The sky was a box of melted crayons, thumbprint smears of
blues, oranges, and reds—a child’s canvas
unsophisticated in its arrangement but free in its expression. Wendy stared for
some time at this sky through the large bay window and sighed. She had a
throbbing headache at the front of her temple. It was a recurring problem but
today it grieved her more than usual. It was getting worse with each day. At
the moment she was in the middle of babysitting her seven year old nephew. He
was at the kitchen table of her apartment doing his homework. Her younger
sister was in town for a conference leaving Wendy to be his caretaker for the
week. She hadn’t seen the boy for the last year. As she continued to gaze
at the picturesque sky, she wondered why she gave up painting all those years
ago. But of course she knew why. She closed her eyes tightly in an attempt to
alleviate the pain.
“Aunty,” Michael called from the kitchen.
“Yes?” she answered without turning to him.
“I need help with something.”
“I’m coming.” Wendy wasn’t ready to leave her spot by
the window. There was something about those clouds that bothered her. Those
vivid colors promised beauty, but the more she looked at it the more she saw
chaos, dissonance, and contradiction. Though she had to admit, it still looked
beautiful in its own way—beautiful but not lovely. This had a violent sense of
beauty, like the sky was taking vengeance on the earth below. It cast a strange
reddish light onto her wood floors. She noticed this as she crossed the living
room and made her way into the kitchen. She liked the cool smooth feeling of
the granite. She leaned her arm against it as she asked her nephew what the
problem was.
“I’m supposed to illustrate an island for my geography
report but I don’t know how to draw one.” Michael wasn’t big or small for his
age. He had glasses, a small nose, and wavy brown hair.
“I haven’t picked up a pencil in so long,” Wendy said after
a few moments had passed.
Michael thought his Aunt with her blonde curls must have once
been pretty, but hard lines had grown on her face, making her look severe. “Mom
said you were a great artist.”
“Was.”
“But can’t you show me to how to draw one at least?”
“It’s simple. You need a beach, some sand, water, trees-”
“Please Aunty,” her nephew implored. “Show me,” he said as
he handed her the pencil. He had a look in his eyes that could not be denied,
as if his whole existence depended on her doing this one thing.
Wendy took it from him with trepidation and slowly took a
seat at the table. He handed her a piece of paper.
Wendy not wanting to let the boy down, got to work sketching
the island. She made herself draw a line, and then another and another.
She suddenly felt so free as she let her pencil stride across the page.
She could feel her head decompressing with every line she made. After creating
the basic structure, she shaded with great rapidity the waves of the ocean. The
sand she did with keen detail and depth. The greenery looked luscious and
thick. Michael watched with fascination as his aunt completed his request. She
had far succeeded what was necessary to help with a simple assignment.
The island before the page looked mystical. It reminded her
not of solidarity but of an escape. It was the sort of dream world that through
all her years of pain she longed for deeply.
“Oh but Aunty, I could never do that!”
It was funny that the boy should say this. Wendy had just
thought those same words before starting.
Wendy chuckled to herself. “I suppose I got carried away.”
She was now in an abnormally good mood, giddy even.
She felt powerful. She felt it all throughout her veins.
She had no more throbbing in her head but instead a wistful lightness and
airiness that was delicious to her senses. And though she had for so long been
afraid to be creative again, that with her sadness she had lost her ability,
she realized that she had it all wrong. She could make whatever she wanted,
anything at all, and she knew what she wanted most. She had no doubt within
her. Nothing was out of her reach. She could regain what she had lost.
"I still don't know how to do it," Michael
nagged, pulling her skirt, disturbing her revelation.
"Shut up. You are not my son."
Michael was alarmed at his Aunt's sudden change of
behavior. He decided to not ask again. She seemed too far lost in her own
world.
He tried to copy his aunt's work but gave up after a few
attempts. He turned on the television without her permission. He didn't dare
speak to her again. He missed his mother and hoped that she'd be back soon.
Wendy felt an anxious excitement within her veins. She
paced her apartment floors deep in thought. Without giving any more notice to
her nephew she opened her storage closet. She had her art box in the very
back. She felt drawn to it as if she could hear a heart beating inside of it.
As if she could hear his heart.
“Peter we shall be together.”
In a mad frenzy Wendy set up her easel and oil paints by
the bay window. She had one canvas left in which she began to work. She didn’t
have any idea what she wanted to paint. She only had energy and feelings in
which she picked colors and made broad strokes on the canvas. It was unlike her
to paint with this kind of spontaneity. But as she continued to work, she began
to feel a sense of order, a sense of purpose. She felt that she was getting
closer to him.
“Oh my god. You’re painting.” Her sister had come in
silently late in the night to pick up her son. Wendy had left the door
unlocked. “I just never thought I’d see you paint again,” she said quietly.
Wendy ignored her sister. She was too lost in a state of
trance.
“Wendy,” her sister said again. “I’m glad. You owe it to
yourself.”
Again she gave no attention to her.
“Wendy, we leave tomorrow,” she said a little louder as she
woke her son up. “Don’t you want to say goodbye? I don’t know when we’ll be
back.” Michael was glad to see his mother. He had fallen asleep on his own. He
hugged her around the waist, clutching her beige trench coat.
Her sister waited in silence for a few moments before
shouting, “Wendy! What has gotten into you?”
She put out her arm to tap her on the shoulder. Wendy
violently flinched at her sister’s touch.
“Do not disturb me! You will scare him away!”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
She waited silently for a response. Not knowing what else
to do, she took her son to leave. “Goodbye Aunty,” he said softly as the door
closed. Her sister could not help but feel guilty. She wondered if watching her
son so much this week had been too much for her.
Wendy painted all throughout the night without food or
drink. The sun rose, a clear blue sky, but all Wendy’s canvas amounted to was
an ambivalent smearing of blues, oranges, and reds. She suddenly realized the
fumes from the solvents were very strong. She was too focused to notice before.
She opened the window to let some air in.
A boy now sat beneath the easel. He was only two with rosy
blond hair and plump round cheeks.
She looked down from her work to see him there looking up
and smiling at her. She was overjoyed with happiness. “Peter my dear. I knew you
would come back to me.”
She bent down to pick up the boy but he had scurried away
across the living room.
“Come to me. I missed you.”
Again the boy would not come but only trotted further away
from her.
“Peter, come to me,” she begged, but he would not listen.
She wanted to run over to the boy but she worried it would frighten him.
They continued to circle around the room. Wendy was on
the other side when Peter knocked over the easel. It hung out the window like a
bridge to the unknown.
Peter began to climb on it.
“PETER! NO!” she screamed.
She ran over to the other side hoping to catch him.
It was too late. He was gone. Wendy could not bear it
again. She put the easel upright and took the painting off it. She carried it
so that it covered her face. She didn’t want to watch herself coming towards
the pavement.
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