14.
fourteen
Noel
T he morning after the farm, I wake like a Disney princess—eyes bright, cheeks flushed, snoring cat curled on my belly.
I displace Pixie, despite her best attempts to cling to my tank top, and push open the curtains in the loft. Even the sun seems game to be part of my fairytale morning. I gather my tea cup from the nightstand and pad down the stairs in bare feet to greet the mess I left on the counter last night.
As soon as Jamie dropped me off, I rushed inside and searched the cupboards for one of Nana’s Mason jars for my little hops bouquet.
Nana went through a purge phase after she was diagnosed with kidney disease, the condition that eventually led to her stroke.
She donated boxes and boxes of things, then inexplicably adopted a kitten.
“I don’t need stuff,” she said, holding Pix like an infant and spoiling her forever. “I need life.”
“Sure, Nana,” I replied. It was the last day of my visit that year, and I’d been searching closets for her fall coat before I left, only to discover it had apparently not made the cut. “But you might need some of the stuff.”
The jars, sadly, must have also not made the cut. So instead, I rummaged through the cabinets until I found a mug that read The Cards Say Coffee with a picture of a tarot deck, and stuck the stems in that. It was unexpectedly perfect, Jamie’s odd little flowers in Nana’s silly mug.
Now, here they sit surrounded by my pencils and loose leaf sketching paper.
The pinecones had opened up a bit by the time I got them home and into the water. Their huge heads tipping over the side of the cup, like fish jumping out of a pond. I placed them in the center of the breakfast bar, inspecting the petals, looking for the ones that stood out the way Nana taught me.
I’d been so eager to paint the flowers that I quickly changed into pajama pants, threw together a ham and cheese sandwich for dinner, and started sketching in between bites.
I did one rendering in charcoal and one in pencil, each from different angles.
Then I took my sketchbook to the couch, snuggled up with one of Nana’s quilts on my lap, and played around with some other flowers.
Blooms I can sketch from memory because I’ve been going back to them since I was a child. Pansies, peonies, beach roses.
I started sketching when I was eight, and it became a nightly routine all the way through to adulthood.
The way some people read before bed, I’d pick a flower and draw it.
If I was tired, it would be no more than a doodle, a cartoonish sunflower or a carnation with an oversized head.
If I had more energy, I might end up with something that I’d save.
Something I could digitize and play around with to make a pattern or a greeting card.
Those late night sketches are where most of my inventory came from when I built that Etsy shop.
Last night I was afraid picking up my pencil again would feel the way it has for months, like bleeding a stone, but instead it just flowed out of me.
And it lit something deep inside of my chest, a spark I’ve been trying to make catch.
It caught so hard that I stayed up past midnight for the first time in years just drawing for fun.
Cultivating a garden of charcoal blooms.
But that’s not what I wanted Jamie’s flowers for. I wanted them for the color. The unique green that I really want to master, and that’s what I plan to do today.
I haven’t even unpacked my paints yet. They’re sitting in a small plastic tote in the mudroom, beneath a duffle bag stuffed with shoes, and I lug the box into the kitchen, unwrapping the paint pots one by one on the little two-top table.
I’ll have to find a way to shield them from the morning sun so they don’t dry out, but they look like a flock of colorful birds all lined up there, and it makes me deliriously happy.
Next, I pull down another coffee mug and fill it with brushes, then a glass with pencils. I spin around, scanning the cottage for something to store my watercolor paper in where it won’t accidentally get creased or have something spilled on it.
There . On the catch-all console near the front door, there’s a two-pocket folder left for guests.
Local menus, a list of emergency numbers—that sort of thing.
I open the single drawer and dump all of the paperwork into it, then refill the folder with my paper.
I stack my sketchbook on top of it and fit it at a right angle beside the paint, then stand back with my hands on my hips to survey the space.
It’s a rag tag set up and it will be pretty damn inconvenient whenever I need to make a meal, but it’s worth it.
I feel loose, even while my cheeks are tight with a mild burn from the sun yesterday.
I feel confused by this thing brewing with Jamie, but in a good way. A curious way.
And when I sit down to paint his weird little hops plants, I feel like it’s maybe not an accident that I might be fated to a man with flowers on his skin.
By the time late afternoon hits, I’ve done two paintings that I’m happy with, and a third remains unfinished for another day.
I’m cleaning brushes in the sink when my phone buzzes on the counter behind me.
Jamie said he had a work meeting today, but after that he was all mine.
I’ve been waiting like a giddy child for his call.
I quickly dry my hands and scoop it up, my chest buzzing like a jar of lightning bugs tipped over.
“Hey, you.”
