To our right, the elevator dings open. It’s a big one, with double gated doors and metal on all sides. Service elevators are typically used to transport oversized cargo, the kind you can’t carry up the stairs. But as we pass by, we watch two renters walk out, arms empty. I figure since we’re paying, we can use it however we please.
I give Roy a polite wave before entering the long, narrow hallway. My mom is staring up, studying the long, reflective tiles on the ceiling, so she fails to see Roy’s middle finger or the lewd gesture he makes with his tongue and two fingers.
For a building made primarily of concrete, it’s surprisingly silent as we walk through the halls. The numbers on the door slowly start to fade away. Mom follows along with it, brows pinching as the numbers continue to disappear.
Perplexed, she rolls her eyes to mine. “Where are you taking me, the basement?”
“We’re almost there,” I assure, but she’s right. This is a long passageway.
She’s still glaring when we finally come to a stop at the end of the hall. I fumble with the latch on the front gate for a bit, struggling to get it unlocked. I must do something right because it springs up, tearing off a chunk of skin.
“Shit!” I curse, sticking my bleeding finger into my mouth. Before I can protest, my mom slaps the wound from between my lips and traps it in her unshakable grip. I know what she’s about to do, and I fight to be released before she can.
“No! No! No!No!”
But she doesn’t care about my objections. Pulling out her alcohol spray from her portable first-aid kit, my mom showers my cut in the stinging liquid, disinfecting it swiftly before slapping on some first-aid cream and a wide, cushioned band-aid.
“There. All better. Now, which one is yours?”
Acting as if she didn’t just ignite my finger, she holds open the steel door, waiting for me to unlock the thicker, more secure metal entrance. Leaning against the wall, an assortment of packages waits to be brought inside. I collect them in my arms giddily, unable to contain my excitement at the thought of finally creating something inmyworkspace.
“Damn, it’s Fort Knox. What on earth are you keeping in here? Gold?” my mom asks as she watches me unbolt my door.
My loft has three locks, a key, a code, and a bolt. Roy has my code, but I installed these other barriers on my own.
Thank you, wikiHow.
“A girl can never be too safe, Mom,” I declare, undoing every security before throwing open the door. “Welcome to my sanctuary.”
She looks impressed, an expression that fills me with pride. I love my parents, but my mom is my best friend, my person. I’ve only ever wanted her to be proud to call me her daughter.
Her heeled feet echo on the cement floor as she examines the room. I see her mind working, searching for those imperfections and problematic areas. Faulty wiring, leaky plumbing, anything to prove that I shouldn’t be in this space. Not because she doesn’t want me here, but because she doesn’t want me too far from her.
Me growing up has been a tough pill to swallow for both parents, but it’s taken the greatest toll on my mom. I’m her baby, and I’ll be gone next year, so why do I need to have this space now? She’s asked dozens of times since I mentioned the building.
“I need more room for my art.”It was a simple explanation because how do I tell her I need the freedom that having my own space will bring? It would only hurt her, and I don’t want to do that.
“So, what do you think?” I ask, swinging around a metal column.
Exhaling, she stares out of the fixed-pane window, watching the clouds pass over the quiet town with gloom. “It’s perfect.”
I don’t want to rub my excitement in her face, mainly due to the sadness I see on hers, so I bury it underneath a calm demeanor, passing it off as nothing.
“I’m glad you approve, Mommy,” I say, wrapping my arms around her middle. “Before we go, would you help me move those boxes inside? I don’t think I can do it on my own.”
Truth be told, I could bring them all in myself, but my mom loves to feel needed, more so lately. So I could do that for her. And if it eases some of her pain, I will do so happily.
It ended up being the most fun we’ve had in weeks. We got each canvas and easel in the room and positioned it where I wanted it under an hour. We even got my acrylic paints out of their box and on the organizing racks. Unfortunately, we have to place them back on the floor since I don’t have a worktable yet, but until then, it's perfect.
While staring at all the work we’ve accomplished, she points to the side wall, scrunching her nose at the large metal cabinet. “What is that?”
“Storage. It came with the room,” I explain, opening it wide to display all the space inside. “It’ll fit my bigger tools, even some canvases.”
“Oh,” she squeaks, a slight frown marring her classically beautiful face as she nods. “Well, okay…. I wonder why someone would choose to leave their cabinet behind, but it is what it is. Now, all we need is to get you a workbench and stool, and then you’re all set!” she exclaims, gathering our belongings to head home.
Now that she’s seen the place, she’s determined to dress it up. I always told her she was destined to be an interior decorator, but she said she found that hobby later in life. Before that, it was all about cooking and my father. Then she had me, and all she wanted was to make life beautiful.
I don’t deserve my mom.
