Page 81 of This Life and All the Rest
I don’t have time to drive to Norfolk now, so I decide to head down to the art room to see if there are paints in there. Back in high school, I had it stocked with my favorites. It’s probably not anymore, but it’s worth a shot.
I head out the door, locking it behind me, and make the walk to the art room. It’s weird how comfortable I feel here. Even in Macon’s apartment, I’ve adapted quickly.
I choose not to analyze it.
In the art room, I dig through the boxes in the back storage closet. They’re not labeled anymore, which irks me, but I find the tote with paints and about squeal with joy when I see exactly what I need.
“Bingo,” I say, sorting through the paints. I take a white and a blue, then decide to take a black as well. I’ll replace them tomorrow.
A large board canvas in the corner catches my eye. It’s propped backwards against the wall, but I can see speckles of color along the outer edges. It looks like it might be someone’s finished painting, and I walk toward it on instinct, curious.
Something inside me is both thrilled and scared to flip it over. I don’t even know why. I like surveying other people’s work, but this one, tucked away and backward in the storage closet, makes me feel like I’ve stumbled upon a secret.
I take two deep breaths when I reach it, and then I turn it around.
It takes a minute to process what I see, and when I do, my heart pounds so fast in my chest that I feel like I’m going to pass out. The light is dim, just filtering in from the classroom outside, but even in the semi-darkness, I can make it out perfectly.
It’s me.
It’s me on prom night, laughing in my dress. It’s a watercolor painting, and it’s rough, but it’s me right down to the freckles. Even the navy-blue dress is exactly as I remember it.
The background of the painting appears to still be in progress, which makes me think this project is unfinished. Then why was it hidden back here? Who is it being hidden from?
Me.
I scan the painting for the name of the artist. I don’t find one, but I don’t need one.
I’ve seen those eyes drawn over and over in Macon’s sketchbooks. It’s his style. I’ve seen my lips and my nose. My ears. My hands.
But I’ve never seen them together.
Then I notice another painting, this one in a frame, leaned behind a shelf with the front covered with a sheet.
My hand is trembling as I slide it out of its hiding place. I hold my breath as I turn it around.
I know what it’s going to be even before I let the sheet drop to the floor, but I still start to cry the moment I see it, my hand shooting to my mouth to stifle my gasp.
It’s my painting.
The one I sold for twelve-thousand dollars.
The one I painted during the darkest point in my life.
The one that pulled me from the bottom and revived my love for painting.
And within the painting, almost camouflaged into the background, is the Carson McCullers quote. The one I fell in love with after reading everything I could get my hands on by her.
“The heart is a lonely hunter with only one desire! To find some lasting comfort in the arms of another's fire.”
I’m staring at the painting when someone steps through the storeroom door behind me. I turn around slowly.
“What is this?” I whisper to Macon. His face is full of sorrow.
“Lennon,” he says, then he closes his eyes.
“What is this, Macon?” I ask again.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says, his voice strained. “Not yet.”