“Noel!”
The brush slips from my fingers, bouncing into the sink basin. “Mom? Um, hi.”
I’m acutely aware of the way the smile I had tucked in my teeth drops.
I’ve been waiting weeks for some sign that she’s alive and not buried in the desert somewhere, but the weight of this conversation feels so much heavier on the heels of the first truly happy mood I’ve had in months.
I consider brushing her off, telling her it’s not a good time.
A voice inside my head that sounds a lot like a cranky toddler reminds me that if she’s calling, she’s alive.
But I also know alive doesn’t mean well . She was alive on her trip to St. John when she called from the TSA office after being detained for leaving her carry-on bag unattended beneath the seat at the bar. I need to hear for myself. “Where are you?”
“Wait,” she says. “I meant to video call.”
The request comes in and I accept it. Her smiling face fills the screen and she waves while panning the camera around. It’s still midday there, and behind her is a panoramic view of copper-colored mountains.
“Isn’t it pretty? We’re somewhere north of San Diego.”
“Most of the state is north of San Diego.”
Mom leans against the side of the van, ignoring my tone. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine. Normal as ever.” Things are the opposite of normal, actually, but I’m not telling her that.
“Dennis wants to say hi.” She turns, her voice muffled. “Wave, honey!”
In the background, her new friend lifts a hand to me while tossing pretzels to a flock of birds. Dennis Hammond: fifty-two-year-old, single white male from Las Vegas. Former Navy man, current hobby survivalist.
He’s older than the last one. More broke too.
I wave back, but I’m nervous all over again. “How are things with him?” I ask, keeping my voice low, trying to suss out a look or a tone that will convey something true she doesn’t want to admit. I could always read her. That’s probably why she wanted to video call. She wants me to see it.
“They’re great, honey! I did want to talk to you about something, though.” Finally . She’s come to her senses and wants to come home . I’m already making travel arrangements in my head.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“The van is having a bit of engine trouble.”
“Oh, do you need help booking a ticket home? Where is the nearest airport to you?” I turn toward my laptop, waking the screen.
“No. No.” She laughs. “I’m not coming home.
I was hoping maybe you could lend me some cash so we can get it fixed up?
We still have so much to do, and the mechanic said we could drive it, but it would be a fifty-fifty chance of either making it to the next stop or getting stranded on a dark desert highway. ”
She starts twirling, humming the opening line from “Hotel California,” always imagining herself as a character in a story. I wonder if she even realizes this one is about a drug-filled delusion.
“What exactly is wrong with the van?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t know. They told me, but it was Greek to me. You wouldn’t believe how expensive everything is out here. I thought Connecticut was bad. Anyway, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it. You know that.”
My shoulders sink, though they have no right. I was hoping for a call and I knew it would be for something like this. I’ve never said no to her, so it’s my own fault she feels entitled to it. And really, what kind of daughter would let her mother break down in the desert with Dennis?
“I’ll Venmo you,” I tell her, wincing on behalf of my bank account.
A strand of her hair blows in front of her sunglasses, and she wipes it away. “Thank you. I can always count on you. My beautiful daughter.”
“Right.” I swallow hard and turn to dump the water from my brushes down the sink. “So, after you’re done in California…”
“Oh, who knows. I’m having the time of my life. It’s so different from the East Coast. You should see the sunsets, Noel. The colors. It’s magic.”
“I’ve seen a sunset, Mom.” I’m being a brat, but it’s the word magic that pricks at me.
I don’t like it from her. Not when I’m currently chasing magic of my own.
Just like I didn’t like it when Jamie called my sabbatical an adventure—it’s a reminder of the way I’m teetering on the edge of something I promised not to be.
“Honey, I have to go. Dennis wants to get to this rock and roll museum he read about on Trip Advisor before it closes. Or before the engine on this thing conks out. Talk soon, okay?”
“Wait. Can you give me a time when you’ll call, Mom? We need to sort—”
“Of course, yes,” she says, just as static appears on the line, distorting the promise. “Have fun at Nana’s!”
The video stops and I let out a huff of frustration. What could her end game possibly be at this point? Does she honestly think this is her new life? She doesn’t even have a job. She quit it to go on this trip.
I’m still staring at the blank screen when it lights with a text, and the pendulum swing of emotion nearly knocks me off my feet when I see Jamie’s picture.
Right . Magic.
Jamie: I have an idea.
I know I’m not getting the details, so I send him an equally vague response.
Noel: …
Jamie: I’ll pick you up in half an hour.
There’s a mess of paper and paint all over the kitchen, all over me. That won’t work.
Noel: Give me a whole one?
Jamie: Deal.