Excerpt: The Painted Door

Leigh
Atlanta, Georgia
2003

I abandoned my mother. There, that should be said before I can tell this story, my story. I guess I have to begin with the worst I’ve done to go back to the real place, the place where the telling begins. I left Grace Jean to die all alone, her biggest fear. She never thought I’d have the guts to do that. Every family member has a role. Mine was that of caretaker. Her role was that of queen and palace torturer.

Understand I loved Grace Jean so much it hurt, tore me in half. Maybe it was this very pain that brought me to my sin. I’ve heard her described as despicable, and she could be more times than not, but those people thought it was simple: just label her and be done with it. Sometimes I wished it was that easy.

Grace Jean was a humming bird hanging in front of a beautiful flower, beating its wings against the air to remain in one place, drawing the nectar from the very essence. I, on the other hand, was a chameleon that melted into my surroundings, so as to become invisible in her presence. This transparency ensured me a place in her world, a place desired by no one and everyone all in the same long inhalation.

September 29, 2003 was like any other Saturday. I was struggling with a painting. I was fighting with my success. You see, I was my own worst enemy. Finally at forty-five, I was in a relationship that seemed like it might last. If I didn’t completely wreck it of course. That morning a pressure sat in my chest that made it hard to breathe. I chalked it up to my bi-weekly counseling session the day before. My therapist, Becca, had urged me to enter my doors—I painted doors on canvases—in an upcoming art show downtown. I fancied myself an artist on good days. Her suggestion was enough to bottom out any under-confident soul; a picture of my dream held right in front of my face was a terrifying reflection.

So, in my small studio out back of Paul’s house—I still called my home Paul’s house some three years later—several life size canvases for my approval. I painted doors, just doors. The truth was I obsessed on doors for some reason unknown to me. I would run around neighborhoods looking for just the right door or combination. Many times I could be found taking a roll of film, containing these images, to be developed. I was tolerated as the neighborhood artist. People loved my doors.

I touched the brush to the canvas and instead of sinking into the rhythm, the internal music, a panicky thump developed and each stroke collapsed in on itself, giving way to some contortion I had not planned. Finally I threw down my brush and left. I laced on my hiking shoes and embarked on what was my new church, nature, the safest place I found for my soul.

The day was overcast, teasing with much needed rain. The air was so thick it weighed heavy in my lungs. The woods opened a set of arms waiting to comfort me. Weeds took on the beauty of a garden. Somewhere in the surrounding neighborhood, hidden well from the urban walking trail, a back porch band played the same snatch of tune over and over. A mournful melody, calming, peaceful in a sad way, but stirring at the same time. The creek held barely enough water to lap over the rocks. Like the land around me, I prayed for relief, for a way to decide my next move, for courage, for more courage than it took to pick out a few silly paintings to show. I prayed for the drought to end.

The trail grew darker. The overcast day turned threatening. Still the music walked with me at a slow pace. I had nothing to prove in the woods. My heart ached, but for what I wasn’t at all sure. Was I questioning my choices? Would I ever stop questioning myself? When I came to the old mill ruins, it was time to turn back, but instead, I pushed forward through the rough less trodden trail. The music grew louder. I was close. I followed until I saw the deck, really part of the woods, extending from the house. The music came from a screened in porch. Thunder shook around me. I listened. Was it real music? I couldn’t see through the screen. If I was going to make it back to the car, I had to leave.

The music followed me as I ran. My side became a splitter of pain. The thunder rumbled without stop. Finally I was accomplishing something. I was running down a dirt path. I was running for my life. The smell of fresh rain overtook me, and I turned my face to the heavens, allowing the water to splash my cheeks and blind my eyes. None made it in my mouth. The sky let go. A wall of water closed on me as I stepped foot in the parking lot, fumbling for keys to the car. A flash of light brightening the dark parking lot mixed itself with rumbles of thunder, long and deep. Both blended together much like the tune I’d heard on the trail. I was safe, if not dry.

The whole storm was over in less than forty-five minutes, and I was able to leave the parking lot. Paul met me at the door. His face told me something terrible was wrong, that once again my dislike of cell phones had caused a problem. Before he opened his mouth, a shadow passed over me. I knew. Some part of me deep inside had known all morning while I attempted to paint the feeling away.