Free Rockaway by Tara Ison Page A

at Mary’s serene marble head, at Jesus’s death-limp face.
    â€œRachel’s been painting a lot,” Emily was saying. “Of course, I think she’s a genius. Maybe she takes after you.”
    â€œAh. You mean she isn’t painting a lot.”
    â€œOh, Sarah. Maybe that’s really what you’re doing with that Marty guy.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNot painting.”
    â€œWhat if I just really don’t want to paint?”
    â€œCome on.”
    â€œMaybe that’s what this summer is really about. Maybe painting isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing. Maybe there’s some whole other thing I just haven’t figured out yet.” She sat on the edge of her bed, feeling a little breathless.
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know . . .” She flopped back on the bed, considered the ceiling. She reached, brushed away the annoying grains of sand tucked between her toes. “Never mind. I’m just cranky. I’m just tired. Hey, maybe I can hire a surrogate painter.”
    â€œIt’s just . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou always find something, you know? Some excuse.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œWell, like grad school. Chicago.”
    She sat up. “That wasn’t a choice, Em. My dad had to have the bypass. I had to go home.”
    â€œExactly. Go home. That’s what it sounded like then, when you told me. Not move home. Not stay home. Then he got through it just completely fine and next thing you’re telling me you got an apartment there, about the art store job, you’re all settled in. And I’m thinking, ‘Wait, what about Chicago?’”
    â€œBecause then my mom rear-ended that guy, and my dad still couldn’t drive for months afterward. They needed help.”
    â€œThey could have hired someone.”
    â€œThey couldn’t afford that. Not everybody can afford that, Em.” She hears her edge again, tries to soften her tone. “They aren’t hire-help people.”
    â€œYou could’ve gone the next year. You could have. The Institute was going to hold your scholarship.”
    She climbed off the bed. She paced.
    â€œSarah?”
    She approached her easel, studied her shell painting.
    â€œThey really wanted you,” Emily continued. “You chose not to go.”
    A tiny sable hair was stuck in a stroke of black paint, like a wandering eyelash.
    â€œI just worry about you. You’ve been doing this forever. Being so responsible for them. Trying to make up for Aaron. I get worried, I worry you’ve allowed them to—”
    â€œYou know, Emily,” and she was aware of the brusque tone again, the hard-hitting Em , but didn’t care, “I’ve been sort of busy, too, you know? I have a lot of stuff to deal with.”
    â€œI know. I didn’t—”
    â€œMaybe it’s not like having a bunch of kids and sheep running around and a big Martha Stewart estate to look after and which organic herbs to grow. But they’re my parents , you know? I’m their daughter. And you’re right, I’m all they have left. So, what do you want me to do, abandon them in some old age home? Warehouse them, so I can go play?”
    â€œThat’s not what I’m saying. I’m not talking about logistics.”
    â€œThis is real life stuff. Real life problems. It’s probably hard for you to understand, when you get total freedom to make all these great choices .”
    There was silence, then a faint, milky baby gasp, then silence again.
    â€œI’m sorry, Em. Really. That was obnoxious. That was my envious evil twin inner-demon talking.”
    â€œIt’s okay.”
    â€œI get your point, really. They make me crazy. And I let them. I’m three thousand miles away, and I still totally buy into it.”
    â€œI know. I’m sorry.”
    â€œIt’s like . . .” She started pacing again.