BEING ON THE phone with my realtor all morning made me realize something: You can try to steer your life in a certain direction all you want, but ultimately, the wind is in charge of your sail. It’s a sucky realization. I spend the rest of my morning painting the ocean from the balcony in my room, and then gather my stuff and head to the hospital. When I get there, I walk to Jen’s office and knock once, even though her door is slightly parted.
“Come in!” she calls, so I peek my head in. Unlike most of the people in the hospital, Jen wears slacks and a blouse to work—at least that’s what she’s worn every time I’ve seen her. She looks up and smiles at me as she continues to wipe a stain on her white blouse. “Sorry. Damn coffee.”
“That’s what happens when you wear a white shirt,” I say, as she laughs.
“Every single time. You would think I’d learn.”
I look down at my own white shirt and shrug. “I’m a painter, so I can get away with it. Anyway, I came by to ask you a question.”
“Of course. Take a seat.” She signals to the chairs in front of her, and I plop down in the nearest one.
“I know this is probably impossible to do, but I have to ask—is there any way I can repaint the halls in the pediatrics wing?”
Jen’s brown eyebrows pull into a thoughtful frown.
“I totally understand if it’s not a possibility, but I had to ask.”
“No, no, we actually have to move some patients to another wing temporarily to get some new equipment in, so I guess if you could take advantage of those days, it would be doable. I need to run it by my boss first, though.”
I nearly squeal in delight. “The rooms will be vacant?”
Jen searches my face and smiles. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well,” I start, wringing my hands together. I’m starting to feel like I’m taking advantage of this opportunity, even though I would be the one paying for all of it and spending my time here. “I would fund this one hundred percent. I don’t want you to think I want to be compensated, but if I can get some of my friends in here, I think we could do something really nice.”
She’s quiet for a beat, pulling her sandy blonde hair into a ponytail. “So you would pay for the paint and compensate whoever helps you?”
“Yes, of course,” I respond quickly.
Jen is quiet again, searching my face for a little longer than I’m comfortable with, but I stare back, holding my hands on my lap as I wait for her answer.
“You really want to do this,” she says finally. “Why?”
A rushed breath tumbles out of my lips and my shoulders sag a little. “Do I need a reason?”
“I suppose not,” she says with a shrug. “But not many people would do something like this pro bono.”
“I’m not many people,” I respond with a smile. “I can speak to your boss myself if you’d like.”
She shakes her head. “I’ll call him right now. I doubt he’ll have a problem with this. He’s been saying for years that wing needs a facelift. I’ll text you as soon as I have an answer.”
“Thank you so much. I look forward to hearing from you.” I stand and head to the door.
“Estelle,” she calls out, her words bringing me back into her office. I turn, and she gives me a small smile. “The world needs more people like you.”
Her words make me smile proudly. My life may be chaotic and sticky, but most days I go to bed feeling comforted by the thought that maybe I made a difference in one person’s life. It’s nice to have somebody else recognize it. I thank her and head to the pediatrics wing before I make a fool of myself and start crying or something. When I get there, the first person I spot is Oliver. He’s got his back turned to me, leaning his hip on the counter of the nurses’ station.
I can’t hear what he’s saying, but judging from the giggles of the two nurses he’s talking to, you would think it’s a Jim Carey-worthy joke. I’m sure it’s not. Oliver isn’t a funny joke teller—though he tries—but the female species never seems to mind. Myself included, once upon a time. I cover the urge to roll my eyes with a huge smile and move along, passing the station with a small wave and a smile as I say good afternoon. I don’t stay long enough to look at Oliver’s face, but I catch his movement as he straightens and pushes himself away from the counter.
I scan the room I was assigned to, my eyes bouncing from easel to easel and to the containers beside them. Taking a large stack of white paper, I clip one to each board on the easels and look up when I hear the door open. Gemma, a plump, red-haired nurse, walks in pushing a wheelchair. I met the kids the other day when I was here, so I recognize the young boy as Johnny, a thirteen-year-old with cerebral palsy. I greet him and then Danny, Mae, and Mike—all in their early teens—all cancer patients.
“You guys ready?” I ask with a smile.
They each bob their heads, but none say anything. Of course, all but Johnny are on their phones. I sigh, knowing what’s to come. This is something I deal with every time a new set of teenagers comes in for the after school program at the studio. Through this, I’ve come to realize that teenagers are a lot like new shoes—uncomfortable and a bitch to break in—but once you do, you don’t regret a single blister they caused.
“Do you want to do the boring, sappy introductions or do you just want to start painting the shit out of these canvases?” I ask, gaining the attention of all of them at once. Their eyes widen as if they can’t believe I just said that.