The moon watched us as we trekked across the gravel path to the cabin. Frankie refused Lyle and I's assistance, insisting that he could carry the mountain of screens and wires that he stacked onto his computer. I held the door open for him and he made a beeline for the bathroom to reset all of his gear. I bit at the inside of my lip as I tried not to think about the electrical hazard posed by the jumble of live cords so close to a water source.
No shower for me tonight.
Naturally, Lyle and I wound up in the kitchen and she sat behind me on the counter as I fired up the griddle. Neither of us were really hungry, my appetite shrank to almost nothing the day after Monroe called to threatened me. The habit of cooking was the only way I remembered to feed myself. It was calming to me and sometimes I wished I could spend an entire day preparing a meal.
In the kitchen I didn't have other responsibilities to tend to or the feeling of guilt that I wasn't doing enough. Work was the same way, the lack of control in my overall life made every little bit of monotony and pattern valuable.
"My guess is six yachts between them," Frankie said pointing to a photograph of four men dressed similarly in light colored trousers and short sleeve buttoned polos. "And this one's got one just so he can wear boat shoes."
Lyle swatted playfully at Frankie's arm as he laughed at his own joke.
We were gathered in the bathroom around Frankie's laptop - even though there was a perfectly nice couch in the other room. I sat on the closed toilet lid with my arms around my legs hugging myself into a ball as we scrolled through the Bull Frog Country Club's website. Lyle sat on the tiled floor between the tub and I.
There was little to see on the website other than the gallery of photographs featuring elite looking men and women playing golf or drinking samosas, not that I expected the landing page to have a giant photograph of my mother or of Monroe with a big red 'x' through his smug face.
The website was sparse, but we were able to find the address. The club was a half hour outside of the city seated on thirty acres of private land. Tomorrow was a gap day at the B&B where several families were leaving a full day or two before the next guest was due so I knew Lyle and I could get the day off.
Frankie suggested we leave midmorning and I agreed in between yawns before heading up to bed.
Lyle went to sleep immediately but within the hour she'd woken three times, each of them in a lucid state where she would shadow box with the air in front of her. I stayed out of her way knowing that the episodes would go as soon as they started. When she fell back asleep for the third time I rested my cheek against her shoulder in an effort to find sleep that my tired eyes craved.
Sleep wouldn't come though, no matter how many sheep I counted. Finally I rolled to the other side of the bed and pulled out Mo Soileireacht... . Running my hands over the fraying cloth cover, I opened it to a random page.
Page 20: "The lighting was perfect today and I couldn't resist a hike with my paints. When I was little I thought that light was yellow – at least that is how I'd color it – much like some children that think clear and white are the same. I know now that light has no one color in terms of orange or blue that you can simply pin down, but doesn't that make it all the more wonderful? Light is the bringer of life in the world and in art. Light is the one who creates."
Page 55: "I crave quiet when I paint, but not artificial quiet; the kind you find in a blank sound proofed room. I crave natural quiet, the kind that you find in nature. When you are miles away from the road or cities. The kind that is filled with the sounds of bird chirping and wind rustling the leaves of ancient and new trees. That is where I feel the most content, when I am a part of the natural silence. My muddied shoes contacting the leaf littered path with soft crunches and the effort of my breath as I near the top of a mountain. Life feels all the more real."
I thought about her sentiment for a moment, allowing my own quiet to dissolve around me. The soft creak of the down stairs fan joined in rhythm by the humming of the refrigerator. Then something else, a different kind of noise. One that I couldn't nail down. Like white noise but without a source, as if a penny was rolling around in my ear on an infinite spiral never to land on its side. I set the book in my lap allowing my body to soak in the quiet. A moment of peace I hadn't truly allowed myself for a long time.
When I opened my eyes the next page I flipped to was not random.
Page 76: "My bump is showing. This morning I laid out in the sun and painted her (the sun) around my navel. I hope my child feels the love and warmth from the entire universe."
Page 77: "I felt the baby kick."
Page 78: "She is everything and so much more."
Page 79: "May is growing so fast, just last week I watched her take her first timid steps. Of course she fell immediately after but she didn't cry, not my girl. She got right back up and tried again. As beautiful as it is to be in the moment watching her grow I can't help but think to the future. Thoughts like this have sent me into deep anxiety; will I be able to provide for my little girl? Am I truly giving her the best home?"
I stared at the undamaged paper filled with my mother's scrawling yet elegant words. I couldn't turn the page. Tonight I refused to read her last entry. Instead I flipped past it leafing aimlessly through the empty twenty pages in the back of the journal.
As I ran my hands over the plain sheets I wondered what she would've written if she had time. Maybe she didn't intend to write more. I thought back to where I found the journal, sealed inside the backing of her painting. An ugly thought ran through my mind. Did she know she was going to die? If she had why would she have gone?
I sighed and leaned back on my pillow, my moment of peace was swallowed up by the missing links connecting my mother's life. I would never know for sure. Her life would forever be a half finished puzzle in my eyes, only a few pieces connected around an otherwise dark board. And while the thought of living without full knowledge of who my mother was made my stomach feel as if it had been dropped on the floor, only to be picked back up again and thrown out the window. There was light. Shards of yellow, and blue, and red light shining through the cracks of a frosted window with determination.
I knew I would never be able to put down the hammer or the paint brush that I used to chip away at the window, but someday I hoped that I could rest my tired arms and bask in the brightness.
YOU ARE READING
The Painting
Mystery / Thriller"It took me five seconds to fall. The impact on my chest jarring my body but not my mind. I suppose this is the point where your life is supposed to flash before your eyes as time itself freezes - and it did in a way. But I didn't relive my life phy...
