Down From the Clouds (11 page)

"Oh yeah? What about Heidi and Patrick? Do you only believe in second chances when it's convenient for you?"

"Don't." She reached for my hand. "Don't do this to us. Our relationship deserves better. Don't let some anger and pain from your past build a wall between us."

"I can't see him."

She pulled the car handle. "Let's go find the next note. See what Pop has to say. You know I don't believe in chances anymore. Maybe this next note will tell you to turn back and face him."

I got out of the car. She knew me too well, better than I wanted to know myself. People thought of me as joyful, peaceful, optimistic, fun. Only Ella knew that I struggled just as much as the next person.

I pointed to the ground and Ella dug up the letter. I blamed the lack of sleep for my zapped energy, but seeing his face ripped open a wound I thought was healed long ago.

Ella stood next to me and read aloud.

We spent many summers here, but you would never swim. You thought you were too skinny because the other kids worked out and played sports. They called you Edward Scissorhands because of your long hair and fingers. So we sat here as you painted people. You know what I loved most about that time, my boy? You taught me to look at people through a different lens. One time you painted a rather chubby boy. In your painting he was thinner with less frizzy hair and a smile that could light up the sky. I asked you about it and do you remember what you said? If so, you'll know the next place to go.

I rubbed the two-day facial hair along my jaw. Raced through memories in my mind, one after another, with no luck. Couldn't remember what I said back then.

"What do we do if you can't remember?" Ella followed me to the car and sat inside.

I closed her door. Pop told me to always open the door for my girl, no matter how many years we were together.

"I got it," I said, turning the keys. "I told him that he could borrow my lens if he wanted."

"Classic Gavin line. How could you forget it?"

"Maybe it was too easy. Just didn't think of it."

"So where does the clue lead?"

"Chickie's Rock."

"What's that?"

"You'll see."

"So, I know this will probably annoy you if I ask, but you've had your fair share of annoying me too." She smiled. "But what makes your dad so different?"

"Different from me?"

"No. What makes him different from everyone else that you refuse to paint him into something beautiful?"

Matt always thought it was funny that I made it a point to have the last word, a sarcastic last word at that. With Ella I couldn't do that. She prodded in places I didn't know existed and always left me speechless. The thing I loved about her though . . . she never forced me to respond. She let her question float between us. No pressure. She knew I'd answer her after I thought for a while.

We parked and walked toward the trail. I looked up and took Ella's hand. "Do you think we'd still think the sky is beautiful if it were green and the trees were blue?"

She smiled. "Maybe. Hard to say. We've already been conditioned to think a blue sky and green trees are beautiful, not the other way around."

"Do you see what I'm saying?" We walked up the trail, shaded by rows and rows of trees. 

Ella thought for a while. When we reached the top she inched her way to the edge and held onto the wooden fence. Just a little fence between her and an enormous cliff. She looked down to the train tracks alongside the Susquehanna River. The breeze blew her hair from her face as she inhaled and scanned the scene. Birds flew down from the trees, chirping and flying back to their nests. I loved this nook in the world. 

"Have we been conditioned to think this is beautiful, too?" I said, pointing at the bridge to the left. "Or is beauty something we either appreciate or discard? Are we the ones who determine beauty or is it determined for us and we choose how to see it based on our own experiences?"

"Okay." She turned and kissed my cheek. "People always told me I was deep, but I'm pretty sure you lost me there."

"I grew up thinking my father looked like an old man I called Pop. Just because someone is walking into my life and telling me that they're my father, I can't accept it. The sky is blue and I'd never be able to get used to it being green."

"Could you at least paint him in a better light?"

"I don't know. I don't paint people beautiful like Pop said. I paint them as I see them. The boy at the pool was thinner in my painting and had a bright smile, because although he was constantly ridiculed he never stopped smiling. I painted his heart into his stature. That's all. I paint what I see."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I can look at a model and paint a depressed woman sitting on a mountain of clothes. She's not happy. She's not beautiful inside. I can paint an attractive little boy into a kid with warts and fungus growing out of his ears. I paint the inside on the outside. Pop thought I saw the best in everything around me. I don't, Ella. That's all you. I just see what I see."

"Gavin." She tugged my collar and pressed her lips into mine, then pulled away. "I have an assignment for you tonight. I don't want to go to the next place or even open the letter we dig up here until you do this."

"I can't see him right now. Maybe one day. Maybe after the wedding. Not right now."

"The assignment has nothing to do with him. Just you."

After we ate dinner, Ella took me to the basement and blindfolded me by wrapping one of my long-sleeve t-shirts around my face. After tying it three times to make sure I couldn't peek, she pat my head and walked away. Something clicked in front of me. Then a bang.

"Okay, take it off and look," she said.

I reached for her hand. "Make me."

Her legs touched mine as I inhaled her fruity shampoo. Pieces of her hair touched my arm.

"Ouch," I said, ripping the shirt off my eyes and falling backwards off the chair. "What the?"

She held her stomach and laughed. "Couldn't help myself."

"What did you do?"

"Just a little pinch." She bent over in a fit of laughter.

"You are sadistic." I laughed.

She gave me her hand to help me up, but I pulled her down to me instead. "Kiss me oh sadistic lover."

She tried to kiss me while laughing. And failed. After a few exhales, we stood, still out of breath. She pointed to the mirror in front of me and pushed the chair toward me. "Sit."

I did.

She moved an easel with a blank canvas and set it to the left of the mirror. "I want you to paint what you see when you look in this mirror."

"Can I paint you instead?"

"No. Plenty of those already. Paint yourself. I'll give you a few hours to do so while I finish setting up this art center for the kids."

