Painting was no longer a passion after my brother died. Rather, it became an addiction. A drug to reduce the pain and ease my mind until I felt high enough to want to live. Relax, breathe in, and watch the ink bleed onto the canvas. I'd taught myself to cope in that sense. Sometimes I imagined the ink as my brother's blood smeared from the bullet in his chest.
Perhaps, if I painted my thoughts away, I could finally erase those images from my mind. I'd no longer think about the words I refused to accept written across his tombstone—the words that confirmed he was dead. I'd no longer think about the questions that I knew I'd never get the answer to, that I thought of when I stood in front of his grave.
Did my brother think about me before he took his last dying breath? Did he think about our parents? Did his life flash before his eyes as they closed for good? I wanted the answers so badly. Part of me wished I was there. The news that a homicide detective was killed in the line of duty shook all the small New Jersey towns close to the incident. And so, I heard the crime scene was a shit show when the cops arrived.
I remembered when John, both my husband and Cory's best friend, struggled to tell me the news over the phone. He had stuttered, choked on his cries, inhaled, exhaled, and was barely able to form a sentence. But the words that followed Cory's name—those were the words that sealed the fate we weren't ready to accept.
I sighed and closed my eyes, attempting to ignore the traces of busy voices in the background. Today's painting session was noisier than ever. Between them and my doctor's warning lingering in my head, like a thorn in my side, I didn't know which of them was louder, and I could hardly hear myself think. Maybe that was a good thing. I'd thought far too much today.
Deep breaths, I coaxed myself to ease the stress. My palm flattened on the round of my stomach out of habit, and just then, I felt a gentle kick.
"Yeah, yeah. I know. Mommy promised not to stress you," I whispered, laying my paintbrush on the palette. That must have pleased her because I didn't feel another kick in my womb. I rubbed my hands over my apron; the paint stuck to them like glue. How long had I been painting since I walked in here, an hour? Ah, it felt like it'd been centuries since then.
I opened my eyes again and eyed the other women around me. "Don't forget to ease back on the strokes, Evelyn. Remember to keep it light and easy for this project." I stood from my relaxed position on my green, blue, and white patterned quilt, an old birthday gift from my in-laws.
"Okay, thanks, got it!" Evelyn chirped. Her long brown bouncy curls flopped side to side with her movements, sweeping over her golden brown skin. I nodded and looked down at my watch.
"Shit," I muttered. 3:10 PM stared back at me from the glow of my watch screen.
Class should've ended ten minutes ago.
"Alright, ladies! That's enough for today; let's wrap it up!" I instructed, clapping my hands. There were a few moans of disapproval, causing a faint smile to cross my face. "There are only three days and two nights that make up the weekend. I'm sure you'll all survive," I quipped.
If I were them, I'd want to get out of here as fast as I could, especially because they all looked like me—in body shape, that was. Some were rounder than me. Some not so much. Regardless, we were all very much pregnant. I guess these women didn't see it that way, though. I should have expected no less from a class as rowdy as these women.
"See you Monday, Angie!" a few of the women yelled.
"Have a nice weekend, ladies!" I waved goodbye and turned away from the door.
"Hi, John!" some of the ladies greeted someone, who I assumed was at the door.
I only knew one man by the name of John. The name John wasn't as common as one would think in this area, and I'd hardly stepped out of state all my life. So, it was hard to forget the man with olive skin, dark brown hair, thin lips, and teal blue eyes who I went home to every day. He looked just like his mother, who was a full-blooded Italian woman (the last of her bloodline), and acted just like his father, who was a White American man.
When I turned again, his figure stood perched against the classroom entrance. Casual clothing clung loosely to his body as if he hadn't just come from the station. He smiled at every lady who walked past him. It was the same million-dollar smile that swallowed me whole when we first met. The same smile I still loved. Not even happily married women could resist his charm.
I rolled my eyes and bent down to pack my tools back into their appropriate kit.
