An Excerpt from CRAZY: “Art Exhibition”
In celebratory anticipation of the release of my debut book, CRAZY, about one year from now, I offer this second excerpt. (See Excerpts tab for the first one)
ART EXHIBITION
First thing inside the door
I smell turpentine.
I nearly trip over a wet canvas
propped against the door frame.
I follow a trail of smudgy rags
and scattered paint tubes
into the living room
where I find Mama,
her back to me,
kneeling
muttering
crossing herself
before a dripping canvas.
She’s been painting again!
“Hail Mary, Mother of God. . . ”
A sickening sense of panic begins
crawling up my spine.
“What’s going on, Mama?” I ask.
“Hail Mary, Mother of God. . .”
I’m not sure she heard me
so I move toward her,
bending down to look into her face
and I say it slower
louder
trying to connect with her eyes.
“Mama, what’s going on?”
“Hail Mary, Mother of God. . .
I reach out to shake her,
maybe even slap her,
do something to snap her out of it
and get her attention
when she stops
abruptly,
faces me,
looking past me
somewhere,
signaling me
to be silent.
“Mary’s my sister,
see.
She’s coming,
coming for a visit. . . and I,
I must finish getting the house
ready for her visit.
Be a good girl now,
won’t you?
Go clean your room
so you will be ready
when she comes,
see
ready when she comes,
when Mary comes to our house
see, when Mary—
Oh, I can’t find my alizarin
and I need it—
I have to have it NOW,
have to paint, now, NOW!
Do you see it here
somewhere?
So I can paint Mary
before she comes,
see. . .”
She passes grubby hands absently
through her disheveled hair,
leaving multi-colored streaks
and smudges on her face
and she begins crawling on the floor
agitated, frantic
looking for the missing paint
or who knows what.
The clock says Daddy won’t be home
for another hour.
I call Paula, but she has to pick Kim up at school.
She says to get Mama quiet
until Daddy comes home,
and then call her back.
Then it hits me.
This is my fault.
I caused this.
I pushed her over the edge,
oh my God,
I did this.
It was my suggestion,
take up painting again, I’d said–
Oh my God. . .
I clean up the mess as best I can,
finally get Mama to sit down in her rocker.
Still paint splattered,
she rocks
back and forth
humming,
muttering,
staring past me
without recognition.
I watch her rock
almost in rhythm
with the ticking wall clock
and I take deep breaths
trying to match the rhythm,
trying to beat down
the panic
surging through
my body.
