by Elisa Ellis
The art building is several stories high not including the basement, but the lab is thankfully on the first floor. I turn right just after entering and Mom starts in again.
“Oooh, this is nice, Cal. Hold on. Do you have any of your work on display in these cases?”
“Well, I can’t exactly see what’s in the cases, Mom, but considering I told Mr. Kenan that I’m not interested in showing my work, I highly doubt it.”
“Cal! I’m sure your projects are good enough to be in here. Why would you do that? You don’t give yourself enough credit, you know? Good grief. I know my kid deserves to have his work put on display. I mean, he’s handsome and smart and very talented. Why wouldn’t they just put it in there anyway?”
I think she’s still talking, but I’ve turned her off. She seems to think we are at pre-k open house.
Continuing to walk without her, I hear Mom’s feet shuffling quickly behind me to catch up. I want to make this quick. The lab has become a home away from home for me, almost a place where I can be someone else, create something better than my circumstances. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be around today, so I’m surprised to hear Mr. Kenan talking to Ray from the opposite side of the room. They quieten when I near them, obviously making me a little suspicious, but I remind myself that everything isn’t about me. Maybe Ray needs help or something.
I walk towards their voices, sticking my hand out to shake Ray’s. “What’s up, dude?”
“Not much. Just leaving,” he replies on his way out.
When I shake Mr. Kenan’s hand, he puts his other arm on my shoulder. “Hello, sir. I just came to pick up my things before break.”
“Well, I’m glad you came by, Cal. Why don’t we sit down and talk for a minute since you are here?” Before I can ask him more, I hear Mom coming in the door.
“Cal, why didn’t you wait for me? I was trying to tell you something. I did see your work in the case. It’s beautiful, son. Why didn’t you tell me you are so creative?”
“What?” Surely I didn’t hear that correctly. I’ve kept my work together in my lab space.
“Mr. Kenan? This is my mom, Trish. Please show her where I keep my work. I think she must be mistaken.”
“Son,” he addresses me carefully.
“Mr. Kenan, I am not your son. Please don’t patronize me. Did you put my work on display without asking me? You know I don’t want that.”
“Cal, I didn’t enter your work in the city competition. Yet. I still hope you will reconsider. But you didn’t say I couldn’t display it in the commons. It helps other art students to view various work. Everyone learns from each other; that’s part of the growth of an artist, Cal.”
“Really?” I ask sarcastically, continuing, “Because I am not looking at everyone else’s work, Mr. Kenan. Are you saying I can’t grow as an artist because I can’t see to learn?” I know that’s not what he’s saying, but I’m pissed. This work is mine.
My mom, of course, intervenes, “Cal, I’m sure Mr. Kenan does not mean that at all, and you know it. You stop being ugly and be thankful he recognizes your talent. There is no reason to be like this.”
Mr. Kenan addresses my mom, “I’m sorry, Ma’am. Cal has expressed his feelings about keeping his work private with me. And I understand your frustration”; he turns toward me, “but sometimes it takes that extra push to help a person out of one’s comfort zone. What would happen if we didn’t have Michelangelo, Monet, or Van Gogh? They each had challenges. Many artists’ works are rejected or the artists don’t feel their work is complete or good enough, but if they choose to never allow their work to be seen, not only would we not be able to learn from it, but we would have little to appreciate and enjoy. Cal, your work is bigger than you. It is worth being seen.”
It hurts to put myself out there like this. My work reflects my emotions, my pain, my inspiration, my love, all things I am afraid to share. I feel like I have to hold on tight or I will have nothing left of me.
“Mr. Kenan, I understand what you are saying, but my work is sacred to me; it’s all I have that keeps me sane,” I tell him, exposing more of my fear than I want to.
“I get that, Cal. I really do. But you know, everything you have endured can become your testimony, expressed through art. It can help others as they interpret your work in their own way. If nothing more, it is inspiring and uplifting. Don’t allow your fear to make you selfish. Just take that step; I believe it will actually free you from some of the pain and repression, not only helping you, but blessing others at the same time,” Mr. Kenan says, thoughtfully.
