Page 66 of Taboo
“Jason! Jason! Come here, right now!”
My stomach twists. Suddenly, the painting becomes unimportant, and the most vital thing becomes protecting Jasonfrom Sara’s rage. Dread is like ice in my veins as I stand frozen, my eyes locked on the doorway.
Jason shuffles in, his dark curls flopping on his forehead, his gray eyes wide and wary with fear. He is clutching his stuffed bear like it is a lifeline. His small frame literally shrinks under Sara’s furious gaze.
“Jason,” she says, her voice harsh, “I know it was an accident. Of course, it was. You wouldn’t do something that despicable on purpose, so I’m not angry with you, but you need to tell the truth. There's an ink stain on Aunt Amelia’s painting, and it's pretty bad. Did you do this to Aunt Amelia’s painting? Did you?”
His eyes flick to the canvas, then to me, and they fill with tears. His lip trembles, and he nods. When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Amelia,” he says, his words cracking like thin ice. “I… I did it. I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry.” Then his tears spill over, rolling uncontrollably down his pale cheeks. He opens his mouth and begins to bawl inconsolably. My heart feels like it is a piece of glass splintering, love and sorrow flooding through the fractures. I can’t bear to see him this way. I rush to him, drop to my knees, and pull his small trembling body into my arms.
I kiss his cheeks, tasting the salt of his tears, and hold his body tight. When I speak, my voice is soft and soothing despite the raw wound of the ruined painting.
“It’s okay, little angel,” I murmur, my lips brushing his forehead, his curls tickling my face.
“It’s really okay. I wasn’t even that happy with it, you know? It needed something new. Besides, I spill ink on my work all the time. We’ll make another one, you and me, okay?” I force a smile, my voice steady, though my eyes burn, the loss of the dragon, a jagged scar I’m hiding for his sake.
Jason’s sobs grow louder, his small hands clutch my sweater, and the sound is beyond hurt.
Sara steps forward, her face tight, and pulls him from my arms, her grip firm, unyielding. “This is unacceptable. Come on, Jason.” Her voice is sharp, and edged with anger. “Let’s go.”
She leads him out, his footsteps dragging, and I hear her voice in the hallway, cruel and cutting. “Stop crying like a little girl. It’s embarrassing. I don’t want to have such a sissy for a son. Be more like your dad—don’t you see how he never cries? Don’t you see how he never has any damn emotions?”
Her words strike like a whip, and I freeze, my breath catching.
Sudden fury flares hot in my veins. Now I know why Jason is so quiet and withdrawn when she is around. She is a bully.
Jason’s sobs echo, fainter now, and I’m left kneeling on the floor, my hands shaking, tears streaming down my face. The dragon, my work, has been splattered with ink and ruined—and yet it’s Jason’s tears, Sara’s harsh words, that tear me apart most.
I stand, my legs unsteady, and turn to the canvas. I sit on top of the stool and stare at it for hours, trying to figure out a way to salvage it. To hide this unmistakable damage. Try as I might, nothing seems good enough to salvage it. It breaks my heart, but I will just have to paint another one.
My chest is tight. Something feels off—wrong, like a shadow moving where it shouldn’t.
But first, one attempt to salvage. Maybe. Just maybe I can. Gently, I dab at the painting with a rag. The cloth soaks up some of the ink but smears it even more, making the damage deeper than I can fix. The dragon’s eyes, once fierce, stare back dulled, and my heart feels like a cracked vase, leaking grief with every failed stroke. I have to admit now that the painting is a lost cause.
The studio feels smaller, the air heavier, and all I want to do is run far, far away, but before I go away, I must help Jason. Somehow, I must help him by alerting Max to what is happening to his son.
Max has still not returned. He must be working late, catching up on all the work he didn’t do while Sara was away.
Slowly, I reach for a new canvas. I let my fingers graze the canvas’s edge. It is like a ritual. Before I start a new painting, I always feel the texture of the canvas. It is almost like a prayer. This canvas and I will be in close contact for weeks. The texture is rough, as it should be, and there are no flaws.
Now, I must lose myself in it, and let work be my salvation.
Chapter
Forty-Three
AMELIA
All the windows are open, but even hours later, the air in the studio is thick and suffocating with the smell of turpentine.
I have stopped thinking, and my hands move quickly as I repaint the background and the main shape of the dragon. To my surprise, my body remembers exactly the strokes I did before. I am so focused that the soft knock on the door causes me to jump. I turn, and my breath catches as Jason peeks through the door. His eyes are hesitant, but he steps inside.
“Hey, little angel,” I say, setting down my brush.
“I can’t sleep, Aunt Amelia. Can I please keep you company for a while?”
My heart melts. "Sure," I respond, my voice trembling.
