The morning we visited Barry's house – to say our empathetic words to his shattered leg – involved a) a lot of walking in the rain, b) the stench of Swiffer spray, and c) jazz music playing in the background.
I had been to Barry's house, but only once, and that was when we were searching for a smart all-around tutor to fulfill my educational needs. Since then, Barry's house had changed only slightly, and that was the Swiffer spray. As an old, blind, and rather alone man, he sure did care about the smell and the amount of cluster that was spread across the floors of his townhouse. The walkway leading up to it was clustered, though, with the terribly outdated remnants of leaves, which squished underneath my sneakers everytime I stepped into a pile.
"Do you think he'll like the Stevie Wonder CD we got?" My dad asked and then rang the doorbell three times and we waited there as a scarcely distinguishable whirring noise made its way to the door.
"Stevie Wonder's his favourite jazz singer, and coincidentally his impaired vision buddy," I replied. My mom laughed and Barry finally opened the door, the chemical-like smell hitting me straight in the face.
"Hi Barry, it's Finnegan Annson and my parents." I recited. He grunted.
"Hello Barry, we just came to check up on you, and we've gotten you something as well." My mom said with utmost kindness in her voice, and Barry's door creaked open just a little before I realized that we were walking inside of his jazz box for the second time.
"You really didn't need to get me anything," Barry reasoned as he whir, whir, whirred all the way to the couches. My parents sat down and dragged me with them.
"It's a Stevie Wonder CD, and we all thought you'd like to listen to it while your leg healed. It's got all his best jazz hits, and we all know he's your favourite." My dad explained. Actually, my parents only knew about this fact because when I was in grade 3 and the 'Great Blind Ones' theory had been fully lodged into my brain, I was absolutely and utterly obsessed with the topic of Stevie Wonder. Anything Stevie Wonder would set my heart beating a bazillion kilometres an hour, because he was the so-called 'Best Blind One of the Great Blind Ones'. And that was because Barry had once rambled on to me about Stevie Wonder's entire life, his childhood, his blindness, his songs, and his existence so much that it had become a part of my existence. He was a Great that every Not-Great-Yet wanted to be.
"Thank you so much Victoria – that was too kind of you." My mom chuckled lightly at Barry's comment and a brief moment of silence occurred until I said, "what time is it?"
It was quarter to twelve and that only meant one thing on a Saturday; Orenda was coming to our house very soon. So, after an infinite amount of time spent talking about how long Barry was going to be in his whirring wheelchair, how I was doing in Math, Science, English, etcetera, Barry then brought us some sort of bland-tasting food, and we ate it.
And then after that we finally left, but before I stepped onto the soaking wet doormat in front of his house Barry grabbed my arm, and suddenly put a plastic case in my hand.
"You'll like the songs," he grumbled.
"Your Stevie Wonder CD?" I asked.
"I've got loads, and I figure his voice may inspire you for your essay on music in the 1970's." Barry replied gruffly, but I couldn't help to hear some goodness in his voice.
——-/////——-
The very moment I arrived at the doorstep of my house and the door opened, I sprinted right to my room, ditching the idea of a white cane altogether. My parents told me that they weren't going to the meeting; dad had jokingly said that both of them were too sucky to go to the accountant meeting, but my mom insisted that it was just because it was cancelled. That part was pretty sucky, honestly. So my dad went and did some research on the pathway to become a serial killer or whatever – and my mom went to sleep.
When it was 1 o'clock sharp, Orenda tap tap tapped on my window, so I went and opened it. I immediately shushed her (even though she hadn't said anything) and closed the window, trying not to arouse suspicion from my parents.
"Finn, I haven't even said anything." She accused as her loud boots thumped on my floor.
"I'm sorry, my parents are home. They don't like visitors."
"It's strange they haven't noticed my presence yet. Okay, let's go."
Her spontaneous decision should've surprised me more than it did, but I had gotten to know Orenda over the period of several weeks – and I knew she would explode with excitement randomly. "Go where?" I finally asked.
