A Promise to Remember

Kathryn
CUS MAN

to Ora Parrish mother editor, best friend

Andie Phelps could not put the brush to the canvas. The blue
paint seemed wrong now on the sable bristles. Brightness could
not cover the dark, the darkness was too strong. Just like her sorrow
and pain. Brightness and light were nothing more than lies.

Still, Chad had asked this of her. This one thing. By accomplishing this task, she would honor her son's memory.

The chill of January came through the windows, opened because of the fumes. Andie inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with
the smell of turpentine and oil paint. She'd need her Ionic Breeze
because her husband, even more than most people, hated this
smell. Not Andie. To her, it meant release and relief. Usually.

But not today.

Carefully, she touched the brush to canvas. Nothing but
perfection would do, and she knew she didn't possess the talent. Still, she had to try. "This is for you, Chad."

Her hand shook and dropped away from the canvas. She slid
her chair back.

Focus,Andie. You have toget through this. Once again she looked
at the yellow paper beside her easel. At the top of the page, handwritten in blue ink, were the words Chad-notes firom last yews
chair-man. Then followed typewritten instructions, numbered one through twenty, detailing the proper procedures for conducting
ClimesdaleAcademy's Wash Your Car, WaxYour Board Scholarship Fundraiser. Number five-Scan school logo onto posters and
T-shifts for students-had been crossed out. Beside it, in Chad's
handwriting, Boring. Mom can paint something cool.

Two weeks ago, when she'd sketched the outline of grinning
old-time convertibles and wagons loaded with surfboards, he had
laughed. "How could anyone resist?" Chad, more than anyone
she'd ever known, loved with complete abandon. Now she had
failed him, and he was gone forever.

She looked at the dates written on the paper. The fundraiser
was approaching fast. Time to get started. Chad, I don't think I
can do this. She stared at the crown molding around the ceiling.
God, help me. Help me.

Perhaps starting with a different color would help. And some
surf tunes to change the mood. She crossed the room and pushed
a button on her CD player. As Dick Dale and his surf guitar
broke like a wave through the room, she selected another brush
and dipped it into the sienna on her palette.

The old Woody at the front of the line began to take form,
her wrist and fingers finding their own rhythm now. She had
been away from it so long it surprised her how wonderful it felt.
She realized again how much she missed painting.

The song switched. "Surfin' USA." Andie tapped her foot
with the beat, until the Beach Boys sang the praises of Rincon
Point. Chad's favorite surf spot.

Her eyes began to burn. She rubbed the left one with her
shoulder and went to work on the convertible. She worked the
red into the canvas. The brush slipped from her fingers and left
a gash of red on the PT Cruiser's door.

An image of Chad floated before her. His pale face spattered
with blood, his eyelids fluttering, his white lips whispering final
words. "I love you, Mom. You're the greatest person I've ever known." A raspy breath, "Dad ... k vas on my way to get it back."
Following quickly came another memory-his vacant eyes and
lifeless form against stark white sheets in a room that smelled
of antiseptic and pain.

Andie blinked and tried to turn her attention back to her work.
That sight, those smells, would not go away. A drop of liquid
splashed onto her thumb. She looked down at the fallen tear.
Strange, she hadn't even felt them start this time. She wiped
her cheeks with both hands, and as she did, the paintbrush
rubbed against her left knuckles, leaving another wound of
blood red in its path.

She screamed out in anguish, an agony she'd tried so hard to
keep hidden these last days. "I'm sorry, Chad. I'm so sorry." She
couldn't stand the sight of the red paint a moment longer. She
threw the brush across the room, where it struck the picture
window and splattered to the mahogany floor.

She swiped at her painting, the bright colors blending and
cutting mournful gray across the canvas in four long streaks.
Those eager, smiling vehicles could not pretend to be all right
anymore. The cars were frauds and liars anyway. They weren't
happy. Nothing could ever be happy again. Andie used both
hands, wiping and mixing until the entire scene vanished into
unrecognizable, unknowable darkness. A dark reflection of how
she felt.

"What do you think you're doing?" Blair's voice was followed
by the music clicking off. Andie had been so engrossed in her
pain, she hadn't heard him enter the house. She didn't turn.

His footsteps paced toward her but did not stop, his shoulder brushing hers as he strode to the window, squatted, and
picked up the brush, careful to hold it away from his gray suit.
He turned. "Andie, if this dries, it'll ruin the sealant we just
put down."

He dropped the brush into a cup of turpentine with a splash
and snatched a rag. After scrubbing for some time, he stood
and wiped his hands on the cloth. "I got it off the floor, but it
smeared on the window. You'll need a razor to get it all."