Zero (29 page)

No. Not yet. Plenty of time to sleep later.

I go through my stack of blank canvases and pick the
biggest one I’ve got. I throw it onto my easel and reach for my acrylics and gels. Then I remember: sketch first, paint second. Kinda like measure twice, cut once. So I grab my sketchbook and a pencil and spend a few hours preparing this painting, the one I’ve been wanting to do for about two months now. When the sketch is done, I attack the canvas.

I lose track of the night entirely, working on this piece. By the time I can barely lift my hand anymore, it’s nearly complete. I think. Hard to say. I clean up my brushes, change into flannel pants and my D.I. shirt, and take one last look at it before hitting the light.

But my fingers freeze over the light switch.

Did I really just paint that?

It’s a pair of eyes. Mike’s, of course. I’ve gotten the emerald-sapphire mixture just right, and the high gloss shines almost as well as the real thing.

I’ve got them. I did it. Captured the right color, the right feeling, the—

There’s something else there, too, I realize. Something I didn’t see before.

In both pupils, there’s a reflection. Slightly rounded and distorted, like an Escher drawing, like you’d see if you were looking into a spherical mirror, but clearly recognizable.

It’s me, reaching toward the eye, out of the canvas, as if
I
am a painting, right now, and the artist in the pupil is the real thing. This reflection is reaching out with a paintbrush; it’s me, painting my own image in Mike’s eyes.

I don’t want to get all melodramatic here … but
holy shit
.

I hear Mr. Hilmer’s voice, distant but distinct.
Self-portraits
are the artist’s best if not only way to reveal themselves to the world. They speak volumes that the written and spoken word cannot
.

It’s not my first self-portrait, if you count the shattered reflection on my ceiling or the Camelback Mountain picture hanging at Hole in the Wall. But it’s my first intentional one. I
know
—I know how angsty and ridiculous it is—but I think I know what I’ve been seeing in Mike’s eyes this whole time.

Stop, no. I can’t go there. Not now. It’s too much. I have way too many things to think about, and I am dead tired, and I might be pregnant, for all I know, and I have to get some sleep if I’m going to make any kind of decision here.

What should I do? I ask my faces, my hand still hovering over the light switch.

What should I do?

My faces are stoic, judging, asking me my own question back. I remember now that it was just a few weeks ago I came so close to painting over my rendering of Jenn, and how glad I am now that I didn’t.

But I also realize there’s something I need to do instead.

I climb onto my bed with a jar of white acrylic and my biggest brush. It takes only a few minutes for my mirror-face to disappear, buried beneath blank whiteness.

What should I do? The only thing I
can
do.

“Is this really happening?” I whisper-ask
The Hallucinogenic Toreador
.

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

A storm is coming.

The next thing
I know, it’s Monday morning, and rain is playing snares on my awnings. I lie in bed, trying to organize my thoughts. A minute later, I cover my face with both arms and cry with relief as I realize: I won’t be having a baby.

Okay. So that most likely solves that. But I have to be sure. I roll out of bed and go to the bathroom to shower and clean up. After that, I pull on my baggy jeans, then drop them and kick them into a corner. I choose a new pair of pants that Mom bought instead. These actually fit me. I’m surprised when I double-check the size.

Then I call our family doctor and make an appointment for the earliest I can get in. I try hard to ignore the nurse’s tone when I tell her why I need to come in. But I feel better, for the most part; safer.

My phone rings.

Mike!
It’s already eleven.

“Hello!”

“Hi, is this Amanda Walsh?”

Un. Real. What is this, a salesman? I do not have time for this.

“Yeah,” I say,
not
nicely.

“This is Eli at Hole in the Wall Café. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

Actually, you didn’t, but I have somewhere I have to—

Wait,
who
?

I go, “Uh-huh?”

“Listen, your painting sold last night, so I owe you some money. Minus the twenty percent, of course.”

My what whatted when?

“So if you want me to send it to you, I’ll need a mailing address, or I could hold it here for you to pick up, since you’re one of our regulars…. Are you still there?”

