Painting Chaos

Painting Chaos
She forgot to set her alarm and by the time she woke up in the late morning, there were two messages on her answering machine. She didn’t remember hearing the phone ring that morning, but guessed they were from last night. The first message was from her mother.

“Hey, sweetheart. Don’t be nervous, okay? I’m fine. I promise,” she heard her mother’s voice say. She wondered how could someone say that and expect the other person not to worry. “I just had a little fall and I broke my leg. Honey, don’t worry. I had to go out in the rain to get the cat last night and I fell down. It’s going to be fine, though, because it’s only broken in two places. All right, I have to go, but I’ll talk to you later. Call me back if you get the chance. I love you,” she finished.

Charlotte’s mind was racing. Why had her mother gone out in the rain to get Penny when she knew how bad the storms could get? Charlotte was shocked that this kind of thing could happen to her mother, a usually cautious and almost painstakingly careful person. She pressed the button and listened to the next message.

“Hi, it’s Dad. I don’t want you to get panicked, but your mom broke her leg. She fell in the rain.” What? He left another message saying the same thing as her mother’s? “It’s pretty bad, broken in two places. I know it’s short notice and you might not be able to, but could you come home for a couple weeks? I sent a plane ticket in an overnight package so it should get to you soon. Call me back. Bye.” Charlotte was confused. Did they not know they both called?

Her father wanted her to go out to Washington to help out for a while, but Charlotte didn’t know if she would. There were too many loose ends she would have to tie up in Philadelphia, too many things she would have to take care of. She decided to wait a while before calling her parents back to tell them if she was going back home.

The next day in the mail, she received a package, a thickly padded white envelope. She looked at the return address, 28 Willow Street, and she knew. She knew it was something she didn’t want, but would take anyway.

Charlotte walked back into the kitchen and found a pair of scissors to cut the packing tape with. It was obnoxiously taped, layers upon layers, but that was the way her father did things. Better to be safe than sorry. Charlotte finally opened the envelope and pulled out a paper and an envelope. The letter from her father said he was going on a business trip and needed Charlotte to help out her mom for a couple weeks. A plane ticket to Washington and a check for two hundred dollars with a post-it stuck to it were in the envelope. The note said, “For anything you need while you’re here with us, if you decide to come. If you don’t, keep it anyway. Love, Dad.”

Charlotte knew the kind of bribe and guilt game her father played. The check was tempting, but if she took it and didn’t go out there, it would make her feel like a freeloader. Charlotte decided to call.

She punched the numbers of her childhood telephone number and listened. One, two, three, four rings went by. The answering machine the family had for years, or as long as she could remember, began to play its message. A much younger Charlotte and her mother took turns talking. Finally, both of them together told the caller to leave a name, number, and short message and to have a wonderful day. It was almost uncanny how they sounded like one voice.

After a few moments of pause after the beep, Charlotte began. “Hi, it’s me. I’m coming. What time is the flight for? I should probably check the-” but she was cut off by her father picking up the phone.

“Hi, Charlotte. You decided to come,” her father said. “The ticket is for the fifteenth, so you have a couple days to pack. Listen, I have to leave because I’m late for a meeting, but thanks for calling me back,” he finished quickly.

“It’s Saturday. Why are you going to work?” Charlotte asked.

“Some people are in from New York and they’re only here for a couple days, so I’ve got to make the most of my time. We’ll talk soon,” he said. Charlotte said goodbye and hung up.

She went to dig her duffel out of the hall closet. She had two days before the flight left. Charlotte showered, dressed, and then began to pack. She was never one for lists or numbers and she packed haphazardly, hoping everything was there. Of course, there were certain items she made sure to bring: underwear, shirts, a toothbrush. But then there were the impulsive things she put in: a purple dress, three pink plastic bangle bracelets, a bathing suit.

She had to call the office where she worked part time to tell Sam she would need three weeks off to help her mother recover from a broken leg. He didn’t buy it. Sam said he would give her a week and if she wasn’t back sitting at her receptionist’s desk in seven days she was fired. Charlotte didn’t have time for this. She hung up on him.

