Chapter 1
The hands of the clock tick like they have arthritis. I stand at the far end of the room, brush in hand, lost in the swirling labyrinth of my thoughts. The grandeur of the room envelopes me, every corner dripping with opulence. Gilded frames adorn the walls, and chandeliers hang like crystalline stalactites from the ceiling. A Persian rug, worth more than my annual rent, stretches underfoot.
My muse, an elderly lady in her late sixties, beckons me back to consciousness. She clears her throat gently, a sound like a distant bell chiming through a serene forest.
“Amber, dear, are you alright?” she inquires, her voice carrying the years of wisdom that have etched lines on her face.
I glance at her, pausing my brush mid-air. “Yes, Mrs. Harrington, I’m perfectly fine,” I reply with a faint smile. She’s made up meticulously, every wrinkle concealed, and dressed in a fashionable ensemble that defies her age. She sits regally on an expensive sofa, her posture mirroring the poise of the room.
This room is a world apart from what I’m accustomed to. When the cab dropped me in front of this majestic building, my jaw nearly hit the ground. Since my arrival, I’ve been treated with a reverence I rarely encounter. Water, snacks, and treats have been offered, making my memories shift to a menagerie of past clients.
There were the whimsical ones, the ones who never paid their dues in full, leaving me with only scraps to move on with. Then there were the restless ones who couldn’t sit still for a painting. They fidgeted, swaying back and forth as if they had fire ants in their trousers. There would be a phone call here, and a meal to catch there. A wee here, and a poo there. A painting that would have taken just a few hours could stretch through a century.
And, of course, the predatory ones who made lewd advances. I shudder at the memory of one such incident. A middle-aged man had contacted me to come give him a live portrait painting. The amount he had to offer was more than my regular charge. I thought that the heavens had smiled on me that day.
I arrived at the apartment and called him when I was just outside the entrance. He had said that the door was open, and he ordered me to come in. The room was shrouded in a dim, sensual aura. Faint flickers of candlelight danced upon the walls, casting a soft, golden glow across the space. The air was thick with the smell of scented flowers, their fragrance weaving an intoxicating spell around me.
I stood hesitantly in the center of the room, my heart pounding like a caged bird. It was a stark contrast to the grandeur and opulence of the room I am currently painting in. This memory was a haunting one, a stark reminder of the darker side of my profession.
The man who had commissioned the portrait was middle-aged. His face on his profile had a wide smile, but there seemed to have been something eerie hidden in the shadows, his intent concealed beneath a veneer of charm. I had accepted the commission, my eagerness to support my art overpowering my initial unease. But as I entered the dimly lit studio, a cold shiver slithered down my spine. It felt like a set for a forbidden affair, a scene out of a novel I’d never want to star in.
I tried to shake off the unease that had settled in the pit of my stomach as I began to set up my easel and canvas. My brush quivered slightly in my hand, betraying my anxiety. I told myself that I was a professional, that I could handle any situation with grace and poise. But my heart raced as I dipped my brush into the palette of colors.
Just as I was attempting to regain my composure and focus on the task at hand, he emerged from the shadows. My breath caught in my throat as he stepped into the dim circle of candlelight.
He was clad in nothing but his underwear, his body sculpted and oiled. The sight was meant to be alluring, seductive, but to me, it was nothing short of unsettling. His gaze bore into me, his eyes dark with desire.
I took a step back, my heart pounding in my chest. “Please, sir, I’m here to paint your portrait,” I stammered, trying to keep my voice steady.
But he paid no heed to my words, closing the distance between us with predatory grace. His fingers brushed against my arm, sending my bowels into knotted folds. Panic coursed through me, and I knew I had to escape this unsettling scenario.
“Hey pretty,” he had said. “I’d let you paint me, but I’d paint you too,” he bickered with a fishy smile.
By this time, I could already taste the blood pumping into my mouth. Or could I?
Without hesitation, I hastily packed my brushes and canvas, leaving behind the dimly lit room and its seductive ambience. The man had reached to hold me, but I slid through his oily hands, fleeing from that place, my heart heavy with the weight of unease and fear. As I stepped out into the cool evening air, I vowed never to compromise my principles again.
