Nobody else’s opinion about my art would matter until mine did. Elliot was right. I had been so concerned about what everyone else thought about my work. It was always about my parents or Cooper, my grandpa. Everyone else. So what was my opinion about my art? I walked around my small studio back at my house. I studied each piece. I had been quick to adopt Mr. Wallace’s opinions about my paintings when he’d mentioned them—immature, one-dimensional. And maybe I still thought that way about my early paintings. But my newer ones held emotion, depth. My newer ones were good, maybe even great. I could see the growth clearly, and I could see there was room for more growth. But wouldn’t there always be room for more growth? Wouldn’t I learn and grow as long as I was willing to try? As long as I was always willing to let things around me change?
I wandered back through the quiet halls of my house. My mom sat on the couch reading. At first I thought it was the medical book—it reminded me of one she’d read before—but then I realized it was a novel.
She met my eyes and shrugged. “A little progress.”
“Good job, Mom.”
“I have my first appointment this week with a therapist,” she said.
“Really? That’s great.” I smiled.
“I’m glad you’re happy about it.”
“Does it make you happy?”
“No. It terrifies me, but I’m going to do it.”
“Good. Sometimes we have to do the things that scare us, right?”
“Is that what you’re doing?” she asked. “With Cooper?”
“Maybe . . . yes. I’m just trying to free myself.”
“Hang in there,” she said.
“You too.”
“Are we going to be okay, me and you?” she asked.
“Yes, Mom. Love is about caring for someone even when they have weaknesses, right? I mean, you love me despite my sarcasm and laziness.”
She smirked. “I love you because of those.”
“I can see that.” I leaned down and hugged her. She didn’t let me go for several long breaths.
“Where is Grandpa?” I asked. It was time to talk to him as well. I had been the hardest on him. Maybe because he’d never let me down before, and I expected the most from him.
She pointed to the back door, and I let myself outside. Grandpa was in the far corner of the yard on his hands and knees picking weeds from between vegetables.
“You’re not going to break a bone, are you?” I asked, sitting on the retaining wall that boxed in his garden.
He took off one of his gloves and threw it my way. “Let’s see if your hands can accomplish as much damage as your mouth.”
I took a deep breath, knowing I deserved that, and put on the glove. I could see why Grandpa liked to garden. There was something about plucking offenders out of the warm, soft soil that was very satisfying. I wouldn’t let him know that though or he’d put me on weekly weed duty.
I looked over at Grandpa through a curtain of my own hair that hung down, blocking part of my view. “I’m sorry for what I said.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get your mom there the night of your show.”
“It’s not your fault, Grandpa.”
“But I’m more sorry I didn’t come. I should’ve. I was only thinking of her and her needs and not you. I hope you’ll forgive me. I do care about you, and it makes me sad you doubted that.”
Tears dripped off my face and into the dirt. “I know. I’ve always known. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Grandpa stood, with some effort, brushed off his knees, then took off his glove. He sat on the retaining wall and patted the place next to him. I sat next to him and played with the fingers of the glove that I left on my hand.
“It’s hard for me,” he said. “I feel like no matter what I try, she struggles. I try to push her, she pushes back. I try to be understanding, she sinks deeper. I want to take this burden from her.” He got a little choked up and I looked over at him, surprised.
I slipped my glove-free hand into his. “You can’t. She has to make that choice herself.”
“But I’m her father.”
“You feel like it’s your fault somehow.”
“Who else’s?”
“Grandpa. She’s her own person.”
“Your grandmother would’ve known how to handle this better. But obviously that’s wishful thinking.”
“I’ve learned a few things this summer.”
“From your list?”
“From everything.”
“What have you learned?” he asked.
“That we can only control ourselves. No matter how much we wish we could twist and bend someone’s will to ours, they have to want it too.”
“You’re a smart kid.”
I laid my head on his shoulder and squeezed his hand in mine. “You know, I could’ve turned out really screwed up.”
“What?” he asked, seeming surprised by my statement.
“I have a mom who is great but who rarely leaves the house and a dad who is gone all the time.”
“Yes, you could’ve let that turn you rebellious or jaded.”
“But I had you, Grandpa. I always had you. You made me feel safe. You gave me my strength.”
“And you, child, restored my heart.”
My art room was bright that afternoon. It was like a representation of what I’d realized after talking to my grandpa. I had finally figured out what my tree painting was missing. My heart. Lance had chained himself to his tree because of his memories, but his memories weren’t mine. I now knew what to add. What had helped define me. I hefted the large canvas up onto my easel, and for the first time in weeks, I slid open the drawer on my hutch and retrieved some colors. Then in the bark, on the strong, steady, trunk of the tree, and only noticeable if studied just right, I painted a face. My grandpa’s.
By the time I was done, paint coated my fingers. It had even worked its way under a few fingernails. I smiled and tried to wipe as much as possible on my shirt. I left the painting on the easel to dry.
I was going to apply to the winter art program with or without a sale. It was what I wanted to do. And standing there staring at my grandpa’s eyes in my painting, I believed I’d get in.