Page 8 of Apparently, I’m A B!tch

I nodded and went back to making coffee, tossing a small espresso cup onto the counter. He liked espressos. Simple and strong.

“I know, but you can try and find something else to do.” We’ve had this conversation more than once. Not this early in the day, but enough times that I knew what his reply would be.

“And what can an old man like me do? I cannot paint like you. I cannot do sculpting, or baking, or…” I looked down at him and cocked a brow, waiting.

“What else you do?” he asked.

His Greek accent was always stronger than his Lebanese. It squeezed my heart as he spoke, reminding me of my own parents’ strongly accented voices, and yet I also had to throw my head back and laugh.

“Don’t you think I do enough, Amo?”

He puckered out his weathered lip and lifted a hand, tilting it here and there as if to say, Meh, you could do more. I laughed again and handed him his espresso.

“I know it’s tough, but you could go traveling–”

“Guh.”

“Or you could start gardening–”

“Hmph!”

“Or maybe you could take a class with Lilly on the weekends.”

He shook his head at my last suggestion, not hating the idea, but reluctant to hold hope that his flesh and blood niece would want to take a class with him.

“I need something, boy. Something to stop me from going ca-ca.”

I smothered a smile, but it was tough. “You mean coo-coo, right?”

He shrugged. “Same thing.”

I ticked an idea over in my head. I didn’t want to tell him about it. Really, he probably wouldn’t go for it anyway. But if he did, I’d have Uncle Henry to deal with every Sunday afternoon. But that wouldn’t be so bad. Would it?

“What if…” I looked away, still unsure of whether I should tell him or not.

“What? What?”

I could feel his eyes on me as I shrugged. “It’s probably not a good idea.”

“What is it? Tell me.” His disciplinarian voice made my lips move and I resisted a smile, knowing he’d hate that.

“I’m teaching a class at the ArtBox, every Sunday afternoon at four. You and Lilly could come if you want.”

He made a pfft sound. “Why you teaching an art class? You just said you have too much to do.”

I shrugged. “It’s a favor to a friend from college, Amo. It runs for about…” I tossed my eyes to the side and bobbed my jaw as if I were tallying in my head. “Six weeks. What do you think?”

His frown deepened and he stood, making groans and shuffling noises at the various aches and pains of his older body, then he walked slowly into the backroom.

I shrugged and let him go. He probably needed to use the bathroom. At his age, coffee had a pretty strong laxative effect. It didn’t take long for him to shout after me though, and I put my microwaved oatmeal and half-finished coffee down to see what he needed.

I called out for him, moving from the backroom to the studio, until I found him standing and staring at the canvas of my Emi.

“Can you teach me to paint like this?” He pointed at my oil painting and my gaze followed his finger. “She looks beautiful.”

I nodded. “She was.”

He met my eyes and sighed. “She would love this.”

I fought the prick of tears in my eyes. I didn’t need to get emotional over my Emi, not again. It’d been years since she died. It took me a long time to stop seeing her as she was, lying in that hospital bed, tubes and drains sticking out of her, hair gone from her head, her eyebrows… I swallowed against the lump in my throat and walked away.

I wouldn’t see her like that, not anymore. She was strong, kind, fierce in her love and loyalty. That was my mother. That was how I would remember her.

Uncle Henry understood and followed me back into Extra Shot, muttering that if Lilly would do it with him, he’d enjoy taking my class.