“She was ourmom, Sloane.” He says it like this should mean something, like his pain should trump everyone else's but all I can think is how this proves my point.
“Sheisour mom.” My voice has a hard edge as I use my hand to brush away the tears.
“This is a mistake. Don’t let her in.” For a second he’s fifteen, eighteen, twenty year old Grant again, giving me a warning he knows I won’t take. Because for him it’s so easy to turn away someone you love when they don’t meet your expectations.
Is there a world in which I could fuck up so bad that he turns me away too? Is it this one?
“Don’t let her in.”
I shake my head, a cruel laugh snaking its way up my rib cage.
“That’s your advice? To just keep pushing her away? Grant, you can’t just keep everyone at arm's length and expect things to get better for you.”
“I let people in. I let you in—I let my friends in. For fuck’s sake this entire argument is because IletGen in.”
I let you in,I know he wants to say.
The unspoken words ring between us, like it was a favor, like if he could do away with me he would. Because he’s neverreallylet me in. He’s sat a pillar above me, high up on his moral high horse. A smaller version of Mom who he wishes would abandon him, too just so he could point his finger and say:see—I told you so.
“This entire argument is because yourefuseto let anyone in.” I feel the knot in my throat, like at any moment I’ll completely fall apart. I grab my keys and my bag, the need to escape, to get far away from this conversation, from the truth of what he thinks of me, because it’s suffocating. “Apologize to Gen, Grant,” I say, my tone void of emotion as I throw his front door closed behind me, covering my face with my hands to stifle my sob.
Nine years ago
From where I stand at the entrance of Evie Fielder’s bedroom, I can smell it. I don’t need to see the purple bottle to know it’s super hold—that it’s Aqua-net. A memory of that can on acounter I can’t quite reach swims in my vision before it disappears.
I inch forward across the waxy hardwood, as much as I can without her seeing me, inhaling the powdery scent and mentally marking each step of her routine. There’s a round brush in her hand; a blow dryer in the other. The little machine roars to life as she lifts her arms like she’s done in silent rhythm for the past thirty minutes. Tugging like it takes effort, she pulls it through a chunk of hair while her blow dryer gushes hot air from the other direction.
Then, it’s silent, except for the pointedshhhof the hairspray can. It invades my nostrils and now, I notice she’s done. Her glossy blonde hair sits perfectly on her shoulders with a gentle wave, and it doesn’t move. A life sized doll—not even the wind could toss it out of place.
My adoptive mother is so beautiful, it hurts to look. I shut my eyes and strain to see my actual mother, try to let the familiar fumes build an image of her in the likeness of Evie. Youthful. Radiant. Healthy.
Nothing happens. I can’t see anything but stringy strands and smudged mascara but Iknowshe must’ve been like this before. Otherwise, why would she have needed Aqua-net, too?
“Sloane, sweetie?” Evie’s hands are gentle, but they’re on me for only a second before I shrug them away, my eyes flying back open.
She looks into my eyes with way too much concern, and I roll them like it’ll stop her from knowing all my thoughts. Grant loves that about her. He’s always saying how nurturing she is, how understanding.
And I get it; becoming a mother to a pair of eleven year olds is probably an uphill climb, and it must suck not knowing us the way a mother does.
But no one asked her to.
And I have a mother.
When she tilts her head to the side, I know she doesn’t care. She’s going to try to understand me anyway.
“You know, I’ve been meanin’ to give you somethin’,” she says, walking across the hallway towards the art studio, expecting me to follow.
“I’m meetin’ Clementine. Remember?” I cross my arms and push my hip out, a fight I don’t remember the start of pulsing through my bones. She ignores it, patiently waving me toward her.
The room used to be her painting studio but now she says it’s mine. Before it was just a desk, some bookcases, and an easel; all signs of her have been erased now, other than the few pieces she’s deemed too abstract for the rest of the house. I almost like her best in this room, with her canvases streaked in a mess of oily hues. The rest of this house is like an assault on my senses: everything matches. There isn’t a hint of contradiction, other than me.
My skin doesn’t feel as tight in this room, though. When I’m not at Clemmie’s, this is where they can find me, a brush in hand, trying but failing to paint the night sky with my watercolors. Every attempt leads to a purplish looking ocean more than anything, but I’m not bothered.
When I paint, it’s like I’m blissfully lost in the sea. Like I’m drowning but without the lack of oxygen. It’s a relief. Everything and everyone is muffled, blurry; they’re just a dream I once had—not really real. I feel weightless and free. I had a teacher once say art is about process, that the final piece is not as important as what you had to do to get there. And I get that now, especially with this night sky. I kind of dread the day I figure it out. What’ll happen then?
I stare down my latest starry night, nowhere near perfect, and sigh, feeling calmer already.
“It might be easier if you could layer,” Evie tells me, washing that calm away.
