Page 11 of Painting Celia

But.

Celia closed the cupboard and set the used cups in the sink.

Andrew and Kelsey and Trevor knew about her art list, asked if she’d made anything good, if she’d enjoyed it. But none had ever asked why she did it. They never pried, waiting for her to be ready to confide.

Was she really going to tell León? He seemed to care about painting. He might understand.

A shiver washed down her and she closed her eyes.

Her dad, looking back from the top of a bridge, holding out a hand. “You don’t have to live like that,” he said.

She’d been eight when her dad took his life. She hadn’t been there, of course, but her imagination had supplied that image, and it stuck.

One of the two safe people in her life went away, and then the second one was no longer safe, crushed by single motherhood and rage, and Celia the only target left.

She’d stopped talking for a year or so. There had been no language for what she felt, so she gave up language, and feelings seeped away the longer they went unexpressed. At first, she was praised for being quiet. Later, when they wanted her to talk, there was a power in not speaking.

The bond between Mom and her in-laws withered. By the time Celia was old enough to have questions about her heritage, she couldn’t ask her Filipino grandparents. They’d both passed a few years after their son, and another part of her was erased.

She found ways to cope. Working hard left no room for feelings, so as she grew she worked and eventually started a little business. She could talk to clients like a normal person. She was useful.

When the wealth happened to her, it stripped all challenges from life. What was left to strive for when she could just buy everything? Without work, she was useless. She wasn’t equipped for unlimited free time with her thoughts, and her father’s gloom crept into her, bringing shame and guilt with it. She searched quietly, desperately, for distraction. Buying Mom a house six hours north took up a year, but even that task ended. Travel killed a lot of time, so she did that.

Then, the Louvre. She’d walked into the rooms of statuary, smooth nude marble bodies standing about like angels in a cemetery, but so alive. She could almost feel the warmth from some of them. She could have pinched their skin, if allowed, and felt it give.

Awe had overwhelmed her. The thoughts and feelings of artists long dead were so strong that she could hear them. That statue of a girl on tiptoe, whispering a secret, its sculptor was telling her about fragility, fear, and hope. It filled her poor, wasting heart.

Maybe art was what she was looking for! This might be her language if she could learn. Could she draw the contours and textures of her story? Dance her body awake? Weave her way backward, cautiously, into frayed feelings?

She dove back into demanding work, making her art list and taking each class, but still failed. She could learn techniques but couldn’t put her soul into the material. Her sculptures looked like clay, not flesh. They didn’t express her, didn’t shout ‘Celia’ to the world. The darkness crept back, stronger.

Why the art list?

It was that or the bridge.

Her phone chimed, startling Celia back to the present. A call. Mom. It was always her; her friends only texted in their group chat. Celia let it go to voice mail for once.

How long had she been staring at the cups in the sink? Their afterimage swam before her when she closed her eyes.

She couldn’t tell León all this. It was too much, and she didn’t have the language.

Three

Andrew insisted on staying when he brought León back to paint in the late afternoon. Dear, dependable Andrew.

“If you want, I’ll carry the conversation for you,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about. Just tell me what you want to do. Swim? Sit inside?”

León carried his easel through the side gate.

“I think I want to watch him paint,” she decided. “I don’t need help. You can swim.”

Andrew smiled, stripping off his shirt. “Just yell if you want me back.”

The yard was again sun-drenched, the hills below gilded. Andrew’s cannonball into the pool barely registered against the glare. Celia hovered in the open sliding-glass door, wavering as León set up his easel, silhouetted against the sky and lowering sun.

Should she ask to watch or just sit down? Did he want privacy? A drink, maybe? Should she—good lord, how many questions was she going to ask herself? Move, Celia.

She sat gingerly on the nearest lounge chair, shielding her eyes with one hand, and girded herself. “León?”

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