She had not seen her family in over a year. Charlotte was too busy and she felt guilty. She needed to see them again. Two days later she left. Charlotte never liked flying in planes. They were too constricting, too dull, too awkward. The plane went through turbulence, and she spilled water on her lap. The kid behind her wouldn’t stop kicking her seat. The businessman in front of her talked nonstop to another businessman, who just nodded like a bobble-head doll.

By the time the plane landed in Washington, Charlotte was tired of sitting, all she wanted to do was take a long walk, but instead she met her father at the airport and he drove her to the house.

She watched the suburban neighborhoods blur by as she and her father caught up with each other while they drove home. He talked about everything- his job, the house, traveling, the holidays, but he never said anything about her mother. Finally, Charlotte had to ask about her. After all, she didn’t fly across the country for a three week visit on a whim.

“Yes, yes. Her leg.”

“How?” Charlotte asked.

“What?”

“How did it happen?”

“The cat,” he said.

“The cat broke her leg?” she asked.

“The cat made her break her leg.”

“It only weighs twelve pounds.”

“I know. It was raining at night and the cat went out, but then it started to really storm. Your mom went out and found Penny, but walking back, she tripped over the garden hose and fell. She was fine then, but her feet were covered in mud.” He craned is head to the left to make a turn. “Well, with the wet porch and the mud on her shoes and Penny, I guess she fell on top of the stairs. I’ll save you the details, but her leg twisted the wrong way from the rest of her body,” her father said. The fall sounded as awkward as his retelling of the story.

“So she fell up the stairs?” Charlotte asked, trying to understand.
Her father gave her a look and said, “Well, don’t say it like that. Your mother feels bad enough about this. Be sympathetic, Charlie.” Charlotte, who was staring ahead at the double yellow line on the road, was taken by surprise by her childhood nickname. There was no nickname for Charlotte like there was for her friends with names like Elizabeth or Caroline, so she began to call herself Charlie. She was always, and still was, inventing new things. Charlotte liked change.

They arrived at the house, 28 Willow Street, and parked the car in the driveway. Charlotte’s father cut the engine, took off his seat belt, and removed his glasses. He was about to give her a talk. It was a habit he had to always take off his glasses before a lecture.

“Charlotte, I’m leaving for three weeks to go to Germany. This is an important trip for my career or, believe me, I wouldn’t be taking it because of your mother. She means a lot to me, but I’m not always there, and I know that. I need your help with this, okay?” he said. Charlotte shifted in her seat and looked out the window at the rain falling off the gutters to make puddles on the path up to the house. She didn’t want to be alone with her mother for three weeks. She didn’t want details.

He finally finished and they went into the house through the back door. He dropped the duffel he was carrying on the floor. Her father called out a greeting and her mother called back that she was in the living room. Charlotte walked in and saw her mother on the couch, reading with her leg propped up on the coffee table.

“Hey, sweetie,” her mother said with a smile. “How was the flight?”

“Fine. It was fine,” Charlotte said. Her mother patted the space on the couch next to her and Charlotte sat down after she hugged her.

“You had a list of groceries and errands, right? Where is it?” Charlotte’s father said.

“Not now, she just got in,” she turned to her daughter, “Charlotte, don’t worry about it. I’m fine. I just needed a little help getting around while you father is away making big sales or whatever he does there. Relax for awhile. I know you hate airplanes.”
Her mother wanted to hear about Charlotte’s friends, art exhibits she went to, movies she saw, museums she visited, anything she did. Her father listened for a while, but said he had an early flight and should get to bed.

“He’s so worried all the time,” her mother said, after he left the room.

“He’s not worried all the time about nothing. He’s worried about you,” Charlotte said.

“Well, he should stop because I’m all right. I don’t need help,” her mother answered and Charlotte knew the conversation was done.

The next morning Charlotte got up first and made breakfast for herself and her mother. Her father had left earlier that morning, but he left a quick note taped to the microwave with the numbers he could be reached at. Her mother gave her a grocery list and Charlotte went out. She picked up dry cleaning, dropped off library books, and went to a pet store for a very specific brand of cat food for Penny.

