“You take care, okay? And I will make sure he’s well looked after.”
“Thank you,” I breathe.
“Of course. Now get out of here. Let me do my job.” She winks at me as she walks to my father. “Hello again, Hank. Ready for a cup of tea and a chat, hon?”
“Oh, there you are. I was wondering when someone was coming to take me to the train station. I’ve been waiting right here for hours, and I can’t be late. Tisha is waiting.”
“No, we can’t have that. Let’s grab that tea first, hey?”
“Yes. Yes, tea is good.”
I roll off the doorframe and wander back down the sterile hospital corridor. The small-town hospital is a general ward, housing a mix of patients. Each one with their own story, no doubt. And I can’t help but notice how incredibly drab the place is.
And I know just the woman to bring some color to these old walls.
For the first time in two decades, the double doors to my mother’s art studio under the big old oak in our backyard fall open. Dust and a light shower of snow falls from the doors as they creak around their hinges, letting light into the space that used to breathe with color and creativity.
The old wooden shed is drafty, the cold currents of air that wind through gaps in the boards playing with the dust and debris over the floor. Water damage has warped some spots of the shed’s walls, and the two long tables that still hold all her supplies have split veneer.
The windows on every side are boarded up. Most likely by my father not long after we lost Mom. Still, his efforts only served to keepusout, not the weather. The whole space needs fixing or, at the very minimum, a lot of love.
Her old stool, the one that swivels with the padded seat, sits by the table at the end, next to a dust-covered easel. I pad to where it stands, lifting the cloth draped over it.
A half-finished landscape stares back at me.
And I feel the weight in my chest, as I do with every memory of my mom. This time, it’s a little lighter. As if rediscovering her passion is a reunion of sorts for us. I run a fingertip over the oil-based paint, the texture uneven and abstract on my skin. “Hey, Mom,” I whisper.
I remember as a teenager begging Dad to let me into the studio, wanting to see her paintings one last time. Now, being in here, I feel the overwhelming urge to clean up the space and give it new life. A way to honor her, I guess.
Something for her.
But something for myself, a space to work on my art and refill my cup. And even if nothing comes from it, at least I have my own version of respite.
That is, if I can get this old relic of a studio fixed up...
Outside, I study the boards over the windows. Crowbar or?—
“Celeste!”
I spin around to find Maisey plowing through the snow at me. She launches herself into my arms, and I hug her tight, glad for her company.
“Where’s your daddy, hon?”
She pushes back a little, her arms draped over my shoulders as her face breaks into a smile.
“He’s right here,” Quin says from behind, snow crunching as he crosses the yard at a steadier pace then his daughter did.
“Oh, hey. How was your job wrap-up?” I ask.
He tilts his head with a wry smile. “It was fine. How’s your dad?”
Maisey wriggles and I pop her down onto her feet. “He’s okay. A little better. Starting new meds, so hopefully that will help. They said he can come home in a few days, if the medication settles things.”
“That’s great . . .”
But his tone is far from relieved.
“This is his home, Quinton. Where he belongs.”
