The Memory Painter

Bryan dropped his shovel in astonishment and blurted out. “You have their things?” He quickly picked the shovel back up again, praying his father wouldn’t notice his odd reaction.

But Doc seemed distracted. He looked around as if worried Barbara might hear. “Mike and I were roommates before he and Diana got engaged. I had a key to their apartment. After they died, the landlord was going to throw everything away—Mike didn’t have any family, and Diana’s parents were getting on and couldn’t fly out to handle it all. They didn’t want anything and I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away, so I stored it.”

He’d kept their things. Bryan’s heart leapt, and he fought back the urge to embrace his father. Without a doubt he knew he had chosen to be his son. Michael’s best friend and protector—Doc had subconsciously known what to do.

“I don’t know why I kept it all as long as I did. I was about to clear it out last year, just get rid of it. Lou Lou’s been all over my case to turn the storage room into her office. Promised I’d start working on it soon, but my back still isn’t a hundred percent.”

Bryan had forgotten that his father had injured his back on a hiking trip. Doc had been a serious hiker all his life, tackled just about every ambitious trail in the U.S., Canada, and Mexico and never had hurt himself. Ever. What were the odds?

Bryan hurried to offer up his help. “I can clean out the storage room for you.” Doc’s eyes grew so round that Bryan couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m serious. You shouldn’t be lifting anything yet and I have the time.” Even as he said it, Bryan felt a little ashamed at his selfish motives—he could tell that his father was touched by the offer.

“You sure? It’s over two dozen boxes covered in dust and Lord knows what else.”

Bryan held back his excitement. “It’ll give me a little break from the studio. I need it.”

Doc reached into his pocket. “Here’s my keys. I’ve got another set.” He hesitated. “Just don’t tell your mother about it.”

As if on cue, they heard her car pull into the drive. Bryan pocketed the keys and handed over the potato bucket. “I’ll go say hi.” He couldn’t avoid her forever.

*

Barbara came in the back door carrying several bags. “Bryan? You here?” She turned the corner and saw him at the kitchen sink washing his hands. “This is a surprise. I thought you were avoiding us.”

Bryan grimaced to himself. “Sorry, I’ve been meaning to call you back.” He wiped his hands on the nearest towel and turned around. “It’s been a crazy week.”

Barbara busied herself putting groceries away. “Well, we came to your art opening. You weren’t there.”

Bryan watched his mother whiz around the kitchen like a dynamo. She looked … good. He cringed at the thought but could see why Michael had attempted to date her. Barbara was an attractive woman. Now approaching sixty, she took excellent care of herself and looked at least ten years younger.

But she was also a difficult person—too caught up in her own head, cross-examining everything all the time. It was wearying. Throughout his childhood she had been obsessed with curing him and had shipped him off to institution after institution, allowing psychiatrists, neuroscientists, and sleep therapists to become his surrogate parents. The one person he had yearned for had rarely been there, and when she was, she was always in doctor mode, studying him and quizzing him. Over time, his longing had turned to anger and then the anger had faded to distance, until they didn’t even know how to have a conversation anymore. A mother was supposed to know her child better than anyone and she didn’t know him at all.

Now that he was older, he could look back on her actions with a glimmer of understanding, though the child in him still hadn’t forgiven her. When he had returned to Boston he had thought they could try again, maybe even start over. But now he had Michael’s memories to contend with. And they definitely didn’t help.