to make sure no one’s listening. “I can’t do that. You know how much it costs to dry-clean linen.”

  “Okay, then do the whole cold-shoulder thing. You’re good at that.”

  “Thanks. I think.” I look out at our table. The waiter is setting down plates of food. Dad waves at me. “Dinner’s here. If you don’t hear from me later, assume I’m dead.”

  “Don’t forget, Graham’s still alive,” Liz says before I hang up.

  Very alive. I wonder what he’d think of Helga. He’d probably like her. Think she was very interesting and friendly. Geez, nobody’s on my side. I stomp back to the table. They’re waiting for me, to eat.

  “There you are.” Dad seasons his dish with pepper. “Did you know Helga teaches an art history course at UM?”

  “Yes. You already told me that.” I stuff a wad of feta cheese into my mouth.

  “I also co-own a framing business,” Helga adds, like that’ll pique my attention.

  I let the cheese melt against my tongue before I answer. “Oh, that sounds fascinating.”

  Dad sets his glass down. “Actually, it is. Helga sells high-end, ornate frames. She contracts with museums and big corporations. Has met all sorts of neat people.”

  He’s got me wrong if he thinks I’m going to jump on the I’ve-met-a-celebrity bandwagon. A celebrity to her is probably some old country singer with one foot in the grave or the prime minister of some never-heard-of-before country the size of a pea.

  “My favorite Miami client is that actor from Ocean’s Eleven, Matt Damon.”

  “He’s all right for an old guy, Helga.” There, I said her name. All in one syllable, though.

  “Framer to the stars.” Dad chuckles at his own joke.

  Helga gently rubs Dad’s shoulder. There she goes again with the touchy-feely crap. Don’t get too close, lady, or I might have to chuck a tomato at you. “Jacques, you make me sound so important.”

  “Well, you are.” He takes her hand and squeezes it.

  I clear my throat really loud and slurp my Coke like I’m trying to sip up the entire ocean floor.

  Dad and Helga both laugh. I don’t find anything funny. My blood’s overheating. The waiter comes over to check on us. Helga fake-smiles and tells him we’re doing well. Well for a dead fish maybe, but not for me.

  I keep my hands busy slicing through the mound of lettuce on my plate. I’m cutting it into tiny rabbit-sized bites like Mom used to do for me when I was small.

  Dad nudges me with his elbow. “What?” I snap.

  “Don’t you want to ask Helga anything else about herself?” There is a drop of oil on his white shirt sleeve. I’m not going to tell him; he’ll have to figure it out for himself.

  I roll my eyes. “Dad, if you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to eat.”

  “Cassia, what’s gotten into you?” He tugs his left earlobe. Is he aware that he’s sending out the Jacques Bernard SOS signal?

  I slam my fork down with a clank. “Me? I’m not the one trying to be Mr. Perfect, kissing ass to impress some woman.”

  Dad’s face drops. He sets his knife and fork down on his plate. “You’re being very rude to our guest.”

  “Our guest?” I push my chair back from the table and fold my arms. “You mean, your guest.”

  The waiter clears our plates and leaves a few dessert menus on the table.

  Silence.

  More silence.

  I don’t know about them, but I’m enjoying the silence.

  “Are we ready?” Dad finally speaks.

  “Ready to get out of here.” I grit my teeth.

  Dad gives me the death stare. Helga smiles at him and says, “All teenagers would rather be anywhere but with their folks.”

  “Hurumph.” I flip open my menu. “Yeah, I’ll get something.” Maybe some chocolate will ease the pain. I flag down the waiter and order a slice of SINsational chocolate cake.

  “I’ve got a big surprise for you, Cassia,” Dad says after the waiter finishes taking our dessert orders.

  I pull the red fabric tight around my shoulders. I’m skeptical, very skeptical. “What?”

  “Well, I should mention that Helga is part of it too,” Dad adds.

  She shakes her head no at him. Her orange glow ignites my fire until I feel like my face is a wild blaze burning out of control. The flames quickly spread until my whole body is burning up. Not even a fleet of fire trucks could save me now. “No way!” I yell. I mean, really yell. I get up from my chair so fast that it falls to the ground. It’s so unfair—I just met the lady and now they’re getting hitched! “It’s too soon!” I run from the table, past all the other diners, out the front door.

  Dad calls my name, but I can’t stop. The smoke has filled my lungs. I can’t breathe. I need fresh air.

  My back is pressed against the stucco wall of the restaurant as I try to catch my breath. I can’t believe them and their sick plan. What’s next, they’re catching a plane to Vegas so they can get married by Elvis in the Chapel of Love? Make me puke!

  A fire truck races by. I wave my hands hysterically. “The fire’s over here,” I shout.

