Replacing the lids on the red and blue, I work with white and black only.
Normally I draw comics, but I want something on my wall that I can look at every morning when I wake up and every night before I fall asleep that is…I don’t know…me.
You’re nothing. You’re nothing. You’re nothing, the faint chant begins to remind me who’s in charge.
Without thinking, I dip the three-inch brush in the white paint and slash the letterIthree feet tall and almost as wide. I return to the can, dip the brush again to load it with more white, and add a refinedamunderneath it. I take my time with the letters: flowing cursive, smooth edges. The words are equal in size and weight and presence, but vary in aggression. I look at the space beneathI amand switch out brushes. This one is wider by a half inch or so. When I dip it deep into the black paint, the voice chides,You’re nothing. You’re nothing. You’re nothing. I squat down and raise my hand, on autopilot ready to draw thenwith the brush, but then I think about the people in my life who care about me. Really care about me. And I fight for myself.
I stand and paint a period behindaminstead.
And I leave it at that. Because maybe I don’t need a declaration. Maybe just existing today is enough. I’m here.
I am.
I wash the brushes out in the kitchen sink. Inmykitchen sink. After I take the paint and paintbrushes to the supply room in the basement, I go back up to apartment 3A and make three trips to move my stuff to my new apartment. Each time I walk through the door I hear Marilyn’s voice initially, but it gets a little quieter every time, and when I put Nina’sPhysical Graffitialbum on the turntable and touch the needle to vinyl, all I hear is her:
Laughing boisterously. It bounced around inside her rib cage before it expelled and always made me think that she felt it intensely because it had to be allowed to build before she could release it.
Teaching me how to draw. “Don’t strangle your pencil, Toby. Be gentle if you want it to cooperate with you.” “Always shade, it adds depth.” “There are no mistakes in art.” “Don’t be afraid to mess up, it’s the only way you learn and get better.”
Singing along to “Houses of the Holy.” Her voice wasn’t great, but she sang with conviction and that counts far more than perfection.
Reading aloud to herself in a whisper because she always said she understood the words better that way.
Offering to share with me. “Do you want half of this peanut butter sandwich, Toby?” “Do you want to split this cookie with me, Toby?” Whatever she was eating, she always shared.
Wishing me a happy birthday, even if it was late, because she’s the only one who ever said it.
Commentating onThe Road Runnercartoons when we watched them together on Saturday mornings. “Why can’t the coyote win? Just once, I’d like to see him win.”
“I’m so sorry, Nina,”I whisper to the air. “I’m sorry there was so much I didn’t know. I’m sorry I couldn’t help. I’m sorry that life wasso hardfor you.” Pinching my lips together, I take in a deep, shaky breath through my nose. “I miss you. Every day I miss you. I’ve blamed myself for two years for your death. But I think I finally realize you lived with depression, the same way I live with depression. It’s hard. It’sso hardwhen you don’t believe you’re good enough. Or smart enough. Or just…enough. I should’ve told you that you were.You were enough. I should’ve told you that I loved you more than just once. I should’ve told you how funny you were. And how much I looked up to you. And that I love music becauseyouloved music. I should’ve told you a lot of things. I think sometimes we take people for granted…or we just assume that they know how we feel about them because if it’s so obvious to us, shouldn’t it be obvious to them too? I know now that people don’t know…they can’t know…unless we tell them. Because saying it, or hearing it, can literally be the difference between life and death. I’ll never go another day without letting people know how I feel, even though it’s hard. I’m starting with Alice. I know I won’t have the right words, or I’ll be embarrassed, but I won’t let that stop me. Because it matters. People need to hear it. Thank you for teaching me so many things. You were enough, even if you didn’t believe it.”
Pulling the collar of my T-shirt up, I wipe away the tears from my eyes, cheeks, and chin.
I turn off the record player and put the album back in its sleeve.
I walk to the answering machine that’s still sitting next to the phone on the table. The phone is dead because the number’s been disconnected for years, but the answering machine’s light is still on and it’s flashing like there’s a new message. I hit play and I’m not prepared for what I’m about to hear.
“Goodbye, Toby. I love you, too.”
I let the message play out in static for a minute before it cuts off. She must’ve not hung up the phone after she left the message. I hit rewind and listen to it again. And again. Her voice sounds weary and deconstructed, like she’d succumbed. I know she recorded this moments before she pulled the trigger, but it also sounds like she means it. Like she really did love me. She never said it before, but I know now that it’s probably the last thing she said.
“I love you, too, Mom,” I say to the silence as I push the off button on the answering machine.
I sit for a few seconds, but I can’t sit here any longer. I need to do something.
I walk across the foyer and knock on my neighbor’s door.
“Come in!” he yells from inside.
Turning the doorknob, I urge the door forward slowly. I don’t know what state he’ll be in, but he’s home, so I’m guessing that’s a good sign.
He waves from the couch. He’s cloaked, as always, in the brown terry cloth robe. The pallor of his skin reminds me of skim milk, a hint of blue amongst stark white. The coffee table is covered with neatly lined up pill bottles, a glass and a pitcher of water, and two novels.One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nestis playing on the TV. He mutes it.
“They let you come home?” I ask. And then I repeat what I thought a few seconds ago. “That’s a good sign.”
He smiles weakly, not because he’s faking it but because he’s too drained to generate the genuine article. “Indeed. They downgraded the pneumonia diagnosis after more tests. It appears I’m not going anywhere yet.” I expect Jack Nicholson’s voice, but it’s Mr. Street’s instead.
I take a few tentative steps in. I don’t want to sit on the couch and disturb him, but there isn’t anywhere else to sit. I’m so bad at this, so I stand in place. “We’re neighbors now.” I point with my thumb over my shoulder. “I mean, I moved in across the hall. So, if you need anything, just knock. I don’t have a phone yet. I probably won’t for a while, but…” I trail off because I’m rambling…and I don’t ramble.
