“Patty,” my dadgrowled, picking up on the dig. “Is that really necessary?”
My mom’s unrelentingstare jerked to him. “I just want her to be careful, Tom. Decisions haveconsequences. Or have you forgotten?”
My dad’s teethclicked together and he gritted out, “Oh, I’m perfectly versed inconsequences. My entire life is built ona house of consequences.”
“So maybe youshould stop encouraging her to go out on these dates. We don’t want her tomarry the first guy that asks and get stuck with someone that can’t carry theirshare of the burden.”
“I got a newproject!” I announced as cheerfully as any human was capable of. “There mightbe a promotion of sorts at the end of it!” And by promotion, I loosely hopedpeople would start noticing me.
So like a socialpromotion.
“That’s nice,kitten,” my dad mumbled.
“You already toldme about it,” my mom muttered.
I pushed my hamball around, my appetite disintegrating. “Well, it’s a big deal.”
“Is this aboutwork, Patty?” my dad demanded. He jabbed his fork down in a ham ball so itstood up straight on his plate. “You’re still pissed off that I got canned? IfI’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, the company couldn’t supportfour salesmen! There’s only room for two or three and the jobs go to the guysthat have been there the longest.”
My mother leanedforward, a dark storm cloud brewing over her head. “It’s not about this job,Tom. It’s not about this one! It’s about all of them!”
“Oh, for crying outloud!” My dad shoved back from the table, his plate rocking precariously inprotest. “I am so sick of your holier than thou attitude about this, Patty.”
“You’re sick ofme?” my mom railed. “Of me?!”
And on and on itwent. I felt sick to my stomach, but I forced myself to eat, knowing it wouldbe worse if I didn’t. I tuned out the familiar fight and focused on counting mybites of food, and sipping my water as slowly as possible. I drew littlepictures in the sweet sauce that went over the ham balls with the tip of myfork. I didn’t engage. And I didn’t speak. I simply listened and endured andwaited for the moment I could slip away unnoticed.
Eventually my momstood up from the table and started clearing the dishes, and my dad stompedback to the bedroom with a few more beers in hand. Mom would spend the rest ofthe night regretting every minute of her life up until now while she furiouslycleaned the kitchen. And dad would drink until he passed out in a blissful heapof unconsciousness. They would go to bed, not really recognizing theirdysfunction. Or at least not caring enough to do anything about it. And thentomorrow it would start all over again.
I was the one thatwould carry this with me when I left, that would wrestle with it all night andtomorrow, and on and on, forever. I would tuck it into the imaginary backpackI’d carried since I was a child and add it to all the other memories like thisone that have never left me.
Tomorrow, I wouldgo to work and I would bust my ass to do the very best I could at every singleelement of my job. I would make a conscious effort not to end up like my dadwho didn’t value a steady job or a bright future. And I would vow to never toturn into my mother who never let my dad hear the end of it, who didn’t careabout whatever ailment he had that wouldn’t let him work or kept him from beingsuccessful. I would swear to myself that I would never be a nag or cruel forthe purpose of being cruel.
I would love myparents always, but I would never let myself become them.
As for tonight? Iwould paint.
I all but crawledback to my apartment after I left my parents. I thought about a bottle of wine,but then I remembered my dad carrying half a six pack back to his room andcouldn’t stomach the idea of drowning my own sorrows in alcohol too.
So instead, I settledfor my favorite playlist, a Diet Coke, and my paints. Despite work in themorning and an irresponsible agreement to meet Vera at the gym even earlierthan that, I didn’t leave my canvas until after eleven.
And when I hadfinally finished purging my emotions and frustrations, and expelling everythingI didn’t say or think or want anyone to know, I stumbled back from my easel andsucked in a steadying breath.
For once, it wasn’ta version of Ezra staring back at me. I hadn’t focused on minute details ofeyes or lashes or lips. I hadn’t bothered to make anything lifelike, eye-catching,or pretty.
Instead, it was allslashes of bright paint. Red, blue, and yellow.Splotches oforange, green, and black.
And then just black,and black, and black.
And red on top ofthat.
And so much colorin places it hurt my eyes and then so much more color everything turned blackand I wanted to weep.
I left my brusheswithout washing them and my palette without cleaning it. I turned my back onthe room, not having the energy to deal with it tonight.
The mess would waitfor me until morning, just like this room and all of the paintings thatremained in it.
I leaned againstthe doorframe for a long minute, examining the room with tired, frustratedeyes. Part of me wanted to walk away from painting forever. For a hobby, it wasa painful one. It demanded too much of my soul, forced me to admit too much ofmyself. And then it put all of those pieces and parts of me I tried sodesperately to keep hidden on display for everyone to see.
