Chapter Thirty-Three
She slept again, and it was deep and quiet—still, clear water. When she awoke, the oil paints were on the coffee table where she had left them. She stared at them for a moment, rumpled and groggy-eyed. Her stomach growled. But Mika ignored the hunger. Something else would feed her more.
It was late, near closing time, when Mika entered Art Emporium. A young guy with a goatee sat at the counter on a stool. He lifted his head from a battered copy of I Capture the Castle to welcome her in.
She grabbed a cart and started filling it. An easel. Palette. Varnish. Canvas. Primer. Brushes. She already had a set of oils and bypassed those. She froze in front of the solvents. Turpentine. Even though the bottles were capped, the smell of pine resin faintly permeated the air. She gagged. Too soon. All she saw was Peter. All she felt was his hand over her mouth.
“Can I help you?” It was the guy from the front desk.
On the lowest shelf was a bottle of mineral spirits. She uncapped it and smelled it. A kerosene-like odor wafted up. Better, but too strong. Not right.
“Ugh, you’re not supposed to open that. Don’t you see the label that says use in a well-ventilated area?” the guy said. Mika put the cap back on, picked up another mineral spirits brand, uncapped it, and sniffed. The same. Should have figured. “What are you doing?” The guy inched closer, hands up. She’d seen a police officer do something similar once on the train, approaching a homeless man who’d removed all his clothes.
She regarded him, bottle in hand. “I think I’ve been ignoring the puzzle pieces of my past, not realizing they were the keys to my future.”
The guy tongued his cheek. “Riiight,” he said, in a tone one used when being careful around someone. He didn’t need to worry about Mika, though.
“What other solvents can I use besides turpentine and mineral spirits?” Mika shoved the mineral spirits back on the shelf.
“Lavender Spike Oil, top shelf.” He pointed up. “It’s more expensive than turpentine, so we only keep a couple bottles in stock.”
Mika stood on her tiptoes. Her fingertips brushed the bottle, just out of reach.
The guy stepped forward. “Want some help?”
“No, thanks.” Mika gave a little leap, knocking the bottle off the shelf and into her hands. “I’m helping myself.” She smiled victoriously. “I think that’s all I need.” Her cart was full. Her heart was full. She’d forgotten how much joy she found in art supplies. The excitement was building to create something new.
The guy rang her up. When she saw the total, she had to step to the side and transfer money from her savings. “Sorry.” She handed over her debit card.
He swiped it. “It’s cool. We get a lot of weird artist types in here,” he said, misunderstanding her apology. Behind him was a wall of quotes from famous artists. art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life, Pablo Picasso. art is not what you see, but what you make others see, Edgar Degas. painting is self-discovery. every good artist paints what he is, Jackson Pollock. you use a glass mirror to see your face; you use works of art to see your soul, George Bernard Shaw.
“Thanks.” She gathered her art supplies and shoved them into the back seat of her car. The day was ending, but she felt as if she was just beginning. Being reborn. Her final stop was the grocery store. Coffee, she needed coffee. She barreled through Rare Earth, an organic grocery store that stocked wild sardines and nothing with hydrogenated oils, high fructose corn syrup, or artificial flavors. She grabbed the first bag of coffee she saw and bumped right into someone as she turned to go. “Sorry,” she muttered.
“Mika?”
She stopped, looked up. A familiar blond giant stood rubbing his shoulder. “Leif.”
“Thought you hated this store,” he said, basket in hand. They used to shop here when they dated. Too late, Mika remembered this was the store where Leif had asked the cashier to manually type in the barcodes so lasers wouldn’t touch his food. “You okay?” he asked, appraising her. “Haven’t seen you since the gallery opening.” When everything had gone wrong.
“Yeah.” She stared at Leif, contemplating her relationship with him. What had happened to them? “Thanks again for helping me out. You didn’t have to.”
“Of course I had to,” he said simply. “I care about you, Mika.”
She stared at her feet. “I care about you too. I’m so sorry for everything.” She gestured at him with the bag of coffee. “For not supporting your dreams, for messing up so much . . .” She realized now the key to staying safe had been never to take another risk again. To not fall in love. To not hope for anything beyond the next twenty-four hours. It was such a freedom to have dreams. And one she resented Leif for.
He snorted. “You think you’re the fuckup here? I was high all the time, unhappy with myself, where I was in life. It wasn’t just you, Mika. We were both stuck.”
Mika nodded and swallowed. “I should have told you about Penny.” She should have let him in. She’d never given Leif a chance. Never offered Leif what she had offered Thomas. Never been completely honest with him. She had kept a part of herself from Leif. Her pregnancy. The adoption. She had even faked her orgasms. She’d learned from her mother that for a relationship to work, you must sublimate yourself. Don’t be angry. Don’t be sad. Mika had been conditioned to keep the peace, to be silent. She’d never been authentic with him. She saw it clearly now. She had been too locked up in her mother’s disapproval, too afraid to let him see the real her. How could you accept someone’s love if you didn’t believe you were worthy of it?
Someone passed them in the aisle, and they shuffled to the side to make way, leaning against a row of cereal boxes. “I loved you, Mika,” Leif said quietly. “But sometimes . . .” He sighed and pressed on. “Sometimes, that’s not enough. We needed to do other things, be other people. Be with other people.”
What he said was true. Standing still together had been better than being alone. But it hadn’t moved them forward. If anything, it had held them back. “We should have had this conversation way before now,” Mika said. “You’re a great person, Leif. I wish you nothing but the best.”
“Ditto.”
“Friends?” She extended her hand.
