25. A Painting of a Thousand Emotions
Chapter twenty-five
A Painting of a Thousand Emotions
Emily
For a long time, I painted. My brush dancing across the canvas with a life of its own. My other hand re-lighting the joint when necessary.
Max had never closed the windows, leaving me enveloped in the embrace of the night.
The French Quarter serving as my soundtrack, a symphony of distant laughter, the occasional clink of glass, and the soft murmur of conversations from the night owls who roamed its ancient streets.
When I began painting the little girl, light snores came from Kaz.
I stopped and studied him.
The soft rise and fall of his sculpted chest was the only indication that the giant before me was anything but a statue. His muscles, huge and defined, seemed even more pronounced in the dim light.
My eyes traced the contours of his form, catching on the tattooed ink that adorned his skin. The solid black stars near each shoulder and the huge lion crawling up his arm.
That lion was majestic and terrifying, much like Kaz himself.
I love you, baby.
Paint dripped from my brush, but I could not return to the canvas just yet.
I placed the brush on the easel, lifted the lit joint to my lips, and inhaled. The whole time my gaze remained on him.
Mmm.
Even in his sleep, Kaz’s pose was one of deadly violence. Tightly coiled, as if he was perpetually ready to spring into action.
The true embodiment of an apex predator in the wild.
Not just any man could hold such tension.
Even in rest.
It was as if every cell of his being had been woven for violence.
I blew out smoke.
His presence alone was enough to send shivers down the spine of those who knew what he was capable of.
And yet, here he was—my baby—sleeping peacefully on the couch as if he were any other man.
But I knew better.
Kaz was a deadly storm waiting to happen, a tightly coiled nuclear spring of violence and power that could explode and flatten a city at any moment.
A Russian nightmare.
I flicked the joint’s ash out of the window, put the lit side out, and lay it next to my easel. Next, I turned back to Kaz.
He still loves me. Even though I’m a hot fucking mess.
It was crazy, but guilt hit me.
Was it fair that he loved me so much—a woman with a fragmented mind?
Did I truly deserve his love?
His patience?
Here I was—a mosaic of identities, each with its own perspectives and memories, a collective soul housed within a single body.
And he doesn’t care?
Sighing, I decided to get Kaz a blanket.
I quietly made my way to Paolo’s bedroom.
The door creaked open, a soft whisper cutting through the silence. The room was heavy with the scent of candy and cookies.
Baba spoiled the shit out of you today? Didn’t she?
Among my little baby’s sleeping form, his night nanny snoozed on her cot by the bed.
Gently, I picked up a woolen blanket from a dresser by his bed and then watched Paolo.
He slept soundly. His long hair framed his face in a picture of angelic peace.
As I observed him, another layer of doubt unfurled within me.
Did I deserve the love of this innocent soul, too?
My heart ached with the weight of this uncertainty.
Stop thinking that way.
With the blanket in hand, I quietly headed away and couldn’t resist a detour to Emilio’s room.
I peeked inside, careful not to wake him.
All my boys are knocked out.
One of his wet nurses rested on a small bed nearby.
I crept to the crib and studied Emilio. The sight of him, so small and pure, intensified the turmoil within me.
Can I be the mother you really need, when my own mind is a battleground of conflicting people?
My heart ached again.
With the blanket draped over my arm, I left the nursery and returned to where Kazimir slept.
God, I pray I deserve you.
I carefully placed the blanket over Kaz’s huge body. He stirred a little and then shifted to the side.
He was a muscular mountain under that blanket. His chiseled biceps made the cloth ripple with each snore-induced flex.
His hair, usually so precisely styled, was now tousled in a way that added to his rugged charm.
I couldn’t help but feel a familiar flutter in my heart. Kaz had this innate ability to captivate me, his physical allure intertwined with the depth and complexity of the man I had come to know so intimately.
It was a fleeting distraction from the emotional gravity of the moment, but a reminder of the undeniable connection that existed between us.
An involuntary smile tugged at my lips as I looked at him.
In the car, the fear of overwhelming him, of possibly pushing him away with the convoluted truths of my existence had been paralyzing.
As long as I had known Kaz, he had shown me nothing but strength and protection, but this was different. This was not just sharing a problem or a fear; this was sharing a fundamental shift in who I was—or who I thought I was.
Therefore, I had almost lied.
Thank God, I didn’t.
Kaz embraced me in all my complexity and madness when I couldn’t accept my own self.
He loves me. . .so. . .I’m going to keep letting him love me.
And yet here I was, still questioning his love.
One personality like Lunita might have been enough for him to swallow, but now there’s more.
Would he still love me after hearing that?
I drowned in embarrassment.
Stop. It doesn’t matter if I deserve Kaz, Max, Emilio, and Paolo.
A cold shiver ran through me.
I’m not going anywhere. You three. . .are all mine. I would fight someone over you all.
