The rest of the gifts, ranging from lingerie to jewelry, I’ve thrown in a box in the room he used to reside in, and I have every intention of donating them.
He's just temporarily infatuated with me. Dante isn’t used to a woman saying "no" to him, but the novelty will wear off. It always does with men.
I’m leaning against the kitchen counter as I stare at the smiley face lighter I stole from him months ago. I use it to light up my next cigarette, a small part of me tiring from the habit now. And that’s what it is—a habit I once used along with alcoholto push away the all-consuming thoughts of Lorraine's death. But I’m no longer drowning in those thoughts.
Because my attention and focus have been redirected to a certain asshole. Despite my efforts to keep him at a distance, I am grateful that it’s helped me step out of the constant cycle of grief and shame I was in—if only temporarily. But at least it’s given me time to breathe.
My phone buzzes, and I sigh as I answer the call from my agent, Janet.
“Hey. Do you have an update about the new collection? I sent you a few emails, which you haven’t replied to, and I want to see how it’s coming along. I needsomething, Romi. We have two months until the installation is due, so I want to let them know the theme at the very least.”
I take a heavy draw of my cigarette as I look toward the circular staircase I’ve avoided for over three months now. I stare at the black paint stained on the stairs. It feels like so much, yet very little, has changed.
“It’s not ready yet. Give me another week before I send something through.”
“Romi,” she growls. “You’re making me nervous.”
I put the cigarette out. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t,” I tell her with a smirk before hanging up. I feel bad for my agent. Before everything happened, I'd mostly been on time finishing my collections. Part of me still isn’t ready to face what’s salvageable upstairs. I haven’t picked up a paintbrush in over three months.
I take a shaky breath as I dare to do something I haven’t since Lorraine’s passing: I tentatively walk toward the staircase.
Much of my outburst from the night I returned after identifying Lorraine’s body is a blur. I was the first and only person on her emergency contact list, which says a lot about her toxic relationship with her mother.
The experience is something I haven't been able to completely block out. My heavy feet dragged me to the small cold room to identify her after I received the call. Seeing her lifeless body lying on the coroner's table.
When I returned home, I broke out into a rage—screaming and crying, hating myself for how everything unfolded and for the fact that I hadn’t been there to save her.
I was supposed to be there.
I promised I’d always be there, and she died because of me.
Every step feels heavier as I ascend the staircase.
I can’t run away from it forever, but it doesn’t make it any less difficult when I open the door. I take in a sharp breath at the scene before me. Black paint splatters the walls and floor. Four of my blank canvases are stained with black and marred where I’ve obviously run my hands through them, trying to ruin any blank space in my frenzy. And the two I was working on at the time…
Orange and gold shine between splashes and streaks of black. Two cans of black paint are still open, the remaining liquid dried up now, their lids on the other side of the room.
I hesitate at the threshold, too scared to enter the space that once served as my sanctuary but is now in total ruins. I look over to the bay window. Beside it is a small table with my incense burner and old-school record player, which has also been splattered with paint.
I think of all the times Lorraine would come to check-up on me, to make sure I’d eaten and hydrated when I became hyper fixated on my work. Sometimes she’d bring up a book and sit silently in the window seat, and we’d simply coexist.
I’m certain what there was of my collection can’t be salvaged, and what inspired me when I started them no longer matters. It’s not the canvases that have me stepping forward, but the boxes in the corner of the room.
When Ara, Lily, and Sienna cleared out the second bedroom, they put all of Lorraine’s things in boxes and left them here until I was ready to go through them. I stare at them vacantly until I force my feet to take one step at a time toward them.
I never knew something like a few cardboard boxes could hold such power over me, but as I kneel beside them, I feel it immediately sap all of my energy. I glide my hand over the first box, too scared to open it.
I remember most of her items, but it’s not the same without her being here. I’ve felt her absence so deeply; guilty about how we left things, and ashamed of how I feel such guilt for her death.
That recurring lump forms in my throat as I try to push it down and build the courage to open the first box. My hand freezes midway. I can’t seem to dig out the first layer of her manuscripts.
Lorraine had always wanted to be a published author, writing manuscript after manuscript, but never daring to push it further. She worked full-time as a secretary, and it only weighs on my heart as I think about the night before she died. I regret so much of what I said. Had I known it was our last conversation… God, there were so many other things I wanted to say to her then, and wish I could say now.
“I thinkthis is your best book yet. Why don’t you send it to publishers?” I suggest encouraging Lorraine as we sit in the attic. I’m halfway through painting my current piece for a new collection. I’m ecstatic. I’ve worked my ass off to get these types of opportunities, and feel like I’m ready to take over the art world.
I'm going to give it my best shot at least.
“No. It’s just lacking that spark, you know?” Lorraine says, and I pull myself away from my canvas to look at her.
