Paint Me a Monster
Read Paint Me a Monster Online
Authors: Janie Baskin
I wake up. The smell of ashes burns in my nose. A fire burns in my head. My ears want to drench the promise that repeats itself:
If you ever, ever, ever
Try to sneak away,
I'll be waiting in the night.
I'll be waiting in the day.
You never will escape me.
You never will be free.
You're my forever, ever, ever
You're the lock that fits my key.
It's the monster. I don't understand. But it is the monster.
"Because with you . . . I created a monster"
Rinnie Gardener's life looks like a perfect painting from the outside—a loving family and a beautiful house. But when the paint is stripped away, this dream dissolves to dust. Her parents divorce. Her father treats her like a stranger. Her mother, looming like a black cloud, treats her worse. Painful words become painful bruises. Rinnie's own body becomes a source of self-punishment.
As her life seemingly falls apart, Rinnie has the courage to pick up the pieces. In a brilliantly unique style and voice, Rinnie tells her story—a search for identity, love, and healing. She must look in the darkest places to repaint the canvas of her life. She must face the monster.
Janie Baskin is in a lifelong affair with curiosity. Her unique gifts for observation and insight empower her work as a teacher, artist, writer, and illustrator of children's books. The passion to create is her constant companion—whether in the kitchen, the studio, or wherever her travels take her across the globe. This is her first novel.
A MAID, a NURSE, and SLEEPING BEAUTY
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This book is dedicated to Flo who lives in my heart, and to Ruth who illuminated my path with her wisdom.
YAH, RINNIE
“You girls draw me something pretty,” Verna says, handing us paper and what she calls a rainbow-in-a-box. “Just be sure to keep those colors on the paper. Lord knows your mama’s given me enough house-cleaning to last a lifetime.”
“Thank you, Verna,” we say. “We promise to be sure.”
“1958—you’d think Mrs. Gardener never heard of Abraham Lincoln,” Verna mumbles.
I love the smell of waxy crayons and their jiggy jag lines.
“When all the colors slide over each other, it makes a rainbow out of the box,” I say to my sister, Liz.
“That’s scribbling, Margo,” she says. “I don’t scribble. My picture is our house. 61 Peregrine Avenue, Cincinnati, Ohio.” Lizzie underlines the letters with red zigzags. “Here’re the thorn bushes, our tree house, and our sandbox.” She sits back on her knees, chest out like she’s about to sneeze.
I don’t care what a Cincinnati, Ohio is. “Scribble scrabble, scribble scrabble, scribbly scribbly scribble scrabble.” The words pop out of my mouth. They are hard, soft, and sweet at the same time.