  I see Dad storming toward me. His untucked shirt flaps as he runs.

  “Cassia, what is it?” Dad pushes my hands down.

  My eyes well up and tears flow freely like a broken hydrant. “How can you marry her?” I blubber.

  “Relax, ma cherie.” Dad is still holding me. “We’re not getting married. Let’s take things one step at a time.”

  I wipe my face with the cover-up before I realize what I’m doing. “Then what’s the grand announcement for?”

  “I have a gift for you.” Dad removes a sticky strand of hair from my cheek.

  I’m still trembling on the outside, but elated on the i
nside that they’re not getting hitched. At least not for now.

  An older couple walks by and whispers. They were sitting at the table next to us. I don’t care if they’re talking about me. They know nothing about my life.

  Dad reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a rubber eraser. He takes my hand and places it inside.

  “This is my gift?”

  Dad laughs. “No, something to tide you over. Now please come back inside.”

  I thumb the eraser, then look up at him. At the few small creases extending from each eye. To my mom he’s probably forever young. I wonder if she knew how much he truly loved her. Does she know how much we both miss her, how we would do anything to feel her presence? I look up at the sky. The setting sun reveals the night’s colors—crimson, orange, and mauve. I imagine Mom looking down at us. I’m with Dad now, I want to say. He grips my hand tight and I follow him inside.

  Helga hasn’t moved. She must be one nutty lady to stick around. Who wants to date a guy with a psycho daughter? She smiles big when we get back to the table.

  “Sit down and I’ll get it,” Helga says. She walks to the other side of the restaurant.

  “Does she have to be here?” I ask Dad.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Trust me, Cassia, she’s a good woman.”

  “For you maybe.” I roll my eyes.

  He doesn’t answer, but I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s done pleading with me.

  Helga returns to the table with a large package wrapped in Bubble Wrap and brown paper. A painting, no doubt. Don’t tell me she’s a budding artist, too. And if it’s a portrait of her and Dad, I’m going to punch a hole through the center.

  Dad moves the condiment basket from in front of me and lays the painting down. Then kisses me on the cheek. “For you, ma petite fleur.”

  He hasn’t called me his little flower in a long time. Not since I used to climb into his bed when I couldn’t sleep. He would tell me to close my eyes and he would sprinkle me with magic seeds. The seeds would help me grow, he said. No wonder I have such big feet!

  I slowly unwrap the package. First I remove the masking tape, then the Bubble Wrap, and finally the brown paper. I take a deep breath to prepare myself for what might be inside.

  My heart thumps.

  No he didn’t!

  It’s so beautiful, and the new frame is amazing, like spun gold.

  “Wow,” I say, and look up at Dad. He’s all smiles.

  A little girl with long strawberry-blond hair stops at our table to stare at the painting. I don’t blame her. I give her a mini-wave, but her mom tells her to keep moving and pulls her toward the bathroom.

  “Lady in Red. Dad, why couldn’t you just tell me you were having her reframed?”

  Helga and Dad both take their seats again. Dad reaches across to me. “There’s more to this painting than you think. Look at the woman’s face.”

  I pause and stare at it. “You want specifics? Okay, first off, she’s beautiful. She’s wearing sunglasses, has a long nose. I don’t know.”

  Dad purses his lips. The words flow from his mouth in slow motion. “It’s … your … mother.”

  I don’t even try to hide my confusion. “Huh? That’s impossible.”

  “When I first met Bianca, she’d dyed her dark hair blond. This is your mother, and you look very much like her. That’s why I wanted you to have it, because you’re also my lady in red.”

  I run my finger down the slope of my nose. My long nose. I wish I too had a pair of sunglasses to hide behind, because my eyes are welling up again and I don’t know how long I can keep the tears from spilling out.

  “But why give it to me now?” I gulp back the tears.

  “I was going to surprise you with it on Thursday. Her birthday. But I didn’t think it could wait. And when I told Helga about it, she offered to have it reframed.”

  “It’s so beautiful. Thanks so much, Dad.” I get up and hug him. “And you too, Helga. I’ve always thought the frame kind of sucked.”

  She smiles, then says, “You truly are the lady in red. That wrap is amazing on you.”

  “My mother made us dresses out of it. This is the leftover cloth.”

  Suddenly Helga rises from her seat. “You know what, I really ought to run. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to leave you two here.” She takes some bills out of her wallet and tries to hand them to Dad, but he pushes them back at her.

  Dad plants a kiss on her cheek and whispers, “Thanks.” I watch as she walks away. The sun gets smaller and smaller, then disappears out the front door. But I can still feel her warmth, especially the glow she left on Dad’s face.

  I stare at the painting. At my mother. “Dad, I can’t wait to bring her home.”

