Chapter Thirty-Two
Draw It
Siena, March 31, 2012, Dallas, TX
I blinked in the darkness—entangledin the vision, drifting back to the here and now. Flickering baby monitor on the coffee table, crumpled letter on the floor, patter of rain outside. Austin smacked his tiny lips, warm and peaceful in his crib, and turned his head. In the corner, Guinness snored in his extra-large doggie bed.
Out of habit, I grabbed my phone—a compulsive check for an unlikely text or a missed call. It was 4:15 AM, and nothing from Ryan. My home screen of him with our newborn son lit up the night. It was taken at the hospital when he first held him: hair tousled, lips parted in wonder, eyes shining with fierce pride.
I sat very still, digging my fingers into the phone. He’d said he never loved me more, then popped open a fancy bottle of champagne and gave me a pretty gold necklace with a heart-shaped sapphire pendant. Blue for a boy. In return, I punished him for a crime he didn’t commit, and by doing so, inflicted on myself punishment I couldn’t bear.
I placed the phone on the coffee table and stood. I couldn’t very well tell Ryan what I understood the solution to be. What would I say to him? I messed up, baby, but I’ll atone for my sins?
On the mantle, stood a small painting I’d done of us from a photograph: wide smiles, windblown hair, sparkling eyes. The idea struck me like a lightning bolt, filling me with a glimmering flicker of hope. I couldn’t very well say it, but maybe I could draw it.
Most of my tools and supplies were still in boxes in the garage—Connor’s staff had shipped everything the day after I fled his residence, along with my hefty paycheck. It took an hour to unpack and set up in the room meant to be my studio. The artificial lighting wasn’t great, and something was wrong with my easel—it must have gotten damaged during the move—but I worked fast and finished my sketch in under two hours.
It was simple and to the point. I drew myself sitting on the bed, head bent, shoulders dropped, hands folded in my lap, glittering eyes gazing up at the viewer. Repentant, plaintive, hopeful. I didn’t have it in me to do a full-color realistic painting, so I dabbed a bit of watercolor to give it a somewhat abstract feel and left the rest to interpretation.
Bleary-eyed, I photographed the thing with my phone camera. It was almost 7:30 AM, so Austin would be up soon, especially since he’d slept through the night. I studied the drawing before sending it. It wasn’t my best work, but it spoke volumes, and what did I have to lose now, anyway?
Trembling with exhaustion, I opened my text app and tapped “send.”
I jumped when the phone rang a moment later.
“Claude?” I stared. “You okay?”
“I was going to ask the same of you.” His voice came through groggy, like he’d just woken up.
“What? Why?”
He cleared his throat. “Because of the sketch you just sent, chérie.”
Unblinking, I switched to the text app. Claude was my last text—he’d sent his Dallas show information.
My face was on fire. My entire head was on fire, pounding with the deafening explosions of my heartbeat.
“I am...a little worried about you.” He sounded more present. “Do you need to talk?”
“Uh...” My heart refused to stop racing. “Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be up yet. I just wanted to run this by you...later, when you woke up. I’m doing this...like...like an experimental collection, a cross between William Turner and Georgia O’Keefe, but with a...you know, like a self-portrait instead of the flowers, and uh—”
“Siena. You know you can talk to me.”
I giggled—an idiotic, strained noise. “What do you mean? What about?”
“About whatever this sketch is. I do not think you meant to send it to me.”
I swallowed tears as Austin woke up and began to wail on the baby monitor.
“Are you there, chérie?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, whatever it is, you know I do not judge. I am here for you, yes? Do you want to call me later—when you are ready to talk? I will have my phone on me all day.”
“It’s okay, I’m fine, Claude,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry... I have no idea how I...how it...”
He sighed. “For what it is worth, you look so beautiful in this watercolor. But you also look so sad and desperate.” He pulled in his breath. “You should never beg for anything, Siena.”
I jammed my teeth into my lip to the point of pain. Except for forgiveness.
“I’ve got to go,” I squeezed out. “My baby is crying. Would you...uh, can you please delete that from your phone?”
“Done,” he said. “You will come to my show, yes?”
After changing Austin’s diaper, giving him breakfast, and setting him up with toys, I grabbed a tube of black acrylic paint and covered the sketch with two thick layers. Then, I picked it up by the corner, and carried it, still wet, to the kitchen trash can. Where it belonged.