"Anywhere. We're going to paint some more today, even though it's a bit chilly out there. The rain has stopped, anyway." I listened carefully for the pitter patter but heard nothing.
"Alright, let's g-"
"Stevie Wonder!" Orenda interrupted, "love this guy, good taste in glasses too."
"Not as good as mine, am I right?" I joked.
She laughed, "Finn – worry not. Your eyes have got a better rim than his. Okay! Grab your cane!"
Everything after that was like usual; I scrambled out of the window quietly after Orenda slid through it like a trained ninja. Then, I used my white cane until the road started getting bumpy and Orenda was in a big fat hurry, then she grabbed my hand with hers and we walked to who knows where.
I had some sort of miniscule hope that Orenda would drag me to Willow and we could climb her again. Despite the fact that it was absolutely tiring and a little bit crazy, I wanted to do it again. You know, feel the 'physical freedom' and dot the sidewalks a couple more times to try and brighten up the mental cage.
But when we took another left turn, I knew that we weren't going to Willow.
"Orenda, where are we going?"
"My... well, you know... chez moi."
"What." I deadpanned.
"My house, Finn! My crib, the nest, my place. In French – that's chez moi." She suddenly tugged me towards her and our shoulders collided, not very gently.
"Oh. Why?" I questioned, and we started sprinting. The familiar chattering around me suggested that we were walking down the main street road again, and I could hear cars honking, people shouting, and the crosswalk bird chirping. The crosswalk bird was also known as the chirping sound that happens when someone presses the cold, metal button on the streetlight – but my mom always told me to listen closely for the chirping bird, and that kind of got etched into my brain.
"I want to show you something. You know... my house is cool."
"Your house is... cool?"
"Probably cooler than yours," she giggled and we slowed down as the crosswalk bird quieted down. I figured we had crossed the street.
"Probably. I'm zero percent cool and 100 percent blind."
"Oh haha. I find you slightly cool, although I agree with your 100 percent blind analogy." Her flowery scent hit me all of a sudden, but that was because her short, silky hair batted my face. She guided me up a minuscule flight of stairs and by minuscule, I really mean minuscule. I took a tiny step and that was it, we were supposedly on her porch and her keys jingled roughly as she tried to open the door.
"Is your mom okay with me coming over?" I asked.
"My mom... well, she's okay with anything, actually. As long as you're not one of those guys at school that try to get with every pretty girl. Which you're not. Finnegan..." she grunted and pushed the door open harshly, "... you're better than that, I really hope so. Sorry, by the way. I meant Finn." I laughed mockingly and she scoffed, but eventually laughed along with me. Once we stepped into her house, I suddenly stopped shivering (I hadn't even noticed that I was shivering before) and a sweet undefinable smell floated to me. It didn't smell like flowers. It didn't smell like a garden. It didn't smell like a bakery either. It just smelled like a house, and I guess that was the amazing thing about it.
I suspected that Orenda May Castellano's house would've been like an amusement park, with flowers everywhere, lining the walls, just bursting with joy. But no, it didn't have a golf course in the middle of the living room, it didn't have mellifluous music playing from all-around speakers, it was a normal – a hella normal – house, and she was a normal person. She was a person. Just as I was a person; terribly ordinary and not at all fascinating. Instead there was something different about Orenda; I just couldn't put my finger on it.
"I like your house," I told her. She laughed.
"It's as boring as houses get. I'm just glad it's not my old one. My old one smelled like lasagna."
"That was some good lasagna."
"Stop with the lustful thinking," she teased.
We proceeded walking in after I had kicked my shoes off and hung my jacket onto the wobbly coat hanger. Their floor was covered in a thick carpet; much like the one I dug my fingers in at their old house many Christmases ago.
"Remember when I said we're painting today?" She asked me, and we sat down on what seemed to be a couch, covered in a thin throw.
"Uh huh."
"C'mon then." I heard the smile in her voice, and also the slight suggestion that we were going on an adventure, in some way.
