Love, Life, and the List
Page 52
“Yes, Mom. Love is about caring for someone even when they have weaknesses, right? I mean, you love me despite my sarcasm and laziness.”
She smirked. “I love you because of those.”
“I can see that.” I leaned down and hugged her. She didn’t let me go for several long breaths.
“Where is Grandpa?” I asked. It was time to talk to him as well. I had been the hardest on him. Maybe because he’d never let me down before, and I expected the most from him.
She pointed to the back door, and I let myself outside. Grandpa was in the far corner of the yard on his hands and knees picking weeds from between vegetables.
“You’re not going to break a bone, are you?” I asked, sitting on the retaining wall that boxed in his garden.
He took off one of his gloves and threw it my way. “Let’s see if your hands can accomplish as much damage as your mouth.”
I took a deep breath, knowing I deserved that, and put on the glove. I could see why Grandpa liked to garden. There was something about plucking offenders out of the warm, soft soil that was very satisfying. I wouldn’t let him know that though or he’d put me on weekly weed duty.
I looked over at Grandpa through a curtain of my own hair that hung down, blocking part of my view. “I’m sorry for what I said.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get your mom there the night of your show.”
“It’s not your fault, Grandpa.”
“But I’m more sorry I didn’t come. I should’ve. I was only thinking of her and her needs and not you. I hope you’ll forgive me. I do care about you, and it makes me sad you doubted that.”
Tears dripped off my face and into the dirt. “I know. I’ve always known. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Grandpa stood, with some effort, brushed off his knees, then took off his glove. He sat on the retaining wall and patted the place next to him. I sat next to him and played with the fingers of the glove that I left on my hand.
“It’s hard for me,” he said. “I feel like no matter what I try, she struggles. I try to push her, she pushes back. I try to be understanding, she sinks deeper. I want to take this burden from her.” He got a little choked up and I looked over at him, surprised.
I slipped my glove-free hand into his. “You can’t. She has to make that choice herself.”
“But I’m her father.”
“You feel like it’s your fault somehow.”
“Who else’s?”
“Grandpa. She’s her own person.”
“Your grandmother would’ve known how to handle this better. But obviously that’s wishful thinking.”
“I’ve learned a few things this summer.”
“From your list?”
“From everything.”
“What have you learned?” he asked.
“That we can only control ourselves. No matter how much we wish we could twist and bend someone’s will to ours, they have to want it too.”
“You’re a smart kid.”
I laid my head on his shoulder and squeezed his hand in mine. “You know, I could’ve turned out really screwed up.”
“What?” he asked, seeming surprised by my statement.
“I have a mom who is great but who rarely leaves the house and a dad who is gone all the time.”
“Yes, you could’ve let that turn you rebellious or jaded.”
“But I had you, Grandpa. I always had you. You made me feel safe. You gave me my strength.”
“And you, child, restored my heart.”
My art room was bright that afternoon. It was like a representation of what I’d realized after talking to my grandpa. I had finally figured out what my tree painting was missing. My heart. Lance had chained himself to his tree because of his memories, but his memories weren’t mine. I now knew what to add. What had helped define me. I hefted the large canvas up onto my easel, and for the first time in weeks, I slid open the drawer on my hutch and retrieved some colors. Then in the bark, on the strong, steady, trunk of the tree, and only noticeable if studied just right, I painted a face. My grandpa’s.
By the time I was done, paint coated my fingers. It had even worked its way under a few fingernails. I smiled and tried to wipe as much as possible on my shirt. I left the painting on the easel to dry.
I was going to apply to the winter art program with or without a sale. It was what I wanted to do. And standing there staring at my grandpa’s eyes in my painting, I believed I’d get in.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I sat on my bed in my room the next day gripping my phone. My finger hovered over the button that would instantly connect me to all of Cooper’s online world.
I knew what I’d told my grandpa in the garden was true. We could only control ourselves. No matter how much I loved Cooper, I couldn’t love him enough for the both of us. I had to let go.
