moment. Nothing left to do but add the fractured, polished mosaic of sea glass. Her first thought was that she had somehow painted more optimism into the image than she had expected. Where she had seen only hopeless, helpless starfish, there was somehow a sense of reaching, striving for a salvation that seemed possible.
But as the hypnotic effect of creation gradually evaporated, the image that was never far from her mind returned full force. She somehow transposed a vision of the child she had loved—the boy her partner had taken from her—onto the painting. She suddenly could see her son, who had been lost to her for so many years, kneeling next to the pool and reaching toward the starfish. The brief respite from despair was over, the glorious amnesia brought on by concentration and immersion was gone. Finishing a painting was even more painful than beginning as Pam’s mind returned to the present, and a rush of grief, held at bay for a brief time, returned in force.
Piper had left her bed to sit by the back door, and she whined softly, asking to be let outside. Pam grabbed a box off the kitchen table and followed her dog into the small backyard. She sat in a weathered Adirondack chair and sifted through the box’s contents while Piper wandered around the tiny patch of lawn. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Mel that sea glass was getting harder to find, but she hadn’t let on how much she had collected over the years since she had started coming to the ocean with her grandparents. She sorted through the glass until she had a good-sized pile of red tones, from pale pinks to rich burgundies, to use on the starfish bodies. She added some lavender-colored glass as an accent and then called Piper inside for dinner. She poured some kibble in a bowl for her dog and a few fingers of tequila in a glass for herself. She hesitated and then poured a little more. Pam sat on the couch with her drink and turned on the television, ignoring the painting she had turned to face the wall so she wouldn’t have to see it.
❖
Pam called Mel a few days later to tell her the starfish painting, the first of her commissioned pieces, was completed. She felt a stab of disappointment when the call went to voice mail. She hung up without leaving a message. Even though the process had been difficult, now that her mosaic was finished she wanted to share it with Mel. Because she was relieved to be finished with a painting. Exhausted and relieved and ready to have it out of her house. And maybe because she wanted to see the painting through Mel’s eyes, to replay the August afternoon when she had found Mel in her gallery, standing in front of the seascape. To use Mel as a buffer between her and her art, a filter so she could maybe bear to look at it.
She picked up the phone and dialed again, waiting through Mel’s businesslike message.
“Hey, Mel, this is Pam. From the gallery.” Brilliant. Like Mel knew at least six different Pams in Cannon Beach. Be cool. “I finished one of your mosaics.”
Was Mel on a date? Not an unreasonable explanation for her absence on a Friday night. And it wasn’t like Mel would have trouble finding someone…Pam’s silence had stretched a little too long. “So, um, give me a call when you want me to bring it over. Or you can come get it. Whatever.”
Pam gave her address and mercifully put the call out of its misery.
Yes, very cool. She had no reason to be so tongue-tied. Or to care what—or whom—Mel was doing on her weekend. Mel’s social life was none of her concern, and the only reason she called again a few hours later was because she wanted to get the painting off her hands and Mel’s check into her account. And that was the same reason she drove by Mel’s inn the next day, only to find the big house dark and empty, no blue Honda in the driveway.
Pam slowly drove home along the winding road that edged the ocean and collected Piper for a walk on the beach. The brief glimmer of
But as the hypnotic effect of creation gradually evaporated, the image that was never far from her mind returned full force. She somehow transposed a vision of the child she had loved—the boy her partner had taken from her—onto the painting. She suddenly could see her son, who had been lost to her for so many years, kneeling next to the pool and reaching toward the starfish. The brief respite from despair was over, the glorious amnesia brought on by concentration and immersion was gone. Finishing a painting was even more painful than beginning as Pam’s mind returned to the present, and a rush of grief, held at bay for a brief time, returned in force.
Piper had left her bed to sit by the back door, and she whined softly, asking to be let outside. Pam grabbed a box off the kitchen table and followed her dog into the small backyard. She sat in a weathered Adirondack chair and sifted through the box’s contents while Piper wandered around the tiny patch of lawn. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Mel that sea glass was getting harder to find, but she hadn’t let on how much she had collected over the years since she had started coming to the ocean with her grandparents. She sorted through the glass until she had a good-sized pile of red tones, from pale pinks to rich burgundies, to use on the starfish bodies. She added some lavender-colored glass as an accent and then called Piper inside for dinner. She poured some kibble in a bowl for her dog and a few fingers of tequila in a glass for herself. She hesitated and then poured a little more. Pam sat on the couch with her drink and turned on the television, ignoring the painting she had turned to face the wall so she wouldn’t have to see it.
❖
Pam called Mel a few days later to tell her the starfish painting, the first of her commissioned pieces, was completed. She felt a stab of disappointment when the call went to voice mail. She hung up without leaving a message. Even though the process had been difficult, now that her mosaic was finished she wanted to share it with Mel. Because she was relieved to be finished with a painting. Exhausted and relieved and ready to have it out of her house. And maybe because she wanted to see the painting through Mel’s eyes, to replay the August afternoon when she had found Mel in her gallery, standing in front of the seascape. To use Mel as a buffer between her and her art, a filter so she could maybe bear to look at it.
She picked up the phone and dialed again, waiting through Mel’s businesslike message.
“Hey, Mel, this is Pam. From the gallery.” Brilliant. Like Mel knew at least six different Pams in Cannon Beach. Be cool. “I finished one of your mosaics.”
Was Mel on a date? Not an unreasonable explanation for her absence on a Friday night. And it wasn’t like Mel would have trouble finding someone…Pam’s silence had stretched a little too long. “So, um, give me a call when you want me to bring it over. Or you can come get it. Whatever.”
Pam gave her address and mercifully put the call out of its misery.
Yes, very cool. She had no reason to be so tongue-tied. Or to care what—or whom—Mel was doing on her weekend. Mel’s social life was none of her concern, and the only reason she called again a few hours later was because she wanted to get the painting off her hands and Mel’s check into her account. And that was the same reason she drove by Mel’s inn the next day, only to find the big house dark and empty, no blue Honda in the driveway.
Pam slowly drove home along the winding road that edged the ocean and collected Piper for a walk on the beach. The brief glimmer of
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