The Hope Chest: A Novel by Viola Shipman

Author:Viola Shipman [Viola Shipman]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250105073
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2017-03-21T04:00:00+00:00

Twenty-three

Mattie watched her beloved pastels roll over the paper, her smile widening across her face.

“What should I paint on the frame?” Jeri asked Mattie, shaking her from her memories.

“Up to you,” Mattie said into her mic, toggling her wheelchair closer to view what Jeri had been sketching: the sun and some clouds. “Pretty.”

“Pretty boring,” Jeri said, her face serious as she scanned the yard and horizon. “Everything is dead now.”

“Not in your mind,” Mattie said slowly. “Shut your eyes.”

Jeri considered Mattie’s advice for a second and then clamped her eyelids together quickly, scrunching her entire face as if to shut out the world.

Mattie stifled a chuckle. “Be still. It’s in quiet that wonder begins.”

Jeri kept her eyes shut. For a moment, there was complete silence, before the warbling, rolling cries of sandhill cranes filled the sky.

Suddenly, Jeri popped her eyes back open and watched the lanky, gray-bodied, crimson-capped birds head toward nearby wetlands and fields to eat and rest.

“I’ve got it!” she said, setting down her pastels and picking up a paintbrush. “How do I hold it? What do I do?”

Mattie explained, step by step, how to hold the brush, dip it into the water and the paints, and build a scene.

“Don’t look,” Jeri said, setting the old picture frame onto the outdoor table and using her body as a barrier to shield her work from Mattie.

“Promise,” Mattie said.

Jeri hummed as she painted, taking a step back to consider her work every so often and reminding Mattie not to look. After a few minutes, Jeri stopped and turned to Mattie.

“Is painting what it’s like to be you?”

Mattie looked at the little girl and raised her eyebrows.

“Well, you can’t move your body, but you can move it around in your mind, right?” Jeri said, gesturing the whole time with the paintbrush.

Tears rushed to Mattie’s eyes, but she swallowed hard to stop their rise. “Yes,” she said, her voice breaking. “Yes.”

Mattie steadied herself and continued. “You’re exactly right. It’s like I’m stuck in place—like my body is in quicksand—but my mind is flying and full of wonder. I can go anywhere and do anything and be anyone I want in my head, even though I can’t move.”

“That’s art,” Jeri said, nodding decisively. She was still for a moment. “It’s good to be quiet sometimes. Good things happen.”

She turned on her heels and began to paint again in earnest.

“All done,” Jeri finally said.

She held out the frame for Mattie to inspect, her posture rigid and a proud look on her face. “What do you think?”

Mattie’s eyes widened. On the frame, Jeri had painted a birch arching over the window where a photo would go, its bark white. Instead of leaves dangling from the tender branches, Jeri had painted faces: Mattie’s, Don’s, Rose’s, her own, even Mabel’s. At the bottom, roots painted in Technicolor supported the photo and the tree. On the right side of the frame, she had painted FAMILY TREE in pink.

The tree and faces were painted amateurishly and were depicted in a very childlike way, Mattie noted, but the thought behind it was very mature and deeply sensitive.

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