Chapter 2Liem
2
Liem
Sometime during the sultry, ink-blue hours of predawn, I’d worked up a sweat giving shape to my demons.
My headlamp—a gift from my brother Vinh after he’d caught wind of my very-early-morning activities—chafed my forehead fiercely as I directed it down onto my open palms, which were almost entirely covered in a layer of charcoal.
Vinh would be pleased to know that I had used it to safely navigate my way here to the town square’s public restrooms, where I vigorously washed my hands clean of smudges. Fortunately, it was a simple task to remove charcoal from skin.
But not from canvas. It was a decisive implement on canvas.
When I returned to the gazebo, there wasn’t quite enough light from the twinkle lights in its rafters to work on my commissions, and based on the subtle haze and muted colors around me, the sun’s ascent was still only a promised whisper.
I’d hoped to complete this commissioned painting for the enchanting Mrs. Debbie T. Hand before sunrise, but if I didn’t, it was no cause for distress. The day ahead would be full of light and opportunity.
The weathered gazebo in the middle of the Bay Springs town square had become my preferred shelter for two types of creation.
One was straightforward yet whimsical, often pleasurable, and financially lucrative.
The other was… necessary. Vital.
Painful.
Cathartic.
I twisted the dial of the headlamp’s settings to a warmer, broader light and turned back to my canvas. Yes. That would do.
This—rising before the sun and painting or drawing in a weathered public gazebo—was probably not exactly what my therapist had in mind when she suggested I take complete control of one part of my day.
But it seemed to be working, and I found new appreciation and understanding in the sunrise every day.
Time passed in me and around me until I eventually blinked back into the world. Some part of my subconscious had recognized the signs that my veil of Zen was about to shift.
“I could have been anyone, you know.”
The deep rumble of Vinh’s voice filled the circular space, and my shoulders followed the cue of my quiet mind, relaxing completely at his presence.
Surveying the canvas critically for a moment, I realized it was complete. I set my painting supplies on the nearest built-in bench before helping myself to a deliberate lungful of air and smiled up at my older brother.
“Dirty chai,” he explained as he passed me a paper cup. The smile he wore was more reserved than mine, but just as warm as the beverage I cradled in my hands.
“Thank you. And yes, you could have been, which would have been interesting. I’ve quite enjoyed getting to know the townsfolk.” I took a deep inhale of the chai, which always smelled like Christmas to me, and took a slow sip before regarding my brother over the cup. “Nevertheless, I’m glad it’s you.”
He sat and sipped his own drink, probably a dark roast coffee, and eyed the row of canvases propped up on the other bench seats. “You finish the cat painting?”
I removed the canvas from the easel and carefully turned it toward him. “I did.”
He studied it for a full minute before glancing up at me. “Your best yet, I think.”
I nodded, always glad of his opinion. “I think Mrs. Hand will be pleased.”
It was a painting of her four cats on an elaborate Mardi Gras float, a myriad of purples, yellows, and greens splashed around the edges to frame the scene.
“I’ll probably make a print of it available on my Etsy store, with Mardi Gras coming up soon.”
“Not a bad idea.” He studied the other canvases again. “What else have you been working on?”
After a long sip of my chai and a short search of my memory, I frowned. “I’m not really sure.” Claiming the seat beside my brother, I set my drink between us. I’d French braided the unshaved side of my hair before leaving the cottage early this morning—very early—and had trekked to the gazebo with a bundle of plastic-wrapped canvases under my arm, my other supplies in a bag over my shoulder.
But what came next wasn’t so clear.
I removed my headlamp and unbraided my hair, sighing in relief and then shivering as my dark strands tickled my shoulder.
“Are you cold?”
I glanced at my black-and-grey cargo sweatpants—ones that I’d transformed from pants to shorts with two clever zippers at some point since arriving—and my form-fitting Ari’s sleeveless tank. Bree had been wearing the same one yesterday, and I wanted to be twinsies so bad that I’d worn it today even though she probably wouldn’t wear it a second day in a row.
