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Other than those general similarities, however, this particular painting is strikingly different than its countless predecessors. For one thing, my mother has painted herself at her present age. With gray hair. For the first time, ever, not as a young mother enjoying a picnic with her two young sons.
Also, Oliver isn’t tethered to Mom’s hip, as usual. This time, for the first time, Mom has allowed the poor kid to run off and play. Specifically, Oliver is throwing a beachball with Mom’s youngest sister, down by the water’s edge.
Shockingly, I’m not sitting on Mom’s blanket, either. And I’m not a little kid. For the first time, she’s painted me as a grown man. I’m standing on the sand, wearing a tuxedo, and doing something that makes my head explode: exchanging wedding vows with a beautiful brunette who’s clad in a simple white gown and bridal veil.
It’s a good news, bad news situation, obviously. On one hand, I’m elated and relieved to finally see something new in an Eleanor Rivers Original. It’s huge progress. A welcome respite from the usual madness. On the other hand, though, I feel like I’m going to stroke out with my rising panic. Of all the days for my mother to have a massive breakthrough, she had to do it by painting me in a wedding scene with Georgina on the very day I’m whisking Georgina off to Sardinia to propose marriage to her? Way to steal my thunder, Mom! Now, when I propose to Georgina on that beach at sunset, she’s going to think this painting forced my hand! Or, at least, that it gave me the idea. Hell, Georgina might even think I only asked her to marry me to win my mother’s long-withheld approval and love.
Mom is presently babbling about where she wants to relocate her father in the scene, but I’m not listening. My mind is racing far too much to focus on her words. This is a catastrophe. I look at Georgina and it’s clear the elephant in the room is sitting on Georgina’s chest, every bit as much as it’s sitting on mine.
“And what do you think about yourselves in the painting?” Mom says, looking mischievous.
Georgina looks at me, wide-eyed and rendered mute, so I say, “We look great, Mom. And so do you. I love your gray hair. Have you shown this one to Dr. Pham?”
“Yes. She liked it. She said I should keep painting myself, and you, too, as we are in the present. And she also liked that I included Georgina.”
“So do I,” I say.
“Thank you for including me,” Georgina manages to say brightly. But her gaiety sounds forced to me. “I’m honored.”
“You’re family now.” She looks at me. “Although I’d be very interested to know when—”
“Well, we’ve gotta head out now,” I blurt. “Georgina and I have to get to the airport so we don’t miss our flight.”
“But I thought you said you’re flying private today. You always say the best perk of flying private is that you can never miss your flight, because everyone is paid to sit around and wait for you.”
My heart is crashing in my chest. “Yeah, but we’ve still got time constraints. You should take a nap, Mom. It’s been an emotional day for you.”
Mom exhales. “Well, that’s true. A nap sounds nice, actually.”
“Good. I’ll help you get into bed.”
I grip her frail shoulders gently and pointedly turn her away from her canvas and guide her straight to bed. My breathing labored, I adjust Mom’s covers over her and kiss her forehead. I say one last goodbye. So does Georgina. And then, I grab my woman’s hand in a death grip and pull her out the door, with more gusto than intended. But rather than turning left in the hallway, toward the front entrance, I turn right and practically drag poor Georgina toward the back door.
The last thing I want is for Georgina to doubt this proposal is my idea. My desire. Or for her to think it’s some pathetic attempt to win my mother’s approval. On the contrary, I need Georgina to know, without a doubt, I already had her ring in my pocket when I saw my mother’s shocking painting, and that I didn’t scramble upon landing in Italy to get something overnighted to me.
“Hey, Smart Guy,” Georgina says. “The front door is that way.”
“I need to talk to you about my mother’s painting before we get into the car. I want to talk to you about it in a private spot.”
“Oh, Reed. There’s no reason to freak out. I’ve read your Wikipedia page, babe. I’m not expecting—”
“Stop talking, Georgina. Please.”
“I’m just saying I’m fully aware—”
“Stop. Talking. If you love me at all, don’t say another word until I’ve explicitly told you it’s your turn to talk.”
Georgina flashes me her patented “Well, you don’t need to be a dick about it” look. But, thankfully, she clamps her lips together and stops talking as I guide her into a secluded corner of the garden.
