The Healing (The Things We Can't Change Book 3) (30 page)

“Why would I want to paint on that?
What
would I paint on that?” I ask. I have to admit, it’s a better surface that a concrete wall, and this paint will undoubtedly come out smooth and creamy, no false stops and starts to mar the picture on accident. But part of the whole process is the thrill of defacing something, of possibly being caught at any moment. There’s no adrenaline rush here. Then again, there’s always the risk of Clarissa coming down here and blowing a gasket.

“Because creating graffiti on a canvas won’t go on your permanent record,” Evie tells me, her hands planted on her hips as she stares at me challengingly.

“Doesn’t putting graffiti on a canvas defeat the purpose of graffiti?” I ask, feeling a little amused at all the trouble she went through.

“Art is art,” she tells me in a bossy voice, one that annoys me but kind of makes me want to laugh too. “If your only area of art is graffiti, you can put it on a canvas.”

That
catches my attention. “You think all I can do is graffiti?”

Evie shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s what you’re famous for, isn’t it? Your signature is all over town. You vowed not to paint or draw, but you get pissed off or sad and then you break your vow and go do something stupid, like try and spray paint my house because you’ve got to get it out. Try letting it out
legally.
”

“I know how to paint,” I tell her, still annoyed by her superior tone. “I don’t just do graffiti; you’ve seen my other paintings at school. I’m not a delinquent, runaway kid who-”

“Okay,” Evie cuts in. “So prove it.”

I stare down at the paint in my hand, at the canvas, at the chest full of expensive paint. My heart is beating fast, wildly at the thought of doing it. Rage at my dad makes my fingers tremble, grief at losing Cindy and knowing deep down, in the secret part of my mind, that I’m going to have to let her go someday. It’s all compounded, eclipsed by, the shame I feel for actually touching Evie violently, even if it wasn’t in a harmful manner. I still scared her. It still makes me a class-A jerk. But to betray my promise, my vow,
again
… To be reminded of how weak I am.

“I can’t.” The words burst out of me and I realize I’m trembling all over. I can’t do it. It’s too much, it makes me feel sick to my stomach and I don’t want to do it. I need to be strong for Cindy, because I owe her that much, to be strong for her now that’s she’s gone, if I couldn’t be strong enough for her when she was alive.

“You can,” Evie presses, and her voice is gentle as she takes a step closer to me, uncrossing her arms as though she wants to touch me but keeping her slight distance. “You can do it, Zeke. I promise you, it won’t make the world end. You can do this. You need to learn to accept that you have to feel things, but until then, if you need to get it out of you, then you need to learn to do it in a healthy way, one that won’t get you arrested.”

“I can’t!” I snap at her, shout it, more like. “I can’t do that to Cindy! I promised!”

Evie doesn’t even flinch when I shout at her. In fact, she moves closer, her eyes full of gentle understanding. I don’t want it. I’d prefer pity. That’s the problem with Evie, with both of us; we understand each other’s problems too well, and in moments like these, the other person hates it, because our biggest and best defense is to accuse someone of not understanding, railing at them that they don’t know what it’s like. But Evie does.

“It’s not a betrayal to Cindy,” she says in a quiet voice. “It’s not, Zeke. She would have wanted you to be happy. It’s so clichéd to say, but it’s the truth. She wouldn’t have wanted to see you like this. And you don’t honor or preserve her memory through painting or not painting. Art can be destroyed or stolen or lost, Zeke. You need to remember her with this,” she reaches up and ever so softly brushes my temple, and then lays her hand over my heart, her touch seeming to brand me, “and with this. There’s a big, big difference. Remember that.”

She turns and leaves the basement, and all is quiet. I stand there, my chest heaving at the tumult of emotions that are flying through me. I don’t want to admit that she’s right. I stare at the blank canvas. It’s begging me, absolutely screaming to be painted. My hands are shaking worse than ever, fingers twitching as I try my hardest to resist the urge.

