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Iheld achair out for Erin as an afterthought. Her mouth quirked up, her excited eyes focusing on me and then at my parents who wore asimilar expression.
This house was never like this, not even close.
The familiar room brought back visions of my dad walking past me like Ididn’texist when he got home from work. The days and nights where nothing interested them besides what played on the news, or any other channel, as long as it wasn’tme.
While the house remained virtually the same, one thing did stand out. My paintings. They decorated the walls of the house, replacing years’ worth of collections of their Cézanne, Monet, and Van Gogh.
They chose me.
“…not too many professors are as admired as Thomas is.” Erin’smelodic voice permeated through my thoughts. “It took him awhile, but now the students are fascinated by him, and after being to one of his classes, Ican totally see why. He was born to do it.”
Many people admired my work; if Ihad any doubts, Ionly had to check the waiting list Iused to have back in Russia with no openings for at least ayear ahead. Iwas used to it, unfazed.
When Erin said she saw all these wonderful things in me, Iwas more than fazed. At school I’dbeen the one to ask her questions, seek her advice about presentations, consult with her more than order her around these days. How could it have been that the woman Ilooked up to had been impressed with me?
My mother eyed me from across the table, glowing with pride. Ireturned her close-lipped smile and readjusted myself in my seat. This show of affection, from everyone today, scared me and Ididn’tallow myself to get used to it. Icouldn’tafford that.
“Our Thomas always aimed for the top, regardless of what he did.” My mother reached for my hand and pressed it once.
“Isuppose you have alot of time on your hands; when can we expect you to open your own gallery?” my father chimed in.
And that was exactly why Icouldn’tlet my guard down. Because if they acted as real parents should to begin with, Iwould’ve felt comfortable sharing my struggles about creating new art with them. They weren’t, and Icouldn’t, and that shit threw me into the whirlwind of the feeling of abandonment, of never having their attention, and with it the anger.
His question, instead of reflecting his interest, highlighted how much they didn’tcare before. Apart of me regretted coming here, for holding on to faith of us being afamily.
“For the meantime, I’mfocusing my attention on teaching,” Igritted out through clenched teeth, looking at the clock. We’dbeen here for less than ten minutes and Iwas already looking for an out, suffocated by memories Ibelieved would disappear because Iwished them to.
In the middle of my angst and pain, Erin’sfingers curled around mine from under the table. Calming, pacifying, asking me to tamper down the reaction building inside of me. Telling me she was here for me.
“Iactually think Thomas is doing an admirable job by giving back to the art community before considering himself and opening agallery.” The remark flowed from her naturally, without the spite Ihad in mine.
My head twisted at her, in awe. She fought for me like she fought for her fellow artists that day in the gallery, with less angst on her part and that of heropponents. What Iconsidered being annoyingly stubborn was in fact abrave Erin, who in her own gracious way, stood up for what or who she believed in.
And right now, that someone was me.
“Iwish we could say we had apart in this.” My mother seized the opportunity to settle down the issue and joined forces with Erin. “That’sall Thomas’sdedication and talent. He was always self-taught, from his manners to his studies and work.”
Isighed inwardly. Like Ihad achoice.
“Did he tell you about the first time he experimented with art?” She directed her question at Erin.
Erin sunk her fingers into mine when Isighed outwardly this time, in protest. Ibelieved her intention was to soothe me, and indeed my anger faded, and in its place, something stirred in me.
“He had just turned two and we got him cans of paint and afive-by-eight blank sheet, thinking it would keep him occupied while Iwas busying myself with cooking. In those days Icooked and baked alot.” She glanced at me, her smile waning at the unpleasant memory. “To each their own form of escapism.”
That much was true. Any excuse she could find to not spend time with me and occupy herself around the house counted as agood one. She cooked and baked until our pantry and fridge reached their maximum capacities, then gave out pastries to the whole neighborhood.
“We opened up the cans and spread out the sheet right over there for him to play with.” She pointed to acorner far away next to the sink. “When Iwas done, Ichecked on him, thinking I’dsee him smothered in paint. What Ifound was apainting of our living room. With just his tiny fingers.”
“Boy wonder.” Erin beamed, hanging on to my mother’severy word.
“He was. He still is,” she corrected herself. “He wasn’tlike the rest of the kids. He wasn’tfascinated with Legos or playing outside. Only painting. He would stay in his room for days at atime until he was ready to present us his work.”
Little did she know that back then Idid it as ameans to gain their respect and maybe love, and Iconstantly felt like afailure.
Erin, with her hand still clasped onto mine, sensed my discomfort and rubbed soothing circles with her thumb over my wrist. She pressed it lightly, asking me silently to look at her.
Her wide, exploring eyes searched my expression for any sign of distress. Iflipped my hand and tightened my grip on hers, letting her know Iwas all right. She understood, smiled at me, and turned to the table, where we stayed until late. Ifelt safe with her around.
