I LEFT HER IN THE BATHROOM, heat and scent seeping beneath the closed door. I could hear the soft swish and lap of the water moving as she moved, and I found myself with a paint brush in my hand, staring out into the dark from the window in my old upstairs room, taking note of the light still shining from the windows at Georgia’s house, hoping her parents weren’t in a mild state of panic that she was here with me. A truck idled on the corner between our houses, a big diesel truck like the one Georgia had described Terrence Anderson driving. The thought sent the same sick dread curling in my stomach that I’d felt as she’d told me about crawling along the dirty floor so he wouldn’t see her.
As I watched, the truck pulled away and ambled down the road, turning at the next block where my eyes couldn’t follow. Even with the intrusion of Terrence Anderson, my mind continually tiptoed to Georgia on the other side of my wall. I could imagine upswept hair and long limbs spilling over the white porcelain of the tub, dark lashes on a smooth cheek, full lips softly parted, and I resisted the urge to start painting all the little details my mind readily supplied. If Vermeer could find beauty in cracks and stains, then I could only imagine what I could create from the pores of her skin.
If I only knew how to paint Georgia into my life, or how to paint myself into hers without overwhelming her, then maybe the trepidation I felt would melt away. I would never be easy to love. There were some colors that overpowered all the others, some colors that didn’t blend.
But I wanted to try. I wanted to try so badly it made my hands shake and the brush fall from my fingers. I snatched it up and walked to the easel set up in the corner, the canvas calling to me, and I began to mix a little of this, a little of that. What had I told Georgia so long ago? What colors would I use to paint her? Peach, gold, pink, white . . . . there were fancy names written on the little tubes I bought in bulk, but I kept it simple in my head.
A sweeping brush stroke brought the line of her neck to life on the canvas in front of me. Then the little ridges along her slim spine, the pale curl on golden skin. But I gave her color too, a dapple here and there, pink and blue and coral, as if there were petals in her hair.
I felt her come up behind me, and I paused, breathing her in before I turned my head and looked down at her. She had donned her running shorts again, but had abandoned the dusty sweatshirt and wore a slim white tank top and nothing on her feet.
“I wanted to paint you,” I said, by way of explanation.
“Why?”
“Because . . . because,” I scrambled for a reason that didn’t include her holding still and letting me stare at her for long periods of time. “Eli wants me to paint you.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.
“He does?” her voice was faint and she peeked at me almost shyly. It was strange to see her that way. Self-conscious in a way she’d never been.
“I seem to remember you wanting me to paint you. Before.”
“I wanted a lot of things, Moses.”
“I know.” And I was determined to give them to her. Anything and everything within my power.
“Did Eli like to paint?” I’d never asked her if he was anything like me. I hoped not.
She began to shake her head and then she stopped and laughed. And just like that, I could see the memory of a forgotten moment, just a glimpse as if I had looked inside her head. But it wasn’t coming from her. Eli sat cross-legged in the window seat and smiled like he had missed me. Missed us. And Georgia’s eyes grew soft as she narrated the scene, without even realizing I could already see it in living color behind my eyes.
“It was late. I’d been up since dawn and hadn’t stopped all day. Eli was crying, Mom and Dad were out, and it was way past bedtime. Eli still needed his dinner and a bath, and I was ready to cry with him. I warmed up some leftover spaghetti and opened a can of peaches, trying to soothe Eli who wanted chicken noodle soup for dinner.
“He wanted homemade soup with the fat noodles. But I told him we didn’t have any more and that I’d make homemade soup on the weekend. Or Grandma would. Hers was better than mine. And I tried to make him happy with leftover spaghetti.
“But he didn’t want it, and I wasn’t very patient. I settled him at the table and made him a plate, trying to convince him it was exactly what he wanted every step of the way. I set a glass of milk in front of him and filled his favorite tractor plate with noodles and sauce on one side and sliced peaches on the other.”
She stopped and her lips trembled a little. But she didn’t cry. And Eli picked up where she left off. Eli showed me the moment he’d taken his plate and dumped it over his head, sauce and peaches pooling in his hair, sliding down his chubby cheeks and dripping down his neck. Georgia had just stared at him, stunned. Her face was almost comical she was so incensed. Then she sank to a puddle on the kitchen floor and started naming the things she was grateful for, the way some people count to ten to try to keep from exploding. Eli knew he was in trouble. His concern colored the memory in a hazy wash, as if his heartbeat had kicked up while he watched his mother try not to come unglued.
The view changed as he climbed down from his chair and trotted over to Georgia. He squatted down in front of her, and without missing a beat, rubbed his hand through the spaghetti sauce in his hair and wiped it on her cheek, very, very gently.
She reared back, sputtering, and he followed her, wiping his hand down the other cheek.
“Hold still, Mommy. I’m painting you,” he demanded. “Like my dad.”
Georgia froze and Eli continued rubbing his ruined dinner all over her face and arms as if he knew exactly what he was doing. She watched him silently, and her eyes slowly filled with tears that ran down her face and over the globs of spaghetti sauce and smeared peaches.
“He wanted to paint me,” Georgia said, and I separated myself from Eli’s memory so I could be with her in the moment. “He wanted to paint me. Just like you. He knew your name. He knew you painted the story on my wall, he knew you painted the picture I framed and hung in his room, the picture you sent me . . . after you went away. But that was the first time he did anything like that. Or said anything like that.”