"Ouch, did you just look at me and turn away? Are you ignoring me?" he feigned. I didn't need to turn around to know his hands were clutching his chest. His dramatics knew no limit. He and Cory were the ultimate drama queens.
A pair of arms snuck around my waist from behind, causing me to tense. But I soon relaxed as John's chuckle warmed my ear. He locked his hands together over my bump.
"How was today's session?" he asked.
"It went great. They've been getting more enthusiastic about this project," I answered.
"See? I told you, you're an amazing teacher. We're going to have a little Ms. Van Gogh running around in four months." He twirled me around and grinned.
"Shut up." I laughed and shoved him.
The laughter was soon gone as I took in John's contemplating expression. Being an artist also meant being an observer. I knew when someone was approaching me with pity. The crook in his spine, the slight bow of his head, and the shift in his footing said it all. He was antsy. My husband was only antsy when he had something to say and didn't know how to say it.
"Spit it out," I demanded.
John grimaced. "Not good at being discreet, am I? Um, I have good news and bad news."
"What is it?"
"Well, for starters, I picked your car up from Tony's. . ." he started.
"And?" One of my eyebrows shot up.
"That's the good news. The bad news is"—he cleared his throat, avoiding my gaze— "I have to go back to work. And I know, I know. You were expecting me to be home with you this afternoon, I was too, but I promise I'll be back before midnight."
I could feel the frown forming on my face. I tried not to let it show, but that was nearly impossible. The irony of our lives was that I hated being alone. But without John for most of the day and now without Cory permanently, I was almost always alone.
"You'll be okay, right?" His frown matched mine.
I opened my mouth to respond. Guilt bubbled inside me instead.
I'd admit, it sucked. There was nothing I could do, though. Before he proposed to me, I knew exactly the kind of life I was saying yes to. As much as I didn't like admitting it. He and Cory had made up their minds about becoming homicide detectives long before they had graduated high school. Sometimes, I hated that their dream became reality. After all, Cory was dead.
"I'll be fine." I shrugged.
"You know, you could always start sorting out his stuff to keep yourself busy." John made sure not to say his name.
I could never tell if he did that for the sake of me not breaking down or him not blaming himself. He blamed himself every day since then, even at times when he thought I was sleeping. I could only imagine what was going on in his head. A bunch of night terrors, most likely. He witnessed what I sometimes wish I had—the proof. Though his hands weren't soaked in my brother's blood, he treated himself like they were.
"Eh, I don't know. It's been a long day. I'm pretty tired and all." I picked up my art kit and began towards the door. John's footsteps were hot on my trail. As he opened the door for me, I hurried through.
I wasn't tired. I just didn't want to do it. He and I both knew that.
"You've been avoiding it for two months now, Angie. The least we could do is store his belongings away properly. I'll help you if you wait for me to get home," he persisted.
"Later, Angie!" Rick, the security guard, called out to me.
"I'll see you on Monday, Rick!" I saluted him on our way out.
John sighed behind me. "You're ignoring me for real this time."
"Please, John. Just drop it, okay? I'll get to it when I can," I hissed.
His mouth clamped shut. "Okay. . . Fine."
Tears welled in my eyes, threatening to fall.
I removed the scrunchy from my hair, allowing my black curls to fall loose. My hair and my skin complexion were two things that'd always come in handy growing up. When I felt flustered and knew a blush had crept onto my cheeks, when I wanted to cry but refused because I was in a public space. My hair hid my tears, and the brown of my skin censored the faint red color.
"Will you at least let me help you with this?" he mumbled, gesturing to the kit in my hands as we approached his car. I nodded without another word. I didn't deserve John's kindness. He had been so patient with me these past two months and all I did was throw it back in his face.
The car ride home was dreadful. And the tension that hung over us when he parked in our driveway was even worse. John peered ahead at the house. An uncomfortable silence bloomed within the car. I could only see his face through the flicker of light from the street lights. When I made the slightest movement, his heated gaze trained on me.
"Look, John," I said, sighing, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get snappy with you back there. I'm just. . . This is a lot, okay? But if you want me to look through his belongings, then I will."
