Page 26 of The Oath We Give

This world took so much from her. At fifteen, she’s barely got enough to give. It’s unfair that before she even had time to become a person, she was given irreversible trauma.

Her round face lights up, eyes shining with a thin veil of tears.

I swear to fuck if she does, I’ll kick her out.

Crying isn’t something I can handle. Not for myself or anyone else. I loathe doing it, and I never know how to help anyone going through it. I prefer to avoid it best I can.

It’s a waste of water and does nothing but make you feel worse in the end.

“No, no, I can’t do that.” She holds her palms up, refusing at first. “Those are yours.”

“Which means I can do what I want with them. Take it, Faye. Everything inside is replaceable. You’re good, but you need practice. Consider this more for me than you. It makes me look bad if you’re not any good.”

This makes her laugh as she sniffles a little, holding in her tears so that none fall. I’ll make this about me if it means she will take the bag. I’ll make myself look like the arrogant Whittakers I stem from if it means she can have this one good thing.

Softly, and thankfully, she grabs the bag from me, tucking her head underneath the strap and letting it rest on her shoulder.

“Thank you.” She shakes her head a bit. “I don’t know how to even repay you for this.”

“Click the light off when you go, then we are even. I’ll see you next week.” I lift an eyebrow, pulling my canvas from the easel and laying it flat on one of the wooden tables near the wall.

Soft music plays over the speakers as I clean up, tossing a rag over my shoulder. Boston by Augustana begins my early 2000s playlist.

“Is there something else?” I ask, still feeling her presence behind me.

I gather all the forgotten brushes and palettes from today, quickly tossing them into the soapy sink when she speaks.

“You always tell us to be direct with our art, and I think that’s your way of telling us to be direct in life. So I guess I’m wondering why you never go to group meetings? I think you could help some people. Letting them see how normal you are, how well you’ve adjusted.”

I bristle, spine steeling and shoulders tense.

Normal.

No one is normal. It’s a societal term slapped on people, but regardless of life experiences, no one is actually normal.Especially not me, but it’s the image I present to people. I can’t even be angry at her assuming it.

“I adjusted because my family has money. Ipaidto be okay. If I show up to those meetings with women who have real problems, it’ll be nothing but a slap in the face for them.”

“That’s not—”

“Go.” I nod my head toward the door, looking at her over my shoulder in her direction. “Tell your mom I said hello, and I’ll see you at five thirty next week.”

Taking this as me being done with this conversation, I finally hear the sounds of her footsteps retreating toward the open garage-style door. The entire front wall of the studio rolls up to the ceiling, exposing the inside of the space completely when it’s up.

It lets in gusts of fresh air inside, allowing the paint and chemical scent to go somewhere else, so I try to keep it open as much as I can, even though it’s rare ’cause Oregon weather is a bitch.

When I turn around, her feet are on the sidewalk, and she’s looking both ways when I say her name from my place. She turns, the wind blowing her short bubble-gum-pink hair in front of her face.

“Someone told me I survived for a reason. It was this, teaching you. Give yourself grace to find what yours is. Heal on your terms, not mine.”

I know she only asked because we are all searching for an answer on how to heal and move on, but the truth is moving on isn’t a one-size-fits-all formula. It’s what makes everything so much harder, trying to find what makes you want to wake up in the morning.

She smiles, giving me a small wave. “Thank you, Coraline.”

Then she’s gone, crossing the street to her mother’s van, leaving me alone in the studio. Faye’s always the last to leave, mostly because I let her hang out until her mom can get off work, even though I know I shouldn’t.

Bonding won’t do either of us any good. Getting attached when I know I’m leaving. The more she’s around, the more she looks at me as a role model, and I don’t want that. I’m no one to look up to or admire, not really.

What happened in that basement? What my mind did to survive?

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