Quicksilver Dreams(51)
Read someone’s mind. Yeah, right. This wasn’t some kind of fiction fun house or anything. It was real life. My life. And still, some little part of my brain insisted that I determine if this was actually happening to me. At the club the other night, I’d been overloaded with the number of people surrounding me, their drunken blatherings pouring too much stimulation into me at once, but just one-to-one was a good experiment.
I did a quick mental check. Was my fortified, cemented brick wall still up in my mind? I closed my eyes briefly and saw it. Yep. It was there. And still, I’d maybe been able to hear her thoughts. It wouldn’t hurt to try.
“How’s Sara today?” Sara was her granddaughter.
“She’s finishing up a project this morning. You know how it goes. She had all weekend to finish it, but now it’s the last minute, and she has the house in an uproar. Her mother is not happy with her. It is an end-of-the-year project. Their last day of school before the summer break is on Friday.”
“How is Karen doing with her work? I know you said she was feeling particularly stressed the last few months.”
“Now that tax season is over, she’s able to relax a bit.” Her daughter was a CPA, and a single parent as of a year ago.
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” I fell into step beside her and offered her my arm, which she readily took. I kept her balanced as we made our way across the quiet intersection first, and then the busy one, under the pretense of walking to my car. It’s true that the first time I encountered Mrs. Myrtle on the sidewalk, I was walking out to my car after having to park it a few blocks up and across the main street. That was almost six months ago.
After that, I just pretended my car was always out there, so I could know she arrived to the elementary school safe and sound. My car is usually not out across the boulevard, and I’m pretty sure she knows it, but we continue to play our parts.
I have to admit that part of this is entirely selfish. She was just so generous with her attention that I found myself wanting to talk with her about things. Over time, she got me to open up a little about family, work and past dreams of being an artist.
On one occasion, she saw me walking with a cream-colored canvas bag on which, when I’d had free time and the inspiration of a beautiful spring day, I’d drawn a floral pattern and painted it right on the material. She really seemed to love it, so I made her one. She used it pretty regularly, which I have to say made me proud. She was always so encouraging and just...motherly or grandmotherly, the way I always imagined someone in that role was supposed to be.
With concentration, I was able to get some impressions of what she was feeling, rather than actual words being articulated, which explained why I had “felt” Ryder’s grief so clearly the day before. I could feel she was glad to see me and that she had a sense of comfort, affection and familiarity with me. I could feel her disappointment and worry over whatever was happening at home, and I could feel a low level of excitement surrounding the elementary school. We reached the gates of the school, and I stopped walking, ready to part ways. Mrs. Myrtle, however, had something on her mind and turned to me with purpose. She looked me straight in the eyes.
“Taylor, dear, have you given any more thought to that project I talked with you about last week? Remember the art project? I was hoping to have it done as a birthday surprise for Sara.”
I hadn’t thought she was serious about that.
The seed of excitement, watered with droplets of uncertainty, infused my gut. “I’m not a professional, Mrs. Myrtle. You know you could get someone from one of the local colleges to paint a mural on Sara’s wall for a song. I am absolutely inexperienced...I mean...I’ve never done work on such a large scale.”