Chapter 10
10
Gatlin
W e spent the morning with my sister. Counting the five weeks before I bonded with Palmer to today, we were celebrating Gemmy completing her third month of treatment. With Palmer’s weekly lifeforce infusions, on top of the celestial healing she received from Dr. Xiong to reverse the damages prior radiation treatments had done to her body, it was like we had traveled back in time. Gemmy even had the beginnings of hair regrowth, the red tips beginning to be visible on her scalp. There were no words to describe the relief and thankfulness I felt today.
My sister was seated at a small bistro-type table in her room with Palmer, watching as she fingerspelled the alphabet. It was endearing to hear Palmer quietly sing the alphabet song so she wouldn’t lose her place. She couldn’t remember “k,” “q,” or “x,” but Gemmy was happy to show her those signs.
Palmer and I had been attending a class once a week for the last two weeks. It had taken me a moment to find one that met in the late afternoon that wasn’t a for-credit college class. I finally found one for family members who wanted to learn how to communicate with their loved ones, but then we had to get through the holiday season to start it. It was one of the best decisions we had made, signing up for that class.
Palmer was a quick learner, and I grinned as my sister giggled along with my wife over a signing mistake.
I was thinking of Palmer as my wife more and more, and I wasn’t sure if that was normal. I thought maybe it was, and figured I could blame my humanity. I could also blame our chemistry in and outside of the bedroom. Yeah, we hadn’t gone all the way yet, but what we had done, I could confidently say, was leading me to believe it would be mind-blowing.
My brow furrowed as I sketched the women in front of me. Gemmy was wearing a loose cable knit sweater in green and a pair of charcoal leggings. Palmer’s outfit had almost made me swallow my tongue when she walked out of her room this morning. We would be stopping by the club for council business this afternoon, and she’d chosen a black suit paired with a powder blue button-down; the combination was classic and elegant on her toned body. It was the cut of the jacket paired with the shirt being unbuttoned down to her sternum that currently had me fixated. A cascade of gold chains dripped from her neck all the way down her chest, deviating from their path like rivers flowing between the topography of her breasts. That shining river of gold had my mind wandering to those rooms in the VIP section, where I wanted to lay her out in nothing else so I could stare my fill.
It was in direct contrast to how I’d felt at the beginning of this. I had been concerned from the get-go about what Palmer really looked like. I’d Google-searched Boo Hag and found a lot of renderings of the woman from the Gullah story of the Boo Hag. The images were not flattering. I think I wanted an excuse, proof that she was a monster underneath it all, so I would have a reason to keep my distance.
She was hiding herself from me. I rationalized that there had to be something monstrous to hide, otherwise why would she do it? And if I couldn't see all of her, then she couldn't be trusted. Weak, bullshit reasoning. When she shared that her mother and her people as a whole didn't share their true appearance with anyone, I felt like a culturally insensitive dumbass. I still hoped to be honored enough someday to see her, to paint her, even if it was just for us.
If I never get the chance, though… I think I could be content with that. It’s her choice, and I respect that.
That was the word of the past few weeks: contentment. We had fallen into a comfortable relationship. At least, I hoped she thought of this as a relationship. We talked about her business—she bought and sold art. Like most immortal beings, she’d learned to see the patterns in the business world and had invested wisely. She mostly took care of keeping the beings on the preserve happy, like some sort of feudal lord. Palmer was teaching me what to do too, which felt permanent, somehow. It didn't bother me, and that was something my mind had been working over for the last few days.
This could be our life, if…
I turned the page, beginning a solo sketch of Palmer.
I woke up the morning after we had been intimate for the first time, Palmer’s warm body cradled in mine, feeling different. The early morning sun had shone through the drapes, the sun painting her face with soft light. I stared like a creeper for I don’t know how long before her eyes fluttered open from sleep. The look she gave me when she realized where she was and who she was with had made my heart stutter in my chest.
That was the first time since I moved back four years ago that I genuinely felt the need to paint. Not just that I should paint. I had battled with myself over the last few years. How could I call myself an artist without producing any art? But anything I had attempted to capture on canvas was spiritually flat. Disconnected. Dull.
Waking up next to Palmer ignited something in me.
I painted Prudence first, trying to paint her solid yet translucent enough so that you knew she was a ghost but felt she was alive at the same time––because she was alive. I painted a few more of Palmer’s employees, our friends from around the estate.
While I enjoyed the experience and the challenge of their differences from human subjects I had painted in the past, I was rusty. So I practiced. I sketched, warming up the muscles again, prepared canvases, and gave it a go.
