Chapter 2
Two
Hi Dad,
I went to see Nikki again yesterday, and she’s starting to really seem like herself again, biting sarcastic wit and all.
But sometimes when I glance over at her, I can still see the tiredness in her eyes, like she’s had enough of this already.
I keep thinking I should have seen it sooner—that I should’ve noticed the skipped meals, the long showers, and all the things I learned a little too late.
And then I think, what if it truly is too late?
The world is full of a thousand little what-ifs, and I can’t stop tripping over every single one.
They say recovery isn’t linear. That’s what the pamphlet says, anyway.
But I wish it was. I wish there was a map with a clear path out of the dark, because right now everything feels like walking blindfolded with no one even holding my hand to guide me.
I reach out sometimes and think maybe I’ll find your hand.
I hate that I can’t fix this for her. I hate that all I can do is show up with lattes and a smile and pretend I’m not terrified every second of every day that one day the damage will be irreversible.
Thanks for listening. I know you’d probably tell me something like Keep moving forward, or Take it one day at a time, and I’m going to keep trying to do that.
Love, Nat
I shut my Moleskine journal. I was almost out of pages in this one, and I made a mental note to pick up a new one next time I was at work. The late-spring sun was beginning to set, waking up all the frogs and cicadas, who sang their tunes into the dusky orange sky.
My letters to Dad weren’t impeccable pieces of prose by any means, but they were what kept me writing, and what kept me grounded.
I started writing stories when I was young, when everyone my age started reading the Harry Potter series, and I was steadfastly Team Draco (I firmly believed he was misunderstood).
Since that obviously wasn’t who Hermione ended up with, I took it upon myself to write the story I thought should happen.
I’d stayed up late when Mom thought I’d gone to sleep, scribbling pages and pages of stories into little notebooks.
The first few years after my dad had passed, I’d seen a children’s grief counselor, and I’d shared with her some of my stories.
She encouraged me to start writing my own stories about my own experiences and what I was feeling.
At the time, I didn’t really understand.
When you’re eight years old, you’re old enough to know what’s happened, but not old enough to understand the ramifications it’s going to have on the rest of your life.
What kind of story was I supposed to tell?
So instead, I started writing letters to Dad.
They were simple at first, just telling him about my day at school or about a birthday party I’d gone to where we played princesses and dragons.
Eventually they transitioned into homecoming parties, breakups, what TV shows everyone was watching, and what music we were listening to.
I was telling him stories, even if they weren’t fictional, and I looked forward to writing them.
But these were mine—private conversations between me and my dad, as if we were still hiding in pillow forts and sharing secrets.
I thought back to Harry Potter and realized that part of the reason I enjoyed those stories so much was because there was an escapism factor to them, one I guess I’d needed.
So I spent all of my college writing courses crafting short stories of magical realism.
I got really into Stephen King and H. P.
Lovecraft. I consumed all kinds of magic-based media.
It was like finding my fictional escape velocity, and it worked for a while.
I had an interconnected anthology I’d written for one of my finals (very Lovecraftian in its format) and upon graduation, I sent the pitch for it to a few agents.
Most of them gave me an obviously generic response they send to any submitting author when they couldn’t be bothered to provide feedback.
Hi Natalie,
Thank you so much for your query. I read your pages with interest, but unfortunately your manuscript isn’t the right fit for me. I’m going to pass, but do not be discouraged as every agent has their own tastes.
Stay well, and thank you again for sharing your work with me!
Best regards,
An agent who definitely had not read my pages
I was applying to entry-level jobs in publishing, too, in hopes that maybe I could finagle myself into the industry that way, and ironically enough got pretty much the same responses.
Hi Natalie,
Thank you for applying to our copy editor position. Unfortunately, we are moving forward with a different candidate for this role.
Best regards,
A company that wants six years of experience for an entry-level job
My only means of income right now was a part-time job at Stacks, a local bookstore downtown, where most of my time was spent reading, scribbling in my notebook, and shuffling through the jazz playlist that played throughout the cramped little store.
I knew I needed something fresh to pitch to agents in hopes of being published, but all I had so far was a half-completed beat sheet about a down-on-her-luck teenage girl who gets accidentally shrunken by a newly winged fairy experimenting with spells.
Maybe a change of scenery would help. So I moved from my desk to my bed.
I changed positions about six times, switching from my stomach to my back to my stomach again.
I played “Serotonin” by girl in red on repeat.
I got distracted by my laundry. I folded and refolded my shirts (including the now coffee-free one).
Then I went downstairs to the kitchen and sat at the island and stared out the window at people walking by on the street, trying to differentiate the tourists from the locals and making up stories for them instead of working on my own.
Gracie found her way to my feet and let out a deep, far too burdened sigh for a dog who had a life full of naps and treats.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” I asked, optimistic that maybe a walk would help me too.
Even in her old age, the word walk perked her ears up.
So I grabbed her leash, hanging from the ceramic fruit hooks by the back door, and took her out.
She didn’t really “walk” anymore, but rather ambled along casually, sniffing yellowing palm fronds that had fallen from the trees on the side of the road.
Of course, to the stranger walking by on the street, Gracie was still a big, scary horse-looking Borzoi, and sometimes they’d cross the street as they saw us coming, as if I was going to sic her on them.
“Don’t worry, girl, I know you’re the worst guard dog in the world,” I cooed at her, reaching down to pat her big head.
Mom had found Gracie on Craigslist as a puppy about a year after Dad died, and thought maybe a dog would help me and Nikki cope.
We had no idea how to train or handle a dog, but for some reason, Gracie didn’t need much training.
She was mellow and loving even as a puppy.
