Sunshine Picklelime (19 page)

PJ continued to listen to the storm. Rain rushed along the gutters. It made her feel so restless, she swung her legs out the window and slid down the trellis to the sodden flower bed below. She landed with a squelch.

PJ jumped around in the mud, imagining herself in a batch of chocolate truffle mix. Rain flattened her pajamas against her body and soaked her to the skin in seconds.

She ran onto the lawn and began spinning in circles. The movement reminded her of the way she spun around in Ruth’s tree house for the first time.

She started to cry. Everything that had been bottled up inside her for days came bursting out. She lay facedown on the lawn and covered her head with her arms. The long, wet grass felt soft and sweet against her face.

“PJ, what are you
doing?”

She rolled over to find her mom kneeling beside her in a slicker.

“Come on, honey,” Mrs. Picklelime said, taking her daughter in her arms.

“Mom, I’m OK,” PJ sobbed.

“I know what this is about. Come inside. You’ll catch pneumonia if you stay out here.” She lifted PJ off the grass and walked her through the front door, straight into the kitchen. She wrapped her in a huge beach towel and dried her vigorously.

After tossing the towel in the wash, she cocooned PJ in a soft wool blanket and heated up some milk for them both.

“I couldn’t seem to cry before now,” PJ said, stirring the froth on top of her milk.

“Don’t worry, baby, that’s normal. You’ll go through all sorts of highs and lows over the next weeks. It’s important to talk about this.”

“I don’t feel good talking to you or Dad,” PJ admitted. “You have your own problems. I don’t even like being in the house when you’re here at the same time.”

“I know, PJ. I’m so sorry. We’re working on a solution for all our sakes. This won’t take long, I promise you.” Mrs. Picklelime reached out and held her daughter’s hands for a long time.

Comforted by her mother’s warmth, PJ had no need to say anything more. She leaned across the table, kissed and hugged her mom good night, and went upstairs to her room.

Still wrapped in the soft wool blanket, she sat on her window seat, reached for her pad and pastels, and sketched. And sketched. Her hand could hardly keep up with the images that tumbled out of her imagination. She nodded off just before dawn, listening to the dripping trees and the
plink-plonk
of the bamboo fountain below.

During art class the next day, PJ—well prepared in her now totally paint-crusted jeans and T-shirt—spread out the drop cloths carefully and arranged her tray and rollers so no one would trip over them.

The other kids busied themselves with their own personal displays of art and sculpture. Mr. Santos left them to their creativity, only giving a helping hand when asked.

Using long sweeping movements, PJ began to transform the scrim into the yellow backdrop she wanted for her artwork. The roller went
swish, swish
, and she needed a ladder to reach the top. The final yellow wasn’t exactly the same as her room color. But it was a bright sunny spot that caught her eye wherever she stood in the large studio.

PJ took a step back when the scrim was finished and studied it carefully. Something was missing. She took another step back, hands on hips.

“What is it, PJ?” Mr. Santos asked.

PJ touched the surface. “It’s just not enough to hang my pictures here.”

“Ah, PJ, sketch whatever is running around in your mind on paper to give you a sense of scale. Then draw vertical and horizontal lines around the images for a grid,” Mr. Santos advised, tapping one hand at right
angles to the other to show her. “Later, apply that to the scrim.”

“I want to be freer, Mr. Santos. Not tied to a grid!” said PJ.

“Claro
, PJ! But the grid will free you.” “How? It sounds so stiff.”

“PJ, come on. Give it form, life. A house could be a grid. So could a wooden fence. So could a tall tree.”

“A
tree?
YES!” PJ shouted out loud. “Ruth’s live oak. Of course!”

Classmates all over the studio turned and looked at her in surprise.

“Muy bien!”
Mr. Santos said. “You’ll find extra brown and green paint in the storeroom, PJ. Help yourself.”

Before PJ tackled the grid, she cycled over to Ruth’s home and sketched the tree house in its huge live oak host. Soon, Mr. Splitzky would transport it to the Picklelimes’ own garden.

In the morning, she went to school very early to get started. She placed her sketch on an easel for quick reference and began to paint the “grid” of the huge live oak to
fill the entire canvas. The lowest branches almost touched the ground. She painted the largest branches across to the edge of the canvas like some curvy mythical sea creature destined to keep growing on and on. She also painted clusters of small, dark green leaves. Finally she painted the tree house resting on two branches and nestled against the mighty trunk.

