I was enthralled. Every piece of art, every sculpture I was so wrapped up in the design, the skill, and the technique of each brush stroke on the canvas. It wasn’t long before my father had to come back and shake me to move along and keep up. The painting ‘The Old Guitarist’ by Pablo Picasso mesmerized me.
The shades of grey and blues that were layered to create the depth of the stairs, how he looks so sad and lifeless but at the same time willing to strum his guitar one last time before death takes his life. One could also assume he was passing out andfalling asleep, slowly heading toward the ground. But that is what makes great art your own interpretation of the piece before you and how it makes you feel and think.
I could identify with that painting, the struggle between life and death, finding a reason to carry on. It moved me in a way I never knew a painting could. My father had to come back and shake me out of my reverie.
I was standing underneath the painting, tears rolling down my cheeks; silently grieving for a man in a painting I never met. My father was utterly mortified that his daughter was bawling in a museum, embarrassing him in front of everyone, let alone his high-ranking colleague.
He came over and grabbed me by the shoulder, shoving me behind a wall, and slapped my face twice. Telling me to snap out of it or he was taking me back to the hospital and this time he would make sure I never got out. He grabbed my arm and shoved me behind my mother, who then pinched my arm and told me to smarten up.
My father’s colleague looked at me with those silver eyes. Pity was marked across his features as he took in the red handprints marking my face. I couldn’t stay there for one more minute. I asked to use the washroom and ran.
I ran and ran until I found the yellow sign with the books in the window. That’s when Helen caught me crying in the back corner on the floor. She took me in that night and let me stay in the back bedroom. Best day of my life since meeting Anna. She was the first person who didn’t ask questions and truly cared since my grandfather passed away.
Ever since that night, every chance I could get, I came to see Helen, visit and catch up, and read in the back corner on the floor where she found me. She finally put a huge pillow on the floor saying it was filthy and I shouldn’t be sitting on the carpet with my nice pants.
Helen and the bookshop are the one and only secret that I’ve kept from everyone, even Anna. I don’t think she would understand, no matter how I tried to explain it. My father no longer cares, so he won’t look for me tonight. Alex can do whatever he does in the evenings. I’ll deal with it all tomorrow.
I open the door and the bells chime above my head. I love that sound. The musty scent of old watered-down paper assaults my nostrils and I inhale deeply drawing it into my lungs. It’s like putting on a sweater that was in an old dresser. Nostalgia, with a smell, but comforting all the same.
The shop isn’t very wide, but it’s long and narrow. A small table and a worn-out chair are close to the front window. An older man is reading and smiles up at me as I pass. A large round table with four bar stools is close to the counter, which is piled high with books.
“Helen?” I call out.
“Back here!” A hand waves and jingles from all her bracelets from farther down the tiny single aisle passageway.
I head in her direction, and she pops out. Helen is in her mid-fifties, heavyset like me. Big brown eyes and white hair all cut short in a spike with a large black streak she dyes on one side. She has on her typical patchwork coveralls and a white tee underneath. She makes me think this is what Anna will be like when she gets older. Funky but classy. She pushes up her bright red round glasses.
“Oh, sweetheart? Where have you been?” She opens those big arms and I step in, enveloped in her warmth. I kiss her cheek and step back.
“It’s been crazy Helen. Sorry I haven’t had time to drop in lately.” I look away and I’m trying to hide my tears. She cups my cheek and brings me in for a kiss on the forehead.
“You need your room, baby?” All I can do is nod.
“Pass me your phone. I’ll put it in the bag under the counter if you need it. No one will find you tonight, love.” She brings me in for another hug and I dig into my purse and hand her my phone. She turns it off and pops out the Sim card.
I ran away once and my father’s men found me here. I made it one night with Helen’s help. We knew then that my phone either had a tracking device in it or a find my phone app. I don’t trust my phone ever since that night and this is not Helen’s first time helping people who need it. She has a steel mesh bag to block your phone’s signal. It helped protect many women fleeing abusive partners trying to track them down.
“Now go on back. The room is clean; grab a few books to take with you. I’ll come to check on you before I close. Did you eat?” She lifts one white eyebrow over her red-rim glasses.
I shake my head no and she nods, “Well, you’ll be getting your favorite. I’ll have them delivered.” She smiles at me and a tear escapes down my cheek. I’ve missed her so much. Why have I stayed away from here for so long? To what? Prove to myself I can make it on my own. She wipes away the tears and brings me back in for a half hug.
“Go now, love, I’ve got you tonight.” She puts the key in my hand and gently shoves me toward the end of the hall. “Go on now. I’ll be there shortly with your chow.”
“Thank you, Helen. I love you so much.” Turning I head down to the end of the hall, I press on the very last bookcase on the right side of the aisle and it pops off the wall revealing a heavy oak door hidden behind it. I put the key in the lock and turned the handle.
The small bedroom is homey with a double-sized bed and patchwork quilt. Two nightstands flank the bed on either side. Little silver lamps with white lampshades are the only source of light in the room.
There is a small bathroom off to the side and a tiny made-upkitchen with a tiny sink and a coffeemaker. A small bookcase is against the wall below the window. Helen always makes sure she has books in here for any age and every taste.
There’s no TV or any electronics allowed in this room. It was made and used for safety. Many women have stayed here fearing for their lives. I’m not one of those women tonight, but don’t want to be found.
As hard as it is for me to leave Anna and Alex fighting, I’m at my wit’s end today and I don’t feel like talking to either of them. No one listens anyway. I just want peace and quiet, a book, and to be alone, to not fight every second, to just breathe. I need to feel free for just a moment.
I know I should have gotten a hotel room, Helen could have used this space for someone in real need, but one of them would have found me and I’d have to explain why I left or be yelled at or dragged back to Alex’s cold house and face his wrath all over again.
I toss my purse on the bed and head over to the little bookcase, running my finger along the spines reading the titles; Pride and Prejudice catches my eye. I chuckle a little. Good old Mr. Darcy. I pull the book from the shelf, settle back on the bed, and start to read.
It is quiet and I feel at peace getting lost in the story so familiar to me. Alexander is definitely a Mr. Darcy, only with a major thing for chokeholds. However, I am not Elizabeth. I don’t have the skills to say what’s on my mind. She is more like Anna. Just tell them what you think and who cares.
