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“Great. My bedroom it is then.”
It shouldn’t take too long. Between the entry door on one wall, closet and bathroom doors on another, and the giant window, there’s not much actual wall space. I stir the gray paint, then pour it into two containers. “If we both cut the walls, it will go a lot faster.”
She nods as I hand her one of the containers and a new brush.
“Did you always want to be an architect?” She asks as she starts painting along the bottom edge of the walls.
“I don’t know.” I dip an inch of the brush bristles into the gray paint, then start cutting the doorway. “I’ve always liked designing things, so it just seemed like a good fit.”
She scoots along the bottom to a new section, her strokes steady and even. “What did you dream of doing when you were younger?”
I pause. “I never really thought about it.”
“You didn’t dream of being a firefighter or astronaut?”
“I never had time. I was always too busy taking care of Brendan and managing our house.”
“Even as a little boy?”
I shrug, dipping my brush in more paint. “Our dad worked a lot. Someone had to do it. What about you? What did you want to be as a kid?” I ask, changing the subject. I don't like talking about that part of my childhood. There wasn’t anyone else to do it, and I don’t regret having to grow up a lot faster. It made me the person I am today.Our dad did the best he could by himself with two growing boys. It couldn’t have been easy.
“When I was really little, like three or four, I wanted to be a ballerina.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” she laughs, scooting over some more, “obviously I don’t have the coordination for that.”
“So, then you switched to wanting to be an artist?”
“Sort of. Not really.” She paints for a little bit before continuing. “When I was younger, after the whole dancing fiasco, I wanted to become an artist. Like a fine artist, a painter or something. But, they don’t make much money. And as I got older, I never figured I’d . . . Well, it just didn’t seem feasible.
“When I first started college, I went for computer science. It’s a smart move. There’re lots of careers, it pays well. I was good at it, too . . . But, every time I had a project due, or a paper or exam, it was like I’d magically end up with the flu. My stomach would hurt so bad I could hardly stand up for the whole week before. Then the day or usually two days before, I’d be in the bathroom with a horrible migraine, puking my guts out nonstop. I didn’t know they were attacks, but it didn’t take long to put two and two together and realize I was getting sick from stress.
“Anyway, after about a year and a half of that, I figured if that’s what it would be like having an IT career . . . If every time I had a deadline, I got sick . . . That’s no way to live, right?”
I’m silent, not knowing how to answer or what I can say.
“Sorry. I don't know why I’m telling you any of this. It’s silly –”
“No,” I cut her off, setting my brush and paint down as I hurry over to her. “Don’t ever apologize for something you can’t control.” Placing my hand over hers, I still her painting, then hold her with my other arm. “I’ve seen one of your attacks. They are just as real and valid as any other struggle.”
“Still,” she snuggles into my embrace, “you didn’t ask me for that whole story.”
“Asra, I want to know every single thing about you. Every detail. The good, the bad, the painful, I want to know it all. Please, don’t stop.”
She’s quiet for a bit before she finally nods. “There’s not much else to say. I mean, after struggling with the whole computer science disaster for a year and a half, I switched to graphic arts. I figured being an artist couldn’t be nearly as stressful, and a professional designer would have more stability than a fine artist.
“I was lucky, sort of. Right after I graduated, I landed a position at a really good firm, Rolston and Barnes. I thought it’d be awesome. It wasn’t . . . The industry was shit. As a female, you make less than flipping burgers at a fast food place, there’s no benefits, and everyone’s mean. Like, you create a design the client loves, someone else takes credit for it. An artist messes a design up, they blame it on you. I hated it. There’s a real reason the suicide rate is so high among artists, there’s no comradery. It’s just too cut throat.”
I squeeze her hand tighter, letting her know I understand.The architecture industry was hard to break into until I landed with the firm I’m at. Struggling at some job you’re not valued at is never easy.
“Anyway, after about a year, I started taking freelance projects. I randomly designed a book cover. That led to another. After about two years, I had enough clients to make that my full-time job. So, I mean, I guess it was my dream, it just took me a long time to believe it was feasible and even longer to turn it into a reality.”
We’re silent for a bit. I don’t know how she does it. Deadlines have never bothered me. I get a rush when my plate is full, knowing I can handle it and always pushing myself harder. I don’t know what I’d do if that same plate kept dragging me down.
“G. I. Joe,” I say at last.
“What?” She shifts to face me.
