Jessica doesn’t need me for about two hours after her morning bath, diapering, dressing and tube feeding. It’s been six years since I first allowed myself to leave her, and still, the more I do, the more I realize those twenty minutes, half hours turned hour—the short moments of not being with her—they help me avoid the bottle. I’d done that once—grabbed the vodka from the pantry and poured a shot moments after our daily routine.
She doesn’t respond anymore, but I know she loves the rainbows I’ve painted on her walls — the most vivid colors I can create. Her favorite is orange. Every shade of it: tangerine, gold, orange mixed with white, with yellow, red orange. To keep her interested I paint her room one wall at a time, stripes of various hues of one color, alternating each month. While the north wall is shades of red, I paint the west wall in purples, blues, or greens. This month it will be the eastern wall, the one closest to her bed. I plan on giving her more orange, as many shades as possible.
My walks are a risk. What if I tripped, broke an ankle and couldn’t get back home? What if I got hit by a car and knocked unconscious, sent to the hospital for days? No one would go to Jessica’s rescue, because I’ve driven them all away, somehow.
This morning Jessica’s eyes were still closed when I opened the blinds. I only open them when I’m sure the neighbors have left for work. They watch us. Gawk at the woman next door with the vegetable for a daughter. They said that once. I heard them through Jessica’s open window as they sat in their backyard with two other couples, cocktails in hand and stretching their legs in the sun, enjoying their complacent lives.
I call Publix to confirm that the groceries will be delivered after two and before six. I turn on the radio so Jessica can feel like she’s part of the world. The crazy world.
“I’m heading out, Jess. You know I’ll be back soon. I’ll be home before lunch time, sweetheart.”
Sometimes I think she understands me and it reassures her, but today she seems distant. Like she’s angry or bored. Does she get bored? It kills me to think she might.
I roll the cart out of the closet, grab my purse and glance in the mirror to make sure I don’t have unsightly chin hair or some forgotten food stuck on my cheek. I open the door to white egrets, sunshine, the overpowering smell of new asphalt and the sounds of a normal, functioning day.
It’s five blocks to downtown. Some days I stop for a coffee, always French pressed with room for cream. Other days I stop into the pharmacy. Today it’s the hardware store.
A group of women walk their dogs together and their happy chatter carries to my side of the street. I knew them once, a long time ago, when the kids were all school age. I wish I could remember their names.
#
“Mary!” Dominic calls as the door’s hanging bells chime and clink against the frame. I roll my cart onto the gray tile. “Glad you’re back.”
“Hello, Dom,” I say. “Thank you.”
He stares at me for a second longer than comfortable. “Here for paint?”
I nod. “Thank you, yes I am.”
“Always good to see you, Mary. How’s Jessica?”
I head to aisle two for masking tape. Dominic follows.
“We are both fine, Dom. I’m going to do orange again. I suppose there’s nothing much else exciting going on.”
His beautiful smile changes.
I swallow and straighten my back. “What? Is something wrong?”
“Well,” he says, “no disrespect intended. It’s just, maybe you could use a little help.”
McElden’s paint aisle is better than the big chain stores. Only two brands but many of the colors are premixed and I don’t have to wait long to pay and leave.
“I need eggshell white and a deep orange. Like the color of a blood orange,” I say. “Have you ever eaten a blood orange?” He stares at me. I know the look. “Maybe more of a red.”
I’m used to obvious pity, but not from Dominic. He’s never treated me like I was different from any other customer. Years ago, people stopped by the house just to check in. Some brought food, flowers. People who remembered Jessica before the accident. One woman sent me cards. Another would bring literature on nursing homes. A pastor used to visit.
“I got a yellow I can add some red to.” He grabs a gallon before I am able. “It will be orange as a crayon. Promise.”
Dominic must be at least ten years younger than me. His Jersey accent is endearing and I often find myself wondering how much hair covers his chest. That used to be considered sexy, but I don’t know if it is anymore. The curly black hair under his hat is turning at the temples. A hint of gray at the roots. He’s never worn a wedding ring, but that doesn’t mean anything. Not for a man working in a hardware store.
