Page 51 of The Art of Us

“Oh yeah. So one day, after Grace and I had a weekend break when I spent the whole time baking because it relaxed me and I seemed happy for the first time in two years, she asked me why I wasn’t looking for other options. The restaurant that used to be right here in this very location was available for purchase, so we cashed in my retirement, handed in my two weeks’ notice, changed the name and the menu, and changed our lives. It’s been a good choice. And now, with four restaurants, that accounting degree has really come in handy. My books are cleaner than anyone’s.” He blew into the object he held, polished it on a rag a little more, and then went back behind the oven. “So what kind of art do you like?”

Buzzard-circling-roadkill conversation. Ireland smiled at her inside joke and shook her head, but then she told Jarrod about the mural and how it all worked and how connected she felt to people at school because of it and how there was this mystery writer she wished she knew how to help. She told him everything about it, including all the ways she worried.

“Sounds like trauma,” Jarrod said, scooting back out from behind the oven. “Let’s try this.” He turned on the oven and peered through the open door, putting his hand in to feel the air.“We’ve got heat!” he declared. “Tomorrow’s loaves are back on the menu!”

“What do I do to help this person?” Ireland asked.

Jarrod swiped a hand over the sweat that had beaded up on his forehead below the brim of his durag. “Sounds like you’re doing all the right things already. Trauma is complicated. We don’t know the nature of the trauma. Could be physical. Could be sexual. Could be mental or emotional. Could be anything. The biggest thing that somebody who has experienced trauma needs is to know that they’re not alone. The fact that you responded and continue to respond helps them to know that they’re not in it by themselves. That’s huge. Shows you’ve got a lot of heart. I’m proud of you.”

Ireland squirmed under the compliment. A father, even if it wasn’t her father exactly, had said he was proud of her. She felt warm and weird and happy and embarrassed all at the same time. “I just don’t know what advice to give,” she said, trying not to give off any vibe of embarrassment.

“I doubt the person on the other end of that mural is looking for advice. They’re looking for acknowledgment. They want to be heard, to know that their voice matters. You’re already doing everything you need to do. Just listen to them.”

“It’s good advice.”

“It’s all I’ve got, from one good listener to another. Let’s get home before Grace does something dramatic, like order takeout because she doesn’t like cooking.” He scrambled to his feet and she followed him.

When they got back to the house, Mara was sitting on the couch and flipping through channels on the TV. She wore sweats again. Not the cute activewear kind that showed off a nice figure, which she totally had, so she totally could do. But the frumpy, shapeless, baggy kind that almost hid the human inside them.

“How’s my smart girl?” Jarrod planted a kiss on the top of Mara’s head.

“Hi, Daddy. I’m good.” She didn’t look away from the TV.

“I thought that Cooper kid had some sort of shindig going on at his house tonight.” He put a hand on Mara’s forehead. “You not feeling good, baby?”

Mara finally looked up at him. “I’m fine. Just not feeling like hanging out with friends is all.”

“Hm. What’s this world coming to? You not wanting to hang out with friends is like Santa Claus going on a cookie-free diet. It’s like me hoping the Lakers will lose. It’s like ...” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s like your mom deciding she wanted to make dinner tonight.” He started laughing.

She joined in. “And you know that’s not happening.”

He held out his fist. “True that.”

She bumped her knuckles to his. “I’m just tired.”

“Too tired to help with dinner?”

She flipped off the TV. “Never too tired to cook with you.”

Ireland almost offered to help as well but then thought maybe Mara needed this time alone with her dad. She’d already accused Ireland of moving in on her territory with her family. Giving her some time to just be herself with her family was probably a good idea.

Later that night, after dinner, and after everybody had gone to bed, Ireland couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about the mystery lipstick writer. Of course, Jarrod was right. There really wasn’t anything more she could do than what she was already doing. But it didn’t stop her from worrying about it. And it didn’t stop her from worrying about her own problems.

Jarrod had talked about college. He wasn’t the first person to bring up college to her. He probably wouldn’t be the last either. But it was the first time she’d considered the idea as an option.She could probably get a student loan. She could also work. Lots of people did that, the student-loan and work option.

Jarrod had made an excellent point. She needed to do something until she figured out what it was that sheactuallywanted to do. School was a good way to discover whatever it was that she wanted to spend the rest of her life working on. And even though school hadn’t worked out for him exactly the way Jarrod had expected it to, he still felt like he benefited from it. On the way home from the restaurant, he talked about how grateful he was for the opportunity he had to go to school and figure himself out.

Ireland was absolutely certain she needed to figure herself out.

After staring at the ceiling above her bed for what felt like eternity, she realized she needed to go to the bathroom. Like desperately. There was no time for her to make it to the bathroom at the end of the hall. She got up and decided to brave Mara’s bathroom. She crept into the dark space, shoved a towel against the door to block the light, and then flipped the light on.

She cringed when she flushed, not realizing how loud that sound could be when everything else was quiet. As she washed her hands, she spied a piece of paper sticking out of the top drawer with writing on it, writing that was familiar, and words that were even more familiar because they were her own. She turned off the water and quickly dried her hands so she could pull out the paper to inspect it closer. “Keep howling until your voice can find a different melody.”

Sucker punch.

Ireland considered all the options. Mara worked on the mural too. Maybe she saw that written there and liked it so copied it. Except the handwriting was done with the same flourishes as those in lipstick. Ireland glanced at the door to Mara’s bedroom. Then she carefully opened the drawers in the bathroom andrifled through them, searching for further evidence. Nothing in the drawers.

She opened the cupboard under the sink and saw a small, black, rectangular-shaped case. In gold metal on the outside were the words Kate Spade. Ireland unzipped it and found what she was looking for. A tube of lipstick. The tube was quite beautiful, covered with swirled colors. It was as if some artists had done an impressionist painting and shrunk it to fit on the tube. Ireland pulled off the cap. Bright pink.

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