There was silence again.
His eyes pierced into mine until I felt stripped. John knew me better than anyone, including my own parents. So, whenever he studied me, I felt like a piece of meat ready to be ravished.
"Angie, if you don't want to go through his stuff, I won't push you. But could you stop treating me like we're not dealing with this together? You act like you're alone when you're not. What does it take for me to get you to see that?" he said, his shoulders slouching.
I inhaled a sharp intake of breath. The teal in his eyes was begging me for answers I didn't have. He was my husband. I should have had these answers. Avoiding his eyes, I played with the wedding ring around my finger. The cold, hard silver easily slid over my skin.
"Hey, look at me"—John placed his hand beneath my chin—"I love you. You know that, right? And I only want the best for you. But you've got to stop treating me like an outsider. I can't help you if you keep pushing me away." His smile broke me. It was forced, weak.
I sucked in a deep breath and forced my emotions down. "I know . . . and I love you too. I'm sorry for being unreasonable."
"You're not unreasonable. Come here." He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to my lips.
Ten minutes later, I found myself staring blankly at the wall as the sound of John's engine cranked up from the driveway before slowly vanishing down the road. He was gone again. Another hour had gone by. Then, another. And another, until it was dark out and all I wanted was for John to return as soon as possible. It was officially ten past seven, and still no sign of him.
The clock kept me occupied. As time ticked, so did my nerves. Left, right, left, right—I turned my wedding ring until it eventually got tiring. The kitchen was cleaned, the living room was fixed, and I even rearranged our bedroom. What the hell else could I do?
Open the closet.
A voice poked fun at my brain. I flipped on my side, burying my head into the pillow. The closet I tried so hard to ignore glared at me from the side.
Open the closet.
The voice poked fun again.
This time, I shut my eyes. I hadn't realized I was gripping the bedsheets as tight as I was holding my eyes closed until I felt the thin fabric forcing its way in between my fingers. I fought to regain control over my thoughts. But I found myself out of bed, yanking open the very thing mocking my existence seconds later.
"Curse you, John," I muttered as I dragged Cory's massive bin off to the side and plopped onto the floor. "Property of Cory Beckett." My fingers grazed the top of the bin.
I didn't understand why Cory and my parents chose to give it to me, of all people. Sure, he was my brother. But he was their son. Shouldn't they have been given the right to his belongings and gone through them? It was whatever, I guess. Still, it baffled me to no extent.
The junk from the bin scattered onto the floor as I dumped it over. Old playing cards, records covered in dust, clothes, and journals were the first thing I noticed to hit the floor. Some of the journals seemed to have been full of his drawings and poetry, based on the names written on the covers. Every journal had a specific name to it except one. Though, it did have a date, March 3rd, 2016.
"Huh"—I picked up the journal, prying it open—"Cory, what the hell is all this?" There were notes. So many notes. And they were scribbled across almost every page I flipped through.
Nothing else interesting to me stuck out when I took another glimpse at the floor, except fancy car figurines he collected and other materialistic stuff. It was almost laughable. Half of this stuff, I didn't think he still owned. Most of his girlfriends in college hated this stuff of his. They called it junk. But he kept it anyway because he didn't care.
I chuckled under my breath and began standing to my feet but quickly paused. Shallow breaths eased out of me as I frowned.
I couldn't remove my eyes from the picture of a child lying under my gaze. Alongside it was a folder that read confidential, which held what I assumed to be more information on the child because her picture was paper clipped to it. Then, there was the thin, creamy map of our small rural hometown in New Jersey—West Greenbush. The hometown that John and I no longer resided in, but lived in the next town over from.
The map stuck out from the folder of confidentiality with a concept well known as "x marks the spot." Though this X happened to be a tiny black dot with a red circle around it and arrows that led to nowhere but a blank space. But that's not what sent a load of sinister chills down my spine. Only the words that stated: It all starts here, written in red marker beside the tiny black dot on the map.