Page 95 of When Ben Loved Tim
“That’s myabuelita,” Tim says, walking over to join me.
“Your grandma?”
“Yeah. She’s cool.”
One of the woman’s eyebrows is raised more than the other. She’s wearing a subtle smirk. Her clothes are dark like her hair, the tones restricted to browns and blacks. The empty space around her has been filled with strokes of color. I notice a similar technique on other canvases. Whenever empty space is available, Tim fills it with a variety of hues.
“You must like rainbows,” I comment.
“I guess,” he says with a shrug. “I’m not really happy with any of these.” Tim sweeps an arm around the room. “There’s something I’m going for, but I haven’t found it yet.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, stopping to look at a painting of a solitary farmhouse, tiny against a backdrop of field and sky, making humanity’s toils seem small compared to the natural world. “Because these are really good! They’re all so evocative.”
“Of what?” he asks while following me.
“That depends on the painting. Your grandma’s portrait has so much personality that it’s like meeting her. The volcano… what was it called again?”
“Popocatépetl,” he says with a smile.
“I love when you say that. Anyway, the sky hints at the volcano’s history, or its potential, even though it’s dormant for now. And this one…” We stop before a canvas that is almost completely monotone. Most of the canvas is gray. A solitary figure cast in black stands in the void while peering through a window, represented by a white rectangle. The light shining in is just enough to create an edge of color on the figure’s face.
“I know that feeling,” I tell him. “Like the world is happening without me, and all I get to do is watch others living in a way that I can’t.” I turn to him. “It’s how I felt before we met.”
Tim swallows before shaking his head. “Youarethe light. Most of us are standing at the window watching you while wishing we could be that brave. That’s what I was thinking about when painting it.”
I consider the canvas again, amazed how he managed to flip the story. I was already free but didn’t realize it. Not until we found the window—this connection—that allows us to see each other. If only I could convince Tim to climb through it. We could finally leave the darkness behind. I’m so moved by the thought, and his art, that I have to wipe at my eyes.
Tim takes my hand and toys with my fingers, lingering on a spot made wet from my tears. Then he glances up at me. “Do you want to see something really personal?”
“Yeah, of course!”
I follow him to one of the stacks leaning against the wall. He takes a canvas from the very back and holds it up. I’m presented with a guy our age. Black hair frames an angular face. His eyes are brown and mischievous. What stands out most is that the canvas has been repeatedly slashed, like a serial killer took out his frustration on it.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Cole. My ex’s little brother.”
“He’s hot,” I say, feeling intimidated.
“He didn’t look exactly like this,” Tim says. “I aged him up. This is how I…” He hesitates. “I guess this is how I wanted him to look.”
Which already proves that I’m not the exception to the rule. “So what happened?” I ask, poking a finger through one of the holes.
“I got mad at myself for painting it,” Tim says, already returning the painting to the back of the stack.
“But not mad enough to throw it away,” I point out.
He seems surprised by this observation. Then he shrugs. “I guess not.”
Tim leads me to another stack, where he shows me some of his earliest work, like a frog floating down a river in a teacup. “That’s cute,” I say. “I’m surprised your mom doesn’t haven’t it hanging up at home. My mom kept the first poem I wrote taped to the refrigerator for years and years, until I begged her to take it down. Now it’s in my baby book.”
Tim is peering at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. “My parents don’t really get it,” he replies. “They aren’t into art. Like at all. They never went into the basement at our old house, and they never come in here.”
“Ever?” I ask in disbelief. “You don’t think your dad peeks every once in a while? I mean, you’re his son. And this is part of his office.”
“I know he doesn’t,” Tim replies. “My dad doesn’t have a key. He mightthinkhe does, but I made sure to match it to the one I have before I took his copy. Nobody comes in here but me.”
“Do you wanna change that?” I ask flirtatiously.
