Page 110 of I Love My Mistake

Chapter Fifty

An Hour Later – At Home

Iwatch Jessica’s name vanish for the millionth time while I wait. “Damn Jess, you are persistent!” She’s been texting and calling and texting and calling, and then texting and calling some more. I haven’t listened to her voicemails. Her texts go unread, which takes some doing. I’ve not responded in any way except with one simple text of a single sentence that she still can’t seem to get through her thick skull: I need some time.

My studio is lit by over twenty, flickering candles that give off a nice amount of heat in this small space. I’ve stretched a brand new piece of canvas, pinned it to the wall, and I’m ready to go. I’ve got a bottle of wine, an unopened pack of cigarettes, and Beyoncé’s secret release album playing loud on the speakers. This isn’t a huge studio loft, but it’s mine.

As is this fire within me.

As is this time.

As is this paintbrush.

As is this explosion of color pouring from my mind, heart, and soul.

Gushing magenta paint from a fresh tube, I wind the bright color in circles and waves on the fabric before taking a brush and making tiny smooshes where my instinct moves me. Orange is next, blending and twisting up the magenta. Then red is smeared in beautiful spirals and zigzags for accent. I detail in tiny black lines last, for the leaves like tiny spider webs, taking over an hour of my careful attention. Then I use deep dark yellow for the tree trunks, drawing them in slender slices until I’m satisfied there are enough.

This is not a landscape that someone’s grandma painted and hung over plastic-covered furniture. No. This is an abstract explosion of Mother Nature’s fire, the way I saw it in my mind when Mark and I walked through Central Park, holding hands. I’m releasing that day from circling my mind. It’s been on replay ever since he left. The only way to get it out before it drives me insane is to get it out through my art.

Could I have done things differently? Is it too late? Will there be a price worth paying? Will I lose someone I love? Will I forgive myself for that?

Will I forgive them?

These colors are the same as Michael’s painting, but he only got it half right. He was missing the most important ingredient: Mark. Those colors and light do not exist in me without the two of us together. We made that. So for us, beneath the flaming trees, I draw only our hands weaved together, the size of the entire canvas base. Our fingers are swirled together red, orange, and magenta, same as the leaves. We are nature… natural… a love that came from light.

Love.

My heart twists painfully when I hear the word whisper into my thoughts like a memory I’d forgotten I had. It’s so strong, this pain, that it feels like I’m dying. Tears jump to my eyes, ruining my vision. I brush them away, choosing to focus and pull the paint out through my brush, instead. Pulling it across the fabric in an odd curly twist, not knowing where it’s going, I spin and spin the brush, repeating the shape over and over until finally I see what it is. Spun around our hands beneath the fiery trees is an imperfectly rough, yanked around heart.

I step back, staring at it, deeply moved. A heart. I didn’t know I was painting a heart. Who would have ever guessed that’s something that would come out of me?

I miss him so much. My hand shakes and without thinking, I reach back and throw the paintbrush as hard as I can at the painting. It jabs the canvas and falls to the floor, leaving a blot of red slightly off center. Some will see this and call it a flaw. I’ll know it’s not. It’s just not.

I have to stop crying. Picking up my brand new pack of cigarettes, closing my eyes and moving my hips to Beyoncé’s I’m No Angel, I tear off the plastic and turn one cigarette around, for luck. Searching for a lighter, I come up empty, even though I know I had one here when I lit these candles. Impatiently, with my unlit cigarette hanging out of my mouth, I wipe my streaked hands on my paint-covered jeans and search harder. “Fuck,” I whisper, picking up empty glasses and old wine bottles. My tank top strap falls off my shoulder as I lean down to look under the table. “Did the little fucker fall down? What the hell?” Finally, I give up and stand to use a lit candle. They say it’s bad luck to light a cigarette off a candle, but what do I care? Like my luck’s ever good, anyway.

But as I’m about to touch the tip of my stick to the fire, the flame goes out. I shake my head and pick up another candle, mumbling to my guardian angel, “Nice trick. Cut it out. I’ll just have the one, alright?” I lean down toward another vibrant flame and it goes out, too. I look up as a warm feeling waves throughout my body, like love is surrounding me and I’m not alone in the room. I breathe in deeply because I smell something I haven’t smelled in years... the scent of jasmine. It’s unmistakable. I shut my eyes, inhaling deeply.

“Momma?”

I look around the room, as I turn off the music. Jasmine? It was her favorite scent, the one she’d fallen in love with when she loved my daddy, when they lived in Los Angeles together in the early, happy years. I call out again, “Momma?” Grief enmeshed joy pulls hard at my veins. Slowly I look around the room. If she’s really here, has she been with me this entire time, watching me make a fool of myself?

Did she blow out those flames?

This smell is crushing me; it’s so full of memories. I haven’t smelled her or heard her voice in so long! A painful lump forms in my throat. I have to talk to her! I have so much to say – why can’t I think of a single thing? I’ve so often wished I could have just five more minutes with her so I could tell her I love her, and that I’m sorry.

“Momma? I won’t smoke them, I promise. It’s just that I’ve been going through some things.” Bringing my hands up to my face, I wipe away tears, and whisper, “But you probably know that, don’t you? Is that why you’re here, to give me the courage I couldn’t give you?” Rushing to the kitchen, I toss the cigarettes in the garbage, breaking the one in my fingers in half before it falls. “See? They’re gone, Momma. I’m okay.” The smell of jasmine is fainter now. “No, Wait!” Rushing back into my studio, I point at the new painting, looking up. “See what I can do?” Bringing my hands up to my mouth in a prayer pose, I whisper, “I’m not mad at you anymore.” The lump hardens so much I can hardly speak. “I forgive you, Momma and I love you so much.”

Silence.

The scent is gone now, as if it was never here. Did I imagine it? Slumping to my knees on the floor, my head falls in my hands. A knock sounds at my front door. I nearly jump out of my skin, staring in the direction it came from. “Momma?” I squeak. Pulling myself off the ground, my heart beats faster with each step I take. The peephole is rarely used, but if my dead mother is standing outside, I need to make sure she’s not the scary version. Terrified, I look in it and see a warped version of Jessica nervously looking back at me, her head huge. “Nicole? Please open the door.”

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