See What I See (6 page)

After supper I call Justin and tell him what's happened. “Sure,” he says. “Take the money and run. You don't owe him anything.”

“But he's not well. He might need me.”

“You shouldn't let that interfere with your dreams. I thought you wanted to be an artist.”

“I want to be a human being too.”

“Look, I've got a lot of homework for tomorrow. I'm really sorry you've got this creep for a father, but it seems to me you're getting all tangled up in his problems. You've got to keep your eye on your goal.”

“You're probably right,” I tell him.

By the time I dial Mom, I've all but decided to live in a dorm. But how will I explain that to her? What will she say when I tell her I'm accepting money from Dad? I hope she'll just be glad that I won't be under the same roof with him anymore.

Mom doesn't answer. Then I remember it's Monday night, her bridge night. I think about what it's like when it's her turn to have her friends at our trailer, the four women crowded around our little table, laughing and gossiping, talking about where the sales are and what their kids are doing, drinking cups of coffee and eating the double chocolate brownies Mom always makes.

The thought of the brownies makes me hungry. When I wander downstairs to get some peanut butter and crackers, I hear Dad talking to Morgan. He's saying that he'll be sending a couple of paintings soon and is asking for the money. I hear his angry voice: “What do you mean I've had my last advance? I'll be sending the paintings any day now.” There are more angry words, but I don't stay to listen.

I forget about the dorm.

E
very day at school is amazing. Not just classes. Yesterday a local rock group came to play in the cafeteria during lunch, and we were beating time with our silverware and dancing around. Today there was a Ping-Pong competition and a free yoga class. Lila showed me the fitness room, and we worked out on the bikes, her long legs going a mile a minute.

The weather has been warm, and between classes or at lunchtime we all hang out in the courtyard like living statues scattered among the famous sculptures. Everyone talks with everyone else because we're all interested in the same thing—creative ideas to put down on paper or turn into clay or glass or paintings or even automobiles. There's a student from Japan who told me he has this idea for a car that will work on the rubber-band principle. He tried to explain it and totally lost me, but then I got him talking about the island in Japan where he came from. It's mostly sea and mountains, and I could tell he was a little lonesome for it, like I'm lonesome for up north.

One afternoon Lila dragged me over to a guy who was wearing an amazing T-shirt. She practically attacked him. “I'm going to pull that shirt right off your beautiful body and steal it if you don't tell me where you got it.”

“Made it.”

“You didn't!”

“I did. I dyed it and then I buried it and then I ran my car over it.”

“It's too cool.” Lila got right in his face. “I've got a proposition. I'm going to have a little atelier of my own soon, nothing fancy, but I could sell as many of those shirts as you can run over.”

“Deal.”

It was like that all the time. New ideas floating around everywhere, even in the computer room where I checked Dad's emails for him. Sitting right next to me one afternoon was a girl with the most incredible designs popping up on her screen. I just sat there looking, excited to see what was coming next. “You can do that on a computer?” I asked.

“Sure. Like this.” She started to explain, but it was over my head. Still, kids were happy to let you in on their secrets because they knew someone else would let them in. I loved that.

There is so much to discover. There are the kilns, the big ovens that bake the clay pots, and a room with furnaces where you can twist molten glass into any shape you want. All the classrooms have huge windows, so the city is as much inside the school as out. You never forget your connection with it for a minute. I think we all know Detroit is in trouble: empty houses and stores, jobs lost . . . but we're the new wave. We're going to make it better. We're going to put Detroit back on the map.

Yesterday it was still warm and almost like summer, but this morning there was a cold rain that told me September is nearly over. I can't believe how fast the month has gone. After class I know I should hurry home and see how Dad is. I also know Dad will have his usual sarcastic remark about my wasting my time at school, and I'm not quite ready for that today. Instead I stop at an art-supply store and pick up some boards to gesso. What you do is sort of whitewash the boards to make a background for the paint. I linger over the rows of paint tubes; they're as beautiful to me as a Dior dress would be to Lila, and practically as expensive. I buy a tube of Naples yellow and one of medium magenta. I have ideas just thinking of the colors, and I'm eager to get started with the painting. On the bus on the way home I go over everything that happened in school that day, not wanting to let it go. Since I have school, I know I can put up with Dad and his demands.

When I get home, I find the house empty. In a way I'm relieved, even glad. I'll have the peace and quiet I need to get my boards prepared for painting. But a whisper in the back of my head repeats,
Something's wrong
. Dad is weak, and walking is hard for him, and the car is in the driveway. So where is he? Dad is more of a distraction when he's gone than when he's here. I put down my backpack and head out, wandering up and down the nearby streets. I even check the convenience store, but Emmanuel says he hasn't seen Dad in days and gives me a critical look that says,
How can you not know where your father is? What kind of daughter are you?

Finally I head back home, and I'm opening the jar of gesso when the phone rings. “Is this Kate Quinn, Mr. Quinn's daughter?” Kate Quinn. No one has called me that in years. My first impulse is to say no. “Hello,” the voice says. “Are you there?”

“This is Kate Quinn,” I say. I have a feeling these are the most dangerous words I have ever uttered.

“This is the emergency room at Detroit Receiving Hospital. Don't be alarmed. Your father is fine. He just had a little trouble breathing. Luckily he had his cell with him and called 911. We didn't want to send him home until we knew someone would be there.” The voice develops a scolding tone. “In his condition he needs someone to keep an eye on him. Do you want to pick him up, or should we send him home in an ambulance?”

