Page 98 of Painting Celia

Eighteen

She was not getting better.

Kelsey stayed for a few hours, Celia finishing all the wine as they talked about the baby. It had seemed like a fine idea until she was alone, trying to fall asleep.

To keep the room from whirling, she stared at the full moon hovering over her skylight. A giant eye watching her. It cast a leaden light over her wide, cold bed.

No texts. No whisper of the back door sliding open. León hadn’t come back.

You drove him away, Celia Rose.

Her stomach ached, empty.

The lows tonight had been too low, the highs too high. She was meant for baby steps, not fights and confessions.

Don’t be so dramatic, Celia Rose.

Fleeing the bar in tears, standing on the wall in the chilly wind. Realizing that everything had changed in her life but herself. Her voice failing her when she needed it.

You’re always feeling sorry for yourself, Celia Rose.

León’s gentleness when she came in. Kelsey hugging her, saying Celia had a new family. The baby!

Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Celia Rose.

León shouting. The door slamming behind him. The proof that asking to be heard meant abandonment.

You’re the reason he’s gone, Celia Rose!

She couldn’t shut out the voice. Its familiar dismissals were better than being truly alone.

•••

Tossing on Andrew’s sagging couch, León cursed himself for leaving. Why had he run? If he’d stayed, talked with her…he should have explained better or gone over to hold her. She’d been so upset the last time he ran, and now he’d done it again.

She said she wanted a change. What change? She liked what they had. He knew it! He saw it when he touched her skin, and that reserve of hers melted away. He felt it when she went all soft-eyed over something he’d painted with her.

He could see her looking up at him tonight with those grave eyes, hear the things she’d been about to tell him. She wasn’t going to pose anymore, she’d say. She wasn’t going to let him stay.

He’d stopped that! It bought him time to change her mind. He’d apologize for leaving. He’d explain. He’d find out what this change of hers was and get it for her.

She belonged to him. He’d fix this.

•••

Celia awoke to a pale dawn. Her head was muzzy and thumping, a dull fog shrouding the room. Her sinking thoughts had outlived the moon, the circling insults draining her back to the bottom. She’d spent black hours in familiar recrimination. The sleeping pill she’d finally scrounged up must have done its job, but she opened her eyes now to the same rock bottom.

Why swim at all when she always found herself sunk to this well-known depth? It never, ever, ever stopped happening.

That thumping came again. No, knocking. The front door.

They’d come for León’s paintings. They had to be delivered today. She had to let them in.

Celia dragged on her robe and shuffled through the hall. Take them away. What did it matter now?

She opened the door.

León stood there, anxiously hopeful in the crisp pale morning. His weary eyes, ringed with bruise-like shadows, widened. His hand fluttered up, then slowly fell away.

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