I hope she’s lucid enough to remember.
CHAPTER FOUR
ANNE
Following a frenzied forty-eight hours of unpacking and breaking down boxes, moving furniture, and hanging artwork, it’s a second-cup-of-coffee kind of morning. I’m rubbing my sore shoulder when Dan knocks on the front door at eight o’clock sharp. Obscenely punctual, like Richard. It might be an ideal quality in a contractor, but I could’ve used an extra ten minutes this morning to turn into something resembling a human being.
The plush red-and-silver silk Tibetan rug cushions my bare feet as I cross the living room. Its threads change color depending on my position and the angle that the light hits them. Like all good art, it mirrors life that way. Richard and I bought this carpet on our tenth anniversary. The fact that I didn’t toss it says a lot about its exquisite craftsmanship.
“Good morning.” After forcing a welcoming expression past my exhaustion, I gesture toward the buffet in the dining room that temporarily hosts my coffee maker, toaster, and dorm-size refrigerator. The rest of my kitchenware remains stored in the basement for now. “There’s a large pot of coffee if you’d like a cup.”
Dan comes inside and stops dead, eyes wide, as if he’s just stepped into the “after” part of an episode of Fixer Upper. “Wow.”
Dan Foley is not easy to read, so that “wow” could be praise or derision.
Of course, “wow” also might have nothing to do with my taste and everything to do with the fact that—with the exception of the unfinished kitchen and bathroom—it already looks like we’ve lived here for weeks. In truth, my ultra efficiency has been a lifelong blessing and curse. My dad used to throw a long list of chores at me on Saturdays to buy himself some free time, but I always powered through them quickly.
In this instance, it helped that I’d already laid everything out on paper well before the movers arrived on Saturday morning. And let’s not forget neither Katy nor I had anything better to do on Saturday night than unpack boxes and put away clothes.
For the first time in months, I’m finally building something new instead of tearing something down, so I labored straight through with few breaks. If only remodeling the rest of my future would be as easy.
Dan strolls through the living room toward the fireplace, drawn to the bold impastoed painting hanging above the mantel. “This is cool. Where’d you get it?”
“I painted it.” The award that cityscape won in college marked the first time I seriously believed in my ability to make a living as an artist. Like Kandinsky, I’d used color to manipulate a viewer’s soul. To this day its vibrancy stirs my optimism. I’d had my sights set on an MFA at Columbia and a loft in New York City, but then I got pregnant and married, and Richard started law school at Georgetown. “It’s an abstract cityscape of Richmond, Virginia, viewed from the Manchester Floodwall Walk.”
“No kidding.” He turns on his heel, head tipped, looking at me as if meeting for the first time. “I didn’t realize you were an artist.”
Once upon a time, maybe.
“Thanks.” Gram was my first fan, so it seems fitting for someone—even Dan—to be standing in this room, giving me a pep talk. My cheeks are probably as red as the carpet. Compliments always make me itchy. Professor Agate used to say mettle was as crucial as talent. He’d urged us to extol our work and fiercely defend it against critics. Heeding his advice had been my biggest challenge. “It’s been years since I’ve painted anything like that.”
More than a decade, in fact. At the outset of my marriage, I didn’t believe that I needed to stay at home like my mom and gram to be a good mother. Somehow I was sure I could juggle parenting Katy and becoming another Helen Frankenthaler without an MFA or the move to New York.
When I wasn’t nursing or working part-time at Baby Gap for grocery money, I painted. Like many artists, I’d approached each canvas as a problem that couldn’t be left unsolved. Luckily, problem-solving on canvas was always easier than doing so in real life. In any case, I was young and in love and a new mom, so happiness oozed from my pores and fingertips and into my work. I even sold a handful of pieces, although none made much money or achieved high acclaim.
But when Katy was four, she got into the turpentine after I turned my back for five minutes. Richard freaked—as did I. Then Katy’s concerning behaviors appeared and escalated. Richard offered to pay for a sitter, but I didn’t want to be like my dad, foisting a sad or troubled kid on someone else. Katy was my beloved child. I would be the one to get her through this life. Of all the mediums at my disposal, she would be my greatest creation, after all. My one lasting legacy.
As such, I hit pause on my unremarkable career to focus on parenting Katy. It wasn’t a sacrifice. From the first time I’d held my daughter, I’d cherished her. But while the head banging stopped around the age of six, other things cropped up—extreme self-criticism, the hair twisting and pulling, and withdrawal. Before I knew it, reading parenting books and managing her life had gobbled up the years.
“Seems a shame to have given it up.” Dan stares at me intently.
This is our first conversation that lacks a strong riptide of tension. Inexplicably, that throws me off-balance. I can’t decide whether the final years of my marriage conditioned me to expect friction with all men or if I’m simply yearning for our established dynamic because I need something consistent in my life.
“I don’t have regrets.” Not serious ones, anyway. Rothko once said that an artist needs faith in his or her ability to produce miracles when needed, and given the recent upheaval in my life, my faith in miracles is at an all-time low. “Besides, I’m so rusty I can’t imagine creating anything worthwhile right now.”
“Huh.” With his hands on his hips, he casts another glance over his shoulder to examine my piece again. The scrutiny feels like he’s undressing me.
Restless from his nudging, I gulp down the rest of my coffee. “I’ll go wake Katy so we can get out of your hair for a few hours.”
Dan nods before turning toward the kitchen, but the melody of his whistling follows me up the stairs. Whistling is something cheerful, plucky people do, yet despite the slight thaw between us this morning, I wouldn’t exactly liken Dan to Happy the Dwarf.
I rap on Katy’s door before opening it. She hates her bedroom’s sloped roofline, but these days she’s primed to complain about everything. In time maybe she’ll decide it’s cozy.
Three of the room’s four walls are painted the faintest seashell pink, and we glammed up her pink bedding with white, gray, and gold accents. I left the wall around the side window white in case she gets inspired to paint a mural or cover it in some kind of collage—her favorite.
Richard had wanted our old house to be a showcase. I’m determined to make this house a home.
Katy spent yesterday afternoon unpacking her clothes and pinning pictures of her friends to her oversize bulletin board. Her soccer cleats are set out, ready for the first round of tryouts this afternoon. She made the varsity team last year, but her old school was smaller and probably had less competition. Katy’s used to winning, so my stomach is already tight with anticipation of how she’ll react if she ends up on the JV team.