With that, I returned to my painting and put all my inner conflict on the canvas.
My brush strokes became a dialogue between my fears and my hopes.
Despite the complexities of my condition, Kazimir had chosen to stand by me. And Paolo, with his unconditional affection, and my baby son, with his inherent trust, offered me love in its purest form, unburdened by the shadows of doubt that plagued me.
I’m Emily.
It was just me, the canvas, and the colors that brought my inner world to life.
I’m the Mouse.
I picked up my brush again to continue painting the little girl. Her innocent gaze seemed to understand more than anyone else; accepting me without question or judgement.
She mirrored Kaz’s unconditional love in her painted eyes.
I’m the. . .Boss.
Each stroke on the canvas felt like a confession.
I made sure the little girl clutched her stuffed lion.
And. . .I’ll live with that for now.
The clatter of late-night street cleaners echoed between the buildings.
I finished the little girl’s image, went to the space on the left of her, and traced an outline of Amber.
Will I meet you? And does it matter?
I guessed that Amber looked like me, but I still couldn’t do more than create the shadowy outline.
Unsure of what else to do, I set the brush down, picked up the joint, and lit it.
The first inhale was a slow dance of fire and air. Smoke curled lazily into my lungs. It was a sharp yet comforting burn.
How do I paint Amber?
No solution came.
Move on to the next.
Taking another puff, I went to the right side of the little girl and began painting Lunita. I spent a good hour on those vibrant flowers woven into her hair.
As the joint smoldered between my fingers, its earthy aroma filled the space around me—a grounding presence amidst the smell of oil paints.
Maybe, I was high as fuck, but the colors on the canvas sang a bit louder and the brush in my hand danced with a life of its own.
I finished up Lunita’s flowers, and smoke twisted in the air.
The fighter.
I stepped back and stared into her fierce eyes.
All this time I had hated Lunita, but looking at her on the canvas. . .I considered what M had said.
“Lunita is fight because she killed our mom. She killed. . .him. She killed. . .many.” M stirred. “She is the rage in us. The brutal violence. . .”
I couldn’t help but wonder if I would be standing here, if not for Lunita’s crazy ass. The very thought of all she had been through delivered chills through my body.
It’s getting harder to keep on hating you. . .psycho bitch.
I finished up with Lunita, bringing that white gown into focus.
Here and there, a lone car meandered through the streets, its headlights casting ghostly shadows that flickered and danced on the old, weathered walls of the buildings.
In the silence of the early morning, the French Quarter came to life outside.
The air was thick with the scent of beignets and coffee, the early risers of the Quarter starting their day in the dark hours, probably setting up shop for the morning rush.
The distant sound of a riverboat’s horn on the Mississippi cut through the night.
I was on M when dawn approached and the French Quarter began its transformation.
The sky, a threadwork of deep indigo, gradually lightened and streaked with hues of pink and orange as the first light of day crept over the horizon.
Next, the sounds of the night receded, making way for the morning’s chorus. Birds began to chirp.
The streets, once the domain of the night’s last adventurers, slowly filled with a different crowd. Shopkeepers opened their doors, the smell of fresh pastries and coffee growing stronger, weaving through the streets like an invitation.
Meanwhile, the clatter of delivery trucks unloading their wares provided a rhythmic backdrop to the morning.
It was odd painting M—the male version of me. Masculine features and broad shoulders. Facial hair and long dreads.
I still have to figure out who Felicity is.
Tourists—mainly the early risers eager to explore—started to trickle into the streets, their footsteps and voices adding to the burgeoning noise.
The art vendors, painters like me, but of a different kind, began to set up their displays along the iron fences.
And then, I drew myself, standing among these facets of my identity, yet distinct. Here, my strokes were firmer now, more confident. I wasn’t just sketching my physical image, but the embodiment of my essence as if. . .to paint myself was to say I was the most real of all of us.
When I finished on me, I stared at the remaining empty space on the canvas, a void for another figure I didn’t know how to draw.
I thought of M’s question on the board.
Where is she?
Now back in reality, I had a clearer mind.
I stared at the empty space and then gazed up at the old building behind all my personalities.
I bet M is right. She is the way we will heal.
I just didn’t know how to find her, and what I would do once I did.
Behind me, a soft knock sounded and then the door opened.
I turned and saw Baba entering.
Today, her face appeared weathered in the morning light as if she had aged ten more years overnight.
She didn’t frown or smile. She just slowly closed the door and walked over to me.
I decided to see if I could speak. My throat was hoarse, yet words came out. “Did you know that I wasn’t the original?”
Baba gave me a sad smile. “It doesn’t change who you are.”
I returned to looking at the painting. “But. . .”
“Talk to me, Emily.”
“Am I still me?”
“You are.”
My voice cracked. “Am I still Emilio’s mother?”
“More than ever. More than anyone could be.”
