Climb | ✔

Chapter 19 | Two Buckets

"When is the play again?" asked John Moore through the phone. His voice rang out on speaker through Winter's room, reverberating off her metal bedposts in a hollow din.

"May 18th," Winter repeated for what must have been the fifth time over the past week.

"May 18th," John repeated. "May, May, May..." Winter could hear some vague shuffling over the line, as if he were flipping through a notebook. "I don't think I'll be able to make it work, sweetheart. We have a big demo on the 17th that I'm managing."

Winter didn't expect any more or any less. The only reason she even bothered mentioning the play to her father was to be courteous. It wasn't even a real invitation--that would require some semblance of expectation that the invitee would actually show up.

"Don't worry about it. It's just a play, anyway. No big deal," she assured.

By the time she got through the remainder of the call with her dad, Winter was filled with heated inspiration. So much so that she thought it was finally time to crack out the special canvases she'd been reserving for her submissions to the Minnesota Youth Art Competition.

To say Mrs. Paladino's insistence got through to Winter wouldn't quite be right. The constant reminder that the deadline for submission was fast approaching was definitely a motivating factor, but it didn't account for the compulsion she had to paint. She felt for the first time in her life that she had something to say, and more strikingly, she was going to actually say it. It was like a jolting force that had awaken her from her comatose state, and she could pin-point its exact origin to the night she hid her tears in her father's hug. 

Now she felt once again that art would be her saving grace--an outlet through which her chaotic energy could funnel through. Perhaps by the end of its journey, it will actually bring power to something. Winter tried not to dwell too much on the trajectory of her machinations as she mixed her paints and began to lay them over her sketch.

She was so absorbed in her work that she didn't even hear the first few times Rose called her down for dinner. By the time she joined her aunt at the table, her food was already cold. 

Not soon after eating, Rose's cell rung. When she checked the number, she glanced at Winter and ended the call before it could even begin.

"Spam callers," Rose huffed with fake annoyance.

Winter pretended not to notice as she washed the dishes, then went to her room as if nothing was amiss. Sneakily, she stood patiently at the attic door to hear for another call. When Rose's ringtone rang out once more, Winter crept down the steps and tiptoed through the hall until she was in earshot of the conversation. 

She hid with her back against a fair sized bookcase set along the hall wall, angling one ear towards the living room where Rose sat.

"Yeah, sorry, the call didn't connect. I'm fine, how have you been? It's been a while," said Rose. There was a pause as the caller spoke, nowhere near loud enough for Winter to hear. Rose hummed in acknowledgment of something. "She's fine. She started painting again, actually, and she seems to be enjoying it." Another pause. "Yeah, last time would have been when he visited over the holidays and we had dinner with some family friends. It was nice, but things got a little awkward between them at some point. There was some issue with colleges."

She knew just at the faint sound of the raised voice on the other line that it was her mother. No other person's voice, however muffled and vague it was, could make Winter's body react the way it did. Her heart skipped and she felt dread wash over her as if a bucket of water had been dumped on her.