The Memory Painter

“Well look who Picasso dragged in.” Lou Lou, the house manager, winked. “Your dad’s in the back counting lobster.”


“I’ll wait at the bar.” Bryan went and sat at the far end, away from the tourists enjoying cocktails. He glanced at his watch, surprised by the time. His stomach grumbled.

Patty, his father’s longtime bartender, came over. “Hey Bry, your dad said you were back in town. What’ll it be?”

Bryan grimaced. Most of the employees at his father’s restaurant had worked there for years and known him when he was growing up. His father, Doc, inspired people to stick around. Doc was a big bear of a man with the kindest heart and was always the first to be anyone’s friend. He was also a wonderful father, but Bryan could count on one hand the number of times he had seen him since coming back, even though he knew how much weight his father had placed on his homecoming.

It wasn’t that Bryan didn’t want to see his dad. The problem was that when he stared into someone’s eyes for too long, he could recognize them as other people from his dreams. Needless to say, this complicated matters when he was around those closest to him. He’d always known he couldn’t talk about such things or someone would lock him up for sure. Or maybe he did need help, he wondered for the thousandth time. He was no longer sure if he could keep struggling alone.

“Bry? You okay?” Patty was still waiting for an answer.

“Sorry. Stoli, straight up.” It seemed only fitting after today.

Patty poured him a shot and left the bottle on the bar with a wink.

Bryan took the shot and poured another, already regretting his decision to come here. Then he saw his father walk toward him, beaming.

Doc enveloped him in a hug. Bryan closed his eyes and squeezed back.

His dad pulled away and slapped him on the shoulder. “Covered in paint, surprise, surprise. I knew you were working. Told your mom that’s why you missed tonight. When we left, there was quite a crowd coming in.”

Bryan shrugged, unable to explain the real reason he hadn’t showed—that he was too busy reliving Alexander Pushkin’s life. He grimaced and poured another shot. “Want to hang out and drink with your son?”

“Twist my arm,” Doc said, but then tried to sound serious. “Just call your mother tomorrow. She was disappointed we missed celebrating your birthday last week … she even came to the gallery with a cake in the car.”

Bryan gave a pained sigh. He was in for it. “I’ve had a lot on my mind,” he said, knowing he sounded defensive.

“Hey now, don’t shoot the messenger.” Doc brought over a basket of peanuts. Bryan loved the fact that his father knew him well enough not to ask what had been on his mind. “Be right back,” Doc said. “Let’s round you up some real food.” And he was off to the kitchen before Bryan could protest.

Bryan downed another shot, welcoming the burn of the vodka. His cell phone vibrated and he looked at the number. Apparently the same person had called earlier—twice. He also had a voice mail. On a whim, he picked up. “Hello?”

“Hello? I’m trying to reach Bryan Pierce.”