The Memories We Painted by Caitlin Miller

Author:Caitlin Miller [Miller, Caitlin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2022-03-07T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 37

July 28, 1943

(12 Years Old)

The attic was my hideaway.

I was there for hours each day, painting until I ran out of sunlight. Mom and Dad had moved my workspace out of my bedroom a few months ago after I’d dripped paint on the flooring and stained parts of it blue and white. The three of us spent a weekend back in March clearing out a space for me to work up in the attic. We moved all the boxes and random things we’d stashed in the attic and forgotten about on one side of the room, stacked against the wall, and the other half of the attic was mine. The large, open window exposed me to sunlight and fresh air, which was exactly what Mom said I needed.

Mom and Dad said they didn’t care if I accidentally dripped paint here. It was a space for me to create and make messes—a place where I could slip away and paint.

Five stairs and a door separated the attic from the rest of the house.

“Come on.” I looked back at Sophie behind me, wide-eyed with curiosity.

I’d spent months practicing getting up these stairs on my own with crutches. Wondering if I could do it without needing Dad to carry me up them. And I could—because my muscles were slowly, slowly, rebuilding themselves from my physical therapy appointments.

I climbed the set of stairs, smiled between deep breaths. Sophie waited at the bottom, unmoved. She stared up at me.

“I told you I had a surprise. Now come on!” I said—and that was all it took for Sophie to come bounding up the stairs faster than I ever could.

The old doorknob squeaked in my hand. I pushed it open, and my fingers searched the right side of the doorway for the light switch. I made a rule with my parents that I wouldn’t use this light to paint by because there had been a handful of times where they found me up here late in the night, fast asleep in my wheelchair with a paintbrush in hand. But I wasn’t up here tonight with Sophie to paint.

I kept gliding my hand across the wall, looking for that switch. And then I found it. Flipped it on. And there was light, revealing what was shadowed in the dark.

It was a humble and messy space, my spot in the attic.

“What is all this, Jo?” Her arms were spread wide like bird’s wings, gesturing to a collection of items stacked against the attic wall.

“This,” I answered, “is an accumulation of months of work.”

“Come over here,” I said, motioning her to stand beside me. “These are stacks of paintings I’ve done. And that plastic bin is full of hundreds of paint tubes and dozens of paintbrushes. And that over there” —I gestured to the wooden easel propped up beside the plastic bins— “is the latest painting I’ve been working on. I didn’t have a chance to finish it before you came, but it’s almost complete—just needs a few more finishing touches.

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