Nodding my head in defeat, I finally give up. “Ok. Do it. Enter all of it in whatever competitions you want. But don’t expect me to be there. I don’t even want my name on it. Can you at least give me that?”
Mr. Kenan sighs, but concedes. “That’s fine, Cal. I can do that. I think this is a big step for you, and an important one. Believe in yourself, Cal. God has given you a gift, one that should be shared.”
“God took my ability to see, Mr. Kenan. Do you think he gave me this gift to placate me? Because nothing can make it better.”
“You already had this gift, Cal. Now you have the opportunity to use it. Move forward. You have to live now. I’m sorry for what happened to you, and I don’t believe God took your sight, but either way, you can’t continue to let that define you. Just like you mold clay, you are also being molded, every day by the choices you make, by your relationships, by who you are, but if you try to prevent it, you will be stunted. Let yourself be molded into something great, because everything in this life can contribute to making you better, as long as you allow it.”
“It’s just hard, Mr. Kenan. Really hard.”
Mom has been quiet, which surprises me. I expected her to join Mr. Kenan in his lecture. I haven’t heard her get up and leave, so I assume she’s still standing with us.
“Mom? Let’s go.”
“Ok, hon,” she replies, grabbing my arm lightly to lead me out.
I shake her off, still frustrated, and hear her sigh.
“I’m sorry,” I spit out harshly, but I quickly try to soften my tone to let her know it’s not her. “I’m sorry…”
“It’s ok, Cal. Let’s just go.”
This time, she doesn’t touch me; in fact, I hear her walk away quickly, the door opening and closing before I can even get to it.
“See you soon, Cal.” I hear Mr. Kenan say as I’m leaving.
I lift my hand to wave in response, feeling a little defeated, but also a bit nervous and maybe excited in anticipation of my future. A future potentially illuminated with belief. In something more than myself.
Before
A month left of school. I can do this, I think, after spending the entire weekend self-medicated, alcohol dimming anything and everything in my mind.
Monday’s are shit. Getting up early for school is shit. But I can do anything for just one month, and then I’m out. Out of this hell-hole of futile, fucking shit.
Anger masks my hurt, cloaking my feelings with cynicism. Who cares, though? Right? I mean, Mom’s at work. She’s sick of my attitude and hasn’t been talking to me anyway. I never talk to anyone at school, so I say fuck it. I’ll get through my last month of school and never look back.
The pep talk in my head challenges me to get dressed, drive to school, park my bike, head up the stairs, and force myself into school, the institution of conventionalism. Everyone is here to achieve the same goal. To finish. To get to the next step.
“What are your plans for after high school?” I remember Sera’s dad asking me. And I think, how the hell am I supposed to know? I’m only 18 years old, not ready to be a boring grown up. Why does that make me less than anyone, especially him?
Walking with my head down, my jaded and negative thoughts prevent me from noticing where I’m going in the hall before I have run into someone hard. Dammit.
“I’m sorry.” I mutter, trying to pick up the person’s belongings off of the floor. I’m
trying to hurry because per usual, I’m barely going to make the bell. I don’t even notice her scent. I can’t hear what she’s saying to me. My mind is protecting me, keeping me in a weird cloud of oblivion. It’s not until her hand is on mine, stopping it from stacking books and papers, that I feel Sera’s presence and hear her sweet voice speaking my name calmly.
“Cal. Cal, stop.”
I freeze. Maybe I can just stay in this moment and pretend all is ok. Her hand is still on mine and it feels nice. Right.
After a long moment of hesitation, my eyes lift to see hers, watery, searching mine for what’s wrong. Her tears devastate me, but my anger prevails.
I lift my hands up, surrendering, the martyr in me speaking loud and clear. “Fine. If you don’t need my help, I’ll be going.”
I don’t want to leave. I really don’t want to punish her, but I’m just so mad. Frustrated. Exasperated.
