Page 101 of Falling Slowly
“You want to give your phone away?” I watched him poke a small rock with the tip of his sneaker, and my puzzle of Charlie gained one more piece. The impulsive, infectiously enthusiastic, neglected, spoilt, genuine, creative, easily bored… and now, with a gravity I hadn’t noticed before.
“People are proud. They don’t want charity. But if you throw something away, they’ll catch it.”
“You get bored with stuff, though. Don’t try to deny it.”
“Of course I get bored! I buy shit I don’t need and change my routines and order food from a new restaurant. It doesn’t mean I throw away something I love. I’ve had this one pair of jeans since I was eighteen. They’re pretty worn out, but I’d never throw them away.” He turned to look me in the eye. “Look, Bess. I can’t guarantee anything. Life is full of risk. Unavoidable risk.You might get bored of me. One of us could die…” He bit his lip, his gaze dark. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge up?—”
“It’s okay. It’s never that far from my mind, anyway. I guess that’s why I don’t like taking risks. Because ‘risk’ is not just a word. It’s a precursor to pain.”
He took my hand, squeezing it between his own. Making it warm. “I don’t want to cause you pain. Ever. I’m not saying I’d be an amazing father or partner or anything. I’m scared shitless of that. But I still want you and everything that comes with it.”
I believed him. Charlie might have been naïve, but he wasn’t lying.
My breath felt hot on my lips—hot air rising from my churning guts. “There’s little chance I’ll be pregnant anyway, from one time. That’d be quite miraculous.”
“Exactly. So, why stress about the pill?” He smiled.
Because I don’t take risks. Because I have to be in control.
I couldn’t give him an answer.
Charlie released my hand, peering over my head. “Oh, my God!”
I followed his gaze and saw Celia dragging a backpack full of pinecones. It was open, with the contents spilling over as she tried to move it across the bumpy grass and walking path separating us. Celia stopped in her tracks and burst into tears. Charlie jumped to his feet and caught up with her as she tried to lift it over a rock, spilling more cones. I stood up on autopilot, but something held me back. I wanted to see what Charlie would do.
He helped her gather up the fallen cones, slipping some into the hood of her jacket. Then he lifted the backpack onto his shoulder and Celia into his arms, whispering something into her ear. She looked over at me, then back at Charlie. The cries stopped, and he carried her across the path and to the cabin steps, lowering her onto my lap.
“She’s done a phenomenal job,” he told me. “I think we should get to the kitchen and stick these in the oven. They need to dry up and open before we can paint them.”
“What are we making out of them?”
Charlie grinned. “No idea. We’ll let Celia decide.”
“Me?” The girl looked up, blinking away the last tears.
“Yes, you. You’re an artist.”
“I am?”
“Of the purest form,” Charlie confirmed.
The girl beamed. “I’m an artist, Mom.”
Her tears had dried, somehow transferring into my throat. I swallowed down the lump and smiled. “Yes, you are.”
Everything we didn’t dare to believe about ourselves was present in our children.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Bess
We spent the rest of the morning in the kitchen, then in the studio, gently baking pinecones, then mixing paints and dipping the cones into different colors.
There were no teachers around, although Ilme made an appearance. She seemed in higher spirits after some promising leads from two other art schools and a gallery that wanted to display her work. Seeing our pinecones, she praised Celia, making her glow from pride.
For the first time, I felt at ease in the art studio, enjoying the experimenting without the nervous feeling I’d had during the earlier art classes. I wasn’t being judged for what I created. I was part of the creation, like an active spectator.
“Is this what it’s supposed to be like?” I asked as Charlie picked up a dried, pink pinecone, examining it by the window. “Art. Creativity. It feels more fun like this.”