Chastity, for me, is not a mere word but a fierce resolve. I’ve chosen to hold down my chastity until I find true love and marriage. It’s a path I’ve walked unwaveringly, despite the beckoning apples that I’ve come across on my path.
And for some reason, I chose this path because I don’t want to, in any way, become something close to what Lisa is. At least, it’s easier to call her that, rather than Mother.
As I resume my painting, the strokes of my brush become more fluid, and the elderly lady before me seems to melt into the canvas. Her eyes, though scrutinizing, hold a warmth that puts me at ease. I am here to capture her essence, to paint the wisdom that resides in the lines on her face and the sparkle in her eyes.
The clock continues its relentless march forward, and I lose myself once again in the world of colors and forms. Mrs. Harrington sits patiently, a silent observer of my artistic journey, as I strive to bring her portrait to life.
“How long have you been painting, Amber?” she asks, staring intently at me. She sits upright, leaning in to hear me.
I smile. “A little bit less than all my life, maybe. . .”
She chuckles. “Wow. I really can’t wait to see what it looks like.” She leans over her cushion and reaches over to get a glass of water. She takes a sip, drops the glass, and leans back into the seat.
Just then, the large door swings open like a whale’s mouth, and a young lady walks in. I’m taken aback. My heart slows down. My mind spins like a merry-go-round and my thoughts escalate on a time travel.
My attention is drawn like a magnet to her figure. She moves with a grace that’s almost ethereal, her steps measured and deliberate, as if every stride is a carefully orchestrated ballet.
She is a study in elegance, from the gentle sway of her auburn hair to the soft rustle of her flowing dress. Her eyes, deep and knowing, survey the room with a subtle curiosity. Her features are striking, yet soft and inviting. The high cheekbones on her face frame a faint smile that carries a hint of mystery alongside her lips that are painted in a shade of crimson. A single strand of pearls graces her neck, a testament to her refined taste and timeless style.
For a moment, I’m thinking I have just seen my sister. I’m thinking I’ve just seen Jessica.
The lady walks up to Mrs. Harrington, sitting beside her on the sofa. She leans closer to her, whispering something into her ears. Mrs. Harrington turns to look at me, the lady’s eyes turning with hers too.
“Oh,” she says, startling me from my thoughts. “Sorry for interrupting, just give me a minute.” she adds amid a calm smile, raising her index finger.
After a short while, she stands up and pats Mrs. Harrington on the shoulder. Both of them smile at each other. The lady walks toward the door and waves at me. I smile at her and raise my brush. She smiles back and closes the door behind her.
“That’s Emily, my second daughter. She stays in Brooklyn. Comes over here once in a while.” Mrs. Harrington is seemingly proud of her daughter. I never know if mine ever feels a thing for me. I am slowly growing numb to any emotion that strings the distance between us. Probably, the only thing that holds us together is some conscience, and blood. My mother definitely doesn’t have the first.
I smile at Mrs. Harrington, raising my brush to continue painting. The sight of Emily pulls my thoughts to that night. I keep painting, but all that keeps ringing in my head are the screams of passers-by, the wail of an ambulance siren, and my throbbing heart.
It was a cold Thursday night in February. The day had been a long day, much like this one, that evening. The sun had set, casting the city into a twilight hue, and I was finally winding down. I had just left my art studio, arriving home. Jessica was out, baby Alex was in bed, and my mother left as soon as I returned. I fetched myself something to bite, I had a wash, and was about to fall into some peaceful sleep.
But then the call came, piercing through the tranquility. The voice on the other end was frantic, urging me to come quickly. Without thinking, I rushed out of our apartment, downstairs. I hailed a cab, the night air rushing around me as I sped toward the destination. My heart raced, anxiety gnawing at my insides.
The cab dropped me off a few blocks away, and I hurried to the scene. The cacophony of sirens grew louder with each step, and I could hear the anxious murmurs of the crowd. My steps quickened, my mind racing with apprehension.
