Kaleidoscope (4 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Thursday morning came in a chilly gust that scattered the autumn leaves, bringing with it a decadent frost that cloaked everything in its path with a light, dusty coating of snow, like powdered sugar that had fallen from the sky. The sun glimmered through the clouds, igniting the ground and trees into a sparkling wildfire of crystal reflection. It was the first snow of the year.

It was still snowing ever so slightly when I sluggishly opened my eyes and rolled toward the window to view the sky. I rolled again to check the time on my clock. 9:15 am.

I'd never been a morning person, but I seem to remember them being much easier to deal with as a kid. The weight of my depression and the anxiety of trying to work through it draped across my shoulders made it impossible for me to get up at a normal hour.

I sat up, stretching my aching back and combing long strands of blonde hair out of my face. My lower back muscles were killing me today. Without another thought, I quickly identified the source of this pain.

My painting, standing up against the wall on my desk across the room, was almost finished. The autumn scene reverberated with oaks and maple trees brandishing their colorful foliage, which fell gently from their boughs in hues of golden yellow, firecracker red, deep maroon, and many shades in between. They gathered calmly at the foot of an isolated wrought iron bench, keeping it company as it waited to be enjoyed by the warm fellowship of someone who would also take part in appreciating its lustrous surroundings. I'd spent the better part of the previous day delving into this painting, hoping that I could fine-tune my skills enough that I wouldn't make a complete fool of myself during the painting class at the recreation center.

Some might say that I'm an overachiever, but the truth was that I just didn't want to be seen as a failure. Perhaps Ms. Orowitz was right in saying that we're each our own worst critics, but I'd rather not take the chance of finding out. Plus, I would be lying if I didn't admit that the praise of others bolstered my own low perception of my self-worth.

I shrugged as I swung my legs over the bed, slowly lowering my feet to the worn beige carpet beneath my feet.
Is that what I hoped to get out of this experience?
I wondered.
A boost of self-confidence from strangers that I can't provide to myself?

My bedroom door pushed open ever so slightly, seemingly without provocation, catching me off guard as I stood in front of my closet. Mom had already left for work at least an hour ago. Hesitantly, I peeked around the corner, my delusional mind making up all sorts of scenarios of someone who might have entered the house to kidnap or kill me.

To my disdain, it was merely my mother's orange tabby, Murray. He peeked in curiously, wrapping his plump body affectionately around the door as he entered, staring at me with large, inquisitive yellow eyes.

I frowned. “Murray, you aren't supposed to be in here!” He mewed quietly in response, no doubt unaware of his mistake, and probably very apathetic to it anyway, as many cats tended to be. The short-haired feline rubbed his head against my legs, beckoning me to follow him downstairs.

“Let me guess...Mom forgot to feed you before she left for work. Why else would you come up here?” I nudged him away with my foot, making a mental note to do the task myself before I left the house. As he was now entering his senior years, Murray was a very overweight creature. He had for the most part given up the exerting task of playing and spent most of his time napping, seeking affection, and of course, eating. Meals were the cat's true joy in life, and he wouldn't allow anyone to forget it. If his needs for sustenance weren't met, he wouldn't leave us alone until this very severe issue was remedied. At the very least, he was a very easy pet to please.

“I'll feed you soon,” I promised, thankful that I hadn't yet been wearing pants as Murray continued to berate my legs with his pleading affections. “Now go away.” I carefully lifted the heavy cat and directed him towards the door, closing it behind him as he gave me an indignant stare.

I've always been more of a dog person, so I never really warmed up to the “family cat” that has been with us for literally as long as I can remember. Mom got him after I started attending grade school, as a sort of companion while I was gone since it was just the two of us. However, when we first got him, I was enamored with our terrier dog, Sassy, so the cat might as well have been invisible. After she died and I wasn't allowed to have a pet of my own, I think I resented Murray's existence because I knew that he was my mom's. He would never really be mine.

Murray wasn't any more mean or angry than most felines—in fact, he was always doing his best to get me on his good side. And yet, when I looked at the peach-colored fluffball these days, he mostly just reminded me of the things that I couldn't remember. It was frustrating that this cat had been here for the whole thing, and could probably remember my life better than I could myself. As if cats didn't already have an air of condescension to them, now he could lord over me with a knowledge of things that were buried like treasure inside my own head, not yet close enough to the surface for me to even guess at what they may be. But I knew that they existed.

As I worked my way into a pair of jeans and made my way to the bathroom down the hall to make myself look presentable, I looked at my small journal, set on my nightstand in case I ever woke up with some profound vision of the past. I quickly stowed it away in my back pocket as I left the room.

Fleetingly, I entertained the thought that maybe if Murray could speak like a human and tell me the happenings of the household for the past six years, like a fly on the wall, then I could write it all down and pretend I'd remembered it all on my own. I would stun Ms. Orowitz and be the most successful patient that she's ever had...all thanks to a cat. My reflection in the mirror as I doused my eyes in fake powders and gels smiled for a moment.

I couldn't get lost in my own thoughts for too long, however, and forced myself to focus on the task at hand: making it to the painting class. I bustled quickly down the stairs, where Murray was waiting for me. Much to his delight, I managed to pour a generous amount of his dry kibble into his bowl, then pat him briefly on the head as I turned to gather my things.

***

Gratefully, I sat aboard the lead bullet bus, warming my feet at the heater located under the seat across from me in the middle of the aisle. There were a lot more people present at this time of day, making their commute to work in the blistering cold.

