17. The Bucket #2
Now, the neck of my artistic career was stretched across the executioner’s block, and she seemed indifferent to the fact that I was incapable of moving my head—not before the axe dropped anyway.
The next morning, with my painting loaded up, Professor Alden drove us to the post office, and when we got there, it dawned on me I didn’t even have Carter’s address.
Shit.
“Is something wrong?” Professor Alden asked.
“I don’t have the buyer’s address.” I admitted, hoping she’d let me off the hook, knowing she wouldn’t.
“Isn’t he a family friend of yours?” She opened the back of the truck.
Not getting off the hook.
“Yes, but he’s moved a few times in the last few years.”
She turned and smiled knowingly. “Why don’t you give him a call, and I’ll go find someone to help me carry this inside?”
I nodded and blew out a frustrated breath, because I’d returned Carter’s texts here and there, but we hadn’t spoken .
In fact, I’d kind of been hiding from him since my birthday.
The way he’d looked at me was just too damn hopeful.
When I knew I was just going to let him down. Just like everybody else.
Maybe I could just flee the scene and never return? I could quit and just be done with it already. The thought sounded appealing until I realized I’d already reached my limit of lying around in my childhood bedroom, and I’ll admit, even I was surprised at that realization.
My hand trembled as my thumb hovered over his contact card, and I suddenly realized I needed privacy for this. So I wandered further away from the truck and leaned against a tree across the parking lot, sliding down to sit.
I closed my eyes. This was Carter. Of all people, he’d understand.
So I dialed, and as I lifted the phone to my ear, my insides immediately knotted up, and I wondered if I was going to puke.
He answered on the second ring, a little out of breath. “Sara?” I immediately couldn’t speak, a lump lodged itself in my throat, and silent tears streamed down my face instead. Fuckerson.
“Sara, are you there? Is something wrong?” There was noise in the background. He was probably busy, and I didn’t want to waste his time, but God, I just couldn’t get a word to form.
In my best effort to make my vocal cords do their job, I choked out an embarrassing, strangled sob.
“I’m here, sweetheart.” His calming voice filtered through the phone with immediate understanding.
I must have sounded like a serial killer, just breathing heavily into the phone, but Carter just started talking to me, slowly filling the silence.
“I’m glad you called.” The sound of his voice was so comforting.
“I know this is hard, but you’re strong, Sara.
So fucking strong, and I know things will never be the same without her?—”
He was right. They wouldn’t. I shook violently, crumpled over my knees and sobbed, hard and ugly, practically feral, not caring who saw.
I don’t know exactly what he said, or how long I stayed like that, but eventually my insides started unknotting and I let the soothing sound of his voice bring me back to reality.
“Where are you?” He finally asked.
I glanced across the parking lot and found my professor sitting on the bench outside the post office, patiently waiting for me. I hiccuped sharply, remembering why I’d called to begin with. “I-I’m in a parking lot.” I finally got out.
“What do you see?”
“What?”
Gently, “What do you see, sweet girl?”
“My uh, my professor.” I hiccuped again, wiping the snot running down my face with the back of my hand.
“Good.” I could hear his smile through the phone. “What can you feel?”
“Feel? Uh, gravel? I’m sitting on sharp-ass gravel.” I laughed and pulled in another deep breath.
He chuckled. “Sounds about right. I wish I was sitting on that sharp-ass gravel right next to you.” I really wished he was too. I took another deep breath. “Sara, tell me, what do you smell?”
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. “Some kind of fried food and—car exhaust.” Each deep breath seemed to make the sun shine a little brighter and the world seem a little calmer.
“Attagirl.” He hummed. “I’m really proud of you.”
“I wish you were here.” My voice cracked, and I nearly started crying again .
“I wish I was there too.” He sighed. “More than you know—are you alright? Are you in a safe place?”
I cleared my throat, cramming all my emotions way deep down. Enough already. “Yeah, I’m alright.”
“Safe?” he asked again.
“Safe.” I confirmed with a roll of my eyes.
“Good.” He murmured and then, “Hey listen, I’m at work right now, but you know you can call me anytime, day or night, right?”
“I promise I won’t bug you again.” I tipped a pile of rocks out of the palm of my hand.
“Sarafina, sweetheart.” He huffed a laugh. “I really hope you do.” There was a gap of empty space before we said goodbye, and when the phone went dead, I forced myself to uncoil and brush myself off.
I patted my cheeks dry with the back of a sleeve and headed towards my professor. “How’d it go?” She asked, looking up from her phone. “Did you get the address?” The address. Shit. I’d completely forgotten.
Carter picked up on the first ring this time, sounding frantic. “Sara?”
I cleared my throat. “I’m so sorry to bug you again—I need your address.”
“You’re mailing my piece.” He exhaled, pure delight in his voice. “I’ll text you, okay?”
“Thanks, Carter.”
“Anytime, pretty girl. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
“Okay.” I shook my head, embarrassed at myself.
“Gotta go. Bye.” He hung up the phone quickly, but I got a text from him with an address a mere minute later.
I nodded to my professor, and we went inside and did the impossible thing.
We mailed it.
Professor Alden patted my back as we stood outside the post office soaking in the sun, basking in its warmth for a moment. “You realize this makes you a professional.”
I scoffed. “It doesn’t count if a friend bought it.”
“Was money exchanged?” She asked.
“A wad of hundred-dollar bills.” I rolled my eyes and muttered, “And an obscene amount of money for shipping, that I have to send back.” I added, “Again.”
“Well, if the amount you keep is enough to profit, that means you’re liable for taxes, Sara.” She smiled knowingly. “Do you know what that means?”
“I need to hire an accountant?” I asked, puzzled.
She chuckled. “That means you’re in business.
Family friend or not.” She shrugged. “Besides, that’s what being an artist is.
Selling art to your friends. Because in this industry, it’s all about networking .
Everybody is a friend of a friend, and everybody want’s to buy their friends’ art because they want to brag about how well they know the artist.” I chewed my lip. I hadn’t thought of it like that.
I supposed there was no going back now. She was right. The ball was rolling whether I liked it or not.
“Now, you just need to use that bucket of paint.” She reminded me. “Or don’t.” She looked me up and down. “You might put some muscle back on, which it looks like you could use.”
I realized maybe I wasn’t fooling everyone as well as I thought I’d been. “Is that what this assignment is?” I asked as we got back into the truck to drive back to campus. “A workout regimen?”
“Is that what you think it is?” She looked at me as she turned on the ignition.
“Honestly? I have no idea. A punishment for falling behind?” I winced, trying again.
She looked me square in the eye. “No, Sara, it’s just a physical manifestation of the process.
We all carry emotional baggage around with us all the time.
Some things are heavier than others, and unless we go through the process of letting go, we have to keep carrying our shit around with us.
Whether we like it or not. And right now you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.
” She eased out of the parking space. “The more we let go, the lighter we feel. It’s going to be painful as hell, but your mother would want you to keep moving forward.
Even if it’s just a tiny bit every day.” She smiled sadly, keeping her eyes on the road.
“Don’t get stuck. It’s harder than you think to get unstuck.
” And then she added more sternly. “And don’t you dare send that money for the painting back. ”
“Why?”
“When the universe gives you resources, receive it , don’t reject it.
Life is about flow. Motion. If you reject that money, you’re putting a stopper in your flow.
Give it away, donate it if you want, but don’t reject it.
Stay in the flow, even if it’s just a tiny little trickle, because that, Sara, is the secret to getting unstuck.
” Damn. I hadn’t thought of it that way either.
Just get the paint on the canvas, I told myself. That’s it. I could do that. Right?
Wrong.