Mind over matter,
I tell myself. Still, like a moth to the flame, I move toward the chest of paints. It’s like I’m a little kid staring at a toy chest of everything he’s ever wanted. I
want
to paint, I realize with a jolt. Never actually wanted to stop, really. I’ve just been denying it, denying myself. First because of my mom, and then because of Cindy.

I reach in and pull out a green, deep and forest-colored. The color of Cindy’s eyes.
Just look,
says the weak, spineless part of me that can’t keep any promise.
No harm in looking.

I spread all the cans out around me in proper rainbow order. There are a few texture mediums Evie must have selected at random, and even a few paintbrushes to blend with. She bought me everything. Everything except a picture to paint. But then again…

I think of Evie. The unique color of her big eyes, the barely there freckles, darker now from all our time in the sun. Her slim shoulders, her strong cheekbones, and that
hair
. The image I’ve wanted to paint for so long, the one urge I can’t seem to rid myself of permanently.

I stare at the cans and finally pick up one that’s purple. The same light purple of Evie’s eyes. It all slams into me, the damned attraction and caring I feel her for her, and have since that first day when I didn’t even
know
her. It’s like it opens a dam; emotions begin to flood into me before I can stop them; anger, grief, loss, love, betrayal.

My heart rate kicks up as I double over, feelings cutting into me with the literal pain of a knife. I don’t
want
it. I want it all
out
. There’s only one way to accomplish that, and before I can think better of it, I grab a can of paint and attack the canvas.

Evangeline

70

When I peek around the corner at Zeke an hour later, he’s standing before a blotchy canvas, fighting to get plastic wrapping off of a can of spray paint and cursing as he accidentally drops it. I smile a little to myself and back quietly away and back up the stairs. I plant myself at the kitchen counter, the basement door in full view, and work on my laptop for another hour, paying the bills and investigating the bank accounts that Uncle Greg gave me information and lectures about at our dinner last week. It’s a drag and boring, but when I close the laptop and have all the utilities and other bills paid, even my credit card, I feel a sense of accomplishment and pride that I haven’t felt in a very long time.

I lurk by the basement door for another five minutes, wanting to go down and spy on Zeke because I’m a creepy teenage girl like that, but I finally lecture myself firmly that Zeke needs some time alone right now and that I don’t need to disturb what appears to be a good thing; if it isn’t broken, don’t fix it and all that. So instead I move to the living room couch, where I can still hear the basement door if he comes up. I turn on the television and channel surf, letting my mind wander.

I’m torn between the urge to cringe and the urge to laugh a bit when I remember Zeke’s face as he knocked my hand out of the way. It scared me, but only for a flash of a moment. It was just reflex, seeing a hand swinging my way and getting ready for the blow to hit, to try and avoid it any way possible. But then I had looked up into his horrified eyes and known that this was Zeke, that he hadn’t meant to hurt me, even filled with anger and irritation as he was. I’d backed away, still just a little startled, but knowing this had to be about him, not me. About his feelings, what he was going through. And so I’d gotten in my car and gone and got the only things that I felt could help him sort this out.

Now, if only I knew whether or not it was actually working. I quell the urge to go and stick my head down the basement stairs again, to see if he’s actually painting and focus on the television. Finally I settle on the Disney Channel, which is running re-runs of older Disney Original movies, ones from my childhood. I make it through
Cadet Kelly, Cheetah Girls,
and
Zenon: Girl of the 21
st
Century
, but drift off midway through
Motocrossed
.

I pop up, wide awake on the couch, when the basement door bangs open. I look over the edge of the couch and see Zeke standing with one hand on the knob of the door, his head bent down and his shoulders slumped. I glance at the clock and see with surprise that it’s nearly seven o’clock at night. I wait silently as Zeke looks around and then spots my head over the back of the couch.

He heads over as I pull my knees back and he collapses onto the couch, arms flung out, head leaning back against the cushions as he closes his eyes and does some deep breathing. He smells strongly of spray paint and the strong odor assaults my nose and makes me sneeze twice before I’m accustomed to it. He has flecks and spots of paint all over his arms, smeared on his hands and flecked on his shirt and gym shorts, but I don’t say anything about how it could possibly be getting onto the couch. Frankly, I don’t care. I’m just breathlessly waiting for him to speak.