When she got home they had lunch out on the patio. The music from the radio in the kitchen floated through the screen door out to the patio where they ate. Her mother always had it tuned to a classical station. They were playing opera, something in Italian. The voice was soft and the song was a slow, sad one, which contrasted oddly with the intense rays of the afternoon sun.

“Mom?” Charlotte said.

“Yes?”

“Does it ever bother you that Dad travels so much?” she asked. Her mother looked out on to the backyard. The grass was a deep green and the shrubs were perfectly kept. Two birds pecked at the bird feeder while a rabbit pawed at the ground in the corner of the yard. The air was still and quiet, but damp, the way it gets after an early morning rain. Her mother opened her mouth and inhaled, but closed it as she turned away to look out on the lawn.

“I’m disappointed. I’m disappointed I won’t be gardening for a while. It’s such a shame, because I wanted to get the backyard and my flower beds in shape for the last couple weeks of summer before autumn sets in. Do you like lots of little flower beds or a few big ones?” her mother said.

“What? Mom, I didn’t ask about gardening. I asked if you are bothered by Dad’s traveling.” Charlotte said again. Her mother looked back at her then down at the table, brushing the nonexistent crumbs off of the top.

“Oh. Well, I guess it does become inconvenient and difficult at times, but I’m okay,” she said. It sounded like she was trying to convince herself of this fact, as if she wasn’t sure it was true, but if she said it enough it might become real. “You know he goes all over. In January he went to Paris for a couple weeks. During his trip in March he was only supposed to be in Moscow for a week, but his partner’s wife was having a baby and couldn’t go, so he had to stay for another five days to finish up all the work. He’s so in demand in that company and it’s all over the world. Isn’t that kind of life exciting? I could never do anything like that.”

“Why not?” Charlotte asked.

“I couldn’t. I don’t have those skills or talents,” her mother answered.

“Well, you don’t have to do what Dad does, but you could do something else. You could go with him on a business trip and do some sight-seeing while he goes to meetings or travel by yourself.”

“I couldn’t.”

“So you just stay at home every time he goes away?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Charlotte said, but it wasn’t okay.

Charlotte hardly ever liked fixed routines and quickly found the days tedious. She wondered how her mother could live knowing that the next day would be just like the last. Charlotte ran errands and did cleaning in the morning, then in the afternoon, after she and her mother ate lunch, she painted on the back patio.
She never worried if her technique was right or if the colors complimented each other, all she cared about was the paint on the canvas. Charlotte wasn’t skilled at it yet, but she didn’t look for perfection. She would try anything- acrylics, oils, water colors. Acrylics dried fast and she could layer them. She used oils for their deepness and watercolors for their lightness. She mixed them, kept them separate, added and changed colors, opened and closed. Without comparing herself to the great artists, sometimes she felt her work was like a Picasso, a mixed up frenzy that made sense only to her. Sometimes it was like a Michelangelo, delicate and intricate. Other times it was everything and nothing all at the same time.

Charlotte sat with her mother on the patio outside. The day was cool without a breeze. She spread a couple sheets of newspaper out on the ground and set up an easel over the papers. Charlotte started to sketch a scene she would paint with watercolors later.

“Tell me about the time you went to a concert in the city and got lost. Remember?” her mother said. “You ended up getting on a train to Indiana instead of Philadelphia,” her mother laughed. Charlotte remembered and she laughed, too.

“I remember that was disaster, but you just told the entire story yourself. I’ve been here for two weeks and you made me tell you that story at least three times. You must know about every single thing that’s happened to me since I saw you last time. Why don’t we talk about you? What have you been up to?” Charlotte asked. Her mother looked at her for a moment before she turned away and looked out on the backyard. She paused for a minute before speaking.

“I wish those squirrels would stop scaring all the birds away. You know, they always run in right when I see a pretty bird that I want to get a closer look at with my binoculars. Those squirrels bound in, unexpected, tear through the yard and scare the poor birds to death. What am I going to do with them?”