I needed to make her a couple more.
“I’m fine, especially now”—I picked up my chai— “that I have this drink.” I took another sip and slumped back with a sigh. “It’s good, but I don’t know if it’s as good as the ones from Caffeina. So unfortunate. But at least it doesn’t have the lingering taste of unsavory business practices.”
Vinh’s chest shook with silent laughter as he raised—well, that wasn’t right. He didn’t raise his eyebrow at me; it was just always like that. A perfect natural arch that added a measure of levity to his serious demeanor. “You’re not wrong there.”
We watched the sunrise together, both of us remaining silent in thoughts and words in reverence for the moment.
The intermezzo from dawn to true sunrise morphed from blues and purples to reds and oranges.
Like fire spreading over the world.
Fire reflected in shards of glass.
Screams, regret, and guilt.
“Oh,” I breathed. “I remember now.”
Or, more accurately, I let myself remember what I’d been exorcising before I’d shifted from charcoal and pain to paintbrushes and reveling cats.
Vinh searched my face, his dark-brown eyes and hair the strongest physical similarity we shared. “Yeah?”
“I don’t think you’d want to see.” Fire, smoke, and sharp shards of glass knocked on the door of my senses again. “I’m quite sure I don’t want to look again either. Not today.”
He turned his questioning gaze from me and scowled at the back of the canvases as if he could—ironically—set them on fire with just a look. If anyone could, it’d be him. He’d protected me with only the force of that look before, sending my childhood bullies running.
“It’s helping?” he asked quietly after a long moment.
I shimmied my shoulders in a “kind of” gesture. “Creating the memories in a controlled way is the prescribed therapy. But looking at the results? I think that’d be more in line with punishment. And if I did that, Bree would know. And would probably yell at me again. I’m afraid my bowels couldn’t handle that kind of shock and awe.”
Vinh snorted and then smiled warmly in remembrance, and I was pleased to see the softness there. It was the perfect counterpart to the light around us that had turned to true morning the longer we spoke.
“Shall we go see if Princess is ready for the day?”
He tipped his head back and finished off his coffee before standing up, more than used to my nickname for Bree by now. He offered his hand in silent agreement to my question, and I took it, springing to my feet as a second wind filled my spirit.
A couple minutes later, we made our way out of the town square with my shorts zipped back into pants and my supplies split between us.
We kept the doomsday paintings and drawings turned from view, and as we crossed over a side street, Vinh casually asked, “Have you seen Cody yet?”
I stopped mid-stride, taking a moment to wrangle my wayward breaths before I replied, “I’ve yet to have the pleasure.”
Vinh stopped a few paces ahead of me and glanced back, cocking his head to the side, which sent his permanently messy hair over his brow.
Clearing my throat delicately, I continued our trek to the cottage, and he followed suit, mumbling something under his breath that I didn’t catch.
We made it to the corner of Marigold Lane, our street, and I had to force my breaths to continue pace again as Cody’s truck came into view where it was parked beside Vinh’s RAV4 in the driveway. My pace slowed as I wondered what we’d find when we got inside. Bree hadn’t mentioned much when we hung out at the gazebo yesterday, but I knew she’d picked him up from the port.
I hadn’t pried even though it’d been hard not to each time her brow would crease with worry or her mind trailed away mid-sentence.
Vinh produced a key and let us into the cottage, our home of four months that greeted us with silence. We paused at the threshold, but then I took the lead and made my way to my small bedroom to off-load my supplies. Vinh followed, and I showed him where to put his burden.
Once things were put away, Vinh murmured, “Gonna go find Bree,” and left.
A few moments later, the door to the back patio creaked open, and a dissonant chorus of voices punctuated the air.
“Do it, Cher.” That was Cody’s rumble, and it was followed by Bree’s rasp.
“I’m scared.”
“DO. IT.”
And then a low, electric hum.