Sunlight streamed through the large, floor-to-ceiling windows, making long rectangles of yellow across the polished wood floor of the small art studio. As I heard the door click softly behind me, I felt like I could breathe again. I loosened my tie and undid my top collar button. The sharp smells of oil paints and turpentine were reassuring in their familiarity. I felt safe. The studio was warm, a welcome change from the bleak, November weather outside. Yet, I still felt cold and tense. I lay down on the floor in the rectangle of sunshine, the warmth seeping into my body. My muscles relaxed, and I wished my heart could do the same. I wanted to forget.
I had walked past the church, with every intention to go in. But I couldn't. Not there. I couldn't bear to see her that way. She was my mother. She should still be alive. I couldn't understand why she had died. I couldn't believe she had died. I refused to believe. I ran and ran. I was running away from everything: the pain and sorrow, the anger, and the pitying looks from well-intentioned neighbors. I ran from Death. I had fled to my only safe harbor: my studio. It was a place of healing. It was non-demanding and quiet; the white walls didn't speak or advise.
I breathed deeply and sighed. I needed to do something. I needed to paint. I got up, took off my tie and rolled up my sleeves. I got a blank canvas from my stack against the wall. I placed it on the paint-splattered easel in the middle of the room and got out my tubes of paints and some brushes. I squirted a generous amount of Prussian Blue and Ultramarine onto my palette, thinking that the colors would express my depression. I stepped back and looked at the canvas. It was too clean, holding too many expectations and too many unknowns. I swirled the brush in the paint, and went to apply it on the canvas. Then, I stopped, my brush hovering over the pristine surface. I couldn't. That blue was acceptance, an acknowledgment of Death. I took the canvas off the easel and put it back with the other blank canvases.
The telephone rang. Its ring was loud and jarring, intruding upon the silence. I let it ring a few times. I didn't really feel like talking to anyone. On the fifth ring I picked it up anyway.
"James, it's me. Annie."
She didn't wait for me to respond.
"James, I'm bringing you some dinner. I know you probably don't feel like talking to anyone, even your best friend, but you can't lock yourself up in your studio forever. Somebody has to look out for you" she said. Then more softly, "Let me help you... I'll be there in twenty minutes. Is Chinese take-out okay?"
"Yeah, it's fine. Thanks, Annie," I mumbled into the receiver.
I looked out the window and realized that the sun had become a burning sliver, just cresting the mountains, seconds away from disappearing completely. I collapsed onto the tan, leather couch opposite the windows and watched the sky as it turned from blue, to yellow, to orange. Streaks of pink lined the undersides of the clouds, and the mountains were a solid dark mass against the blazing sky. My artist's eye traced the line of the jagged peaks, creating a mental drawing. I looked at the street in front of the studio and I noticed Annie's red pickup pull up next to the curb. She got out and walked up the brick walkway holding a large, brown paper sack. Her long blonde hair blew in the wind-the same long hair she had had since the seventh grade when I first met her. It was almost to her waist. She walked around to the small side door and I let her in.
"Hi, James."
"Hi."
"I brought you some beef and broccoli, and some sweet and sour chicken, and I made sure to get you a fortune cookie," she said, trying to sound cheerful, as she took the red and white cartons out of the paper bag.
The heavy smell of seasoned food reminded me that I was starving. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I picked up a pair of chopsticks and opened the carton of beef and broccoli. Annie, satisfied that I was eating, took off her coat and walked around the small studio, looking at some of the completed and half-finished pieces leaning against the wall.
"I like this one," she said weakly, trying to break the silence.
She stood next to a canvas with green and yellow streaking towards the top of the painting. I had painted it during the spring, trying to capture the essence of growing things, plants full of life. It seemed like a distant memory compared to the dry, leafless trees outside. Life didn't seem so green anymore.
She continued to look around; her gaze lingered on a few of the paintings, her eyes searching for some meaning in each of them. She stopped in front of the couch, looking above me. I realized she was looking at the framed print hanging on the wall. It was a print of Van Gogh's Starry Night over the Rhône, the only real painting in the room. It was my favorite painting by Van Gogh. The stars seemed to float above the village, glowing softly in the dark sky, and the lights from the houses shimmered over the lake in the foreground. My mother loved stars, and I remembered her showing me the North Star one summer night... I pushed the memory aside, unable to bear it. Annie stared at the painting for a while and smiled as she saw the couple strolling at the bottom of the foreground.
"James, why don't you paint anything from life?" she asked.
I looked up, a bit surprised. My work was all abstract-large canvases with swirling designs, or geometric shapes, or just one color covering the surface. Colors were safe. They were inspired by emotions, but not descriptive enough to let anyone see my emotions. Reality didn't have to interfere; I could let myself dream in the colors. It was cathartic for me, a private meditation and a release from the world of numbers, shadows, and hard edges.
"I don't like to see life as it is. I like to see it as it could be, not harsh and defined," I replied.
"Life is always there. You can't ignore it," she said. She paused, seeming to think about what she had just said.