“I’m divorced,” he says, and I jump a little, realizing I’ve been staring at his hand. We turn the corner and head to the paint mixer. Dominic pours cherry red into yellow and taps the lid with a small mallet. “Jill and me, still good friends. But she takes care of people. Old folks? She goes into their homes and helps so their spouses can get a shower or a good meal. Know what I mean?”
The paint shakes in the mixer, a violent beginning. I can’t wait to see it. Instead, Dom forgets to open it because he is still trying to convince me he knows best.
“I just thought that maybe you’d like to give her a call sometime.”
“Excuse me?”
“My ex,” he says, “Jill.”
I step to the counter a few feet away and set the blue masking tape down and open my purse. “I’m in a hurry, and I’m managing fine, but thank you.”
He sets a scrap of paper on top of the paint and writes JILL DIMICO and a phone number. His handwriting is all angles and blocks. “I got a daughter,” he offers. “Twelve years old. Makes us crazy. Good thing her mother lets me in on everything.”
“It sounds like you and Jill should still be married.” I immediately regret my words and wave my hand like I’m swatting a fly. “Not my business.”
“Nah, we’re better friends than anything. Always were. Had Katie when neither of us should ever thought about anything serious. Damn, isn’t life funny? How it works out and all?” Dom puts five paint sticks in a plastic bag along with the masking tape.
“Funny isn’t the definition I’d use,” I say, but smile anyway, knowing he might try to make me feel better if I don’t. “I need to get home. Thanks for your help. Jess will love it. It’s her favorite color, you know.”
I set the paint cans in my cart and try to swallow the rock forming in my throat. I head toward the doors as another customer walks in, ringing the cheery bells. She glances at me and quickly turns. But I caught her look—the one that says, your life makes me sad.
“Call Jill,” Dominic says. “She’ll be waiting and glad to help. At least to offer advice.”
I pause, only long enough to get the cart over the threshold.
#
Back at home Jess is staring at the purple wall. Violet, blue-violet, plum. “Hi, sweetie,” I call in the hallway before entering her room. “I bought more paint. Thought I’d cover the purple this time. What do you think?” I watch her eyes and wait for anything—a blink, a glance.
I open her blinds and crack the window so she can hear the birds. “What a nice day. I saw Dominic. He asked about you.”
Her head still faces the purple. She can move it to look at each wall, but lately movement has become less and less frequent. I leave the window and walk to her bedside, fixing my gaze on the same stripe of magenta that has caught her attention so well. I gently turn her so her face is toward the window and the green wall. “Better?” I sit on the edge of the bed and smooth her hair.
About an hour later I remember the paint and tape and head toward the back door where I left the cart. The white is on top of the orange, so I set that in the laundry closet along with the other cans and grab a flathead screwdriver. I lift the orange paint and this morning’s newspaper and the plastic bag from McElden’s. “Tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll tape today and line the room with plastic and tomorrow I’ll start a new wall.”
I lay the newspaper on the kitchen table and set the paint on top. The lid comes off with little encouragement from the screwdriver. The orange bursts with possibility, just as Dominic promised. “Like a crayon,” I whisper. I allow myself to imagine Dominic at home, playing with his daughter when she was young. I smile, reach for the plastic bag and remove the sticks. I remember the paper with JILL DIMICO scrawled across it. I grab it with my left hand as I dip into the orange with my right, enjoying the weight of the color. Vibrant. Ready. Alive. I hold my breath for a moment, blending in slow circles, like how I used to mix milk and ice cream when Jess was small. How she loved the consistency of it.
The paint flows, fast but purposeful, back into the can. Back where the color screams with possibility. What if I’d met Dom back before I had Jess? What would life be like now? The orange drips with no purpose but to exist, to return. I turn the paint stick horizontal and slide it against the edge of the can, wiping off the rest.
I fold Jill Dimico’s number over the stick and pull it slowly against my hand. The numbers become orange, her name thick against my fingers. “Today I will tape and tomorrow I will paint.” I wipe my hand against the newspaper on the table and turn the stick over and over, holding it high against sunlight through the window. “Jess!” I call, “you won’t believe how bright this one is. Just like a crayon.”
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This article appears in Feb 23 – Mar 2, 2017.