“Of course.”
He stands, brushing at the seat of his trousers, and again, I expect him to go, but he flicks on some low lighting and retrieves my painting from the drying rack, putting it on top of my mother’s. “This is good.”
And I burst out laughing. “It’s nothing like what I wanted.”
“Maybe. Does this mean you like painting again or were you just trying to get close to her?”
“Both.” My eyes scan the piece, visualising what the next version will look like, what I’ll change as I brush off my dusty skills. “I couldn’t bring myself to do it after Mum died. It just reminded me she’d never be doing it again.”
“She used to tell me, when it was good, it was like opening a vein and bleeding over the canvas. People could see at an instant what you were made of.” He glances over at her painting, then rubs the back of his neck, a tell for when he’s unsettled. “You didn’t stop out of resentment?”
I stare at him, not even sure how the words fit into our discussion.
“Only, when your mother told me what she wanted, at the end, she worried you’d hate her for being selfish. That you’d lose sight of all the good years and resent her for those you’d lost.”
There’s barely any air in the room. My lungs heave and heave, but my head is dizzy, my body weak.
It’s hard to speak but I manage because Avon has already knocked my fear down to size. “I worried she died thinking I didn’t love her. Because I didn’t fight for her to stay.”
My dad freezes in place. When he speaks his voice is quiet but firm. “We discussed how you might hate the doctor or be angry with me for supporting her decision or angry with her for leaving when she could have stayed. We both knew you loved her. That was never in question.”
I try to thank him and my voice chokes. But when I take a breath, my chest isn’t as tight. The oxygen begins flowing.
He switches out my painting to the previous one I started, staring at the scant detail until I say, “It’s a branch.”
He narrows his eyes, instantly seeing the rest. “And a love sonnet. Will you finish it?”
I slowly get to my feet, resting back against the bench, exhausted by the emotion of the evening. I try to recapture thesensation of guiding Avon’s hand with the brush, contrasting with how it felt to work on my own.
The room immediately feels emptier, a cavernous mouth gaping, ready to swallow me whole.
But there’s also excitement.
My eyes scan the image, thinking of what I still need to incorporate, wondering how if I change the ratio of the blue to green paint will that better reflect the way the river can appear translucent one second, opaque the next, thinking where to place the accents to show how sunlight hits the water.
“Yeah, I’d like to finish it.”
He switches it back to the portrait of Avon. “You love this girl.” His tone is flat, not asking a question. “If this is how she communicates with the world, maybe this is how you show her.”
“Maybe.” And the idea has appeal because she might walk away from words, but an image just takes one glance.
If my skill is up to the task.
If she doesn’t leave class.
If she doesn’t make me leave.
“Finish it, move onto another, and the next time I drag a reluctant new artist around a gallery event, it can be you.” He walks back, curling his knuckle and knocking it against my chest. “But first you make that list.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AVON
Mum’s alarmblares us both awake on Friday morning. After my tearful collapse of the night before, we’d both fallen asleep on her bed. It takes me until after she clicks the horrendous sound off to work out where I am.
“Are you going to school today? You don’t have to. If you like, you can come into the salon with me.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather get back to normal.” A statement that’s a lot harder to feel than it is to say.
