My eyes skipped to the side as my thoughts mentally moved on to the next section of painting that needed to be done. The paint was bubbled on the far wall.
“Ah, shit.” I’d been afraid of that, afraid that the other walls would need to be sanded down too. But it had been more than a week since the paint on the back wall had begun to peel. The other walls had shown no signs of bubbling or peeling. I walked to the adjacent wall and smoothed my hand across the ripples. And just like that, the paint came off like tissue paper being unwrapped and pushed aside.
My mother’s face stared out at me with sad eyes and a slightly wistful smile. And I knew who sent me the dream. It hadn’t been Georgia’s perspective in the dream, it wasn’t Georgia’s memory. It was my mother’s.
***
Moses
IT WAS STRANGE. I’d been painting frantically since coming to Levan, though I’d controlled myself, resisting abandoned buildings and barns and cliff faces, and limiting myself to canvas. Every day it was another painting about Eli. I couldn’t stop. Some of them I left for Georgia, wanting to share them with her the way she had shared her photos with me. I was almost afraid she would come storming over and throw them in my face and accuse me of mocking her pain. But she never did. I almost wished she would, just so I would have an excuse to fight with her. An excuse to see her.
I had kissed her and then doubted the wisdom of the move for days afterwards. That kiss was like a living, throbbing pulse of fuchsia in my head. Maybe that’s why I felt compelled to paint. Eli came and went, showing me the same fleeting images and bits and pieces of his life with Georgia. But for the first time, my painting wasn’t for the dead. The painting wasn’t even for Eli. It was for me. I wanted to make him permanent. And I wanted to give permanence to Georgia.
But the dream of my mother shook me, as did the walls that wouldn’t stay painted. For several days I just worked on the house and left my art alone. I didn’t want to start channeling my mother in my paintings. I sanded down the entire living room once more, retreating all the walls with everything 4D’s, the hardware store in Nephi, had in stock for pre-treating old walls. The new coats of yellow seemed to be holding, and I moved onto other projects, keeping myself busy with physical work, doing what I could on my own and hiring the rest out, watching Georgia from afar and wondering how I was ever going to bridge the gulf between us.
I had temporarily stopped painting, though Eli hadn’t stopped sharing pictures with me. But he had started showing me new things. Flowers. Clouds. Cupcakes. Hearts. Drawings pinned to the fridge with chunky magnet letters. They were still things he loved, as far as I could tell. The images were fleeting and focused. Fat red hearts, cupcakes piled with white fluffy icing, and flowers that I wasn’t sure even existed beyond a little boy’s imagination. They were riotous and multi-colored, a garden of Dr. Seuss blooms. I didn’t think these were his greats. This time I was pretty sure he really was trying to tell me something. I found myself talking to him, to the boy who danced in and out of my vision, never staying long, never making a whole lot of sense, but I talked to him anyway, hoping my limitations were not his.
I spent a Saturday removing the tub, toilet and sink in Gigi’s old bathroom telling Eli about the first time I’d seen Georgia. I was little. Not as little as Eli. But young. Maybe nine or ten the first time I really remembered her. She had stared at me, just like the other kids at church. But her gaze had been different. She had watched me like she was dying to talk to me. Like she was wishing she could make me talk to her. And she smiled. I hadn’t smiled back. But I had remembered that smile.
Eli answered with an image of Georgia, smiling, holding him in her arms, swinging him around and around until they both collapsed onto the grass and let the world spin above their heads. I took his memory to mean he hadn’t forgotten her smile either.
So then I’d told Eli about the first time Georgia actually did talk to me. How Sackett had reared up in the barn and knocked her to the ground. How it had been all my fault. I told Eli I knew then that Georgia wasn’t safe with me.
Eli’s response baffled me. He showed me Georgia, crying his name, her face distorted with horror as she looked beneath the truck the day he died. It was the very last memory Eli had of his mother’s face before he left the world.
“Eli? Don’t do that!” I shoved my fists over my eyes and cried out, banging my head against the newly installed sink. I physically and mentally pushed back, not understanding why Eli would want me to see that again.
He stopped immediately, but I was shaken. I swore and paced for a minute rubbing my head, trying to ease the throb and clear the horrible image. And then my words came back to me.
I’d told him Georgia wasn’t safe with me.
And Eli hadn’t been safe. Even with the person who would have gladly died in his place. And she would have. Gladly. I knew that. And I think Eli knew that. I rubbed the back of my head, looking at the little boy in black and blue pajamas, standing so close I should be able to touch him, but couldn’t. And he stared back, keeping his pictures to himself as I pondered the fact that maybe none of us are safe. Not truly. Not even from the people we love. Not even from the people who love us.
“So cupcakes . . . hearts . . . flowers. What’s the deal, Eli?”