The Painting

#41 Truce Part 2 - Piosa Cuid 2

The couch that I'd spent most of the day on transformed into a makeshift bed complete with dinosaur sheets. I giggled and tried to get Lyle to admit they were hers – she wouldn't say yes but she also wouldn't say no.

"I'll be upstairs if you need me." Lyle paused awkwardly at the landing. By now it was almost eleven at night one dim lamp illuminated the room casting shadows on the faded rug.

"Hey Lyle?" I chewed at the inside of my lip as I watched her turn around on the second step. "Would you mind staying? I know it's silly - I'm not scared but I just-" I crossed my arms over my chest a little embarrassed that I sounded so vulnerable.

"I'll stay," She retraced her steps and plopped down on the couch with me. "As long as you aren't a blanket hog." She winked and I punched her lightly in the arm.

Lyle brought over a coffee table and propped up a laptop. I choose a baking show on Netflix and we sat a foot apart as the host explained the rules. We turned on the show not so much to watch it but to have a comfortable distraction.

We were well into the third episode when I felt Lyle's head rest gently on my lap. In the last hour we'd inched closer and closer to each other both becoming more drowsy until finally Lyle couldn't keep her eyes open. She curled up on her half of the couch with her head resting the pillow I'd wedged under her sleepy head.

"Lyle?" I whispered tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

"Huh?"

"Why did you come get me?"

"I thought we were in a truce?" Even when exhausted she never failed to give me a hard time as a grin spread to her lips.

"Can we start it tomorrow?"

"It's already tomorrow." She mumbled then took a moment to collect her thoughts. "I know I'd want someone to do the same for me. I care about you."

Her quiet words struck me and I couldn't help but smile. Our relationship was anything but normal and I had no idea what shape the next few days would take, but still, I was happy I wasn't alone. I'd been traveling this entire time alone, and maybe that was why I felt the need to leave her at the diner, because it was so unnatural to have someone taking the same steps as me.

Now as her head lay in my lap while my hand stroked her hair as if it was something we practiced every night, I felt safe. Physically safe yes, but mentally safe as well. At White Pine I was physically safe, content even, but I was always mentally and emotionally hanging from a line. Like a sheet that dangled loosely on a single clothes pin after a particularly hearty gust of wind. Questions about my mother's absence constantly fueling the breezes that tossed me around and left me teetering on the edge.

Even though I knew I was still at the edge, as the events of the day unfolded unlocking more doors than I could have imagined, I felt grounded. I had someone beside me holding my hand and helping my feet root into the ground - not permanently - but sturdily so that I could think for a moment without the constant worry of the next gust. In such a short amount of time Lyle had become my gravity.

I won't try to explain the feeling. It's not something so simple it can be justified in words. She was right, we weren't so different after all. I recognized it in her eyes the first day we met- though it took me longer to place because it was in my own eyes too. I just refused to see it, or maybe it'd become so repetitive and mundane that I was numb to it. We were both lost in our own lives, something – in my case my mother – was nagging away, preventing us from committing our full energy to our own lives because our foot or our hands were stuck in another's.

I didn't yet know who's life Lyle was stuck in, but I knew now that I had to be patient.

A few minutes passed and another episode started. I took a deep breath and began.

"My mother's things are in the storage crate," I started my voice meek but growing stronger as I spoke. "Her name is Charlotte, she is – was a painter. Mo Soileireacht, the painting Monroe is after is hers not mine. I'm sorry I lied to you about it, I haven't told anyone about my mom before."

I always struggled with the tense I used to talk about my mother – not that I did it much. Present tense was what I settled on naturally, even though it was more hopeful than I felt in truth. Tonight, however, it felt completely wrong like I was delivering a line in a play I'd rehearsed a million times rather than the truth. Because the truth was that after my meeting with Monroe I was convinced that it was he, not curiosity's playful hands that killed my mother.

So I started at the beginning, explaining the striking red bound journal I found behind the canvas. I told Lyle about the scratchy sketch of a pregnancy test, how Monroe lied to me, and how I believed him. I explained the cufflink and how cold his gaze was as he ordered me out of the building.

When I finished I felt relieved, there was a cathartic feeling that companioned talking – maybe not so much talking as spilling ones entire guts. Even if I was just talking to myself. Lyle's eyes were gently shut as I peered over her peaceful face careful not to move in a way that would disturb her slumber.

"Good night." I whispered and lay my head back on the lumpy couch pillow.

I didn't mind that Lyle slept while I poured out my thoughts and feelings of the last twenty two years.

I think if anyone really needed to hear how I felt it was me. 

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Hope you're enjoying xo