“Good.” I swallowed. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
“I hoped you would say that.”
I added a few more touches to my face on the canvas as if more detail would give me more power in reality.
Baba spoke, “I should read your cards.”
I looked at the painting, the figures representing the different parts of me, and a small sense of acceptance washed over my soul.
“Emily. . .”
“I came to New Orleans to become one.” I turned to her. “But I end up being six people.”
Baba gazed at the painting. “Did you meet all of them in this session?”
“I haven’t met Amber or the original.”
Baba considered that and let out a long sigh. “You may not need to meet Amber this time to heal.”
I blinked. “No?”
“However, healing . . .the very definition will need to be understood.”
“I don’t get what you’re saying.”
“I am not sure you will ever become one, Emily.”
My stomach twisted.
I gave her my back and looked out of the window. “Then, why the fuck am I here? Why the hell did you let me—”
“Because you need to gain control of Lunita—”
“I want to be the only one—”
“I am not saying that could not happen, I am just saying. . .”
I looked back at her. “What are you saying?”
“For this trip. . .consider learning how to gain control.”
“That’s not enough. They already think I’m the boss. I have control—”
“But you could be the original.”
I widened my eyes. “What?”
“If you got true control, you could be the original.”
“How is that even possible?”
“How are you even possible, Emily?” She stepped closer to me. “You are a magical wonder. A girl that survived dark horrors that many couldn’t, yet you stand here.”
“Baba, I don’t want to hear all of that shit.” I set the brush down. “How can I become the original?”
“Find the original.”
“And then what?”
“Heal her.”
“How?”
“Only you would know how to do that.”
“How would I know?”
“Because you are her.”
I shook my head.
Baba continued, “I wanted you to paint all of them tonight because you should try to understand them. Accept them.”
That very idea seemed daunting, yet there had to be a ring of truth to it. Each alter, each part of me, had a story, a reason for being.
“I’m scared,” I confessed, in a whisper.
“Scared of what?”
“Scared of losing myself in them and being fucking confused and more insane than I already am.”
“You won’t lose yourself,” Baba assured me, her tone gentle yet firm. “By understanding them, you’ll find yourself. The real you, the complete you.”
I looked at the painting, the figures representing parts of my psyche.
Baba pointed to my image on the canvas. “Do not look at this as your being bad or shattered—”
“But, I am—”
“You are the Mouse, the one who has truly navigated through life’s mazes. But now, you are not alone.”
I gritted my teeth. “That is an understatement.”
“You have Lunita, the little girl, M, and Amber.”
Shocked, I turned to her. “How long have you known their names?”
“The day you had Emilio, their names came to me.”
“Why that day?”
“I do not know.” Fear filled her eyes. “Sometimes. . .I am just as confused with all of this as you are.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“Do you think you could have handled it then?”
“Yes.”
“I disagree.”
I directed my view to Kaz. “He knows.”
Baba’s eyes watered. “And he still loves and accepts you.”
“But. . .what do you see for us in the future?”
“What do you mean, Emily?”
“Will he always accept this? Will there ever be a time when he. . .sees me differently?”
The questions tumbled out, my deepest fears laid bare in the quiet room.
Baba reached out, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Kazimir has faced his own demons, Emily. He’s not a man to shy away from challenges, especially when it comes to the woman he loves.”
“Sure. . .if I was a normal woman. . .but I’m not. . .tonight I wondered. . .”
“What?”
“Do I deserve him?”
“Love is not about deserving but about accepting and being accepted in all your chaos and complexities.”
My guts twisted into knots, unsure if I should really believe Baba or not.
“Kazimir loves you not for the clarity of your mind, but for the depth of your heart.”
I pursed my lips together.
Baba tilted her head to the side. “Do you truly understand that?”
Before I could answer, Kaz’s deep voice sounded from the couch. “Do you. . . truly understand, mysh ?”
Shocked, I moved my view to him.
He’s up. How much did he hear?
My bottom lip quivered.
Slowly, Kaz began to shed the blanket from his form, casting it aside as if shedding a second skin.
Baba and I remained silent.
Rising from the couch, Kaz’s movements mirrored that of a ferocious lion awakening from its slumber—each muscle uncoiling with a predator’s grace. His large, formidable body stretched and expanded, filling the space around us. The sinews in his arms and the contours of his chest became more pronounced.
With every inch he gained in height, the air shifted more.
And through it all, his gaze remained fixed on the painting next to me. It was as if my artwork had cast a spell, drawing him in with an invisible tether.
He sees them. . .all of them. . .
I felt naked.
So utterly exposed.
I wanted to go somewhere and hide.
Baba smiled, yet a tear fell from her eye. She wiped it away and headed toward the bedrooms. “I will go check on Paolo. He gets up around this time.”
Kaz continued to the canvas and slowly began to take each person in.
And I stood there, trying to steady my nerves for the conversation ahead.