Painted Memories (5 page)

“Well, that really sucks. You mean to tell me your father didn't want you to be a teacher? Why not? I could only imagine it's one of the most rewarding, self-satisfying professions out there. Molding young impressionable minds is a gift. Doesn't he understand that?”

Wow.
Finally someone understood what it meant to be a teacher and feel the sense of accomplishment that I did. I was impressed.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to be so vocal,” Drew said, taking my
silence out of context.

“No, it's fine. It’s not that he doesn't understand what an impact teaching has on me or the students, but rather, the pay is poor and I didn't follow in the family business.” Or maybe it was because I refused to live at home and watch him destroy himself more and more every day. Or continue to put up with all of his insults. I couldn't live like that anymore.

“Family business? What does he do?”

“My father owns a highly reputable law office that has remained in our family for years. Everyone always assumed that I would become a lawyer and join the firm. You know, uphold the family name and business, and all that good stuff.”

“I see. So it's all about the money? Your happiness doesn't mean anything?”

“Isn't that it usually? Why don't your parents want you to be an artist? Shouldn't they only care about what you enjoy, what makes
you
happy?” I asked, throwing the same question right back at him.

Drew took a sip of water from his glass and huffed. “Because being an artist to my father is the equivalent of sitting on my ass all day, playing with paint. He once told me, “
You're no Picasso. And the sooner you start believing you're not, the better off you'll be.”

I shook my head in disbelief. I wasn't sure how to reply to his comment. It was a horrible thing for a father to say to his child, no matter his age. Parents were the ones who were supposed to give our dreams wings and help make us fly. Help us on our journey and maybe convince us to have a backup plan in case things didn't go the way we wanted. But this wasn't the type of men our fathers were. If there was one thing Drew and I had in common, it was that we didn't get to choose our family. It was up to us to make our dreams possible. That's what I was doing and what Drew was attempting to do now with his paintings.

I stood up, “Wow, Drew, that really sucks.”

He stood up with me and handed me my mail from the coffee
table. “Yeah, it does. But I can't let it get me down. It is what it is and nothing will probably ever change his opinion anyway. Life's life... it's what you make of it that really matters and that's what I'm doing, one painting at a time.”

I walked towards a painting that caught my eye and nodded in agreement. I glanced at the ones around it. Landscapes of all sorts, from the mountains, to the beach, to a field of wild flowers and everything else in between were exhibited on the walls. He was gifted, and a part of me felt proud to know him and see his work up close and personal. Sure, we didn't really know each other like best friends or anything, but we had a connection now. Skimming his work on the walls, I knew he would be successful. 

Drew opened the door for me as I walked toward it. “Thanks again for my mail.”

“Sure, no problem.
If I get any again, I'll be sure to let you know. Would you like me to walk you down?” he asked.

“That's okay, I'll be fine.” I took a step outside his door, “Thank you for letting me see your paintings. I feel inspired now. I think I'll doodle on my students’ papers while grading them tonight.”

He laughed, “Oh, it's nothing really. But thank you, I'm glad you liked them. And thanks for the company, I enjoyed it. Come back anytime... I mean... to see more paintings. I'd be happy to show you them.”

I smiled shyly. He seemed nervous, which in turn, made me nervous, and I couldn't tell if it was my flattery or his flirting with me that made my cheeks heat up. “I may do that,” I said before I moved down the hall. Then it hit me who I thought his work reminded me of and I spun around to catch him before he closed the door. “Oh, Drew?”

He stopped with his hand on the doorframe as he peeked over his arm at me. “Yes?”

“You know, your father was right, I don't think you're close to Picasso.” He studied me, with confusion and a question in his eyes.
“Picasso was kind of out there. He had some
okay
work, but in my opinion, a lot of it looked kind of like weird, abstract art made into people. Your work reminds me of Monet.”

“Claude Monet? You're kidding; he was one of the greatest French painters of the nineteenth century. I’ll never come close to being that gifted.” His brow arched in surprise, as if I'd lost my mind.

“He painted beautiful landscapes, waterfronts, and gardens from all around the world, using bright colors that filled every speck of the canvas. You paint as beautifully. No, you're no Picasso. You're a modern day Monet. You should give yourself a little more credit.”

Drew stared at me and I was glad he was speechless over my praise, rather than shocked because he hated Monet's work. I wished him goodnight and left him with his mouth hanging open at his door.

Jolting awake in my bed, the image of him came to me instantly. It had been months since I dreamt of Jesse. I could see him again, and play and laugh with him like we used to. We got along so well growing up and rarely did anyone see us apart. I was always grateful when he came to me in my sleep. It was a chance to recreate the happy times we had together before the accident, which was always my first waking thought of my brother. I was thankful I never dreamed about the accident. My shrink told me it was because I blocked out everything that happened, subconsciously denying my brain’s ability to relive any of those memories. It was fine by me; I didn't need to remember what happened that day while I slept. Whenever I thought about my brother, those memories were always first to come.

The clock on the wall read five-fifteen in the morning. I sighed, knowing it was an hour earlier than I needed to wake up. Instead of trying to fall back asleep, I lay there and thought about my dream. It felt like a message from him, but I knew that was crazy. In my dream, Jesse stood beside me in our driveway at the front of our parents' house with our fingers interwoven. I looked like myself and not the sixteen-year-old girl I was when he last saw me. Jesse
appeared as always, my big brother, my protector.

