Page 58 of Somewhere Along The Line
My back rests against the dresser while I take in the tape-covered space. It already looks so different than it used to. It’s going to be bizarre seeing the house almost empty next week, watching this stuff go out the door as a last goodbye to Mom.
Dad will need me to be here for it. I think I’ll need him too.
“Hey, Jamie?” Dad’s voice breaks through my daze. “Think you could bring me to that pizza place in town?” A smile breaks out on his face as he sets the tape and marker on his bedside table. He acts like “that pizza place” isn’t the restaurant we’ve frequented twice a week since 1996.
“You mean Antonio’s?” I joke back, straightening from the dresser and nodding my head toward the door. “We should definitely go to Antonio’s.”
Dad walks my way, and I swing an arm over his shoulder, a physical acknowledgment that we did good work today since neither of us will say it.
“You think there’ll be any ladies there tonight I can charm for you?” He needles a finger into my side, prompting a yelp as I twist away from him. He’s joking about my slip earlier. I’m glad he didn’t take it to heart.
“Hmm, at this rate I’m not sure you’ll find out. Maybe I should leave you here and go alone.” I grab my keys from my pocket and spin the keyring around on my finger. Dad rolls his eyes and I smile softly as we continue our march to the car, still linked shoulder-to-shoulder.
We never wanted it to be this way, the two of us instead of the three of us. Even so, there’s something beautiful about what we’ve become this last year and a half.
We may not know what we’re doing, but the Newhouse men are alright.
Thank the Lord it’sfinally time for my middle-grade painting class. Art is a great outlet for big feelings (that’s the mantra I tell the kids) and goodness knows I have plenty of those right now.
I make my way down the stairs to the office lobby and hang a right until I reach the workspaces we use for classes and workshops. The art room is full of windows, the sun spreading cozy warm streaks on the tables each early afternoon.
With ten minutes to set up before the kids arrive, I work without thinking—pulling the supply cart out of the closet and placing a mug full of brushes on every table, a cup of water beside it. Each spot gets a small canvas thanks to the ongoing support of Art’s Art Supplies, and I arrange paper towels throughout the space. I also cue up my music, a mix of eighties rock, film scores, and whatever new stuff I was convinced to download last week.
Doing something with my hands is a welcome relief after wallowing in my mind these past few days. I’m tired of living in my own brain, of fighting against fears and feelings that threaten to drag me into a dark room and then lock the door.
I may not know what’s going on with James Newhouse, who I haven’t heard from since he turned me down on Monday, but my hands know how to paint.
More importantly, I can be here for the kids who will show up any minute now.
An apron slides from the back of the art cart, and I grab it before it hits the floor, throwing the loop over my neck and tying the side strings behind my back. While I wouldn’t care if I got paint on my Ramones t-shirt, the apron projects professionalism and models good habits for the kids. I throw my hair into a messy bun right at my crown and sit for a moment before the door swings open and Cassandra steps inside.
“Cass!” I squeal, running over to give her a hug while she tucks into herself like thirteen-year-olds do. “How are you? You haven’t been here for a while.”
She shrugs and finds a seat, pulling an apron to her lap but not putting it on—she’s waiting to see if anyone else does.
Six other students file in and take their seats, filling the room with a hum of energy that’s half hormones and half youthful audacity. It immediately brightens my mood—while others beg not to teach the middle-grade classes, I beg to have them. There’s something about the confidence of a seventh grader who believes they have the world figured out when they can’t even drive yet.
It rubs off on me.
The students work without much instruction which is purposeful. Often, there’s very little in their lives they can control, and this space exists for them to do what they want. I mill about the room giving praise, filling requests for different colors, and replacing muddied water with fresh. Sometimes the kids will open up about their lives and sometimes they won’t—either is okay.
We don't have any rules or expectations about what happens in this room, only that we paint.
After everyone is settled and working independently, I grab a canvas and pull out a chair next to Cassandra. “Mind if I sit here?”
Even though she’s a closed book today, it doesn’t stop me from trying as she scooches over to make space for me. I know she and her mom have been in and out of the shelter, and that it’s incredibly hard for her. Her head shakes back and forth gently, and I reach across to grab a brush from the mug, leaning into her for a brief touch of affection before pulling back.
I start my work like I always do, brushing wide strokes without a plan for what the piece becomes. Red acrylic stripes the white canvas as I circle my brush to the top and down the center. Next, I add yellow, weaving the color amid the red and around the perimeter, slowing to carefully line the edges with precision. I dot on a few blue stars, not the five-point kind but little bursts of color pricking the white, red, and yellow to draw attention.
The piece feels right, like nothing is missing. I lean back in my seat to look at it from a distance, pleased with the result. This project will end up in a pile somewhere, but I got what I wanted out of it: an escape from the incessant thought that James is avoiding me. Probably because I’m too much.
Because I’m always too much.
Cassandra’s painting, to my left, is a mass of colors flowing out from a dark center, or perhaps the dark is drawing them in. She is attentive as she works, her tongue peeking out the side of her mouth in concentration. She’s doing great work, and I tell her that, though she doesn’t acknowledge the praise.
“Damn, Miss Paulson!” Tyree comes up behind me with a shuffle to point at my canvas. “You made a good one today.”
“First, mind your language, Ty.” He rolls his eyes before smiling at me. “Second, I appreciate the rare vote of confidence. Are you saying my others have been bad?”
