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He walked toward me, boots echoing on the wood floor. His attention remained fixed on the canvas above my head. He stood a foot away, for once not in my personal space, finally dropping his gaze to mine.
“She was mad.”
I flinched as if he’d slapped me. “You don’t know anything about her. These are paintings, just…” Flustered and angry, I wanted to hit him.
He scanned the room carefully, finally coming back to “Le Jeune Martyre.” “She was insane.”
His words were scorched with a cold rigidity. No spark of light in his eyes now. Why was he saying such a heartless thing about my mother?
“You didn’t know her.”
“It’s apparent. You had to have known this already.”
“Stop saying that! Stop it! Just get out! I don’t want you in my home. I don’t want you invading my privacy. You’ve already taken everything else away—my future, my hopes, my freedom. Leave me alone!”
I yelled. I raged. I cried. I buried my face in my hands, letting it all out. My VS shrank away, and I knew he was gone without opening my eyes. I was more alone than I’d ever been in my entire life. More alone than the day we said goodbye to my mother.
I ran to my childhood room, closed the door, fell onto my bed, and wept. The world had dealt me a cruel, cruel hand, and I wasn’t up for it. I grieved.
My old life was dead, and the new one was too much for me to bear. Thunder rumbled in the near-distance, reverberating off my windowpane. As sobs subsided onto my damp pillow, I drifted into a broken, dreamless sleep.
The soft soundof pattering rain against the window woke me. The day had darkened, making my white room gray. I roused and trudged downstairs. The television still hummed with football commentators, but for another game. Dad had dozed too. I sat on the end of the sofa, gazing at the man who’d shaped my world.
Dad was a tall physical powerhouse. Not to mention that several of the single moms coming into the dojo tried their damnedest to get his attention. To me, he was Dad—protection, safety, and love.
Though I knew he loved me dearly, he could no longer protect and keep me safe. There is only one person I knew of who could, and I’d sent him away.
Dad shifted and opened his eyes. “Hey, there,” he said, voice groggy.
“Hey.”
“Why so down? Still thinking of your mother?”
He knew I only went to the upstairs gallery when I missed her and needed to connect somehow. I nodded. He sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. His hair was sweetly tousled.
“Did you…?” I started. I stopped. Unsure whether I could ask this question.
“What is it? Go ahead.”
“Was she, was she sick in the end?”
He sobered, angling toward me. Rain poured onto the deck outside, mirroring my emotions. “Gen, your mother was sick. Of course, she was. Anyone who would do what she did must be.”
“But what I mean was, had she gone crazy? Like, really and truly crazy?”
I had no more tears to shed on the matter. I wanted to know the truth. I was only ten when she killed herself. I’d gone through all the emotions a child does—blaming myself, blaming my father, blaming the world. Now I just wanted to know really and truly—why?
“Toward the end, she became restless, obsessed, painting all the time and never painting the beautiful things she used to. She was angry, afraid, and depressed. I took her to a psychiatrist, but nothing helped. Not even medication. In the end, she only saw one way to end her suffering.”
He reached over and took my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“It had nothing to do with you. You know that, right?”
“Yes, Dad.” I nodded and tried to smile.
I gave him a hug to reassure him I hadn’t fallen into my own depression. Sometimes he watched me with an odd expression. I wondered now if he was waiting for my mother’s madness to rear its ugly head as if it were hereditary or something.
“I’ve gotta go, Dad. Class early in the morning.”