But we really didn't. She just grabbed my hand and I let go of my white cane immediately, setting it on the couch. We got up and started walking down stairs (which is, strangely, new to me because I've lived in a bungalow all my life and stairs weren't really my thing) and eventually arrived in a basement, I think, that smelled like wood and maybe even cardboard.
"It's my art room. I'm usually here, if you ever need to find me and talk to me or something."
"I'll keep that in mind."
The floorboards creaked underneath my feet and we ambled over to a corner, where it smelled like paint paint paint paint and guess what? Paint. I turned around carefully but still ended up bumping into what seemed to be a canvas, but I never really determined the actual name of the thing-I-happened-to-bump-into.
"It's not safe for me to be here, I'll break stuff," I reminded her as I bumped into the paintbrush she was holding, and the weird feeling of paint lingered on my arm.
"I don't mind if you break stuff, Finnegan. I like it when you're here, so obviously I wouldn't let you go."
I smiled, and then she said, "here's your paintbrush, and here's your palette and um I'll give you this sheet of paper okay?" She handed all those things to me, and then directed me towards the paper as I tried my very best not to flip the palette over.
"What do I paint?" I asked.
"Anything."
"Anything?"
"Anything!" Orenda exclaimed. "I'm a big believer of anything."
"Orenda, I don't know what to paint. I don't – well, I can't really see so-"
"Oh, shut UP! Paint Willow! There! Paint what you feel and maybe it'll turn out the way you want it to, maybe not, but just paint what you feel because if you don't who will? I'm not you Finn, and sometimes that sucks and sometimes that's pretty great but I don't have your brain so it's up to you." Her words almost came out so fast that I couldn't make out what she was saying until ten seconds after she had said it.
"I'll try..." I sighed, exasperated, and dipped my paintbrush into one of the colours on the palette. "Is it there?" I asked.
"Feel it."
I did as she said. It was there.
"Now, paint."
I'll be honest, I didn't want to. I really didn't. It's not like I could just take a paintbrush and do a few strokes and end up making a beautiful painting of a tree that I had intelligently named after its species. It didn't work like that. Stuff like that just didn't work out. But, it made me happy that she was so sure about that, you know, like how sure she was that I could do anything. And that kinda sorta made me feel like I could do anything as well.
So, sucking in a breath, I set the brush down softly on the paper and started painting what I felt, which wasn't much. I thought about the rough bark on Willow, I thought about sitting on the branch with Orenda, with my leg dangling off, and imagining myself out of the mental cage that was oh so hard to get out of. I thought about walking there everyday with my family and how Orenda's family had walked there too. I thought about all the reasons I loved it and all the reasons I didn't, and soon when I touched the tip of my paintbrush, no residue was left on my finger.
"Finnegan, that's the most beautiful painting I've ever seen," she said in awe.
"You're just saying that."
"No, I'm pretty dang serious about this. I'm not sure what it is, I'll be honest. But I know that it's something. And I figure you don't always have to know what something is to love it. I'm in love with imaginary beings, I'm in love with imaginary worlds, and I'm in love with imaginary paintings."
"Thanks," I replied shyly. I didn't want my words to turn out shy, but they did nevertheless.
"Hey, no problem. Do another."
I did. I repeated the same old process, and when I was done, Orenda told me she thought my first was better. So obviously, I tried again. And again. Orenda painted too, along with me, and when I was working on my ten millionth painting, she said, "let's listen to some music."
Her stuff clattered as she ran off to find who knows what, and I just stood there stupidly, with my paintbrush firmly gripped in my left hand. When Orenda came back, she was panting and laughing, and she set down a clunky, smooth object into my hand (the one that wasn't holding anything, but that's not really an important detail).
"Well? Press play." I felt for a button and then pressed it, and crazy loud blast rang through my ears. After a few seconds I realized that it was Stevie Wonder, and that he was singing 'Isn't She Lovely'. "An oldie but goodie," Orenda chuckled.
"I find Stevie Wonder to be inspirational," I admitted out loud. "Like, he's blind as a bat, like me, but he can do things. Um, actual things. Make a difference. I don't know."