              And blistering cold it was—from inside the walls of a warm home, the scene outside looked like a crystal ball moment held frozen in time. Upon walking outside and waiting a few extra minutes on the cold bench for a bus that was a bit behind schedule, the chill air was truly unwelcoming. My breath had billowed out from my mouth and nostrils like smoke from a train, and I wondered incredulously for a moment how Mother Nature could turn so quickly from a mild autumn evening to an unquestionably winter morning. The bundled figures that joined me on this ride, huddled close to people that they knew and drawing their hoods around their faces, were a testament to the power of this uncontrollable force.

As feeling began to return to my fingers, I glanced out the frosted window, clouded with the warm breath of dozens of passengers. I was looking for the unfamiliar form of the recreation center. Mom had enthusiastically looked up the cross streets for me when I'd finally decided on pursuing this adventure during dinner the night before. I had them written down on a small sheet of paper, tucked now in the palm of my numb hand, but it was difficult for me to see the signs. Instead, I relied as I always did on the churning motion of the machine's wheels beneath my feet. The fifth time that it stopped was where I was supposed to make my exit.

I waited, my heart beating faster in anticipation at each stop. I sat quietly, like the others. Though there was an abundance of people here, the attitude was unchanged from my routine bus rides around town in the afternoon—I was surrounded by a bunch of zombies. Some spoke to each other, but only in hushed tones, as if raising their voice enough for others to hear them would expose that they indeed had a soul, and they'd fall prey to the other lifeless drones that surrounded them. The only consistent sounds were the hum of the bus's heater, the roar of its diesel engine, and the occasional halt that jolted everyone forward in a collective motion, allowing some to exit and others to take their place.

I was beginning to feel like a zombie myself, when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar silhouette amongst the crowd of bundled coats and frozen faces somewhere behind me.

It was the boy from last week, the one with the sketchbook. I stared with curiosity, noticing this time that he didn't carry a sketchbook, or anything that made him different from many of the other patrons of public transportation this morning. Yet, he stuck out against them all like a beacon of light against an evening storm. After all, it was his image that sparked up the idea for me to put a new set of paintbrushes to use and try to take up one of my favorite hobbies again.

As I continued gazing furtively in his direction, I noticed that his eyes were a bright, piercing green—much like my own, to my surprise. His hair was a very dark chocolate color, styled in messy, yet organized locks around his face that reached to his ears and the nape of his neck. It paired nicely with his smooth skin, several shades darker than my own—which doesn't say much of course. The contrast made his eyes seem luminously mysterious. His own gaze was averted out the window, through a small circle of clarity that he'd wiped away from the frost. His eyes, however, didn't hold the lifeless still of a person going throughout their day with apathetic duty and obligation. They held a smile, quietly trapped in a bemused observation of the world around him.

For a second, I felt jealous and ashamed that I couldn't hold this beautiful world in an equal regard.

The diesel engine quieted its gruff voice as it prepared to come to the fifth stop of the trip.
This is the one.
As the bus came to a halt, several people stood up with me, waiting to move down the aisle like a herd of cattle. I trundled along with them, turning as I made my way down to the street just in time to see that the green-eyed boy had also gotten off on this stop.

My heart was beating so fast that I felt light-headed. I glanced at the slip of paper in my palm to double check the streets, squinting to see them in the bright reflection of the snow. I looked straight ahead at a long sidewalk that led to a somewhat dome-shaped, brown brick building. It was clearly marked as the place that I needed to be, with a small separate sign providing direction to various places within it.

I wonder if I'll run into him again?

The boy was ahead of me, shouldering his green backpack that I now knew matched his eye color, walking purposefully to the building. He seemed to know where he was headed, but I unfortunately did not. Anxiety overtook me as I willed myself to look for a solution to this predicament. Instead of following him, I followed the arrow on the small sign indicating the lobby, checking my phone as I did so to check the time.

It was 11:18 am. The class didn't start for another twelve minutes, so I had time. I breathed to steady myself, feeling like a child on the first day of school, and forced myself to walk a little slower to the building, keeping up appearances that I knew where I needed to be so as not to embarrass myself. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized how silly it was to feel so uncertain about a simple painting class, but a fear of the unknown was something I've always had to deal with—at least I think it has been. I tried not to dwell on it and followed the sidewalk as it wound around the building to the recreational center's entrance.

The lobby was mostly empty, peppered with a few individuals throughout who enjoyed conversations with each other. I looked out the enormous paned glass windows that stretched from floor to ceiling along the entire outside wall, admiring the small, delicate snowflakes that drifted to the ground.  Doing my best to quell the certainty that everyone already knew there was something wrong with me, I turned my attention to the front desk, mustering the courage to approach the woman sitting behind it.

She appeared to be in her late-30s and wore her curly brunette hair in a casual bun that flopped loosely at the back of her head. With her glasses, sitting halfway down a long, straight nose, she almost reminded me of Ms. Orowitz. This strengthened my confidence as I leaned secretively onto the desk; I'd dealt with Ms. Orowitz a hundred times, this woman couldn't possibly be much different.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a bored tone.

“Yes, actually. I uh, I'm looking for the painting class at 11:30, but I've never been here before.”

She paused and looked at me, nonplussed with my obvious lack of confidence. I withered where I stood.

“Um...would you tell me where I can find it? Please?” I asked, much quieter.

The woman raised her eyebrows critically, doing nothing for my insecurity. I hesitated under her gaze until she  glanced down at a paper, then glanced in my direction. She didn't look at me, but at somewhere behind me.

“It's Room 108. First floor, to your left here.” She motioned to a hallway on my left, one of two that exited from the lobby onto what I could only assume were first-floor rooms. To my right, an enormous, modern-looking staircase climbed to a second floor. Its glass walls showed off a variety of sports-related facilities.