The scene of the accident was a surreal nightmare. Mangled metal and shattered glass had littered the road. A severely bashed vehicle lay on its side, its form distorted beyond recognition. Passers-by stood in shocked silence, their faces pale under the glare of the flashing emergency lights.
I kept hoping it wouldn’t be what I feared. The report had mentioned two victims, a male and a female, both in their early twenties. My heart sank as I spotted Tauren, Jessica’s baby daddy, lying on the asphalt. He was barely recognizable, his face a mask of blood and pain. His eyes were still open, and he heaved with shallow breaths.
And then I saw her, Jessica, my sister, or what was left of her. She lay motionless, her once vibrant spirit silenced forever. Her body was a tableau of agony, her face obscured by her matted, blood-soaked hair. I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t comprehend the enormity of the loss.
I knelt beside her, trembling fingers reaching out to touch her. Her skin was cold, her body unyielding. She was not breathing anymore. I cradled her in my arms, tears streaming down my face as I whispered her name over and over, as if calling her back from the abyss.
Then the ambulance arrived, the paramedics rushing to the scene with an urgency that contrasted sharply with my numbed despair. They examined Jessica’s body, their faces grave. I watched in a daze as they gently lifted her onto a stretcher, her lifeless form disappearing into the back of the ambulance.
In the midst of the chaos, I realized that she had left behind a piece of herself, a piece that was now my responsibility. Jessica’s son, Alex, was at home, his innocent eyes closed in some peaceful sleep. They would never see his Mama again. But it was now my responsibility to make sure he wouldn’t lose a chance at a loving home too.
That night was the longest night of my life. And till today, almost four years later, I shudder each time the memories beckon me.
I made it my mission to ensure that Tauren paid his paternity dues, and we made it legal. I wasn’t going to let Alex be shuffled into foster care, lost in a system that couldn’t replace the love of his mother.
Now, I look at Mrs. Harrington who’s dozing off on the sofa. I’m almost done painting when a memory flashes through my mind. Alex. Oh my! Had Mother gotten him from school? I dart my eyes to the big grandfather clock above the cushion on the wall opposite me. Almost four o’clock. Dang. I reach into my back pocket to pull out my phone. I dial my mother’s line. She doesn’t pick up on the first dial. I dial again. She then answers the call.
“Amber, what’s up?” she asks as soon as she comes up on the line.
“Good afternoon, Mother,” I respond, trying to sound courteous. “Did you get Alex from school?”
There’s a silence in the air. I turn to see Mrs. Harrington scrubbing her eyelids with a folded fist. I am probably disturbing her.
“Huh? Are you still there?” I ask, finally concluding that she had forgotten to go pick Alex up.
“Oh, sorry. I forgot. I had some stuff to do, so. . .”
I hang up.
Alex’s school had closed since two-thirty. That had been almost two hours ago. I quicken my pace as I round off the painting. Now, Mrs. Harrington is wide awake. I turn the canvas to her to have a look. Her jaw drops. She’s in awe. She loves the painting so much and keeps going on about how beautiful it is. I pack up quickly, telling Mrs. Harrington that I have to be somewhere soon. She smiles and says she has sent my pay to my account already.
I rush out of her mansion and to the street. I will have to walk down the street till I see a cab. Luckily, one drives by, and I flag it down. I already feel so bad for Alex. I tell the driver to speed up a bit.
In fifteen minutes, I am at Alex’s school. He’s sitting outside on the porch of the entrance with two other kids and a teacher. As soon as he sees me, his face lights up and he dashes toward me.
As soon as he closes up the distance, I hunker down to his height and give him a scooping hug. I rub his auburn hair and pull him out of the hug to give him a peck on the cheek.
“Anata, gomen’nasai,” I tell him, as I stare apologetically into his eyes.
He nods, affirming his acceptance of my apologies. We learn a little Japanese around the house. And over time, he has shown interest in doing so.
“Genkidesu ka?” he asks me. ‘How are you?’, and a few other phrases, are the only Japanese phrases he is confident with. He can try to understand the little I make effort saying but can barely say them himself.
“Watashi wa genkidesu, anata wa?” I respond.
He places his index finger at the side of his lips, thinking. Then he responds with, “Watashi mo genkidayo ka.”