  His eyes are wet too, but his smile is what really powers his face. “She would be so proud if she could see you now. Cassia, you’ve grown into an amazing young woman. So smart. So talented.”

  “But not like you, Dad.” I shake my head. “You’ve been painting since you were three. I only started ceramics this summer.”

  “It doesn’t matter when you start something, or if you start it and hate it six months later. Passion comes from within.” He points to his chest. “It just takes different forms. I only wish I was as gifted as you.”

  I screw up my face like a jigsaw puzzle. “Yeah, right.”

  “To be able to pick up a basketball, then work your hands at the wheel.” He takes my hands in his. “Look at the power you hold.”

  “Yeah, I have large hands.” Great for gripping the basketball, not so good for finding a pair of gloves that fit.

  “Just like your mother.” He smiles.

  “She had big hands too?” I look down at the painting. Her hands are at her sides.

  “Do you think she wanted me to paint her hands all stretched out?” Dad laughs.

  I pull the cloth wrap tight around my shoulders again. I have to ask. “Dad, where is the dress?”

  He sighs. “I know you want me to work on the balcony painting, and like I said, I will. Soon. I promise.” His eyes are full again.

  This time I reach out to him. “Dad, I know you will, but really, I was only asking about the dress. I was looking for it tonight.”

  The muscles in his face tense. “Ah, she took it with her.”

  “Huh?”

  Dad looks down at the table. “I buried her in that dress. It was her favorite. Bianca’s dream was to be a clothing designer. She wanted to design clothes for mothers and daughters. Had she lived … ” He breathes deep. “I know she would’ve been very successful.”

  That’s when we both totally lose it. Dad throws his arms around me and I cling to him, tight. I know she would’ve been successful, too, if only she had been given the chance. If only the doctors had detected the tiny hole in her heart before it was too late.

  pumping red

  Graham calls me right when he gets back from his mini getaway, yahoo! He says he thought about me a lot, double yahoo! I tell him about Lady in Red, how I’ve chosen to hang it in the family room for all to see, rather than hogging the whole thing up in my bedroom. I even tell him about my dinner with Helga, but I leave out a thing or two. We talk late into the night, after most of the hardcore clubbers in my building have stumbled home, me snuggled under my comforter.

  “Called my guidance counselor today. She let me add ceramics to my schedule.” I swing my stuffed elephant around by the trunk.

  “That’s great. I could use a new mug.” Graham laughs.

  I look up at my ceiling. There are still a few glow-in-the-dark stars left from when I was going through my astronomy stage in middle school. “Don’t laugh, you might get what you wish for.”

  “Yeah, then I can say I knew you when.”

  “Before you get famous is more like it. Your artwork is really amazing.” I lick my lips and savor the heavenly taste of his kiss again.

  “Thanks. It’s so cool that your dad’s letting me hang a couple of piece
s at the gallery for the fall show.” I can feel the excitement in Graham’s voice. It’s cute.

  “I’m just happy you’re going to cover the spot where Lady in Red was.”

  “Tough act to follow.”

  “Yes, she is.” I sit up and look in the mirror on my dresser. My roots jump out at me. School starts in a few weeks. I have to decide soon if I want to go back as Licorice Chick or let the whole thing grow out.

  “And I know something you’re going to try on Saturday,” Graham says.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I’m taking you surfing at my favorite spot down by Third Street.”

  “Cool, I’m up for making a fool of myself.” I laugh.

  “I’ll bring my video camera for that.” Graham laughs too.

  I hear Dad’s keys rustle in the front door. He’s back from an art benefit. He calls my name from the kitchen. “My dad’s home. I better go.” I get up from my bed.

  “Good night,” Graham says with a yawn.

  It is.

  –––––

  Liz and I meet at the beach early, before it gets overrun by tourists. Something we usually don’t do. By two o’clock we’re both fried and ready to go home. Coach did say to take it easy before tomorrow’s game, but she didn’t say deep-fry yourself.

  On my way home from the beach, I pass a florist and something pulls me inside. I know Mom loved flowers and every time Dad visits her grave, he brings a bouquet, but I have never bought one for her.

  I open the glass door and the bell chimes. Immediately at least twenty different scents call out to me. I’m looking for something pure, something white, just like her name. Bianca.

  A tall guy with a kelly-green apron is pulling new arrivals out of a bucket. “Can I help you?”

  I inch closer to the middle of the room where the smell of fresh flowers is most intense. I breathe in deep. “It’s my mother’s birthday tomorrow.”

  He’s probably heard people say that a million times, but this is the first time I ever remember saying it.

  “Does she have a favorite?” The man gets up from his perch. His face is partially masked by a thick beard, but I know by the sound of his voice and the way he struts that he’s still pretty young.