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Gideon’s failure.
“Uncle Gideon.” Noah grabbed his free hand. “Come and look at what I made!”
Gideon blinked. Once, then again. Until the faces, the fire, were gone, leaving nothing more than blobs of paint—red and orange and yellow streaks across a background of blue and brown and black.
Yet he still felt the horror. And he could still hear the screaming.
“Uncle Gideon!” Noah yanked harder on his hand.
The insistence in his nephew’s voice helped him pull his broken strings back together, at least long enough to focus on what Noah was saying. “Hey, kiddo, what’s up?”
“Come see my painting. You’re really going to like it.” Paint streaked Noah’s face, his hands, his clothes. “Your painting is super cool too!” he said, a huge smile on his face.
Gideon moved, his limbs rubbery and jerky, as though they had to learn how to work again. Slowly, he came back to the here and now—to the well-lit museum, to the cool, smooth floor beneath his feet, to the cream-colored walls filled with masterworks. And especially to Noah waiting expectantly for a response to his painting.
“Way cool, kiddo.” Though his nephew’s work was really good, clearly depicting lilies floating in the water, Gideon’s voice was barely more than a rasp, harsh in his throat. He put his hand on Noah’s shoulder, squeezing it. “You’re doing a great job, just like I knew you would. Do you want to paint something else?” Though he’d spent much of the past ten years mostly silent, usually speaking only when spoken to, today he needed to keep talking to drown out the explosions in his head. “We could do that Van Gogh or the Manet if you want.”
Noah shook his head. “Nah, I’m going to help Jorge with his instead. See ya!”
His nephew raced off, leaving Gideon alone with Rosie. And with the horror that he’d painted. The atrocity, the blood and guts and guilt and fear and pain he’d spilled all over the page.
She stood in front of his easel, studying his painting with intense focus. “It’s amazing, Gideon.”
That’s when he knew—she saw it all. Everything he worked so hard to keep hidden inside. All the things he’d never shown to anyone else, not even Ari.
Only Rosie had ever been able to clearly see the hell he’d returned from. Only Rosie had ever truly seen the darkness that festered inside him. The darkness that would always be there, made up of guilt and regret and sorrow and a desperate wish to rewind the calendar to get everything right this time. A desperate wish that could never come true.
Rosie called his painting amazing, but she was only being kind. Because that’s who Rosie was, one of the kindest, sweetest women he’d ever known.
He didn’t deserve her kindness. Not after all the pain he’d caused so many people.
Ashamed by all he’d let go on the easel—the depth of the darkness inside that was now splattered in thick paint on paper stunned even him—he reached around her and tore off the sheet. He wanted to rip it into a million little pieces. Before the boys could gaze at it too long and know true terror. Before Rosie took a closer look and saw how truly dark Gideon’s memories were.
But Rosie stopped him. “No.” She put her hands over his. “I never let Jorge rip up his paintings. I’ve told him a dozen times that everything he creates is good, whether it’s technically perfect or not, whether it’s simple or complicated, whether it stays on the surface or goes deep. Especially then. So that’s what I’m saying to you now, Gideon. What you’ve created is good. I won’t let you destroy it.”
Years of raising a strong-willed little boy gave her a grip firm enough to take the painting from him before he could stop her. Though it was still wet, she rolled it up and slid it into one of the cardboard tubes they’d brought with them.
His insides screamed to get it back. But he didn’t move.
Jorge ran up to them. “Mom, I’m starved.”
As though she hadn’t needed to damn near tear the painting from Gideon’s hands a moment before, she smiled at her son and said, “Me too. Let’s pack up now and have our picnic on the lawn out front.”
Chapter Eleven
Noah and Jorge chattered while they ate their empanadas out on the lawn. They threw the stale bread Rosie had packed for the birds, then ran around like pirates on the burning deck of a ship.
But Gideon didn’t engage. He didn’t look at her, didn’t even look at the kids. His eyes were dark, still full of the pain she’d seen in his painting. So much for her hope that he’d feel better after spending time with paints and brushes…
Maybe she shouldn’t have studied his painting so closely. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him how amazing she thought it was. Maybe she should simply have helped the boys gather up their stuff and pretended she hadn’t seen everything Gideon obviously didn’t want anyone to know. Heck, maybe she should never have taken the risk of bringing them to paint in the museum. They could have jumped on trampolines instead, never needing to say a word to each other, never needing to examine their feelings, never going deep on any level.
But Rosie didn’t believe in holding back her feelings. Even if she did, she couldn’t possibly have held back her visceral reaction to his revealing painting—and the deep emotions roiling within its dark, wild colors.
For a few incredible minutes, he’d let it all out. And though he obviously regretted it, something told her just how important that release had been. It was one of the many reasons why she found art so magical. Even when someone tried to close themselves off, art had a way of pushing past boundaries…and of giving hope. Even when all hope seemed lost.
She hadn’t let him destroy the painting. If only it was as easy to stop him from destroying himself.
Still, she had to give him some space now. Anyone who had painted something so powerful needed time for recovery and reflection.