He looked at me and then down the long driveway. I followed his eyes to our front door, where our parents stood in the doorway, their arms wrapped around one another, a welcoming smile on their lips. I looked at Jesse, confused by the loving persona they were portraying. My parents didn't hug anymore. They could barely tolerate being in the same room with each other as it was.

“They're waiting for you,” Jesse said.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Why? Why are they so happy all of a sudden? The last time I was here, Dad told me how much he hated me and it ended in disaster. Going back will start the drama all over again, and I'm not strong enough for the fight. That's why I left in the first place.”

He took my other hand and squeezed them together tightly. “You know, you'll have to go back.”

I shook my head, “I can't, Jesse. I can't go back. Besides, it's not me they want to see, it's you.”

He kissed me on the forehead and pressed both hands to the side of my face. “You know I can't go back. It's just you, Mom, and Dad now.”

He gave me a nudge toward the door and I took a few steps before he called my name.

“Lilly,” he smiled, his blue eyes still sparkling like I remembered. “You shut people out, and keep yourself too busy so you don't have to think about what happened. If you don't stop, it will ruin you.”

The truth cut deep and I closed my eyes to banish it. Tears spilled down my cheeks and I felt his warm thumbs gently wiping them away. “It almost has ruined me. It will never be the same without you here,” I cried.

“But I will
always
be here,” he pointed to my heart. “Whenever you need me. No matter where you are, when you talk, I'm listening. I'm your big brother, right? That will
never
change.”

I nodded, understanding that even in
death, I still had my brother with me wherever I went.

“They need you more than
they
know. And you need them more than
you
know.”

I woke up.

I felt a complete and utter loss. The tears slid down my cheek, onto my neck, and I wiped them away, realizing I wasn't only crying in my dream, but while I slept. The whole dream felt real. I saw Jesse, felt his hands on mine, the pressure of his fingers on my face. It was too real and I couldn't understand why I dreamed it at all. I almost laughed when I thought about what Jesse said:
My parents needed me just as much as I needed them
. That woke me up real quick, and signified that it was indeed a dream. The only time I heard from my parents these days was if Mom called me, and even then, it was only a few times a month. Better still, there was no way I was going home.

I could only guess my dream was because the anniversary of Jesse's death was coming up. It was probably safe to guess my subconscious was already thinking about him, even though I wasn't ready for that day to come. It was a bad time of the year for my parents and me, but mostly, my father. While I tried my best to remember all the good that came from Jesse, my father could only concentrate on the accident. He was drowning in a whiskey bottle of “what-
if'”s and “I-told-you-so”s. I pulled the covers back and slipped on my pajama pants before making my way to the kitchen to heat a coffee pot full of hot water. Waiting for the water to cycle through, I walked onto my balcony that overlooked the pond and walking track. The sky was lightening up in pale pink and orange hues, but the sun had yet to peek over the horizon. I could see a few early risers jogging on the track and I wondered what the crap motivated people to wake this early for exercise. I didn't get it. No matter how hard I tried to make an effort at the gym, going above and beyond to stay fit wasn't high on my priority list.

To the right, I saw a person sitting on a park bench with a
stand in front of him. What is he doing? I thought about it for a minute before I realized it had to be Drew. I was certain of it. I wondered if it would bother him too much if I watched him paint. Opting to take my chances, I ran to the bathroom and pulled my hair up in a messy bun on the top of my head. Then I fixed two cups before hurrying out the door.

“Good morning, Drew,” I said timidly beside him.

He glanced up at me, “Oh, hi. What are you doing out so early?”

“I had a weird dream and couldn't go back to sleep. I thought it was you I saw from my balcony.” I extended the extra cup in my hand to him, “Here, I thought you might like a cup?”

He took the mug from my hand. “Oh, thanks. I don't drink coffee, but since you went to all the trouble, I'll drink it anyway,” he grinned.

“Well, do you like hot chocolate?
Because I don't do coffee either!”

“Aren't you supposed to drink that in the winter when it's cold?”

“Well, if that's the case, shouldn't coffee drinkers only drink coffee when it's cold?”

Drew took a sip and laughed, “Point taken.” 

“So what are you working on?” I asked, looking at the canvas on the easel between his legs. He placed his cup beside him on the bench and picked up a tray from his lap that held dabs of various colors of paint.

“You came at the perfect time. Now you can see two sunrises this morning.”

“Sunrise? How are you going to get a sunrise out of those colors?” I couldn't understand how brushing bright red and dark blue together could come close to matching the hues of the orange and gold sky. Of course, I knew it could be done. I've seen plenty of paintings, but it was still hard for me to comprehend, or anyone else, I imagine, unless you knew what you were doing... which I didn't.

“You'd be surprised how easy it is. With a little practice, you could paint a sky like this. Have a seat, I’ll show you.”

I sat down gently, so as not to spill his hot chocolate. Drew explained that before he started with colored paint, he had to first use a clear type of paint that allowed him to brush and blend all the other colors together more easily. He dabbed red across the top half of the page, here and there, in no particular order. Once he mixed white onto his brush and swept it across the surface, the red toned down into a glowing orange. I was mesmerized to see how his wrist flicked back and forth as he transformed a blank, white slate into a beautiful snapshot of a simple, magical moment in time. I could see his concentration by the creases of his brow whenever his eyes darted between the sky and the canvas. Drew continued painting the pond before swiftly highlighting the reflection of the risen sun over the surface of the water. Delicately, with a tiny brush, he drew in the trees and grass, leaving out the walking track and early morning risers. It was as if we were alone on the bank of a lake, watching the sun rise.

Drew turned towards me and a smile crept over his lips.

“You can breathe, you know.”