I always assumed my mom was uninterested in this conversation or at the very least rebelliously uncooperative. But tonight, she surprised me by asking, “I thought you had a date with someone last week?”
“No, not in months. I’ve given up going on dates forever and ever amen for now. I always end up with refreshed disappointment with the human race as a whole,” I corrected. “I hung out with Wyatt and Vann last week. Is that what you’re thinking of?”
“Now what’s wrong with Vann?” Dad asked. This wasn’t the first time or the hundredth time he’d tried to convince me to go after Vann. Since I was a kid, dad had constantly been pushing me toward him. “He’s a nice boy. And he won’t disappoint you like the rest of them poor bastards.”
I smiled patiently at my dad. “Vann and I are never going to happen, daddy. We’re friends. Nothing more.”
My mother’s left eyebrow rose. “What about the other one?”
“Wyatt? He’s a friend too.”
“All these friends,” my mother tsked. “You say they’re good guys, but you’re never interested in them. Maybe you’re too picky for your own good, Molly Nichole.”
I was definitely that. “Is it so bad to be picky?”
“Of course not,” my dad assured me.
My mom’s voice hardened and she threw surreptitious glares at my dad from across the table. “Of course, be picky. You’re not in a hurry. Just make sure they do what they’re saying to do. Don’t just listen to the words they say or believe them at their word. Most of the time those mean nothing. Find a hard worker, Molly. Find someone that’s going to work hard all his life.”
“Patty,” my dad growled, picking up on the dig. “Is that really necessary?”
My mom’s unrelenting stare jerked to him. “I just want her to be careful, Tom. Decisions have consequences. Or have you forgotten?”
My dad’s teeth clicked together and he gritted out, “Oh, I’m perfectly versed in consequences. My entire life is built on a house of consequences.”
“So maybe you should stop encouraging her to go out on these dates. We don’t want her to marry the first guy that asks and get stuck with someone that can’t carry their share of the burden.”
“I got a new project!” I announced as cheerfully as any human was capable of. “There might be a promotion of sorts at the end of it!” And by promotion, I loosely hoped people would start noticing me.
So like a social promotion.
“That’s nice, kitten,” my dad mumbled.
“You already told me about it,” my mom muttered.
I pushed my ham ball around, my appetite disintegrating. “Well, it’s a big deal.”
“Is this about work, Patty?” my dad demanded. He jabbed his fork down in a ham ball so it stood up straight on his plate. “You’re still pissed off that I got canned? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, the company couldn’t support four salesmen! There’s only room for two or three and the jobs go to the guys that have been there the longest.”
My mother leaned forward, a dark storm cloud brewing over her head. “It’s not about this job, Tom. It’s not about this one! It’s about all of them!”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” My dad shoved back from the table, his plate rocking precariously in protest. “I am so sick of your holier than thou attitude about this, Patty.”
“You’re sick of me?” my mom railed. “Of me?!”
And on and on it went. I felt sick to my stomach, but I forced myself to eat, knowing it would be worse if I didn’t. I tuned out the familiar fight and focused on counting my bites of food, and sipping my water as slowly as possible. I drew little pictures in the sweet sauce that went over the ham balls with the tip of my fork. I didn’t engage. And I didn’t speak. I simply listened and endured and waited for the moment I could slip away unnoticed.
Eventually my mom stood up from the table and started clearing the dishes, and my dad stomped back to the bedroom with a few more beers in hand. Mom would spend the rest of the night regretting every minute of her life up until now while she furiously cleaned the kitchen. And dad would drink until he passed out in a blissful heap of unconsciousness. They would go to bed, not really recognizing their dysfunction. Or at least not caring enough to do anything about it. And then tomorrow it would start all over again.
I was the one that would carry this with me when I left, that would wrestle with it all night and tomorrow, and on and on, forever. I would tuck it into the imaginary backpack I’d carried since I was a child and add it to all the other memories like this one that have never left me.
Tomorrow, I would go to work and I would bust my ass to do the very best I could at every single element of my job. I would make a conscious effort not to end up like my dad who didn’t value a steady job or a bright future. And I would vow to never to turn into my mother who never let my dad hear the end of it, who didn’t care about whatever ailment he had that wouldn’t let him work or kept him from being successful. I would swear to myself that I would never be a nag or cruel for the purpose of being cruel.
I would love my parents always, but I would never let myself become them.
As for tonight? I would paint.
I all but crawled back to my apartment after I left my parents. I thought about a bottle of wine, but then I remembered my dad carrying half a six pack back to his room and couldn’t stomach the idea of drowning my own sorrows in alcohol too.
So instead, I settled for my favorite playlist, a Diet Coke, and my paints. Despite work in the morning and an irresponsible agreement to meet Vera at the gym even earlier than that, I didn’t leave my canvas until after eleven.
And when I had finally finished purging my emotions and frustrations, and expelling everything I didn’t say or think or want anyone to know, I stumbled back from my easel and sucked in a steadying breath.
For once, it wasn’t a version of Ezra staring back at me. I hadn’t focused on minute details of eyes or lashes or lips. I hadn’t bothered to make anything lifelike, eye-catching, or pretty.
Instead, it was all slashes of bright paint. Red, blue, and yellow. Splotches of orange, green, and black.
And then just black, and black, and black.
And red on top of that.
And so much color in places it hurt my eyes and then so much more color everything turned black and I wanted to weep.
I left my brushes without washing them and my palette without cleaning it. I turned my back on the room, not having the energy to deal with it tonight.
The mess would wait for me until morning, just like this room and all of the paintings that remained in it.
I leaned against the doorframe for a long minute, examining the room with tired, frustrated eyes. Part of me wanted to walk away from painting forever. For a hobby, it was a painful one. It demanded too much of my soul, forced me to admit too much of myself. And then it put all of those pieces and parts of me I tried so desperately to keep hidden on display for everyone to see.