Page 122 of Painting Celia

In the evenings, his mother’s music was all about new love or lost love. The sight of her stirring a pot in the kitchen tore at him. He’d never cooked for his mother either.

His father’s desk, laptop open, papers piled high, was begging to be organized and tidied. Paintings he’d made when much younger still hung on the walls. They were awful juvenilia, rife with self-conscious technique but no soul.

Even his own face in the bathroom mirror reminded him of her—blank, frightened, trying desperately to not feel.

In bed at night with the lights out, he was a child again, with no idea what the future held. Painting was finished for him. What else was there that he could do? He terrorized himself with ideas he knew would never work, imagining his failure at each. Nothing was right for him, not if he couldn’t have Celia to paint. And she’d told him to leave.

•••

Construction began at Celia’s warehouse. Daily, she descended to the site, prepared for queries large and small. She was politely professional but knew the workers avoided her, this employer who’d memorized the precise measurements of each task they were doing and would correct them if they were off. Her obsessive touch was in everything.

Her general contractor, Carlos, was sometimes frustrated by her phone calls, always starting with “I need.” Tough. Her Incubadora had to be done right.

Her schedules had to be met. Not because she insisted but because she’d coordinated things so tightly. If cabinets weren’t installed on time, the appliances being delivered sat in the workspace, getting in the way.

At home, she filled notebooks with research, scheduled every blank space in her calendar with another task, and sifted through resumes submitted for her job postings.

She didn’t cook. The pool lights were turned off. She pushed off all overtures from Trevor, Andrew, and Kelsey, finally silencing notifications on the group chat.

Everything of León’s was closed away in his old room. If there had been a lock on the door, she would have gladly bolted it. Floor refinishers and painters were brought in to restore her craft room to its original white state while she continued working in the dining room.

When she had nothing left to organize, she sat alone at her dining table in the dark, looking up local artists and school websites, searching for people who needed a place like Incubadora.

At night, she itched for the new day to start so she could keep working. Her feelings sometimes almost got away from her, but she could fall asleep if she recited tomorrow’s list of tasks enough times. She just needed to work harder. The exhaustion was getting her through.

•••

Two weeks into León’s stay, his father finally had a go at him. The guest room door opened and in his father marched, leaning against a chest of drawers with arms crossed.

“Why don’t you paint?” he barked.

León shrugged, sitting on the twin bed, looking down to finger some T-shirts waiting for him. His mother had bought them, unhappy with her son wearing oversized shirts left by a cousin.

“I’ve never seen you go so long without a brush in your hand, not since you were a child.”

León didn’t look up, didn’t speak. The futility, his missing future, sat like a stone in his stomach.

“Your mother thinks you are sad. I think sulky.”

Silence stretched out, but his father waited. He wasn’t accepting the brush-off this time. León finally spoke. “I’m just not painting, Dad.”

“When you have lots of emotions, that’s the best time to paint.”

León looked toward the door and escape. It was effectively blocked. “I’m just doing a lot of thinking, okay?”

His father leaned down, ducking his head to try and catch his son’s eyes. “You’re trying to not think,” he said. “We both see it. Is it helping? No.”

“Dad, come on.” León hunched over, dropping his forehead into his hand. Go away!

“So, you give up. I’m surprised at you. What in Los Angeles has robbed you of your heart?”

León looked up sharply, clenched his jaw, then breathed out slowly. Tranquilo.

His father stabbed a finger at him. “Is our home a place to hide from this?”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Of course, you’re hiding. You think I don’t know you?” Exasperation was thick in his voice.

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