Shaking my head, I sigh. “Sorry,” I quietly say, not making eye contact.
“It’s ok,” she replies, softly. Clearly hurt. “It has to be ok, Cal.”
My eyes question hers. I truly don’t know what she’s thinking. I want to grab her and hold her in my arms forever, and it’s taking everything in me to move. My feet take me backward, maintaining this superficial hold, eye to eye, until I can bear it no more, and I turn to walk away.
I haven’t seen Sera at lunch, at the door where we leave every day, or in the halls for the last week. Seeing her this morning has changed my day. It has changed me. Determined insurgency arouses my spirit. I don’t know why I allowed doubt or fear to envelop me. It’s not who I am. And it damn well isn’t going to stop me from getting what I want ever again.
I don’t know how Sera has been leaving school without my seeing her this past week, so I decide to leave my last class early. The substitute teacher sitting at the desk in the front of the room is indifferent anyway.
Waiting and watching other seniors leave, I patiently stand out of sight when the door opens once again. She exits with her head down, so she startles when I grab her wrist, swinging her around close to me.
“Sera, It’s ok. It’s just me,” I quietly tell her.
“Cal, what are you doing? My father will see us. He’s been picking me up, himself.”
“I don’t care anymore, Sera. Tell me you don’t want me. That you don’t want us.”
She lifts her eyes, slowly, but assuredly. “Cal. I can’t. It’s not about what I want.”
“Yes it is, Sera. Don’t you see? We are 18. We don’t have to do what anyone tells us to do. This is our life, and our choice,” I argue. “Please, Sera. This last couple of weeks has been hell. I haven’t been myself without you.”
“I haven’t either, Cal. I’ve missed you so much. You move me, and you know I’ve been stuck for a really long time.”
My hand raises to gently wipe the tears trailing down her smooth cheeks. “Babe. I feel something with you. You mean so much to me. Please. We can figure this out. We have to.”
Sera glances out at parking lot and grabs my hand, dragging us back inside.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“My dad isn’t here yet. I don’t want him to know I’ve been talking to you. I’m sorry. It’s just…easier that way.”
“I don’t care about that,” I say, trying to reassure her.
“Ok. So, how are we going to do this? We don’t have much time before I have to leave to go to college. How will we stay together then?”
“Let’s just get through right now. Meet me tomorrow after school. See if you can get out early and meet me here. I’ll try to come up with a plan. Ok? Just, don’t stress,” I say, drawing her close to me. It feels so good to hold her. Her hands hold me tight, wrapped around my back as I kiss the top of her head, one hand around her waist, the other stroking her hair.
“You have no idea how good it feels to hold you again. I’m sorry about this morning, by the way. I’ve just felt so angry. But after seeing you, I knew I couldn’t stay away anymore. I really believe we are meant to be together, Sera.”
“Oh my gosh, Cal. I feel the same way. Just… don’t leave me. Ok? Please don’t ever leave me.”
“I won’t, babe. Not ever,” I whisper into her hair.
We both notice a car pulling up to wait by the stairs so we quickly break apart. Sera looks at me as she grabs my hand, holding it until she can’t anymore, and walks out the door.
Chapter 15
Now
Christmas break. I never thought I would wish I was in school, but since I don’t have a job, the mundane and thoughtless acts of habit smother me. Without a place to be, my apartment stifles me, even music becoming redundant. I don’t have supplies to work on sculpting, and the lab is closed for the holidays. I have gone to the gym a few times, but it’s desolate considering most students have gone home to be with their families during the holidays.
Mom is still working two jobs, at the factory during the day and at a sandwich shop on weekends and some nights. I wish I could help out somehow.
Every little step in full recovery is like a giant leap for me. School, the gym, my art, all of it demands courage that is still growing from a tiny seed inside of me. My therapist quotes the bible, “if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.”
“And what if I don’t?” I question him with uncertainty.