We both laugh heartily.
“It’s genkidesu,” I tell him, playfully pulling his cheeks. “You could say, genkidayo, but don’t add ka. Ka is only when you’re asking.”
“Yes teacher,” he responds, and we both smile.
I get his backpack and lunch box from him, holding his hands as we walk back home. A neighbor spots us and offers to give us a ride. It’s a silent ride back home. Manhattan’s streets bustle with so much life and by four-thirty, the day was just beginning.
We step down from the car in front of a tall building just at the corner. It’s our building. It has a gray brick front and a faded burgundy awning over the entrance.
“Thank you,” I say, turning to the man that has just dropped us off. I beckon Alex to wave to him and we both do. He drives off.
I lift Alex into my arms, and we make our way to the elevator. Our stop would be the fifth floor. Soon, the metal cables begin grinding and groaning above us like it is close to maximum load or something. I fear the cables would break and let us down. But it won’t. It’s been this way for the longest time.
Alex wraps my neck tightly. I feel the warmth from his body course through mine. I never get tired of carrying him like this. In some months, he’d be six. I fear he’s growing too fast. Mother sometimes makes comments about how I’ve devoted so much time to Alex, that I can’t go out, have fun, and find a man. That isn’t going to be me. If true love is going to happen to me, it will find me. Or would it?
The elevator opens on a narrow hallway with pale blue walls. The hallway is covered in a gray rug that’s almost tired from bearing a whole generation’s feet. There are four doors in the hallway, all leading to individual apartments. The aroma of heavily spiced roast tangles in my nostrils. Someone is preparing dinner somewhere. It’s funny how in New York, everyone could know what you were having for dinner by just smells.
I stop at the last door, which leads to our apartment. I slowly drop Alex onto the floor, so that I can fish for the keys to the door from my bag. As I try the keys on the door, I realize that it is already open. Mother’s home probably, I wonder.
I push open the door and allow Alex to walk in. He seems tired. I begin to think of quick dinner choices for him. Mac and cheese it will be. Alex walks to the living room and dives into the largest sofa. He heaves a huge sigh and I laugh.
“Who’s that old man trapped in my baby’s body?” I ask, playfully gnawing at his sides with my fingers. He trembles from the tickle and laughs back.
“It’s Humpty Dumpty,” he answers.
“Oh no, not Humpty. Who would put you back together again?”
“My Aunty Amber will,” he says. I lean over to him and give him a peck. I realize I must have done that over a million times daily. But I don’t care. I love Alex to a fault. So many people think he is my son. Well, he still is.
“Lemme go make you dinner my darling,” I say, walking to my room to drop my bags and painting kit. “Go change those clothes,” I tell him. He stands up and walks to his room, which was once Jess’s room.
I push open the door to my room and throw my bags on my bed. The bed is still the way I left it in the morning—scattered, clothes strewn over, books laid around.
The picture frame on the wall over my bed hangs in an unbalanced tilt. I reach out to put it in place. It is a frame with a white border. The picture in it captures Mount Fuji, in its snowy, white glory. The photographer must have done a good job, capturing the volcanic mount, a Minka, and palmate maple in one photo.
This one photo frame holds hope of some sort for me. Soon, I’d be seeing the same mount regularly, with my own eyes. And not through a frame, maybe except lens frames.
I pull my shoes off my feet, and I slide into flip-flops. I step out of my room and walk to my mother’s room to see if she’s around. Maybe I should have knocked, but I don’t. I open the door as soon as I’m in front of it.
My mother is there. In bed. With a man. I haven’t seen this one before, and I’m sure of that. The man jerks and seems ashamed. But Lisa is not at all perturbed. She probably thinks that because I’ve seen her this way countless times, one more wouldn’t change a thing. She blows a bubble from the gum she chews and bursts it.
“Oh, Amber. You’re back,” she says.
I don’t respond. I give her a burning stare. The sides of her lips drop, and she raises her hands in the air, spreading them as to ask what I am still doing at the door.
“So, this is why you couldn’t pick up Alex,” I say, almost slamming the door after, definitely not wanting to get any answers.