And yet, I let my finger fall. Cooper’s profile pic came up—a selfie of him and me making the goofiest face for the camera. My breath caught. The last time I’d looked at his profile, it had been a pic of him and Iris. So did that mean that they really had broken up? I scrolled through the screens, but that was the only update there was. The statuses were from weeks ago. Like my accounts, his were eerily silent.
I put my phone to sleep and tossed it onto my nightstand. A small piece of paper fluttered to the ground with the action. I squinted and retrieved it off the ground. It was a business card. Mr. Wade Barrett. My brain took a couple of seconds to recall why I had this card and who this man was. He was the guy from the art show who’d made an offer on my quad piece—Fearless.
My quad piece. The one I had planned on giving to Cooper. I retrieved my phone and dialed the number.
The voice that answered was loud and boisterous. “This is Wade.”
“Hi, Wade. I mean, Mr. Barrett. This is Abigail Turner. I met you at the art museum. You liked my piece with the quad. You said your grandson liked to ride.”
“Ah. Yes! Hello.”
“Can I ask you a weird question?”
“Uh . . . sure.”
“Do you know my dad?”
“What’s your dad’s name?”
“Paul Turner.”
He hummed as if thinking. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Are you still interested in the piece?”
“Did you paint one similar?”
“No, but I’ve decided to sell the one you saw to you after all, if you’re still interested.”
“I am.”
We talked numbers and settled on a price. I hung up the phone.
I had just made money from my art. It was the first time I’d ever sold any of my work, and a thrill went through me.
“Mail,” Mom called.
“You got the mail, Mom?” I asked, emerging from my room.
“I know it’s not a big deal. . . .” She trailed off.
“It is a big deal.” As little as Mom went out, she went out even less by herself. I was proud of her, but I didn’t want her to push past her breaking point. “You know I love you no matter what, right?”
“I know that, and that would be good enough for me if all of your life could happen in this house. But it can’t. One day you’re going to graduate from college, get married, or have a baby. I’d like to be there.”
“I can only pick one of those?”
“What?”
She smirked. “I love you because of those.”
“I can see that.” I leaned down and hugged her. She didn’t let me go for several long breaths.
“Where is Grandpa?” I asked. It was time to talk to him as well. I had been the hardest on him. Maybe because he’d never let me down before, and I expected the most from him.
She pointed to the back door, and I let myself outside. Grandpa was in the far corner of the yard on his hands and knees picking weeds from between vegetables.
“You’re not going to break a bone, are you?” I asked, sitting on the retaining wall that boxed in his garden.
He took off one of his gloves and threw it my way. “Let’s see if your hands can accomplish as much damage as your mouth.”
I took a deep breath, knowing I deserved that, and put on the glove. I could see why Grandpa liked to garden. There was something about plucking offenders out of the warm, soft soil that was very satisfying. I wouldn’t let him know that though or he’d put me on weekly weed duty.
I looked over at Grandpa through a curtain of my own hair that hung down, blocking part of my view. “I’m sorry for what I said.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get your mom there the night of your show.”
“It’s not your fault, Grandpa.”
“But I’m more sorry I didn’t come. I should’ve. I was only thinking of her and her needs and not you. I hope you’ll forgive me. I do care about you, and it makes me sad you doubted that.”
Tears dripped off my face and into the dirt. “I know. I’ve always known. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Grandpa stood, with some effort, brushed off his knees, then took off his glove. He sat on the retaining wall and patted the place next to him. I sat next to him and played with the fingers of the glove that I left on my hand.
“It’s hard for me,” he said. “I feel like no matter what I try, she struggles. I try to push her, she pushes back. I try to be understanding, she sinks deeper. I want to take this burden from her.” He got a little choked up and I looked over at him, surprised.
I slipped my glove-free hand into his. “You can’t. She has to make that choice herself.”
“But I’m her father.”
“You feel like it’s your fault somehow.”
“Who else’s?”
