Last night, I couldn’t fall asleep, but for once it wasn’t because of dread circling around me. Instead, my mind kept racing with possibility—the hyper colors of Finn’s secret cathedral like sun spots when I closed my eyes. I ended up getting up in the middle of the night and Googling more about street art, which led me to a page about Stik, a formerly homeless artist who invited a bunch of local schoolkids to paint murals with him in London.
It sparked today’s plan. I wish Alice were here, as I was hoping the activity would pull her out of her shell a little more, but figure it’s worth trying now anyway.
I grab five blank mugs and paintbrushes and pass them around. I pull out my phone, then sit down next to Harriet.
“Nice lipstick,” I murmur. She harrumphs in response, but I could swear she straightens up and puts her shoulders back too, like a bird preening.
“So today we’re going to paint together. You’ll start on a mug, and after three minutes, you’ll pass it to the person next to you. We’ll go around in a circle until we finish all the mugs.”
“But what if we don’t like what other people do on our mugs?” Miss Peggy asks.
I feel Harriet suck her breath in right as Henry says, “We won’t know until we try. I like to think everyone has something to offer.”
Miss Peggy grimaces, while Harriet looks as pleased as a cat who not only ate the canary but scarfed down every other bird in the pet store.
“Okay.” I set the timer on my phone. “Go!”
Everyone starts to paint.
“Henry, what did you do in your earlier days?” Miss Peggy asks.
“I was a doctor,” he says, reaching for the red paint at the same time as Lorna. She demurs, pushing it his way. Today, she has on a pale-green shirt, lime-green pants, a bright-green parrot pin.
“Parker here is going to be a doctor too!” Miss Peggy smiles generously at me.
Henry arches an eyebrow as he paints his mug handle red. “Is that so?”
Miss Peggy replies for me. “She’s going to Harvard in the fall. Full scholarship. She’s super smart, this one.”
“Time!” I say, preferring to pretend my future doesn’t exist right now.
Lorna looks fretfully at the outline of the blue flower she’s started on her mug. “Pass them on,” I say. She reluctantly hands it to Harriet, who passes me a mug with her furious black slashes around the edge.
“Henry, this is lovely. Such vision,” Miss Peggy says, holding up the mug he started.
“But it’s just a red handle,” Henry says uncertainly, and Harriet chuckles.
“I like red,” Lorna offers. “Maybe I will wear my red outfit tomorrow.”
“And next round . . . three, two, one, go!” I say.
“Parker will make a wonderful doctor, just like you,” Miss Peggy says, batting her eyelashes at Henry.
“That looks great, Harriet.” I point at the small black polka dots she’s painting inside Lorna’s blue petals. They’re not slashes, but they’re still very Harriet.
“Oh!” Lorna says when she sees what Harriet’s doing, clearly surprised but not unpleasantly so. Harriet tries to hide a smile.
Miss Peggy clears her throat. “My son Frank said we’ll need more doctors in the next fifty years than ever before. We’re both widowed,” she says to Henry, pointing at herself and Lorna. “God rest our dear husbands’ souls.”
Henry looks uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation and focuses on painting yet another mug with a red handle. “Well, Harvard is a great place to be. It has one of the best premed programs in the country,” he says.
I smile weakly at him, leaning over to grab yellow so I can outline Harriet’s jagged black edges.
Miss Peggy puts her brush down and rests her arm on Henry’s. “Perhaps you could mentor her. I’m sure she’d love to hear more about your days in medicine.”
“Oh, for chrissakes,” Harriet grumbles. “Just let it be.”
Surprised, I glance over at my ally. Harriet winks at me.
Miss Peggy looks wounded, and Henry is focusing intensely on adding another coat of red to the handle of his mug.
“Time’s up. Pass the mugs again. Now go!”
I get the mug with the blue flower petals filled with black polka dots and pick up green paint, starting to draw elaborate vines and leaves around the flower.
Lorna looks slightly confused with the mug she’s received. It’s one of the red-handled ones Henry started. Miss Peggy simply painted more red around the rim. Lorna hesitantly picks up orange paint, looking up for approval, and before I get a chance to nod, Henry leans over to her. “That orange looks really nice with my red.”
Lorna smiles.
For the next few minutes, everyone seems to be focused on their painting, but then Miss Peggy clears her throat. “I was just proud of Parker. I didn’t realize it was a problem to be happy for someone here.”
“It’d be fine if you were doing it for reasons other than your vagina,” Harriet said.
“Harriet!” Miss Peggy and Lorna and I all exclaim at once.
At first Henry looks startled, but then he chuckles, giving Harriet an admiring look.
“Vulgar,” Miss Peggy grumbles.
“Listen, I appreciate everyone’s support,” I say. “But let’s not talk about me anymore.”
“So what kind of doctor were you, Henry?” Lorna asks.
“A cardiologist,” he says, pressing his hand to his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “I was an expert in matters of the heart.”
For a second I debate asking him if it’s possible for an eighteen-year-old to have a heart attack. I’m pretty sure it’s all in my head, but what if there’s something really wrong with me, like there was with Charlie?
But then Harriet cackles out loud. “Aren’t you something?”
My eyes meet Lorna’s across the table, and she looks just as shocked as I feel: Harriet’s flirting. Meanwhile, Miss Peggy sulkily pushes away the red paint she was using and grabs a dark brown instead, painting brown blobs over Henry’s red handle.
After the last round, it’s clear Miss Peggy’s feelings are still hurt, as she won’t respond with anything other than monosyllabic grunts and has refused to paint anything other than brown spots on the red handles Henry has added to every single mug.
Henry, Harriet, Lorna, and I, however, are having a good time.
Lorna tells us all about her days as a court stenographer in downtown Cincinnati and how she always wished she could be a lawyer. Her eyes are dreamy, wistful, and more than once I see Henry sneaking glances at her.
Meanwhile, Harriet regales us with tales of her time as a showgirl at a Coney Island dance revue and how she had so many lovers, she lost count.
I blush at Harriet’s stories, focusing on my painting, but Henry laughs throughout, and even Lorna looks impressed.
When Carla comes up an hour later, she lets out a pleased chuckle, and for the first time, I take a closer look at our work. Surprisingly enough, the mugs look kind of good. Lorna’s blue flowers have just the right amount of edge with Harriet’s black accents, and I think the touches of yellow and green I’ve added complement Miss Peggy’s and Henry’s polka-dot handles.
“Nice job, everyone,” she says delightedly.
Miss Peggy mutters something under her breath, but Carla smiles at me across the room.
Good work, she mouths to me, and I feel something warm in my chest, a sun rising.
Thirty-Seven
“HOW IS THE CANCER support group going these days, Charlie?” Mom asks.
“Shockingly not terrible,” he replies, and I look up from my plate, surprised. Dad’s fork freezes midair.
Up until now, anytime any of us have asked about Charlie’s group, we’ve gotten noncommittal grunts in response.
Dad and I gave up a while ago, but Mom keeps trying. Even though she’s nicer about it, underneath she’s just as stubborn as Charlie sometimes.
“There’s a new counselor named Peg,” Charlie continues. “She’s a breast cancer survivor and she’s pretty badass. She was talking about how when she finally went into remission, things weren’t as easy as she expected, but she kept focusing on hope. . . .” He stops when he notices the looks on our faces. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just good to hear you talking about it, that’s all,” Mom says.
Charlie shrugs. “By the way, can I use your car tonight?”
Mom gives me an inquiring look, and I shake my head. “I don’t have any plans.”
“You heading to the batting cages?” Dad asks.
“No,” he says, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “I’m going out with my friend Ruby.”
“Your friend Ruby?” I ask.