He looks exhausted, as though he’s been in the fight of his life. And maybe he has. I, of all people, should know how literal a fight with your demons can be. I stare at him for a while, but he doesn’t open his eyes and though I try to reign in my impatience, I can only manage about five full minutes of silence before I burst.

“So?” I ask, and my voice seems too loud for the empty house. Although, I’m sure Clarissa is around somewhere. I’m just not sure where. I lose track of her a lot these days.

Zeke cracks open an eye and looks at me. “So?” he asks.

“So, did you, um, finish your painting?” I hedge, wondering if he’ll get all volatile and moody on me.

“Yeah.”

I want to leap across the couch and hug him, I’m so pleased he was actually down there working on something, not just goofing off, but I resist with everything I have in me. “So… can I see it?” I ask, practically bouncing up and down with excitement.

He opens both eyes and looks at me, and I see a flash of tired amusement in his face. “No,” he says. “Not yet. And I have it covered up, don’t try to peek.”

“Oh.” I feel a moment of crashing disappointment, and then tell myself that it doesn’t really matter, not all that much. In the end, it doesn’t matter
what
he painted. Just that he
did.
“So…” I begin again, and then wonder how many times I’ll say the word before we’re done talking. “How was it?”

Zeke closes his eyes again, slouching even deeper into the couch. There’s a long pause, and he finally exhales a long breath. “Look,” he begins in a low voice, “I don’t mean to avoid, or… or insult, Evie. But this was… really rough, okay? And can we just, you know, put this off for a few days? Talking about this? What it all means?” He opens his eyes and looks straight at me, serious but pleading. “Just for a few days? Please, Evie.”

It’s my turn to take in a breath and then exhale, because of course I want to push him. I want to poke and prod and shove at him until he actually tells me everything that’s going on. I want him to explain to me why he hides all his feelings, why he thinks he should suppress it all, and I want to know the reason he stopped letting himself draw in the first place, before Cindy died. I want to push him as hard as he’s been pushing me.

The truth of the matter, though, is that Zeke is better off than I was. I can admit that now, and I can see it, too. What he does isn’t healthy, it isn’t good for him and it keeps him from living fully and loving life. It means he’ll end up sad and alone, and then maybe when he realizes it he’ll spiral downward and be as badly off as I was. But that’s something in the future, and right now he’s at least still
living
, moving forward, if very, very slowly. I, on the other hand, was probably only one or two steps from beginning to think about taking my own life. I shiver at the thought, because it’s ugly and repulsive and incomprehensible to me now, but I know it’s true. I was in a dark place, and I only came out because of Zeke pushing me relentlessly.

I’m by no means healed, still suffer from guilt and memories and loss, probably moving forward as slowly as Zeke is, but at least I’m
better.
I still have problems, but I know they are ones that time and people like Zeke will help me to solve, just as his are. And as I reflect on all of this, some of my franticness to push him lessens, and I feel calmer as I nod carefully.

“Sure,” I say. “That’s fine. But in return, you have to do something for me, too.”

A look of relief floods his face and he nods almost instantly. I lean down and pull a final plastic bag from around the side of the couch and put it on his lap. Zeke looks inside, and I know what he’s seeing; a sketchpad, a complete set of Prismacolor pencils, and variety of sketch pencils and charcoals.

“No more denying the urges,” I say quietly. He looks up at me, mouth open and ready to argue, but I hold up a hand. “Baby steps, remember? Remember what I told you in the basement about Cindy? It’s still true. If you don’t want to feel, then fine. We’ll… deal with that in its own time. So don’t let yourself feel, and cope for a little bit. But do it healthily,
legally.
I’m not saying you have to start drawing again, or take classes or anything, but it’s okay to do it once in a while, to get yourself under control, and to stay out of jail. Okay?”