“Grandpa. She’s her own person.”
“Your grandmother would’ve known how to handle this better. But obviously that’s wishful thinking.”
“I’ve learned a few things this summer.”
“From your list?”
“From everything.”
“What have you learned?” he asked.
“That we can only control ourselves. No matter how much we wish we could twist and bend someone’s will to ours, they have to want it too.”
“You’re a smart kid.”
I laid my head on his shoulder and squeezed his hand in mine. “You know, I could’ve turned out really screwed up.”
“What?” he asked, seeming surprised by my statement.
“I have a mom who is great but who rarely leaves the house and a dad who is gone all the time.”
“Yes, you could’ve let that turn you rebellious or jaded.”
“But I had you, Grandpa. I always had you. You made me feel safe. You gave me my strength.”
“And you, child, restored my heart.”
My art room was bright that afternoon. It was like a representation of what I’d realized after talking to my grandpa. I had finally figured out what my tree painting was missing. My heart. Lance had chained himself to his tree because of his memories, but his memories weren’t mine. I now knew what to add. What had helped define me. I hefted the large canvas up onto my easel, and for the first time in weeks, I slid open the drawer on my hutch and retrieved some colors. Then in the bark, on the strong, steady, trunk of the tree, and only noticeable if studied just right, I painted a face. My grandpa’s.
By the time I was done, paint coated my fingers. It had even worked its way under a few fingernails. I smiled and tried to wipe as much as possible on my shirt. I left the painting on the easel to dry.
I was going to apply to the winter art program with or without a sale. It was what I wanted to do. And standing there staring at my grandpa’s eyes in my painting, I believed I’d get in.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I sat on my bed in my room the next day gripping my phone. My finger hovered over the button that would instantly connect me to all of Cooper’s online world.
I knew what I’d told my grandpa in the garden was true. We could only control ourselves. No matter how much I loved Cooper, I couldn’t love him enough for the both of us. I had to let go.
And yet, I let my finger fall. Cooper’s profile pic came up—a selfie of him and me making the goofiest face for the camera. My breath caught. The last time I’d looked at his profile, it had been a pic of him and Iris. So did that mean that they really had broken up? I scrolled through the screens, but that was the only update there was. The statuses were from weeks ago. Like my accounts, his were eerily silent.
I put my phone to sleep and tossed it onto my nightstand. A small piece of paper fluttered to the ground with the action. I squinted and retrieved it off the ground. It was a business card. Mr. Wade Barrett. My brain took a couple of seconds to recall why I had this card and who this man was. He was the guy from the art show who’d made an offer on my quad piece—Fearless.
My quad piece. The one I had planned on giving to Cooper. I retrieved my phone and dialed the number.
The voice that answered was loud and boisterous. “This is Wade.”
“Hi, Wade. I mean, Mr. Barrett. This is Abigail Turner. I met you at the art museum. You liked my piece with the quad. You said your grandson liked to ride.”
“Ah. Yes! Hello.”
“Can I ask you a weird question?”
“Uh . . . sure.”
“Do you know my dad?”
“What’s your dad’s name?”
“Paul Turner.”
He hummed as if thinking. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Are you still interested in the piece?”
“Did you paint one similar?”
“No, but I’ve decided to sell the one you saw to you after all, if you’re still interested.”
“I am.”
We talked numbers and settled on a price. I hung up the phone.
I had just made money from my art. It was the first time I’d ever sold any of my work, and a thrill went through me.
“Mail,” Mom called.
“You got the mail, Mom?” I asked, emerging from my room.
“I know it’s not a big deal. . . .” She trailed off.
“It is a big deal.” As little as Mom went out, she went out even less by herself. I was proud of her, but I didn’t want her to push past her breaking point. “You know I love you no matter what, right?”
“I know that, and that would be good enough for me if all of your life could happen in this house. But it can’t. One day you’re going to graduate from college, get married, or have a baby. I’d like to be there.”
“I can only pick one of those?”
“What?”