Thunder rumbles the roof; rain patters against my window. I want to open my mouth to the sky, drink the rain, because my mouth and throat are as dry as a Phoenix summer.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did you say my painting sold?”

“Yep. To an older couple moving to California. Said they wanted a piece of Phoenix to take with them, and your painting of Camelback Mountain was perfect.”

California.

I check my Dalí clock. Less than an hour.

“I …” I have nothing to add after that.

“You want me to just hold on to it for now?”

The money. Someone is paying me for my painting.

I did it.

I’m an
artist
.

“That would be great,” I say, and open my top drawer, riffling for a clean shirt to pull on. “I can come by….”

“Sounds great, I’ll be here. Hey, congratulations, huh?”

“Thank you,” I whisper, and hang up.

What was I talking about? Ah, yes. Art
.

(
But is this art?
)

I yank on the T-shirt and my boots. My blue cabbie hat hangs on my desk lamp, so I grab that and pull it over my uncombed hair just as Mom knocks on my door.

“Everything okay, Amy?”

“Yeah—no—”

She cracks the door open and peeks inside. “Say again?”

“I sold a painting,” I say. “My first sale, and I have to—I’ve gotta …”

“Amy, that’s wonderful. Good for you!” She comes in, hugs me tight, and kisses my forehead. “I knew you would.”

“Thanks….”

“Listen, your father’s home,” Mom says, releasing me. “You might want to talk to him. Before he goes.”

Before he—

“He would appreciate it,” Mom says gently, and leaves my room.

I follow her and catch Dad in the hallway. He’s pulling a wheeled suitcase behind him.

“You’re really leaving?” I say. Guess it runs in the family.

Dad stops, blinks. “Oh. Hey, kiddo.”

“Got yourself a nice apartment somewhere?”

Dad looks confused, then closes his eyes. “No.”

I fold my arms.

“It’s, um … this
facility
.” He sneers at the word and opens his eyes. “Some place a friend of your mom’s recommended, I guess. Some priest or something.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe it.

He also looks scared.

I drop my arms. “You mean you’re not moving out?”

“Just for a few weeks,” Dad says, not meeting my eyes. “Get, um … you know. Dried out.”

Oh my god.

“For real?”

“Yeah.” He squints at me. “Thought you’d be a little happier than this.”

I look at him, around him, through him. He’s really going? Really going to try?

“I am,” I whisper. “I really am. That’s great, Dad. Thank you.”

He lets go of the suitcase handle and comes over to me. Lifts my hat, ruffles my hair. “I should thank you,” he says. “You called me out good and proper, kid. That took guts. I appreciate it, Z.”

“Amanda.”

Dad blinks. “What’s that?”

“Could you start calling me Amanda?”

Dad half-smiles. “If you want.”

“I kinda do.”

“You got it. Amanda.” He puts my hat back on my head. I adjust it so it falls right. “Think I could get a hug from you?”

I don’t say anything, just wrap my arms around his
middle. Dad hugs me tight, his cheek pressing against the top of my head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “For—yeah.”

I squeeze him tighter.

We let go of each other. Dad grabs the handle of the suitcase and wheels it behind him to the kitchen. I follow silently.

Mom is pulling her purse over her shoulder. “Ready?” she says softly.

Dad nods. He goes to the kitchen door, pauses, and looks back at me. “See you in a few weeks,” he says. “Unless you, you know. Come visit.”

He trundles into the carport, headed for Mom’s car. Mom and I watch him go.

“Is he serious?” I ask her.

“I think so, Amy. It’s a start, anyway. There might be some rough spots, but …” She lets out a tired little yelp and flaps her arms up, then down. “Well, what the hell.”

I stay silent again.

Mom watches Dad load the suitcase into the backseat of her car. “Any ideas about what you want for your birthday?” she asks absently.

“… What?”

“Your birthday? It’s just around the corner. It is a big one. And I’d like to get you something nice.” Mom turns to me. “Or perhaps do something together …”

God. I’ll be eighteen in about a week. So soon?

What do I
want
?

“Tickets,” I say.

“Tickets?” Mom repeats. “To a show of some kind?”

“Plane tickets.”

“Oh. To where?”

