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“I know what you’re thinking, Lucy. And you’re right. But you’re also wrong.I am being selfish. But I hope you’ll understand it is a good kind of selfishness. I don’t want to keep on being Hamad the Horrid. I deeply regret my actions. I know I can't undo the pain I have caused you, but I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I am truly sorry for betraying your trust and tarnishing your name.”
“Because you’ve met someone,” Lucy repeated firmly. All she could see was red. Flaming, firey, furious red. She wanted to rain her unexpressed rage against him for the damage he had done in a fireball of righteous anger.
She forced her heart to slow, took deep, measured breaths, and counted to ten. What sort of a role model would she be as a mother, a wife, and a leader with Anwar of their kingdom if she couldn’t find it in her heart to forgive?
What color is forgiveness, she wondered, as her gaze fell upon the bouquet of scented orchids.White. The color of peace.
“I am a deeply flawed person,” he mumbled. “But I want to be a better man. I want to change. Can you help me? Can you forgive me?”
He plucked the white orchid and handed it to her, then pressed the bouquet toward her to symbolize his sincerity.
“Our father,” he began, “I know it’s not an excuse, but he taught us to fight against each other. At least as far as I was concerned. He was always pitting me against my brothers. I envied their closeness. Oh, how I wanted that closeness with them. But my father wouldn’t allow it. I don’t want to go into the detail, I’ll spare you that, but,” he paused, gulping great gasps of air as the lived trauma flooded back. “The torture?—”
Lucy held her palm in the air. “It’s okay, Hamad. I know something of your father’s legacy. You don’t need to speak of the unspeakable. At least not with me. I know a good counselor if you would consider talking to her. Issy helped me.”
Lucy looked at the flowers and then up at Hamad, contemplating his pain and words. After a moment of contemplative reflection, she took a deep breath.
“Forgiveness is a difficult thing, Hamad. But I believe in the power of healing and second chances. While what you did was hurtful, I see the remorse in your eyes. I understand the pain your father inflicted on you. I know how hurtful it is when those who are supposed to want the best for you only see glory in your demise. And I can sense your genuine desire for redemption.”
She placed the flowers on the table by her easel and sat beside him. “I forgive you, Hamad. I’d be glad to put the whole thing behind us. I hope you mean it when you say you will strive to be a better person. It’s hateful and hurtful to tell lies.” She reached out and clasped his trembling hands in hers.
Hamad tried to speak, but no words came out. Tears welled in his eyes. Finally, after a lengthy silence, he spoke. “Thank you, Lucy. Your forgiveness means more to me than words can express. I promise I will do everything I can to make amends and regain your trust. You deserve nothing less.”
They both sat silently for a moment, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air. They both shared a hopeful smile, knowing that forgiveness was the first step toward reconciliation and healing.
“Here,” Lucy said, getting to her feet and walking to her paints. She plunged a giant mop into a bucket of white paint. “Let's move forward from this dark chapter,” she said, passing the mop to him. “Let’s paint a new story and focus on recreating what was lost and giving life to what will be.”
He looked at her uncertainly. “I’m not an artist. I don’t know how to paint.”
“Like this,” she said, her eyes shining as she locked her gaze on a giant canvas.”
She plunged another mop in a bucket of paint and thrust it forward. “Forgiveness feels fabulous,” she cried as the paint landed with a smack.
Hamad’s slumping posture straightened in shock. He covered his mouth with his hand, then rose to his feet. He uttered a soft prayer and then cried out in release. “Lucy is merciful,” and swept the painted loaded mop in sweeping rhythmic hearts.
Hamad had changed, and Lucy found she had, too. Facing their painful pasts had led to growth for everyone.
Lucy reached for a giant crayon and scrawled, “With time and effort and love, healing is possible.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR
The exhibition was looming, and Lucy was in no way ready. Ideas were still swirling around, diffusing and dissipating, but now it was time to finish a coherent body of work. She studied the blank canvases looming large along the walls and sucked in a deep breath.
Just do it! Don’t overthink it!
She plunged the floppy mop into the bucket of diluted magenta paint. Magenta is the color of universal harmony and emotional balance, she reflected. Magenta contains red’s passion, power, and energy—restrained by violet's introspection and quiet energy. Magenta promotes compassion, kindness, and cooperation. Magenta was the color of cheerfulness, happiness, contentment, and appreciation.
Magenta embodies unconditional love.
Would Anwar love the collection? While she wasn’t seeking Anwar’s approval, Lucy hoped he would love what she created. She was celebrating their love and the winding journey their hearts had traveled. And she was celebrating the birth of their daughter. It suddenly made sense now why, all those times she had tried to paint blues, she didn’t feel it. Her baby was a girl, not a boy like the sonographer had told her during her mid-pregnancy ultrasound in New York.
“Be fearless,” she encouraged herself. “Be brave. Fortune favors the strong.” Wrenching the mop from the bucket, dripping with shimmering pigment, she lunged at the canvas, exhaling noisily from deep in her belly.
“Love!" she shouted. “Lock onto love!"
She swept the mop vigorously along the canvas, then repeated similar movements with each of the 12 canvases lined across the walls of her studio. Her arms tingled with pulsing conviction as her confidence grew bolder with each flourish.
“Love rules. Love matters. Love is the real world.”
