The Patchwork Hearts

Chapter THIRTY TWO

Holden

I've spent the entire week in my house, not even stepping outside - except to take Honey out to do her business. It's been pretty rainy all week, which completely matches my mood. Whatever I've been feeling since I had that conversation with Nella Becker isn't good. It's something like pain, mixed with heartache and anger, while also sadness and desire and want and need. It's too much. I know I need to avoid people until I get this sorted out.

   I held it together pretty damn well, while talking to Nella, five days ago. I let her and her daughter pet my dog, while we made small talk for a minute. I only saw Nella a few times in those two years after Maya left town. We avoided places where we might see each other. And then I left, for L.A.

   I've locked myself inside the house this week because I feel different now. Seeing Maya at the Art Hub and the restaurant for those quick seconds had affected me. I started painting her, for god sake. But talking to Nella really changed something. We didn't even talk about Maya. We didn't have to.

   By Friday, I need to get out.

   It's a super sunny day and it's warm, weirdly warm for early April. I do my regular stuff around the house, including finishing up the wedding gift painting. When I'm done, I realize I need tissue paper and binding string, as I've been out for a couple weeks. I answer a call, which is a very sweet older woman, who says her daughter gave her my number. She ordered a large canvas, and she's going to email me some inspiration photos. She's more than happy with the $300 estimate I give her, too.

   It's late afternoon when I finally decide to go down to the Main Street.

   "C'mon Honey, let's go get your treats," I tell my dog, and her tail's already wagging.

   I bring my third coffee of the day to go and drink it back as I'm driving. The sun is so bright that I start to get a headache. Maybe it's because I've kept myself tucked inside the house for so long. I don't know how to deal with what I'm feeling, and not being around people seems like as good an idea as any.

   The pet store owner greets me and Honey happily, and she's bending down to give her a milk bone before she even starts talking to me.

   "I was wondering where you two were this week," she says, nodding at me.

   Her name is Alma and she's short and has graying hair, which tells me she's older than my mom. I only started going to this pet store three months ago, after I got Honey, but since then it's been pretty much every Monday. I can see how Alma was concerned about us.

   "Oh, we were busy on Monday. But we made it," I tell her.

   "Honey sure seems happy about that."

   I nod and laugh as Honey licks Alma's hand, then I walk to the back of the store and grab the big bag of dog food. I chat with Alma for a few more minutes as I pay. When we go back to the truck, I'm already nervous about my next errand.

   I know I need to go in somewhere to get the large sheets of tissue paper and the twine I use to tie my canvases up. I want to get the the wedding gift ready to be picked up this weekend. I know the Art Hub has what I need, but I'm also well aware that I'm not currently in a good mind set to go there. I start my truck and pull out, deciding to go to the craft store a bit further away.
My phone rings as I'm pulling into the strip mall, where the craft store is. It's my mom, of course, because no one else really calls me during the week.

   "Hey Mom," I answer, turning off the truck. Honey climbs into my lap because she thinks she's getting out, too.

   "Holden, hi, how are you sweetie?"

   "I'm okay. I'm just out running some errands. What's up?" I ask, my phone tucked between my ear and my shoulder.

   "I just wanted to chat. Will you call me later?" She sounds okay, but maybe a little worried?

   "Um, sure. About anything in particular?"

   "No, no. Just checking in. My car is in the shop, it sounded funny yesterday, so I took Eddie's car to work. I'm home now," she explains.

   "Oh, okay. Hopefully your cars fixed soon," I say, trying not to be concerned.

   She clears her throat. "Will you water my plants? I remembered that I didn't come by this week."

   "Of course. Yes. I will," I tell her.

   "Okay." She sighs.

   "You good, Mom?" I want to know, because it makes me nervous that she's sighing and asking me to call her later.

   "Oh, yes. Of course. Have a good day," she finishes.

I feel like there is some reason that she called that she was keeping from me, but I hang up anyway. After running in to grab what I need, Honey and I are on our way home again.
I water all of the plants as soon as I go inside. I only remember that my mom once said to never over water plants, so I just add a little to each pot.

   The house is so quiet. I am still not used to how quiet life is out here, by the water. My life in L.A. was loud and busy and fast. Here, I can take my time. I can spend days not seeing other people. I can wallow in my feelings. But I can't stop my mom from calling or dropping by. I still feel like there was something she didn't say, so I worry about that as I cook dinner.

   I don't really have friends here. The few people I've reconnected with are artists, people I met in the two years after Maya left town. Those are people I meet up with once a month to have a drink, or talk about art. They aren't really close friends.

   The first year after everything blew up in my face, I was a mess. I drank a lot, even though I was barely legal age. I hung out with people who didn't really have a lot going for them. But one day my mom sat me down and said she was worried about me she. She said she wanted me to do something with my life, and that I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself. That day, I painted. It had been awhile since I'd put effort into my art, but it felt good. And I never stopped painting. I went to art nights at a local business. I submitted my work to online magazines and wanted to get it out there as much as I could. And then the museum in L.A. contacted me.

   I'm okay with being a hermit, in Boothbay. I would rather be a shut in artist who gets paid for commissioned pieces than some big name fancy-pants who is required to live in L.A. and party and dress up for events.

   But it gets lonely, too.

   While my stir fry is cooking, I think about calling my mom back. I almost do, but then I check my email first, instead. I haven't checked it in a couple days, as I don't usually get much business that way. But as I open it, I know right away that I need to start checking it daily.

   Dear Mr. Prescott,

   The L.A. Museum of Fine Art gave us your contact info, since you no longer live in L.A. We are a small gallery in New York City and we were recently in L.A. for an event, and saw your work. We are interested in holding a private exhibit of your work in our gallery this summer. You can email back here or give us a call and we can discuss the details.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
                                                                                               Mandy Coleta

   

   It takes a minute to get my jaw off the floor, and I realize that my stir fry is burning. As soon as I turn off the burner, I reread the email.

   Holy shit. Is this for real??