I rub my face. “I gotta go out for a bit,” I say. “We can talk about it later. You should get going.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Nowhere—special. And, um … I still need to talk to you about some things. Okay?”

Thunder erupts again, and the kitchen rattles. Mom glances out the window, and I know from experience she doesn’t want me to drive in the rain.

I wait for her to tell me not to leave. To stay home.

“Okay,” she says after five decades have passed. “Please be careful.”

I look into her eyes. “I will.”

Mom comes over and gives me a quick hug. “See you soon.”

I don’t move as Mom follows Dad out to her car. They climb in, and she drives carefully out into the road, then on down the street.

See you soon
.

I don’t know how long I stand in the kitchen, but when I finally look up at the clock, I see I’ve got maybe twenty minutes to make it to the bus station.

I run to the Peugeot, climb in, and drive fast, switching lanes and zipping through yellow lights as if my life depends on it. Maybe it does.

I careen into the bus station parking lot and park in the first available space. I race toward the station, shielding my eyes from the rain. My boots get soaked running through oily puddles, disrupting iridescent rainbows.

I burst into the building and follow signs to the boarding area, where the buses sit awaiting their passengers. I fling open the doors and nearly trip down the iron steps to the sidewalk. Wiping raindrops from my eyes, anxious, I search for Mike among the throng of passengers climbing on board the nearest bus.

There.

“Mike!”

Mike turns. His board dangles from one hand, while the other is passing an attendant his duffel bag to be stowed in a storage compartment. He’s wearing his Ghost of Banquo shirt, which is starting to stick to his body from the rain. Mike quickly surrenders the board to the attendant, then steps toward me, his face breaking into a smile. Like he’s so happy to see me.

I’m already on my way. We meet near the rear of the bus, and I grab him with both arms, pulling him close. His arms encircle me, holding me tightly.

My eyes close as I grip Mike. “I had to tell you,” I breathe against his chest. “I had to tell you in person….”

But I don’t, can’t, finish my thought. I lean back, away from the warmth of Mike’s body, and take his head in both hands, like I did that night on Camelback Mountain. Mike meets my lips halfway, kissing me hard, his hands clenching fistfuls of my shirt and drawing me near until we’re pressed together even more closely than we were that night in the parking lot of Hole in the Wall.

We kiss; frantic, agonizing, relentless. Mike’s hands seek all of my body. I feel every touch along my back, my neck, and my face, while my fingers run through his hair, his bangs beginning to drip from the cascade above us. The rest of the
world fades into background noise, then away completely, until we’re alone, and together.

At last I pause and rest my head against his cheek, exhausted, my face warm and flushed. “I love you,” I say, eyes tightly closed. “I really think I love you, and I just had to tell you that.” I lean back again and look up at him. “I’m not pregnant. I mean, I’ll find out for sure later this week, but—probably not.”

His relief is so immediate and plain that I’d laugh at him if I wasn’t standing in the rain at a bus station.

“All right,” he says. “That’s good. Good. Wow. Okay.” Then his relief fades, and he studies me. “So, does that mean you’ve deci—”

“And I sold that painting.” I have to interrupt. “The one from Hole in the Wall. It sold.”

“That’s
awesome
, Z. That’s great.” Mike’s eyes shine beneath the ashen sky. “I knew you would.”

“Yeah.” I touch his face, studying his features with my fingers, memorizing the texture. “I know.”

A baby begins crying somewhere, followed by the soothing murmurings of a mother. A baritone voice calls, “All passengers boarding!” and suddenly the world is back, all noise and color, a kinetic painting.

Mike tugs on my sleeve. “So what do you think?”

It’s not too late. Like he said, I could meet up later in the week and—

“I can’t,” I say. “I want to, so much, but I can’t.”

Not today, and not later this week.

I want to. Oh god, fucking A, I want to.

But the thing is, I have to see what’s next for me. I don’t
want him to go, either; I want him to stay and go with
me
wherever
I
end up. And I know he can’t.

We
can’t. Not like this. Not now.

Mike looks down at the wheels of the bus, which will soon go
round and round
. He nods a bit, like to himself, before facing me again.