“I'll be right there,” I say.

The car keys are still on the kitchen counter. My hands are shaking so much, I have trouble digging out my map of Detroit. I find the little red crosses on the map that show where the hospitals are. Receiving isn't far. I'm furious with myself and with Dad all at the same time. Knowing how sick he is, I should have checked on him before I left for school today. But wasn't he alone before I arrived? Why couldn't he just let me get on with my life? Was he doing this to punish me for going off to school?

I leave the car in the emergency parking lot and rush into the hospital. All the chairs in the emergency room are filled, and a few people who look like they should be sitting are leaning against the wall. I have never been in a hospital. Everything is strange: the smell, the doctors in white coats with stethoscopes hanging around their necks like some sort of weird necklaces, the moan coming from behind a curtain strung across a cubicle. I'm told someone will see me shortly. Minutes later Thomas appears. At first I don't recognize him in his white jacket. “You're in uniform,” I say to cover my nervousness.

“It's to keep the patients from learning we're just students. I'm sorry about your dad. When I saw his name, I had a talk with the doctor who examined him. He was having trouble breathing and they removed fluid from his lungs; that's all part of his illness. He'll be fine now, at least for a while, but it may happen again. He needs to tell you when he's beginning to have trouble so it doesn't become an emergency.” Thomas gives me a professional look. “You all right?”

“I'm fine. I know you told me that could be a problem, but I didn't think it would happen so soon.”

“I'm afraid the cirrhosis is pretty far along, and I noticed a little disorientation when I talked with him.” He sees my questioning look. “If you're going to be at school, you should think about getting someone in to be with him while you're away, and I'll put in a request for a visiting nurse to stop by once a week to see how he's getting along.” He puts an arm around my shoulders and gives a reassuring squeeze. I lean into him and grit my teeth to keep from crying. Why does someone being nice to you make you want to cry?

Thomas heads down a hall and is back a minute later with Dad, who is struggling to get out of his wheelchair. “Sorry, Mr. Quinn,” Thomas says in a firm voice, “I have orders to deliver you to your car in the chair. It's hospital routine.” He tries to make a joke. “I don't want you suing me or anything.”

Dad glares at me. “Don't just stand there—get the car.”

When I drive up, Thomas helps Dad into the front seat next to me.

“Let's go,” Dad orders.

I pull away while Thomas stands there watching us.

When we arrive home and I've settled Dad in, I say, “I think we should get a nurse's aide to stay with you during the day. I'll be here weekends and evenings.”

“A babysitter? Over my dead body. I thought that's what you were here for.”

“I'm here to go to school. Remember?”

He cuts me off. “I can't afford help. Morgan isn't going to give me another cent until I finish my paintings and ship them off.”

“How can you not have any money? You're famous.”

“I
was
famous. I created myself and then I destroyed myself. I promised work for a show, or a painting for a museum, but then I didn't deliver. Killed my reputation. Booze, women, traveling, that's all I cared about. I thought I had all the time in the world. Now I only have one chance left.

“When the doctors gave me my diagnosis, I stopped drinking, did two paintings, and showed them to Morgan. I promised enough new things for a show and he agreed. I rented this house a year ago, and it's a race—my liver against enough work to get my reputation back. You've got the rest of your life, Kate. I've got months.”

As if to prove his point, Dad refuses to lie down and goes into his studio instead, slamming the door behind him.

I go to my room and try to figure out what to do. I don't want to give up school to take care of Dad. I don't think I can do it. Maybe I should leave. I could go back home and get a job, save my money, and come back to school in a year or two when I have enough money for a dorm room.

Then that whisper in the back of my head starts up again. Who is it that sics that little voice on you that insists you do the opposite of what you want? The one that makes you miserable until you do it?
He's your father,
the voice says.
He's an old man and he's dying. Just take care of him.
My father has led this perfectly disgusting life, and the little voice is going to make
me
be the one to pay for it. I guess I have to remember that part of my coming down was to get to know this man, for better or worse. Just because it was harder than I ever thought it would be doesn't mean I should give up. Especially when he needs me.

I stick my backpack and books in the empty space where the dresser drawer is missing. I cry, wallowing in my disappointment, taking a bath in a big tub of warmed-up frustration.
All right,
I tell the voice,
I'll quit school
.
For now.
But I promise myself it won't be forever. At least I'll be near school. Lila will tell me what's going on, and the Art Institute is nearby. I'll take care of Dad, but I won't stop painting. I'll find a place where I can work. Dad can't begrudge me that, because if I'm not painting, I'm not alive. He'll understand that.

There's a third bedroom at the back of the house. It's filled with a jumble of boxes that evidently Dad never got around to unpacking. There are no curtains on the windows, and the last of the afternoon sun is leaking into the room. I tackle the boxes and clear some space. Just accomplishing that much makes me feel better, as if the boxes were problems that I've now stacked out of the way. While Dad is working, I'll be upstairs painting, forgetting that I'm marooned in the middle of a strange city with someone who can barely stand me and who I dislike more every minute.

After dinner I write a letter to the school explaining that family circumstances prevent me from continuing the semester. I thank them for the scholarship, tell them I'm sure it will benefit another student, and apologize for any trouble I have caused them. I say I hope they will allow me to return to school sometime in the future. I remember all the soppy romance novels I've read where tears drop on a letter the heroine is writing, and find out it happens in real life too. Before I can change my mind, I hurry out to mail the letter. In one big bite the mailbox swallows up the envelope and all my dreams.