He stiffens. “Of course not.”
I can’t swallow past my closed-up throat.
“It’s you,” he says, but this time there’s no accusation in his voice. There’s wonder and awe.
I can’t look at him. I feel like an exposed wound. Those murals were a forgotten gift from my great-aunt. They were words I couldn’t say. No one was supposed know because no one would understand. They can have their theories on what they’re supposed to be, what certain things mean, but the true meaning is mine to have.
But he’s been watching me. Listening to me.
My voice is momentarily gone with fear, so I just nod.
“Wow,” he breathes.
I clear my throat. “Why won’t you tell?” I croak.
He stares at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Why would I?”
I shrug.
He pushes his hair back and takes a seat on one of the chairs opposite the easel. He gestures at me to do the same.
“They’re beautiful,” he says quietly. My heart flutters at the reverence in his voice. “Is the girl your mom?”
I nod.
He leans back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “I… have so many questions.”
I massage my eyes. “I’m sure you do. Look, I don’t know what this is. We’ve…I’m…” Words fail me. I can’t forget looking up and seeing him stand there.
His cheeks become ruddy, and he glances away. “I owe you an explanation.”
“I didn’t want your help,” I find myself saying.
He bites his lower lip. “Even so. I hesitated. I didn’t know what I was looking at, and I just couldn’t move. It’s a shitty excuse, but it happened so quickly.” Guilt sears his tone.
I don’t know how to tell him I hope he forgets what he saw. The shame is still branded in my bones. If it happens again, I don’t want to tell him. I don’t ever want him to see me like that. I don’t wantanyoneto. Not Baba. Not Amal.
“I’m sorry,” he says. This time when I look at him, he holds my gaze. “For not being there for you. I didn’t want to come in today, because I was embarrassed of what I did. But when I realized it was you painting those murals…You don’t have to tell me how you’re getting your murals out there. I won’t ask, and I promise you; I won’t tell anyone. But if someone from your crew can’t do it, I can.”
I stare at him. “If you’re caught, you could be arrested.”
He shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”
“Why would you do that?”
There’s something about his expression, like he sees too much of me. “Because people should see what you draw.”
I scratch the chair’s arm. “There isn’t a crew.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
“Try me.” His colors brighten up a little. And yellow springs up for a second; the blond wavers to gray and back. But the contrast holds for a bit.
I take in a deep breath, debating with myself on what to say, what to hold back. I suppose telling him about the sketchbook won’t make sense unless he knows the entire story. “My mom used to tell us about how the women in our family have blessings.”
He leans forward, taking in everything I’m saying with wide eyes, his lips parted. He doesn’t interrupt. My voice is quiet, tripping on my sentences, but I find it easier to speak the more I say. I tell him about my great-aunt and the tree that made the sketchbook. The memories the tree showed me. Mama, the jellyfish, and the Mediterranean. I tell him how I lost the colors.