Nikki always believed Gracie was sent to us for a reason, that she would help fill the void that Dad left, but I thought we just got lucky.
We did a short lap down to the beach and back, and as I approached our driveway, Mom was situating herself in front of a large canvas in our garage/her makeshift art studio, where she could get paint all over the walls and not feel bad about it.
Fuzzy music from her Bluetooth speaker carried through the air as I walked up the driveway, and I followed the faint sound of Stevie Nicks’s voice crooning out some soft love ballad into the garage.
Blues and greens in glossy paint splashed the corners, and she continued to paint the canvas with unwavering flow and elegance.
She reached up and painted an aqua blue stroke at the top, then brought her arm down to the other corner and flicked her brush off the edge of the canvas.
She was painting the waves, so she moved like one.
“What do you think?” She tilted her head to the side and studied the blank corner of the canvas with intensity. Blue paint dotted her cheeks like little freckles, and there were streaks of green in the flyaway bits of dirty-blond hair that had fallen out of her ponytail.
“It’s pretty,” I told her. “They’re always pretty, Mom.”
She frowned a bit and furiously mixed more blues and greens on a small plastic palette. Everything about my mom was soft and warm like a summer evening—that is, until she had a paintbrush in her hands.
“I feel so out of practice with acrylics now.” She sighed, maybe more to herself than me.
I took Gracie’s leash off and let her meander over to the round plush bed in the corner of the garage, before walking over to Mom’s side.
“I spent the entire fall focused on watercolors, and now I’m having regrets. ”
“Spoken like a true artist.” I chuckled dryly.
The whole reason we’d moved four hours east from Arcadia to Dahlia Point was for a job she’d taken as a featured artist at a local gallery. Mom was from Dahlia Point, but she’d never brought us here until we moved. I’d figured it was for a reason, but I never asked.
She was a painter by trade but had taught art classes at a private school for almost my whole life. Teaching provided her with a routine and stability when we were growing up, but now that we were adults, she could go back to her passion full-time.
“You seem even less enthused than usual,” she said, not taking her eyes off the canvas. “What’s bothering you?”
It wasn’t Is something bothering you, because she didn’t need to ask that. She knew, as she always did.
I groaned and lowered myself onto another stool beside her. “It’s ridiculous. These companies want you to have experience, but how could I possibly have six years of experience for an entry-level job?”
Mom finally looked over at me, and sometimes when the light hit her the right way, I could see bits of myself in her, from the sheen in her hazel eyes to the mess of dirty-blond hair, knots and all.
“Have a little patience. You only graduated a few weeks ago,” she replied. She dipped her brush in her mixture and continued with her elaborate stroking. “Have you worked on any writing at all?”
“No.” I sighed. “I mean, I’m trying, but . . .” I let my voice trail off, watching her continue her brushstrokes.
“You’ll find inspiration from where you least expect it. That’s part of being a creator—making something out of what seems like nothing.”
I smiled to myself. “When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise.” She chuckled. “You were just too much of a stubborn teenager to realize that.”
“Can’t even argue with that.”
I got up from the stool and gave her a side-armed hug, careful not to get paint on my T-shirt.
“Hey, wait,” she called after me as I walked to the door leading into the house. I paused and spun on my heel with my hand still on the doorknob. “I have an idea that might jumpstart some inspiration for you.”
She got up from her stool and dragged another large canvas to the wall by the open door of the garage, and I knew almost immediately what she was going to suggest.
“Paint balloons?” she asked.
“Oh boy.” I shook my head with a faint grin. “Let me put a different shirt on. This is the last good white T-shirt I own.”
Mom loved messes, and was a firm believer that she could produce art from them.
We had done it a few times over the years, filling balloons with mixtures of paint, silicone, and water, and throwing them at canvases.
The first one the three of us had done years ago still hung in our living room over the couch, its mismatch of colors perfect for our mismatched furniture.
We took turns filling balloons from a package she always had on hand and carefully placing them in a bucket.
After putting a rain poncho on, I took one and chucked it underhand at the canvas, yelping as it exploded in a mess of green and blue and yellow.
She did the same, and paint sprinkled down on us like rain.
“A friggin’ masterpiece.” Mom laughed. “Belongs in a museum, if you ask me.”
We carried on for a little while, until the rays of the sun against the concrete floor turned to shadows and the sound of frogs and insects in the night echoed around the thin walls of the garage.
I washed my hands in the slop sink in the corner as Mom moved our paint-balloon art to a corner to dry.
“Feel better?” she asked, trying to brush strands of hair out of her face without getting more paint on her.
“A lot, actually.” I offered her a faint smile as I dried my hands with a rag. “I needed that.”
“You know, Nat . . .” She heaved out a sigh as she sat back down on her stool in front of her canvas. “You’re only twenty-two. You’re so young, and I don’t want you to live some of the best years of your life as a passenger, worried about the next stop you’re getting off at.”
I tried not to let the tension that settled in me show on my face, and I took a measured breath. “That’s a pretty metaphor, but I’m okay. Really, I am.”
She nodded, but seemed unconvinced. Silence settled between us, with nothing but the sound of Fleetwood Mac floating through the air, and even though I could have (maybe should have) ended the conversation, I still lingered.
Sometimes I just needed my mom, but didn’t know how to ask.
Thankfully, she knew my looks as well as I knew hers.
“Your sister is going to be all right, you know.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m your mother, I know everything.”
A laugh escaped me, and I decided that for now, it was good enough. “Right, of course.”
Mom called after me once more as I retreated to the door to the house. “Nat? Promise me you’ll have fun this summer. Before you decide to go off and be a successful adult.”
“I promise.”