Mary's Bones

ONE

Painting was no longer a passion after my brother died. Rather, it became an addiction. A drug to reduce the pain and ease my mind until I felt high enough to want to live. Relax, breathe in, and watch the ink bleed onto the canvas. I'd taught myself to cope in that sense. Sometimes I imagined the ink as my brother's blood smeared from the bullet in his chest.

Perhaps, if I painted my thoughts away, I could finally erase those images from my mind. I'd no longer think about the words I refused to accept written across his tombstone—the words that confirmed he was dead. I'd no longer think about the questions that I knew I'd never get the answer to, that I thought of when I stood in front of his grave.

Did my brother think about me before he took his last dying breath? Did he think about our parents? Did his life flash before his eyes as they closed for good? I wanted the answers so badly. Part of me wished I was there. The news that a homicide detective was killed in the line of duty shook all the small New Jersey towns close to the incident. And so, I heard the crime scene was a shit show when the cops arrived.

I remembered when John, both my husband and Cory's best friend, struggled to tell me the news over the phone. He had stuttered, choked on his cries, inhaled, exhaled, and was barely able to form a sentence. But the words that followed Cory's name—those were the words that sealed the fate we weren't ready to accept.

I sighed and closed my eyes, attempting to ignore the traces of busy voices in the background. Today's painting session was noisier than ever. Between them and my doctor's warning lingering in my head, like a thorn in my side, I didn't know which of them was louder, and I could hardly hear myself think. Maybe that was a good thing. I'd thought far too much today.

Deep breaths, I coaxed myself to ease the stress. My palm flattened on the round of my stomach out of habit, and just then, I felt a gentle kick.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Mommy promised not to stress you," I whispered, laying my paintbrush on the palette. That must have pleased her because I didn't feel another kick in my womb. I rubbed my hands over my apron; the paint stuck to them like glue. How long had I been painting since I walked in here, an hour? Ah, it felt like it'd been centuries since then.

I opened my eyes again and eyed the other women around me. "Don't forget to ease back on the strokes, Evelyn. Remember to keep it light and easy for this project." I stood from my relaxed position on my green, blue, and white patterned quilt, an old birthday gift from my in-laws.

"Okay, thanks, got it!" Evelyn chirped. Her long brown bouncy curls flopped side to side with her movements, sweeping over her golden brown skin. I nodded and looked down at my watch.

"Shit," I muttered. 3:10 PM stared back at me from the glow of my watch screen.

Class should've ended ten minutes ago.

"Alright, ladies! That's enough for today; let's wrap it up!" I instructed, clapping my hands. There were a few moans of disapproval, causing a faint smile to cross my face. "There are only three days and two nights that make up the weekend. I'm sure you'll all survive," I quipped.

If I were them, I'd want to get out of here as fast as I could, especially because they all looked like me—in body shape, that was. Some were rounder than me. Some not so much. Regardless, we were all very much pregnant. I guess these women didn't see it that way, though. I should have expected no less from a class as rowdy as these women.

"See you Monday, Angie!" a few of the women yelled.

"Have a nice weekend, ladies!" I waved goodbye and turned away from the door.

"Hi, John!" some of the ladies greeted someone, who I assumed was at the door.

I only knew one man by the name of John. The name John wasn't as common as one would think in this area, and I'd hardly stepped out of state all my life. So, it was hard to forget the man with olive skin, dark brown hair, thin lips, and teal blue eyes who I went home to every day. He looked just like his mother, who was a full-blooded Italian woman (the last of her bloodline), and acted just like his father, who was a White American man.