"When do you plan on opening up for lessons?"

"Next week."

"Are you kidding me?"

She pointed to the mirror. "Stop stalling, Gavin."

I looked at my reflection. To the right she had some water, an array of paints, and a few brushes. Not exactly the ones I would've chosen, but I didn't say that.

I picked up a brush, studied my reflection, and squeezed a few colors onto my palette. Ella smiled. I smiled back. Hands shaking, I dipped my brush into a blob of color and painted what I saw. An hour and fourteen minutes later I sat back, crossed my arms, and told Ella to come and see.

She stood beside me, eyed the painting, then turned and faced me. She surveyed me, then the painting, then me again. 

"Doesn't look a thing like you," she said.

I leaned toward the mirror. "It's identical. It was a quick painting, it's not going to be perfect."

She ran her fingers along my brow. "This is more narrow in real life. And this”—she squeezed my nose—“is not nearly as big as you painted it to be. You also painted bumps on your nose. Don't see those here." Her eyes turned back to the art. "Your lips are too thin, ears are too big, and your cheeks look like you are sucking them in."

"Well, now that you've made me feel great about my art skills, what's for dinner?"

"My point is—“

"I know your point."

"Then what is it?"

"That beauty is in the eye of the beholder and sometimes the beholder is blind."

"And?"

"That I need to see beauty in everyone, not just people I feel sorry for or people that I love."

"And?"

"That I need to see myself as more attractive?"

She laughed. "No. What else? Seriously."

"I don't know. You want me to talk to my father and try to find something worth painting in him?"

She nodded. "I am excited to find out what your grandfather has in store for you, but not until you meet your father. You can't move on until you let go of the past."

"Fair enough."

"Really?"

"Yes."

She ran up the basement steps. "Be right back."

I stared at my reflection and the painting. Honestly couldn't see a difference. But I trusted her. It only made sense that I'd see myself in a more negative light than I actually am. Don't we all?  We pick apart our flaws and try to improve them more than we sit back and appreciate what we do have. Ella never failed. She always taught me something about life. I hoped I could be the same for her and not some leech who only takes. Like I did to Pop.

She scurried back down the stairs and sat on my lap. "The next letter. Ready to open it?"

"Go ahead and read it."

She unfolded the paper and read. 

Flies can be sitting in a garden and completely ignore the beautiful flowers around them. Instead they'll go right for the rotting banana peel or piece of trash. Bees, on the other hand, could be sitting in a room full of trash and find the tiniest speck of fruit or honey to land on. Don't be a fly. Become a bee and stay a bee. Look for the good in every circumstance, even the most horrible and disgusting places. There's always some honey to land on. This should tell you were to go next.

Chapter Thirteen

At Ella's request, we waited to finish digging up Pop's letters until I met Harold Kessler. Only one problem. I deleted his calls and voicemails and had no way to get in touch with him. We decided to wait for him to call, but he didn't. I guess my frantic escape, burning rubber and all, made him back off. Didn’t blame him. In fact, that was my intention.

Ella finally told me to call the detective again. I was hoping she wouldn't think of that and we'd be able to move on. I called and told him to tell Harold I'd meet him, with Ella, at Rittenhouse. A beautiful park in Philly. Dotted with trees in the middle of huge buildings.

Ella and I swung our linked hands as we walked through the entrance. Quaint benches sat along the path, waiting for someone's story to sit down and say hello. I wasn't sure I wanted to sit on a bench. Not with the story about to unfold. I led Ella to the grass. We spread out a blanket and waited for Harold to show up.

Ella tossed a peanut at my face.

"Sadistic?" I shrugged.

She laughed. "You were supposed to catch it."

"Perhaps a tiny bit of a warning next time?"

"Watch this." She held out her hand and made a clucking sound. A squirrel clawed its way down a tree to the right of us and inched toward her. Steady as can be, she extended her hand a little further. The squirrel grabbed the peanut out of her hand and ran back up the tree. He perched himself on top of a branch and brought the nut to his mouth. 

"Wow." I tried the same. No animals came rushing to me. "Guess you have the magic touch."

"You have to be calm." She squeezed my hand. "Your hands are shaking. They can sense that, I bet."

"Embarrassing."

"Don't be."

We ate a few snacks in silence. Ella watched people and listened to their conversations. So did I. Then I saw him. Turning around in circles in front of a bench. Ella peeked around the tree, then back to me. I nodded and stood. Waved him over to us.

Drops of sweat ran down my face. I wiped them off with my sleeve. Harold put his hands in his pockets and walked toward us. Without a doubt the most awkward moment of my life. Couldn't he walk any faster? My heart ticked in my ears like a bomb. Ella leaned into my arm, looked up at me as I stared at the man in front of me, the man who left me and probably hated me for killing my mother.

"Thank you f-for doing this." He lifted his hands from his pockets.

I wiped my hands on my jeans and avoided shaking his hand.

"Let's sit," Ella said.

I sat down and pulled my knees to my chest. Ella curled up beside me, her legs making a "V" to the right of us. Her squirrel friend zoomed from one tree to another as Harold sat across from us.

"I, um." Harold's eyes darted around, everywhere but me. "I don't know how to say this."

I inhaled, exhaled, tried to remain calm and patient.

"I, well . . . when I . . . I mean, there was a—“

"What the hell did you come here to say?" My knuckles were white and my jaw hurt. From toe to finger I was one huge ball of stress.

"I'm s-s-sorry." He looked down. "I have a b-bit of a, uh, s-s-stutter and when I'm nervous it, uh, it g-gets worse."