"I noticed you weren't at the funeral," she said hesitantly. "It was a beautiful service. There were lots of flowers... Everyone said very nice things about her. And I think she was a wonderful person."
"Yes, she is," I agreed.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she questioned gently.
"No. I want to be by myself for a while."
"Are you sure? You look lonely."
"Yeah. I think I just need to rest a little."
"Okay. Just don't stay in this hide-out for too long."
I helped her on with her coat, and opened the door. She turned and faced me, putting her hand on my arm. She opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to decide against it.
"I'll call you in a couple of days," she said sincerely as she stepped outside.
As I watched her climb into her pickup and drive away, I felt a loss. Her nurturing manner reminded me of my mother. The familiar pang of Death lingered when she left. I decided to work on one of my unfinished paintings. I placed a muted orange and red canvas on the easel. Without thinking, I reached for a brush and placed a stroke on the canvas. I had forgotten to clean the brushes, and I froze as the blue paint appeared on the canvas. The wet blue paint sparkled in contrast to the dry orange background. The brush stroke looked like a teardrop, creating a blue streak as it dripped down the painting. I stared at the dazzling blue-a blue filled with regret and anguish. A tear streaked through my world of make-believe. It was real. I couldn't make it go away.
I looked out the window, and I noticed that clouds were covering the entire sky. I couldn't see any stars, and the moon was a mere, faint glow behind the clouds. I felt drained and tired. My eyes felt dry and weak; I was having trouble focusing. I looked at the simple, square wall clock above the door and noticed it was 11:15. In the back of my mind, I seemed to hear my mother scolding me for staying up so late. I flipped the light switch by the door and groped my way for the couch. I took off my shoes and sank into the soft, leather cushions.
As I started to drift asleep, I heard voices, so many voices, whispering and speaking in my head. They seemed to criticize, console, advise, and cry. I tried to push the voices away, push them out of my mind. One voice seemed to stand out; it was familiar. A soft touch seemed to caress my forehead, accompanying the gentle voice. Mother? No... it was different somehow. It was Annie's voice. It couldn't be Mother's voice, she was dead... or had she just gone somewhere? I couldn't seem to remember. Blankets of sleep smothered the voices, as I relaxed into unconsciousness.
* * *
I woke up early, unable to sleep any longer. It was still fairly dark outside. The echo of the voices seemed to ring in my head. I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, hoping the sound of rushing water could block out the voices. I undressed and stepped in the shower. The steam felt warm on my skin, and the water pulsing on my back revived me a little. I relaxed as my ears filled with the sounds of the water. My mind was more awake, but my heart still felt numb.
I got out and got dressed; the wrinkled clothes I had worn the day before were all I had. I avoided looking in the mirror; everyone said I had distant grey-blue eyes-the same color as my mother's. As I sat on the couch to put on my shoes, I noticed the painting. I hadn't remembered it that morning and had passed by it without seeing it. The blue tear was still wet. I couldn't bear to look at it; the blue seemed to leap off of the painting. I pulled the canvas off the easel and hurled it at the floor. It fell with a loud smack against the wood floorboards. My head began to swim, clouded with the voices. The smell of oil paints seemed to fill the room. I needed some air. I needed to get away.
I grabbed my black coat off the hook by the door and my keys for the studio. I stepped outside into the cold morning air. The sky was lighter, but the sun wouldn't rise for at least another half-hour. I locked the door, before walking down the brick walkway to the street. It was early, and no cars or joggers were out yet. I walked up the street, climbing up the incline as it curved around a hill. I walked for eight or ten minutes, hearing only the sound of my footsteps on the sidewalk. I stopped at the old, brick wall that surrounded the cemetery. I opened the small iron gate and stepped onto the mostly brown grass, looking for a headstone with lots of flowers; I figured that the flowers from the service the day before would still be around. I found it, a few paces from a small tree with dried up, orange leaves. I fell to my knees in front of the polished, granite headstone which was surrounded by pink and yellow mums, white daisies, and a bouquet of peach colored roses.
My fingers traced the words engraved on the headstone: Julia Elizabeth Allen. I paused as my fingers reached the date of her death. Died: November 17, 2001. My mother had died. There was the headstone, there were the flowers. There was Death, spelled out in black letters.
As I noticed the flowers, I realized that I didn't have anything to put on the grave. I searched through my pockets, looking for something to give as an offering. In my pocket, I found a pen and a pad of paper from a hotel. I tore off one of the sheets, and, very carefully, sketched a single rose. I felt I should sign it somehow, leave some sort of message. But what could I say? I wrote, "Love, James" along the bottom and stuck the piece of paper between two mums. A slight breeze rustled through the dry leaves on the trees and across the brown grass. My simple offering fluttered in the wind, and I tucked it further between the mums to keep it from blowing away. Tears blurred my vision as a wave of the acute pain and sorrow I had felt outside the church flooded over me. I got up and brushed the dry grass off my knees. I turned and walked away, passing by the tree that clung to its last, few coveted leaves.