He took it and shook. “Friends.”
* * *
Once home, Mika dumped the coffee grinds into the pot and set it to brew. Then she moved the couch and coffee table against the wall. With her teeth, she split open the plastic on the drop cloth and spread it on the floor. Next, she set up the easel, placing a prestretched canvas on it. She stared at it for a moment. Is there anything more terrifying than a blank canvas?
She slipped a piece of vine charcoal from its box and saw herself sixteen years ago in Marcus’s classroom. The story is your power. She didn’t hesitate with the first line or the second. She gave in to the want. With every stroke, she coaxed the life she wanted out of hiding. They were still there. All her dreams. They’d been stuck in a corner in the dark, afraid to step out into the light again. Afraid it might burn or hurt. But that was the point, wasn’t it? To feel, to let the wound be touched, and know you’d survive. For the very first time in a very long time, Mika was alive again. Living. And it was a thing to behold.
Another line and another until a figure took shape. A head turned toward a stage light. A leg bent in. She’d read about an author once who described the need to write like two hearts inside her chest. One was for everyday life. The other was for her art. Mika pulled that bloody heart from her body and put it on display. Because creation demands sacrifice. She finished the underpainting in a matter of hours and fell asleep on the couch.
On Monday, she went to work as usual, and she focused on spreadsheets, coordinating Gus’s calendar, inputting data. Back at home, the world receded. Mika and painting danced. It has been too long. Too long, they seemed to croon to each other, caught in a private waltz. The best thing she’d ever held in her hands was Penny but a very close second was a brush.
She counted down the seconds until she could go home. Emotions ballooned inside her. Her body, her mind no longer barren but full of rich soil that was at last blooming. Spring had come early. And on she went. Painting into the wee hours of the morning and working her day job. She put her whole body into it. Her hands, shoulders, legs, back—they all ached. Even though her mind had forgotten some of the techniques, her body remembered. It remembered holding a paintbrush. Remembered the right way to mix colors. Remembered how to blend and shade. Her body remembered.
The week passed in an intense creative blur. Thomas texted once, twice more, but Mika ignored him. She was too caught up in the frenzy. Too busy moving forward, chasing the future she’d missed. At last, Saturday midafternoon, she stumbled back, brush in her hand. It was done. The fever broken. She sat down heavily on the couch to peer at what she had made.
* * *
Hayato whistled low. “You painted this?” He held the canvas in his hands, then set it down and stepped away, appreciating Mika’s work from a distance.
“Yes,” Mika answered. They were in his office at Nike.
“And you’re just going to give it away?” He rubbed his forehead. Why would anyone do such a thing?
“Right again. I want to send it to my daughter, Penny.”
“How old is she again?”
“Sixteen, almost seventeen.” Her birthday was a week away.
“Way too young to appreciate fine art.” He drew in a breath. “This thing is going to be worth money someday. I’ll give you five thousand dollars for it.”
Mika let out a humorless laugh. “It’s not for sale.”
“Everything is for sale.” Hayato couldn’t stop staring at it.
“Not everything.”
“Spoken like a true artist.”
She peered at Hayato. “Will you help me send it?”
“You mean, ferret this through Nike mail, thereby breaking a dozen rules in my contract?” Turns out, sending a painting in the mail cost a boatload. And recently, Mika had spent most of her money on art supplies and a ticket to Paris. She’d cashed out her vacation days and would spend a week in the city. She planned to be lost and unafraid.
“You don’t have to.” Mika moved to pick up the painting.
Hayato’s hand on her arm stopped her. “I’m kidding. I send personal shit all the time. Even to my relatives in Japan. If you’re ever in Tokyo and see a bunch of old ladies wandering around wearing Ralph Lauren, they probably know me.” He winked at her. “Let’s wrap it up.”
Mika moved to grab a roll of bubble wrap from the closet. “Wait.” Hayato stopped her. “Let me look at it again.” They stood shoulder to shoulder. “Is it you?” he finally asked.
It was hard to tell who it actually was. It could be Mika. It could be Hiromi. It could be Penny. The lone ballerina was on stage, en pointe, balancing on a single leg, arms open, and face turned up toward the light. A perfect Degas replica but unmistakably Japanese with brown eyes and black hair reflecting the light. A tiny dancer. Like Caroline had called Penny. Like the girl Hiromi wanted Mika to be. “I don’t interpret my own work.”
“Ugh.” Hayato rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.
Another minute passed, and then they ever so carefully used bubble wrap, brown paper, and a giant box to package up the painting. On the outside, Mika taped an envelope containing her letter. She’d penned it the night before.
Dear Penny,
It rained the day you were born. Outside the maternity ward, the sky was the color of liquid ash, and there was a sign that read: birthdays are our specialty. I focused on it as I labored, as the nurses and doctor clamored around me. You’re nearly there, a nurse exclaimed . . .
Mika consoled herself that she’d done what she could. She’d offered Penny what Hiromi never did. Somewhere to come home. A soft place to land. A guarantee to always be met with open arms. She hoped it was enough. It was the only thing she had to give. The only thing she’d ever had to give. A promise of imperfect but unconditional love, and that was enough.
Mika stood back and watched the mail courier take the painting away. On to Ohio. She hoped it answered Penny’s question. Who am I? Mika thought she knew the answer now.
You are splitting atoms, soil made rich again, silk kimonos, azaleas in the park, bento for lunch, flannels and ripped tights, oil paints, a nurse keeping vigil, college sweethearts, broken silence. A runner. A searcher. A dancer. A dream deferred. A dream come true. An embodiment of love.