"I get it! He's like you, but he's better than you, blah blah blah. How amazing would it be to be able to be as great as him one day?"
"Pretty amazing."
"I second that."
I set my paintbrush down and sighed. "The problem is just that his story is so much more exciting than mine. I'm a blank piece of recycled paper and he's a fully drawn on cardstock, maybe. You know, in order to have a story, you kind of need a good plot. A beginning, a middle and an end. I feel like I've been stuck in the beginning for eons. Nothing's happened, I've been living a life all alone, occasionally with Egan but that's still rare, and then bam! you come along and I'm guessing that maybe this is the start of my story."
"I'm a page turner?" She asked, her voice soft. I could hear her set down her brush as well, the wood clunking against her easel.
"Yes. No. Well, yes. I feel like my story's only getting better, not worse. The page is, um, half-flipped, let's say. I need a bit of wind, because my hand can only push so far. You're the wind."
"Ah, so very metaphorical. I love it. It's an honour to be your wind, Mr. Finnegan Annson."
"It's an honour to be your book," I replied.
"I think it's the age of our existential crisis, you know? Terribly confused and usually hungry. And I agree with you tremendously. I feel like my story is a bit crazy right now, with everything going on. And then you start to think, gee, is my story going to be memorable or not? Because half of the time it's not. I just want to change worlds, I don't care if people remember me or not, I want to remember people. Oh, I'm literally living up to my name! Orenda: a mystical force present in all people that empowers them to affect the world, or to effect change in their own lives. Living up to a name, how stupid is that?"
"If I live up to my name, I suppose that I may as well grow gills," I said. She bursted out laughing and so did I. It wasn't funny though, I laughed because she laughed and I find that to be a reason that's pretty great.
When 'Isn't She Lovely' had finished playing, we had finished talking. The rest of the songs were also Stevie Wonder, and as I listened more closely I kind of started to understand what Orenda meant. Like, changing worlds, remembering people. It seemed like a good way to live, slightly hippie, but still good. She started humming to a song that I couldn't quite remember, and even though she was absolutely terrible and (I'm not going to lie) completely off-tune, there was something that was still good about it. Everything was, in a way, good, and there was noticeably less crappy stuff in my brain.
"Do songs have a colour?" I asked her out of the blue. She stopped humming and let out a long, "uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...."
"Sort of," she finally said. "I think Stevie Wonder is covered in magenta. It's like a spicy kind of colour, but sweet as well. Plums? Chai tea lattes? It's like when you're in your room and it's a bit warm, but rainy outside and you're feeling like singing something groovy. It's everything. Happy, or sad. It's like knowing that there's bad but still seeing the good, so the good overlaps the bad and soon you're seeing the beautiful mix of good and bad – the ying and the yang. Yeah, knowing that there's bad but seeing the good. I think that's important and I think that's pretty, and that's why I adore magenta so much."
"Wow," I breathed, not really knowing what else to say.
"I'm not very good at describing colours," she said. Her paintbrush clattered and I could hear the small scraping noise of it touching the paper. Just the sound of Orenda's paintbrush made me feel as if her painting was a galaxy that I could never lay my eyes on.
"I'm not very good at seeing colours, but that doesn't mean I can't do it," I tried to motivate her but she just laughed. Everything she was doing at that moment made her seem like a virtuoso; maybe Picasso, maybe Van Gogh. I dipped my paintbrush again and landed the bristles gently on the paper and we didn't really talk after that.
There are many things I could say about that day. For example: Orenda's house was not an amusement park and neither was her art room. She had real goals in life, heck; she had a real legitimate life, kind of like me. I guess I could say that the rain could stop anytime it wanted to but the weather would still smell rainy. I could say that Barry's house was actually not as bad as I thought it would be and that Stevie Wonder's CD was now my new favourite possession.
But instead, I'll say this. I tried to paint magenta, I really did. I tried to put in the good and the bad. But in the end, all that was really left was the good – and I think that's pretty wondrous in itself.