“You need to hear him out,” she announces, confirming my predictions.
I sigh.
“Why can’t you take my side, for once, mother?” I ask, exasperated. “Didn’t you hear the part about the hidden fiancée?”
“Things aren’t always what they seem.”
“Well, it sureseemslike he’s been lying to me since the minute we met.”
“Oh, Gemma, for goodness’ sake, you’ve only known the man a few days — doesn’t he get longer than that to reveal his deep dark secrets? Doesn’t he deserve a chance?” Her eyes narrow on mine when I don’t answer her question, but her voice is gentle when she continues. “You only heard one side of the story, and you bolted without waiting around to hear the whole thing. I taught you better than that, baby girl.”
The words snap out before I can stop them. “No, if anything, you taught me that men are liars and cheaters, who either leave on their own or aren’t worth keeping around to begin with.”
Her eyes get sad and it makes my stomach clench.
Shit.
“Mom…” I whisper, instantly filled with remorse. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
She waves my words away with her hands. “Gemma, I know I haven’t always been the best role model when it comes to relationships. After your father….” She trails off, her eyes distant. “Well, I guess I just never really moved on. And afterwards, I always thought it was better for you to see me as a strong, independent woman, who didn’t need a man to make her happy. That’s who I am, who I’ve raisedyouto be.” Her eyes return to mine. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to give up on your shot at love, baby girl. It doesn’t mean I want you to distrust a good man when he comes into your life.”
“You don’t know he’s a good man,” I protest. “You don’t know anything about him.”
“I know you like him.” Her lips twist in the hint of a smile. “Enough to drive all the way out here and talk to your mother about it. That right there tells me everything I need to know.”
I sigh deeply. “You’re impossible. And even if I did like him, it doesn’t matter. It would never work out between us. We’re from totally different worlds. And then there’s the press… if they dig too deep…. I don’t want you to get hurt…”
“Gemma.” Mom reaches out a hand and places it on top of mine. “This isn’t about me — it’s about you.”
“I know that. But it really doesn’t matter, Mom. It just… isn’t going to work out.”
“Do you really think that? Or are you just looking for an excuse to push him away, because you know he’s not like the other men you’ve dated? Because you know you won’t be able to brush him off or forget him with nothing more than a pint of Ben & Jerry’s?”
“Mom—”
“Is it because you know, deep down, if you let yourself fall in love with this man… he might really hurt you?”
I lean back in my chair, pressing my eyes closed to shut out her words.
“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know what I’m feeling, anymore.”
Her fingers squeeze mine. “You don’t have to, Gemma. You just have to give yourself permission to hope.”
“For what?” I ask miserably.
“For the possibility of something truly wonderful. Because a life without hope, without love… that’s really no life at all.”
***
I spend the entire next day in the sunroom with a borrowed canvas and mom’s collection of oils, painting until my mind goes blank. Music drifts quietly from the speakers, but the only other sound is of my brushstrokes as they glide and smudge and layer over one another as the hours slip by. Mom knows better than to disturb me, not that she would — she’s sequestered in her sculpting room, working on a newly commissioned piece for a client. When inspiration strikes, she’s been known to lock herself away for full days at a time, appearing only for the occasional snack or bathroom break.
It’s been a long time since I last spilled my soul onto canvas — too long. I’ve got so many pent up emotions, my fingers practically shake with need to release them. I paint for hours and barely notice. If not for the gradual lengthening of shadows as the afternoon sun wanes into twilight, I’d never know any time has passed at all.
When I finally break for the day, it’s nearly dinnertime and my canvas looks as schizophrenic as I’m feeling, covered in bold colors that are seemingly at odds with each other. Sad blues meld into passionate reds, then blur into jealous greens that fade to cowardly yellows — like my mind has been scooped out and poured onto paper, every emotion a paint-splotch.
Not exactly a Picasso, but it’smine, and though drained both physically and emotionally, I feel more myself than I have in days. Longer, even.
I barely touched my paints the whole time I was “dating” Ralph. And even in the weeks and months before then, I felt utterly uninspired every time I sat down at the easel. I was blocked, and I didn’t know why. Worse, there was nothing I could do about it.