HUGE HOUSE HATES: Chapter 28

“We should go see some art today,” Maggie says after we’ve finished breakfast. “There’s a small art gallery that I’ve been meaning to take Dale to. He loves drawing so much, and I thought it might give him some inspiration. Stimulate his little creative side. Would you like to go with us?”

“Sure,” I say, grateful to have something to do. There’s a saying that procrastination is the thief of time, but for once, I’m happy to let my inability to make a decision let me waste an afternoon with my friend.

It takes Maggie a while to get Dale ready, pack a ton of snacks and other things that might be needed on what is supposed to be a short trip, and tidy the house enough that she feels comfortable leaving. During that time, I sit on the porch swing and rock myself back and forth, remembering times I spent with my dad before he left, and trying to recall what I felt like without the gaping hole he left in my chest.

I see myself as a different person in those memories. A little girl who had all the security she could want. A little girl who trusted the adults in her life would always be there to give her the stability she needed.

And the little girl after? It’s like she was standing in an earthquake, with the ground shifting underneath her feet, and fractures forming all around her. Since then, I’ve regarded every relationship in my life as something that could fissure and break apart with no warning. Even Mom, who’s always been there for me, has chosen to follow a path away from me.

Is that why this whole time I’ve been pushing the Carltons away?

“I’m ready,” Maggie says. “Sorry about the wait.”

She locks the front door, keeping Dale’s hand firmly in hers. I reach out to take her bag and follow her down to her car. It’s a great hulking thing with a sliding door opening into its cavernous interior. It looks as though it could fit a whole sports team. Dale is secured into his car seat, and I climb into the passenger seat, fastening my belt.

Maggie drives like she’s worried the car is going to explode if she presses the gas pedal too hard. I guess, with her son in the back, she’s more conscious of safety. Still, I feel like Miss Daisy as we make our way to the gallery.

The sun is shining, and a sweet breeze blows through the half-opened window. And I close my eyes, breathing it all in and hoping it will warm the cool ache inside me.

“Are we there yet?” Dale calls out from the back, and Maggie and I both laugh.

“Soon, baby. Soon,” she says softly.

The gallery is small, but it contains a treasure trove of works that I find totally fascinating. Maggie and Dale walk hand in hand, and when he sees something that he likes, she sits cross-legged with him and takes out a sketch pad and crayons so that he can draw. I walk on, entering a small room with a series of black and white ink prints. The backgrounds are frenetic and busy, as though the artist has used an old-fashioned ink pen to scratch line after line. In the center are nude female figures. One has her hands over her ears, another has them over her eyes, and another over her mouth. I walk to the side where a plaque hangs explaining the artist’s concept.

The artist explains in her own words how she was inspired by the stoic philosophy that we cannot control what happens outside of ourselves, only what happens internally. She turns the hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil saying on its head by inviting the viewer to consider not only the preservation of self from the darkness of the outside world but also how, in controlling ourselves, we can make for a better world.

There is a small bench set in the perfect place to sit and contemplate the pieces, so that’s what I do. For a moment, I consider going back to ask Dale if I can borrow his paper and crayons so that I can try and sketch something myself.

Art is something personal. What touches one person can fly over the head of another. What inspires joy in one can cultivate anger in another. These pen-and-ink drawings touch a raw part of me. A part that is constantly looking at the world and blaming others for the way that I feel. In doing that, I think I’m preserving myself, but really, it’s the opposite. The reality is that placing so much of my emotional energy on things that I can’t control only makes me feel worse.

Maybe the artist is right. Maybe the Stoics are right. We can only control ourselves, and in accepting that, we can find freedom. What’s the point of stressing over things people might do to hurt me at some point in the future? What’s the point of not living to avoid what might be, rather than living to discover what could be?

We’re so motivated to find happiness, but maybe I need to focus on enjoying life’s journey rather than using my wounds as a weapon to keep people away from me. It just isn’t fair.

I don’t know how long I sit there, but eventually Maggie comes to find me with little Dale trailing behind. He’s clutching a brightly colored drawing of what looks like a turtle. Rather than following the actual colors of the amphibian, he’s chosen to make it look like it’s been made of a patchwork of different colored materials. It’s really beautiful.

“Dale, it’s so lovely. Well done.”

“He’s done really well,” Maggie says. “Your daddies are going to be so proud.” She turns to me, glancing around at the room that I’ve been mesmerized by. “You ready to go?” she asks.

“Yeah, I think I am,” I say.

Maggie studies me, hearing more in my words than simply being ready to leave the gallery.

“Is it time to go back?” she asks.

“I think it is,” I say, rising and squaring my shoulders. “I think it is.”