Page 7 of Drawing Home
At first, for maybe half an hour after Penny took the pill, she felt nothing. Then, out of nowhere, she was filled with a fuzzy happiness, like being wrapped in a magic blanket. She was still sitting on the couch, and she was still being ignored by basically everyone, but she felt the distinct absence of worry. It was incredible.
And then Mindy’s older sister, Jordan, yelled: “The cops are here!”
Thank God she hadn’t had that drink.
Now Angus harrumphed, settled into a cushioned chair next to the sofa, and turned on the television with a flick of the remote. In the kitchen, Penny rummaged through cabinets as a cable news show played in the background. She poured popcorn into a bowl, went into the living room, and offered it to Angus, who was busy mumbling his disapproval about current events.
That’s when she noticed the news scroll at the bottom of the screen:ARTIST HENRY WYATT DEAD AT 83.
It was real. Mr. Wyatt was gone. And even the little white pill couldn’t change that.
Chapter Four
Saturday mornings at the hotel were the busiest times of the week.
Typically, Emma did not take a break, did not check her phone, and was lucky to find a moment to use the bathroom. That was part of the deal when you worked in hospitality. But Penny’s therapist, Dr. Alice Wang, would be out of town for their regularly scheduled appointment later this week, and today at noon was the only slot she had available. Emma didn’t want Penny missing a session, especially in light of everything that had happened last night.
“I’ll pick you up at eleven thirty,” Emma had said to Penny on her way out the door that morning.
“I can just ride my bike over and meet you,” Penny said. That would actually be much easier for Emma, but Penny was grounded.
“You’re not to leave this house until I get home,” Emma said.
Again, Penny apologized for not telling her mother she was going to a party—a party where, it turned out, people were using drugs and alcohol.
“I only went because I was upset about Mr. Wyatt and I didn’t want to be alone,” she said.
Here, Emma blamed herself for not taking the time to call Penny and break the news. Now she had to both console her and punish her, and all before leaving for work.
Sometimes, she wished she had a mother she could ask for advice about Penny. But she was on her own when it came to her hopes for and worries about her daughter. And Penny, through no fault of her own, had given her plenty to worry about.
The OCD had started at around age eight; the anxiety, age ten.
When Penny was in fifth grade, Emma started her in CBT, cognitive-behavioral therapy, although Penny hated it. For a long time, there was very little improvement, and Emma was frustrated.
Then, over the past year or so, Penny had gotten noticeably better, and Emma couldn’t help but think it had something to do with Henry Wyatt’s drawing lessons. The drawing kept Penny’s mind occupied. Maybe there was something meditative about it. Maybe it was the sense of accomplishment after a contained task.
She had been surprised when Penny and the old man hit it off. Wary, to be honest.
It was a shame you had to think cynically, but in today’s world? With a young daughter? But it was clear the old artist was just entertained by Penny’s interest in drawing. And Penny, in her typical way, connected more naturally with an octogenarian painter than with a kid her own age. Henry Wyatt, for all his fame and money, was alone. Maybe lonely. So he and Penny were good for each other. She just hoped his death wouldn’t set Penny back too much.
The desk phone rang.
“The American Hotel, Emma speaking.”
“Em, it’s Sean. I’m at the dock with a woman who’s booked at the hotel. She needs help with her luggage. Can you send someone down?”
Sean Pine operated a water taxi and he also rented moorings to a lot of the seasonal boaters. Like Emma, he was a Sag Harbor native who had never left and had figured out how to make a living in town. His wife, Alexis, had grown up in nearby Southampton and now owned the bookstore.
Emma sighed. “I’m totally shorthanded.”
“I’d bring the bags myself but I have another pickup.”
Emma checked her watch. She had fifteen minutes before she had to go get Penny.
“I’ll be right there,” she said.
Outside, she shielded her eyes from the bright, late-morning sun, breathing in the smell of fresh coffee from the full patio tables. A jitney pulled up in front of the hotel and unloaded another pack of vacationers. She turned and walked to the wharf, passing the perfume shop and the upscale restaurant Wölffer Kitchen, where a friend was outside writing the day’s specials on a chalkboard. Emma waved but kept moving; there was no time to chat.
