Crashing Into Blue

Chapter 12

It seems that the arrival of Davis's letter this morning was setting the tone for the day, and it wasn't setting a very good one. I spent a decent part of my morning routine trying to find my light blue t-shirt with the small striped pocket; I riffled through my drawers and my hamper, coming to the conclusion that Indigo must have taken it. Settling on a floral pattern tee instead, I made my way to the garage to get my bike out so I could ride to Sea Breeze. The sight that greeted me wasn't a welcome one.

"Are you seriously kidding me?" I ask my bike. No answer from the bike. Instead it just mocks me silently with its flat tire.

"This can't be happening," I mumble to myself softly. I look at my watch and see that I have fifteen minutes to get to Sea Breeze and set up shop for our ten o'clock opening. If Marlene gets there and sees that I haven't opened yet, she'll talk my ear off about how I'm losing potential customers. With the way my morning is going, I really don't think I'll have it in me to fake being apologetic. I see that my mom's car is still in the driveway, meaning that she hasn't left to get any supplies yet. I run towards our yard in a full sprint, messenger bag slapping against my hip, and towards her converted shed turned art studio. I push open the doors, and am hit by the smell of paint; it's sharp and makes my nose tingle. Her head pops out from behind her canvas, blue paint smudged along her cheekbone, paintbrush holding her bun together, and paint pallet in hand. This is the first I've seen of her in three days.

"Where's the fire, Lia?"

Ah, my mother, ever the zen one.

"My bike has a flat and Indi already left on hers. Can you drive me to Sea Breeze? You probably need supplies anyways and the art store would be on the way home." It's moments like these I wish I got my license when I turned sixteen like most teenagers, but living in a small beach town, it never seemed that important. Up until this exact moment, that is. Now I'm mentally scolding myself, having a feeling I know the answer she's going to give me.

"How did your bike get a flat?"

"I don't know mom, my bike wasn't feeling too chatty and I don't have time to go through the possibilities with you. So the ride?"

She bites her lip and looks at her canvas.

"I'm really on a roll here Lia, you know I do my best work in the morning..." And there you have it ladies and gentlemen, I think to myself. I should start making wagers on her responses with how predictable she's become; it could make me some serious money that I could put towards driving lessons. But if I were being honest, it would probably go towards buying a new amp. Or pizza. I really love pizza.

The art gallery that she's been working at for all these years (fifteen and counting) has finally given her a chance to do a small showcase displaying some of her pieces. She's been treating our house as her own personal salon for years, but she's never displayed her work in an official setting like at the gallery. It's going to be something that you'd see in the movies, all pomp and circumstance: servers in black and white holding trays of bubbly champagne and passing around the amuse bouche for everyone to try. There will be spotlights illuminating her paintings, and smooth jazz filling every corner of the room, the perfect backdrop for all the artsy talk. All in all, I think it's most likely going to be my mother's wildest dreams come to life, minus the attendance of a certain eighties boy band (she still has their poster on her wall, so they're definitely still in her dreams, especially the wild ones).

But with this news came a whole other barrel of fish: what pieces would she display? Suddenly, all the work that she's been doing on the side has been deemed completely inept. Since May, when the news broke and the barrel of fish came tumbling along with all its problems, our mom has spent every spare (and not so spare) moment working in her studio trying to make something from nothing. She can go days without emerging from this artistic equivalent of a den. Whenever Indi and I stumble across her (usually at some odd hour of the night in the kitchen, where she's assembling a plate to take back outside) and ask what the issue is with what she's already done, she always says the same thing. Here's a play by play of how things typically go ninety-nine percent of the time when Indigo asks our mom about her paintings:

"What's wrong with all the beach scenes you've painted, mom? Take any one of the ten you have on our walls and bam, problem solved."

Mom sighs. "That was then, this is now. I need something that sets my heart ablaze and my fingers running wild."

How about the other one percent of the time? The answer is short and sweet; they're simply said to be shit. The responses that you can get when you have a parent who is an artist is seriously astounding; it can range from the bright and fluffy outlook of a unicorn to the dark musings of a Van Gogh type character cutting their ear off.

"Fine, don't worry about it; I have..." I look at my watch. Twelve minutes left. Man, this whole encounter wasted three of my precious fifteen minutes. I shouldn't have even bothered; it was wishful thinking on my part. I leave my sentence hanging, and I turn out of her studio, booking it to the street. My mom doesn't call after me.

As I'm running along the sidewalk, I think about my absentee father and my suddenly recluse mother: all you can do is hope that somehow you'll be strong enough to deal with what's been dealt for you. I like to think that we all are, and that we just haven't been pushed to the limits of our strength yet.