Free See What I See by Gloria Whelan Page B

and need to know these things. Is he actually taking me seriously?
    We wrap the two paintings carefully and crate them. I hand and hold. He pounds and saws. He likes what he’s doing, and I remember he started out as a carpenter during his early years in construction. What would have happened if he’d kept on with that instead of becoming an artist? Would building a house give him the same satisfaction as completing a painting? Just before he pounds in the final nail, he has a change of heart. “Maybe I should take the one of the parking lot back to the studio. I’m not sure.” I want to stop him, but what if he’s right and I’m wrong? He reaches for a crowbar to pry open the crate, but he’s exhausted and can’t find the strength to pick it up. “Running on empty,” he says. “Send them off.” He disappears into the house.
    After they’re labeled, I call for a pickup and email Ian Morgan: “Two paintings on their way, and they’re fabulous.”
    The answer comes back. “‘Fabulous’? We’re not talking about a new pair of shoes. Excellent or well-done, perhaps. Surely your father’s work deserves a more exact description.”
    I send off: “Alarming, terrifying, the world we refuse to see.”
    Back comes: “No need to overdo.”
    I check on Dad. He’s sound asleep. When I bring his supper up to him, I have a hard time waking him. Then he grumbles about everything. He says, “I’m not hungry. Take the food away. It’s too hot in here. Open a window. Stop hovering.”
    I bite my tongue and get out of there. He’s asleep again before I close the door.
    In the morning when I look in on him, I freeze. There’s blood all over his pillow. “Just a nosebleed,” he says, and tells me to get out. Maybe I should call Thomas and cancel Saturday night, but I don’t want to stop having something to look forward to.
    When Erlita comes, Dad’s had two cups of coffee and some toast. He’s hard at work in the studio. After checking on him, she finds me in the kitchen and answers my questions. “Nosebleeds aren’t unusual with this, and neither is sleepiness. A little more jaundice, but that’s to be expected. Now, I haven’t forgotten you. My girl is all set to come and sit with your daddy. When do you want her?”
    I hold my breath. “Could she come Saturday night?”
    â€œYou’ve got it. And don’t you worry. That little girl can handle anything that comes her way. I taught her well. I don’t want her out late, though. We go to early service Sunday.”
    I paw through my clothes. Pathetic. We never dress up at home. A night out might mean a blouse with your jeans instead of a T-shirt, but that’s it. I scoop up the possibilities and head for Lila’s.
    Lila lives in the back of a storefront that has an ALTERATIONS sign hanging in the window. The sign is carefully lettered and decorated with flowers and birds. Lila must have done it. Inside there are racks of clothes her aunt, Ernestine, is working on. The clothes on one rack look sad and hopeful at the same time, as if they’re waiting for Lila’s aunt to perform a miracle. On the second rack the clothes appear happier, with shorter hems and the wrinkles ironed out. Aunt Ernestine greets me like a long-lost daughter and brings Lila and me cookies and milk. She’s wearing a pincushion tied to her arm and a tape measure around her neck. After she leaves us, I can hear the hum of her serger.
    â€œYou’ve got yourself a date? And you’re wearing that?” Lila shakes her head. “What else you got?” She snatches a denim skirt from the pitiful collection I’ve brought. “Let’s see.” Lila empties out a drawer and retrieves a spool of lace, which she pins along the hem so it looks like there’s a petticoat underneath the skirt. She takes a T-shirt