“Don’t worry about the squirrels. I asked you what you did since we saw each other before I came down,” Charlotte said. Her mother looked up at her with a despondent face, but shook her head a little and smiled quickly.

“Me? Well, I planted a couple new bushes in the front yard. Your father went to Paris, Rome, Moscow and Toronto all in the same year. Isn’t that fun?” She said “fun” as if she wasn’t sure, as if she needed something to say about her husband’s traveling, but couldn’t come up with anything. “You remember your cousin Karen, don’t you? She’s about seven or eight years older than you. They were the ones who lived in North Carolina, remember? Well, she had her baby in June. They named him Mark but their last name’s Marcus and I think that sounds a little funny, don’t you? Mark Marcus. It’s like--”

“Stop,” Charlotte cut her mother off abruptly. “I want to know what happened to you. You’ve told me everything about everyone except you.”

“Oh. Well, I organized the garage. I broke my leg,” her mother said. She looked away at the birds in the yard. “I’m tired. I’m going in to take a nap.” She got up on her crutches and walked back into the house. Charlotte called after her mother to see if she needed help, but she didn’t answer.

The next few days were tense. They talked about trivial things, like the weather or errands Charlotte needed to do. Charlotte bought some cheap paints from a craft store. She wanted to experiment without wasting her good supplies. The paint was so inexpensive that she got one in every color they had and she was using heavy paper instead of a canvas. Charlotte didn’t know what she was going to come up with, but still she set up the newspapers and the easel on the patio, although she stopped when she saw her mother looking at her, fascinated.

“Do you want to try?” Charlotte asked.

“No, no. I’m not good at that sort of thing,” her mother said, hurriedly.

“You could be good at it. You could be anything,” Charlotte said.

“I can’t. What would people think? I’m not an artist.”

Charlotte laughed and said, “Neither am I. Neither of us have to be. Here, just put your feelings down any way you can and don’t worry about it, it’s not graded.” Her mother tentatively took the brush and tapped it in the brown painted Charlotte squeezed into a paper plate. Charlotte saw this and told her to use more. “The paper is big. A tiny drop of paint won’t do you justice.”

She saw that her mother needed privacy, so Charlotte said she was going for a walk. By the time she returned home, her mother had painted a little house made of a hollow square and a hollow triangle on top. It had a door and two windows and there was a flower with five oval-shaped petals on the white, bare front lawn. The entire thing was in brown. Charlotte looked at it, puzzled.

“These are your feelings, your emotions?” she asked. Her mother’s face changed from nervous to angry

“Why can’t these be my feelings?” she asked. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, I--” Charlotte tried to answer, but she knew she messed up. Just when she found a way to help her mother open up, she had also found away to make her close off.

“See, Charlotte, I told you I can’t do this,” her mother said. She couldn’t stay in the house. Her mother needed more time. Charlotte told her mother that she was going to run some errands, maybe go to the grocery store or downtown. Was there anything she needed? No.

Charlotte went out again and when she got back the easel was bare. Her mother was inside watching the news on the television. Charlotte didn’t want to press the matter any further, so she let the whole thing go. It wasn’t time yet. She cleaned up the easel and the newspapers on the patio.

That night when Charlotte was taking out the trash, she saw a roll of paper in the wastepaper basket in the living room. She was curious and unrolled it. The paper had black and dark blue and brown splotches all over it. There were green and orange patterns like the paint was flung on uncontrollably. Curling lines of deep purple coiled around, their ends just mere wisps, meeting with each other and breaking off in the middle. A thick, dark red line went diagonally from the top left corner to the bottom right. It was angry, desperate, dark chaos. When she picked it up the wet paint smudged on her fingers, covering her palms in a grotesque smear of black and red paint and coating her fingertips with blue stains. The paper was saturated with the paint and it made the entire thing heavy and limp. In white paint on the bottom left corner there was the day’s date along with three letters. Although it had been stained the nearby darker colors, it was still distinguishable. Her mother’s initials. Charlotte knew she should pretend like she didn’t see the painting. It wasn’t time. Not yet.