I quickly locate the shoe section and Sutton sees me coming. She holds up a pair of silver high-heeled sandals and beams at me. "These will be perfect with that dress."
Conjuring back up that fake smile, I tell her, "I'm not sold on it. I want to think about it a bit more and maybe try some other stores."
"Okay, let's go," she says as she puts the shoes back down. "Let's do this."
"Maybe some other time," I tell her softly as we walk through the department store. "I'm really tired and want to call it a night."
Tina's watching the kids for me as Max is at an away game. There's nothing I want more right now than to go home and cuddle with them for a bit. Levy and Rocco probably won't be hip to that but Annabelle is always good for some snuggles.
Sutton looks at me doubtfully but she doesn't say anything.
Which is good.
I don't feel like talking about all of the crappy feelings overwhelming me right now.
--
I sit before my easel, staring at the blank canvas. The apartment is silent, the kids having gone to bed a few hours ago. I do my painting in the kitchen, as it affords the most room to lay out my materials, and my easel is a tabletop model so it's really the only place to paint.
I've been sitting here for as long as the kids have been down, trying to get some inspiration, but nothing's coming.
My gaze drags over to the envelope sitting beside my easel.
Blocky, messy handwriting with my name and address.
Postmarked from Atlanta.
The return address is one I don't recognize, but the name above it I do.
Dwayne Collins, my brother-in-law.
I've been trying to ignore it, knowing that the minute I open it and read what's inside, my world is going to be turned upside down. I know this because it's a statistical impossibility that the contents of that envelope contain an apology or back-due child support. This is Dwayne we're talking about. He's an opportunist, and so that means whatever is in the envelope is geared toward benefiting him and hurting his kids.
No doubt whatsoever.
I turn back to the canvas and stare at it. I haven't even bothered picking up my brush. Haven't bothered to mix colors or fill my palette with my choices. I just stare at the blank canvas because right now my brain doesn't seem to be able to handle anything more than the soothing white of it staring back at me. It's simple and uncomplicated.
Something I desperately need right now.
Simple.
Uncomplicated.
Easy.
My eyes go back to the envelope, and with a sigh I pick it up because I can't ignore it forever. I break the seal, run my finger along the inside to rip an opening down the length, and pull out a pack of papers that once I unfold them look to be no more than four to five pages.
The top is a handwritten note from Dwayne, which I don't read right away but pull off to see what's underneath. My blood goes icy within my veins when I take in the fact that it's clearly a legal document and it's entitled "Petition to Terminate Guardianship."
I try to suck in air but precious little gets in, and when it comes back out, it's in a painful wheeze. I drop the document and look back to the handwritten note by Dwayne, feeling that same sting in my nose that I felt earlier today at the department store when I was reminded that I'm considered by most to be a gold digger.
My eyes fly over the page.
Julianne,
I've been to see an attorney to discuss my rights as a father to Rocco, Levy, and Annabelle. I'm told that I have a good shot at getting them back from you. The attorney drafted this up and all I have to do is file it with the court.
I'm still considering what's best for all involved. Call me and maybe we can work things out.
Dwayne
He's bluffing.
He has to be. Dwayne doesn't want those kids. He's never wanted those kids. He's only wanted freedom to do what makes Dwayne feel best, and he wants the money to do it.
I look back at the petition and it appears legit. I'm thinking maybe he invested a little bit of cash into an attorney to draft this, hoping the payout would be bigger.
At least that's what I hope is going on. To consider that he's actually serious about this is something my already overtaxed and emotional head can't handle right now. Let's not even discuss what this is doing to my heart.
I consider calling Dwayne right now but I know deep down it's not a good idea. I take stock of my emotions, and in addition to helplessness and frustration, I'm feeling a great deal of anger toward him.
Toward that woman in the dressing room.
Toward Luc.
Toward Camille.
Toward everything and everyone that has caused me so much anxiety and self-doubt lately.
I turn to my box of paints and pick a few colors. Blue, black, purple.
Dark colors.
They match my mood.
Because inspiration has hit me like a freight train, I decide to go with it and leave Dwayne until tomorrow, when I'll have a clearer head. I decide to focus these feelings onto the canvas and perhaps create something that will not only help to purge me of this nastiness, but will be evocative enough to entice someone to buy it.
I paint, getting lost in the feeling and letting my talent transform my emotion into a story on canvas. I paint solidly for over an hour, never once taking a break or second-guessing where I'm going with this piece of art.
I paint, and I paint, and I paint, sinking deeper and deeper into it.
My phone rings, and at first it barely penetrates. My psyche seems to want to shut everything out.
But it continues to ring and I finally drag my gaze away from the canvas and look down at it.
Max is calling.
I note the time and realize he's been playing an away game the last few hours against the Chicago Bobcats. I've gotten used to watching all of his games on the big flat-screen TV he'd bought for me and I reluctantly accepted.
Not a gold digger. Not a gold digger.
But tonight I completely forgot about it, so completely immersed in my problems. A flash of guilt sweeps through me and I feel terrible because in addition to all of my other perceived failings, tonight I've forgotten to be a good girlfriend.
I set my paintbrush down, the loaded bristles resting on the edge of my palette, and reach slowly for the phone.
But then I stop.
Today has gone down as one of the shittiest I've had in my life since Melody died, and I know if I pick up that phone, I'm going to have to tell Max all about it. I have no idea if my man won or lost his game, only that I have nothing good to offer him tonight. I absolutely do not want to burden him with my oversensitivity to what others think of me or the messy problems that Dwayne has created.
I don't want to tell him any of these things because I'm scared that one day soon he's going to really wake up and notice what he's getting with me, and I'm terrified that it will become clear to him that I'm not the catch he thinks I am.
So I pick my brush back up and I keep painting.
"Can I get your autograph, Mr. Fournier?" I hear from behind me. I only give a quick glance over my shoulder, keeping my hands firmly gripped to Annabelle's waist as she navigates a horizontal rope bridge that sits a few feet off the ground. "Sure thing. Give me just a second."
I walk with Annabelle along the entire length of the bridge, the kid asking for an autograph following along with me. As Annabelle hops down, I glance over at Jules, who's pushing Levy on a tire swing. Beyond her, Kate and Zack are standing atop a wide slide built into a little hill, watching as Ben and Rocco take turns sliding down it and running back up the hill again.
"I want to do it again," Annabelle says as she tugs on the hem of my shirt.
"Anything for you, cutie," I say as I ruffle her hair. "Give me just a second."
I turn to the kid. A boy, maybe about ten. His parents are hovering close by, looking worried they may be imposing. And they sort of are, but it's what you do
when you're in my position. You never take for granted any child who might be looking up to you as a role model. If I were to be an ass to this kid, tell him I'm too busy, what does that teach him?
To be an asshole.
I take a moment, sign the autograph, and then pose for a few pictures, all while Annabelle watches me carefully. When I'm done, I take her by the hand and lead her back to the beginning of the rope bridge. It's a moderately chilly day for North Carolina, which means mid-fifties for December, hence there aren't a ton of people out here today.
"Why did you write on that piece of paper?" she asks me as I lift her back up. She places her feet carefully, one in front of the other, her hands holding on to the ropes at her side. My hands go back to her waist as she starts walking it.