“Don’t worry, girl, I know you’re the worst guard dog in the world,” I cooed at her, reaching down to pat her big head.
Mom had found Gracie on Craigslist as a puppy about a year after Dad died, and thought maybe a dog would help me and Nikki cope. We had no idea how to train or handle a dog, but for some reason, Gracie didn’t need much training. She was mellow and loving even as a puppy. Nikki always believed Gracie was sent to us for a reason, that she would help fill the void that Dad left, but I thought we just got lucky.
We did a short lap down to the beach and back, and as I approached our driveway, Mom was situating herself in front of a large canvas in our garage/her makeshift art studio, where she could get paint all over the walls and not feel bad about it. Fuzzy music from her Bluetooth speaker carried through the air as I walked up the driveway, and I followed the faint sound of Stevie Nicks’s voice crooning out some soft love ballad into the garage.
Blues and greens in glossy paint splashed the corners, and she continued to paint the canvas with unwavering flow and elegance. She reached up and painted an aqua blue stroke at the top, then brought her arm down to the other corner and flicked her brush off the edge of the canvas. She was painting the waves, so she moved like one.
“What do you think?” She tilted her head to the side and studied the blank corner of the canvas with intensity. Blue paint dotted her cheeks like little freckles, and there were streaks of green in the flyaway bits of dirty-blond hair that had fallen out of her ponytail.
“It’s pretty,” I told her. “They’re always pretty, Mom.”
She frowned a bit and furiously mixed more blues and greens on a small plastic palette. Everything about my mom was soft and warm like a summer evening—that is, until she had a paintbrush in her hands.
“I feel so out of practice with acrylics now.” She sighed, maybe more to herself than me. I took Gracie’s leash off and let her meander over to the round plush bed in the corner of the garage, before walking over to Mom’s side. “I spent the entire fall focused on watercolors, and now I’m having regrets.”
“Spoken like a true artist.” I chuckled dryly.
The whole reason we’d moved four hours east from Arcadia to Dahlia Point was for a job she’d taken as a featured artist at a local gallery. Mom wasfromDahlia Point, but she’d never brought us here until we moved. I’d figured it was for a reason, but I never asked.
She was a painter by trade but had taught art classes at a private school for almost my whole life. Teaching provided her with a routine and stability when we were growing up, but now that we were adults, she could go back to her passion full-time.
“You seem even less enthused than usual,” she said, not taking her eyes off the canvas. “What’s bothering you?”
It wasn’tIs something bothering you, because she didn’t need to ask that. She knew, as she always did.
I groaned and lowered myself onto another stool beside her. “It’s ridiculous. These companies want you to have experience, but how could I possibly have six years of experience for an entry-level job?”
Mom finally looked over at me, and sometimes when the light hit her the right way, I could see bits of myself in her, from the sheen in her hazel eyes to the mess of dirty-blond hair, knots and all.
“Have a little patience. You only graduated a few weeks ago,” she replied. She dipped her brush in her mixture and continued with her elaborate stroking. “Have you worked on any writing at all?”
“No.” I sighed. “I mean, I’m trying, but . . .” I let my voice trail off, watching her continue her brushstrokes.
“You’ll find inspiration from where you least expect it. That’s part of being a creator—making something out of what seems like nothing.”
I smiled to myself. “When did you get so wise?”
“I’vealwaysbeen wise.” She chuckled. “You were just too much of a stubborn teenager to realize that.”
“Can’t even argue with that.”
I got up from the stool and gave her a side-armed hug, careful not to get paint on my T-shirt.
“Hey, wait,” she called after me as I walked to the door leading into the house. I paused and spun on my heel with my hand still on the doorknob. “I have an idea that might jumpstart some inspiration for you.”
She got up from her stool and dragged another large canvas to the wall by the open door of the garage, and I knew almost immediately what she was going to suggest.
“Paint balloons?” she asked.
“Oh boy.” I shook my head with a faint grin. “Let me put a different shirt on. This is the last good white T-shirt I own.”
Mom loved messes, and was a firm believer that she could produce art from them. We had done it a few times over the years, filling balloons with mixtures of paint, silicone, and water, and throwing them at canvases. The first one the three of us had done years ago still hung in our living room over the couch, its mismatch of colors perfect for our mismatched furniture.
We took turns filling balloons from a package she always had on hand and carefully placing them in a bucket. After putting a rain poncho on, I took one and chucked it underhand at the canvas, yelping as it exploded in a mess of green and blue and yellow. She did the same, and paint sprinkled down on us like rain.
“A friggin’ masterpiece.” Mom laughed. “Belongs in a museum, if you ask me.”
We carried on for a little while, until the rays of the sun against the concrete floor turned to shadows and the sound of frogs and insects in the night echoed around the thin walls of the garage. I washed my hands in the slop sink in the corner as Mom moved our paint-balloon art to a corner to dry.
