“I will,” I say with a giggle.
“Here you go.” He gestures to a small section against the back wall of the store, lined with neatly placed paint chip strips. “Ring the bell, just there, when you know the colors you want and I’ll mosey on back.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
“Just doing my job, Little Miss.”
“Lou,” I say. “My name is Lou.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Lou.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Sam.”
Left to my own devices, I pick a couple dozen different slips of paper, spreading them out while I sit cross-legged on the floor so I can place different combinations next to each other. Mixing and matching until I have the combination I think will work wonderfully in Irma’s space.
Judging by her wardrobe and the eclectic mix of furniture throughout the house, I think she loved unconventional combinations. There’s a need in me to do her justice. Some kismet connection between her and I that needs to be honored. She’s provided me sanctuary, after all.
Something not even my own parents could do.Woulddo? Both, I suppose.
There’ve been more emails from them. Well, my mother. My father hasn’t said a word. All the emails say similar things. Pierre is worried sick. He’s sorry for his part in all this, but you’ve made things so difficult for him.
I typed a response.
Imagine how difficult things would be for him if he’d succeeded in killing me.
I didn’t send it. There’s no point. A line was drawn years ago and they chose their side. His. Never mine.
“He’s so accomplished and successful, Louisa. You should listen to him,” my mother has said on so many occasions.
“He has his own coffee table book,” my father would follow up with.
“I’m on countless magazine covers,” I would argue, only for my mother to scoff.
“Dressed up like a Jezabelle,” she’d say.
There is no winning with her. Why try?
That’s the root of the problem, I think. I’ve always tried for others’ approval and opinions. Never my own. Too often, I don’t know what my own opinion is. I’ve been too malleable to others’.
This is what you like to wear. This is what you enjoy eating. These are the issues you believe in.
It’s refreshing to sit here on a dirty hardware store floor and take my time doing something for me without anyone else’s input.
It’s about damn time.
I ring the bell and hear Sam holler that he’s on his way. While he mixes up the five colors, I wander the store, gathering the supplies I need. On an endcap near the front is a selection of birdfeeders made out of teacups and saucers. A sign says they’re made locally. After I drop the paintbrushes, trays, and drop cloth on the checkout counter, I return to pick one out.
It’s robin’s egg blue with delicate pink flowers. It may not be the most practical thing, but it brings me joy, and that’s all that matters.
Sam carries all five gallons of paint with him down the aisle. He’s grizzled with a head full of white-gray hair. I picture him sitting in an Adirondack chair in his backyard every night with a good ole American beer in his hand.
That thought brings me joy, too. My imagination isn’t usually this active…must be the effects of a good crash out.
“All set, Sam,” another voice says from the front door. Another man around Sam’s age pokes his head in the front door.
“How much do I owe you, Tommy?”
“Eh, it’s on the house. I had one sitting in the lot,” the new man says.