And sketched Palmer like a fucking stalker every chance I got.
Sketching has always helped me think. In school, doodling was more effective than taking notes—the pictures kept me active so I could stay in one spot and listen. It became a way to work through difficult feelings in my adolescence. When I started winning awards in my junior and senior years of high school, I was locked in. I was an artist. Going to art school was the natural next step, and I thrived.
But when life changed so suddenly with the death of our parents and the onset of Gemmy’s cancer, I stopped creating. It seemed…
Palmer’s laughter had my lips curving into a smile in response. My sister was fingerspelling “anus,” ASL for calling someone an asshole.
My wife can’t even ask to go to the bathroom yet, but my sister thinks it’s important to teach her every swear word she can think of.
I shook my head at how on-brand that was for her and, at the same time, so positive in terms of her healing. Returning to my sketch, I rubbed my finger along the curve of Palmer’s nose to soften my shading.
“Knock-knock,” Dr. Xiong said while rapping on the door to Gemmy’s room. “I was wondering if I could steal away Mrs. Duvall for a few moments?”
Palmer sighed, and I recognized a playful twinkle in her eye when she leaned in and stage-whispered to Gemmy, “I think she is going to try to get more money out of me. She’s obsessed with human medical diagnostic equipment.”
Dr. Xiong crossed her arms good-naturedly. “Well, you are the only one who can get me my fix, so I’m not sorry at all, you enabler.”
Palmer threw back her head and laughed.
Smirking because Palmer was also supporting my art habit, I closed my sketchbook and unfolded my body from the armchair I had taken over.
I walked over to Palmer, wrapping my arm around her waist when she stood. I kissed her temple before saying and signing, “We’re good here if you want to go, right Gemmy?”
Gemmy’s eyes narrowed, taking us in, and she nodded her agreement instead of commenting.
Which meant she was saving all the comments she had for me.
Palmer took what we said at face value, a pretty blush staining her cheeks as she walked away with Dr. Xiong. I watched her go and turned around, only to find Gemmy had moved.
I sighed, seeing her flipping through my sketchbook.
She looked at each page, and I knew I didn’t have to explain anything. In my sketches, she would be able to see what I was just coming to terms with myself.
She put the sketchbook down, crossed the room, and pulled me into a hug. Tears filled my eyes and emotion clogged my throat. She pulled back and I let her go, then retrieved my sketchbook and slid it back into my leather messenger bag. I sat on her bed and she joined me.
“All I want is for you to be happy.” She sniffled as tears ran down her face . “When you stopped painting, I thought I had taken all your joy.”
“No,” I signed, my index and middle finger slapping my thumb. “You didn’t. I just lost myself for a while. It’s not your fault.”
Gemmy wiped her face.
“It is the cancer’s fault, I know,” she continued, signing angrily , “but I still felt that way. Now, thanks to my cancer, you have Palmer.”
I made a face. “I’d rather say that thanks to you, I met my wife.”
Gemmy’s eyes widened . “Your wife? So you admit it?”
Deciding to be an ass, I signed, “Yes, we’ve been handfasted officially for a little over two months now; what else should I be calling her?”
Gemmy slapped my leg, flowing into a rapid scolding that even I had trouble keeping up with. “And this is what I mean—you are such a dumbass!” she signed, huffing at my inability to state my feelings. Or at least I think that’s what she meant.
“What are you trying to say?”
“Is Palmer going to be my sister-in-law?” She leaned forward, excitedly bouncing.
“I keep telling you we are handfasted, so I don’t understand the question.” I scooted back, barely getting away from my sister’s fists of fury.
I laughed as she let out a frustrated sound.
I stood, holding out my hands and hoping to stop Gemmy from coming over to kick my ass. Not an official ASL sign at all, but she did stop coming after me. “Don’t you think I should tell her first, not my bratty little sister?”
Gemmy squealed, throwing herself at me. I caught her and gave her another hug.
“I’m going to need you to keep your insider knowledge to yourself,” I said aloud with my cheek resting on top of her head.
She pulled out of our embrace, thwacking me on my shoulder, fingerspelling “duh,” her mouth going slack, accenting my stupidity.
“Besides, I could be wrong. You tell me all the time I’m an emotionally stunted dumbass.” I shrugged.
“Men.” She touched her forehead with her thumb, her other fingers fanned out, and arced her hand down to her heart while rolling her eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have grown up thinking that was a part of the sign.
“Women,” I signed back, smirking at her outraged face.