PJ squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and painted an image of Ruth in her purple T-shirt leaning over the lower half of the door, thick, honey-blond pigtail dangling. PJ’s heart began to beat triple-time. Powerful noises surrounded her as other kids began to fill up the studio to complete their own projects. As an afterthought, she painted Squirt encircling Ruth’s neck, his long bushy tail in full bloom. Of all the rescue pets, Squirt was the closest to Ruth. PJ painted his fur to match Ruth’s eyes.

The effect was beautiful. PJ reached for her other sketches to attach to the branches. She used double-sided tape to avoid hurting the canvas and her artwork. First she attached Lemon Pie on the far left. She stood and stared at him for a long time. Then she took him down and reached for the pot of yellow paint. It didn’t seem right somehow just to hang him there and remove him
later. She had an urge to paint him on a branch, peeking out of the dark green leaves. She wanted Lemon Pie and Ruth to be a permanent part of the canvas.

As she daubed splashes of yellow and cream to bring her dear bird buddy alive, head back, beak open, and singing his funny little tune, PJ knew in that instant she would never see him again. There was no reason, no logical reason. She just knew.

Ruth was right. At some point PJ had to let go, to stop hankering, hoping. She just had to keep him alive in her imagination.

Since Lemon Pie was the first bird in her rescue story, PJ painted a much bigger version of him to be sure everyone noticed the warbler. Then, in sequence, she began attaching her other pictures. Sometimes she paused to paint an image directly on the canvas of something she had almost forgotten, such as the gulls flying off like musical notes into the distant sky. Cardy and Mrs. Cardy made beautiful splashes of red on a dark branch above the tree house against the yellow backdrop.

PJ added her images of Big Gull, Little Gull, the Gull Gang, and Messenger Gull as they dipped, swirled, and swooped in from some far-off cliffside.

Then came the owls. PJ studied her various drawings
and decided she needed fresher images, so she put the owl drawings to one side and reached for assorted pots of brown, white, and gray paints. She clustered the owls together on the twisting branch that supported the left side of the tree house. Tyto and Monkey Face contrasted with mottled Oohoo and funny little black-and-white Domino.

PJ folded her arms, stepped back, and assessed her work. The yellow backdrop made the collage of the huge live oak, the tree house, and the collection of pictures vibrate with life.

A quick-action replay of images kept jumping into her imagination, like the magical moonbow. She lined up all the colors and dabbed them in arcs in sequence from memory. Finally, with the help of a ladder, she added a shimmering moon to the top right-hand corner.

“Aaaaaaah,
bravo!”
Mr. Santos said. “You have made the live oak sing, PJ, sing!” He cupped one hand behind his ear. “Listen how the wind whispers through the branches!”

PJ listened, but still, she felt something was missing. Then it hit her. Of course! She reached for cream and gold paints. Blossom!

She painted the retriever standing upright with his
paws against the trunk, head back, barking happily up at Ruth. His caramel color almost matched Squirt’s belly and the flecks in Ruth’s eyes.

Now all they needed was Josh’s video. PJ went off to look for a high stool for his laptop so everything would be ready for him when he arrived.

the art show

PJ was doing laundry
when her father came home from work.

“Is Mom here?” he asked.

“No. Not yet.” PJ removed clothes from the dryer and began folding and separating them in piles.

“I’m moving out soon,” he said shortly.

PJ wasn’t surprised. In fact, it was something of a relief. “I know you’re not happy here,” she said. “Why pretend everything’s OK? Where will you go?”

“I’m looking at apartments closer to work,” he told her. “We’ll plan regular visits. I’m not going to disappear!”

“I know,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

“It’s not your fault, PJ.”

Reluctant to get into a deeper discussion, PJ said, “Are you coming to the art show opening at school?”

“Is your mother going?”

“Of course.”

“Then it’s best if I don’t go,” her dad answered.

PJ noticed her father’s expression and said, “Would you like a sneak preview? I’ll ask Mr. Santos. I know he’ll say yes.”

“OK, thanks, PJ. That might work,” he said.

“Dad?”

“PJ?”

“These are yours.” She smiled and handed him his shirts, all neatly folded.