“Do you know how big a mustard seed is, Cal? It’s about 1 to 2 millimeters. A tiny piece of grain. Picture a mark of a pen on your finger. Do you have that much faith, Cal?”
It’s perplexing. I honestly don’t know how much faith I have, or if I have any at all. And I don’t know what, or who, to have faith in.
“In myself?” I ask, feeling unenlightened.
“In yourself, yes, but ultimately in God, Cal,” he answers.
“I don’t really know, I guess. I’ve not given God much thought.” I wasn’t raised in church. Mom rarely talked about it. On special occasions, she would pray over a meal or something like that, but I didn’t know a whole lot about religion.
“That’s ok. It’s not too late to think about God. But what I’m trying to say to you right now is, I believe God is our creator. He protects us and helps us along the way of life. We don’t have to be alone or do things without His help, and if you have a tiny inkling of faith in Him and His ability to help you, He will take care of the rest. It’s ok to lean on God.”
“Ok. Umm, I guess I have a ‘tiny inkling of faith,’” I say, sort of mocking his mini sermon. I didn’t realize therapists could express their religious views to patients. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I mean, I do believe in God, but I don’t really know much about Him. I didn’t even know that the faith as big as a mustard seed saying was from the bible, having not really contemplated it before anyway.
“You can do what you want in life, Cal. Don’t let fear cause you to stumble,” Dr. Roberts continues.
“It’s not like I’m trying to. It’s hard, though…being blind. It sucks. I miss seeing. Colors, the sky, trees, my mom, my…”
I can’t. I miss her so much; it hurts deep in my soul. I keep on moving, distracting myself with school and art and friends, but she’s always there in the back of my mind. I constantly hear her whispering my name, “Cal.” Like she’s trying to reach me. I don’t believe in ghosts. It’s not like that. But in my head, she’s there, haunting my present with my past. Not in a bad way, but it doesn’t make living my life now any easier. I don’t want to discuss Sera with Dr. Roberts, though. Not now and maybe not ever. I just have to move on.
I can hear him breathing, waiting for me to continue. “I know. I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I have to pick myself up and start over. Ugh. It really does suck, though, for lack of a better way to say it.”
With a smile in his voice, he replies, “It’s fine, Cal. You are feeling something. That’s better than nothing, and
the fact that you recognize that ‘it sucks’ means that you want better. You have something to reach for even if you don’t know exactly what it is yet. Just keep going forward. You are capable, and when you don’t feel like you are, say a little prayer. God is able.”
Again with the God stuff, I think. I don’t know why it’s bugging me; it’s not like I’m offended. I think I just feel inferior, or ignorant, and I hate that. And if I’m honest with myself, I’m angry at God. I don’t understand why I had to go through everything I’ve gone through. It’s not fair. The common phrase, “life isn’t fair,” comes to mind. What a fucking understatement.
We bought our first real Christmas tree this year. Mom thought since I couldn’t see the decorations, that maybe I could smell them. It was really thoughtful. I do love the smell of pine. Bringing a little nature inside the house adds a freshness to our tiny apartment. It cleanses and adds beauty to the colorless world surrounding me.
I sculpted a rose out of clay for my Mom when I had some extra time before the art lab closed. I knew I wouldn’t be able to buy her a Christmas present this year, so hopefully she will like it. Wrapped in newspaper, it sits under the tree with one other present, something I assume she plans to give me.
Christmas has never been a huge thing at our house, considering it’s just the two of us, but this year somehow seems a little more special to me. I realize that with everything I’ve lost, that I’m still here. My mom has told me multiple times that she is grateful that I’m still alive after such a horrific accident, but I’ve never been able to consider that as good until now. I’m finally recognizing a little of my worth, if nothing else, to her. My mom would have been alone had I not made it, and just thinking about her grief makes me understand her clinginess.
I decide to include a card, really just a piece of folded piece of paper. I write, “I love you, Mom. I’m thankful for you (even if you do drive me a little nuts sometimes – haha).”