Page 91 of The Heart of a Painter (As I Am 1)

Clearing my throat again, Ilifted the cloth from the first painting, far up and left. “These are—were—my parents, thirty-five years ago when they were newlyweds.” Ipainted my mother in her white wedding gown and my father in ablack tux, slicing through awedding cake with smiles on their faces.

We moved our attention to the second painting with my father in his work suit, waving my mother goodbye as he left for work. “When they got married, they decided my mother would be astay-at-home mom. She loved the idea, even though she had adegree in linguistics and anew job lined up. They planned on having abig family and she wanted to be amother with everything she had.”

Third one, my mother holding apregnancy test, both her and my father with wide smiles.

When we got to the fourth one my eyes watered alittle and Iblinked the sting away. Ipainted an ultrasound photo with not one, but two embryos.

Erin turned to me, her mouth slightly gaping. “Are these…?”

“Yes.” Ismiled without humor, with acceptance. “They were expecting twins.”

Taking off the cloth from the fifth painting, we saw my mother with ahuge belly sitting in anursery room with two cribs side by side, my father behind her holding the back of the rocking chair.

“They passed seven months like this.” Ihugged Erin’sside close to me, inhaling her scent, comforted by her nearness. “They reveled in every kick, every doctor’sappointment.”

At painting number six Ihad to shut my eyes for asecond, to disconnect from the scene and breathe through the knot in my throat. “My mother, she woke up screaming one night.”

In the painting she was lying on their bed, gripping her stomach, her face looking up, her mouth wide open with my father next to her.

Erin pressed me to her and waited for me to continue. Icouldn’t, afraid that one more word would open the dam that locked the tears back inside all these years. “She was in labor?”

Ishook my head. “N—not exactly.”

Tearing away the next cloth, their dark room had paramedics and two doctors in it, the bed sheets soaked in blood, one big machine positioned in the midst of everyone.

By some outer force Ifound my voice, croaked and broken. “My father was afraid to move her and called the paramedics alerting them about the pregnancy and the blood. In his distress he forgot to mention she was having twins, and when they arrived half an hour later, they only had one defibrillator.”

“You don’thave to go on, we can continue another day, or not at all.” Erin cupped my cheeks, smoothing her thumbs on my face. “You’re abrave, brave man. We can do it one step at atime.”

Icovered her hands with mine and Ifelt two teardrops falling from my eyes. Erin rose on her tiptoes and kissed them away, our foreheads touching.

“Ihave to finish,” Iwhispered.

“Okay. You can quit at any time, remember that.” Her gaze emanated love and security.

“Thank you, my love.” Ibrushed my lips to her nose before continuing, “By the time they arrived, it was too late to drive to the hospital, so they performed an emergency C-section.”

Revealing the seventh canvas, two of the paramedics had babies in their arms next to my parents’ bed. “We came out, my brother and I, both of us blue and not breathing. The medical team didn’twant to give up on one of us so they attempted to resuscitate both of us. Time was running out and they asked my parents the hardest question any parent would ever have to face—which one of us to save first—while hoping the second one would make it.”

On the eighth canvas, only one baby was painted with the machine. Me. “My mother just pointed to the one closest to her and that’show I’malive today and my brother isn’t. Crazy how life works, huh?” Iwiped the tears with the sleeve of my shirt.

The next four were similar, the house dark, me looking at my parents, them with their backs turned to me. In each painting Igrew taller, the only variable.

“My parents were consumed by grief. It haunted them for years after they buried my brother, so much so they couldn’tcelebrate my life. Iwas aconstant reminder of his death. They tried at first, to preserve his memory by calling me Thomas, which means “twin” in Aramaic. Ipersonally think it made things worse.

“They weren’tbad parents. They gave me everything that was in their power to give—ahome, an education, anything Ineeded. Anything but love.”

“Thomas, I’mso, so sorry.” Erin cried alongside me. My hurt was hers; we were one.

“It’snot your fault.” Ikissed her cheeks, nose, forehead, her tears. Ispoke despite nearly choking on my own, despite feeling the most vulnerable I’dever been. “Ilonged for their approval the most, tried to make them proud of me through painting. They were never satisfied. It took me years to figure out Icouldn’ttrust them or anyone with my heart, not anymore, and at eighteen, Isaid what Ithought was goodbye for good.”

Istroked Erin’shair over and over, soft, long locks that Ihad missed to my core. “So, long story short, I’mfucked up. And when someone tried to hurt you, the woman Ilove, the one who treated my unlovable heart with the utmost care, Ilost it. It’snot an excuse, but that’sthe reality of it. As Isaid, I’ll see atherapist to ensure I’ll know how to deal with these situations better.”

She hugged me like I’dnever been hugged before. Her cheek burned ahole in my chest, her tiny hands pulling at the back of my shirt as they dug into it. We remained in an embrace until my tears dried. I’dnever felt more at peace than Idid then and there.

To say Iloved her would be oversimplifying the sentiment. What Ifelt for this woman who accepted me as Iam, who was the dawn to the long night I’dbeen living in… Ididn’tjust love her, Ilived for her.

“I’mso sorry this tragedy happened to you and your family.” She looked up, her chin resting on my chest. “You’re not alone anymore, and I’ll be here for you every step of the way.”

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