Free Pieces of My Mother by Melissa Cistaro

us. The dust around the car clears, revealing a large oil painting of an ocean sunset with turquoise waves and an orange sky.
    â€œThat is beauty on a canvas,” she says slowly. “It’s the most truthful thing I have seen in a long time.”
    â€œ That? ” I ask.
    â€œYes, that,” she says.
    â€œIt’s nice,” I say to be polite.
    She jumps out of the car, walks over to the painting, and stands there with her orange hair waving in the wind and blending into the painted sunset. A man in a wide-brimmed straw hat steps out of an old green pickup truck and approaches her. He seems to be trying to make eye contact with her, but her eyes do not leave the painting. I stay in the front seat, sticking my finger into the old yellow foam beneath the cracked leather, and I think, I don’t get it. It’s a picture of waves. I look for an answer in the other paintings. More waves and beaches. More orange sunsets.
    She hurries back to the car and wiggles into the seat behind the steering wheel.
    â€œI’ve got to have that painting. We’re skipping the grocery store, sweetie. I’ve got to see what I have left in my bank account.”
    â€œDoes it cost a lot?” I ask.
    â€œThe artist will give me a good price if I have cash.”
    Then I see the desperation in her face, her mind calculating and wondering how she can get the money. I’ve seen my dad with this look when he’s talking about the bills he can’t pay. I figure the painting must cost more than a hundred dollars. Maybe a thousand.
    â€œHave you ever seen such beauty, sweetie pie? Such godliness?”
    I turn my head to her. The powder on her cheeks has turned thick and pasty from the tears running down her face.
    â€œIt’s very nice,” I say, afraid to admit I don’t understand what she’s talking about.
    â€œI think that’s what heaven must look like. I’m almost certain of it,” she says as if she is talking to herself.
    Terry emptied out her savings from the bank to buy that painting. She brought it back to our house wrapped in brown paper and placed it safely on the floor behind her bed board.
    Two weeks later she dropped the news just like all the others had. I wasn’t that surprised because she had been acting different ever since the day of the painting. She didn’t have time to tell any ghost stories, and she seemed to be in hurry about everything. She told my dad that she’d found an apartment across town to live in on her own. My dad offered to pay her more money but she said it wasn’t about the money.
    â€œIs it something to do with the painting?” I asked her before she left.
    She smiled at me with her crinkly eyes and said, “It’s sort of about that painting, sweetie.”
    I waited for her to say something more but she didn’t.
    The painting of the ocean put a spell on her, and I couldn’t understand why. How could a stupid painting change someone’s mind about living with us? I tried to tell my dad about this but he didn’t get it. He said that maybe Terry just needed her own space and that it was a lot of work for someone her age to take care of three kids all day.
    My dad is looking for a live-in that can stick around a little longer this time. He’s got a classified ad in the Novato Advance that comes out on Saturday. I ask him when Mom can come back to visit. My dad replies that he hasn’t been able to reach her and that maybe she has moved to a new house again.
    I keep trying to picture the places she lives. Sometimes I think I can see her sitting at a sunny kitchen table where she drinks coffee with cream and sugar. The curtains behind her are yellow with tiny white flowers, and her ashtray is a ruby-colored glass heart. My imagination is all I have. It’s okay , I tell myself. Maybe she will call soon. Maybe she will come and be our new live-in.

NOW
into the wild, blue yonder
    From afar,