A Keeper's Truth Read Free Page A

and the harsh summer sun,
they allow just the right amount of morning sunlight to pierce from above, May
through November.
    I take a
deep breath, air expanding my ribcage like the gills of a fish, and wander
about the studio in search of inspiration. Shelves of books call out to me. My
fingertips glide over pages and pages of folklore and fantasy, realms that
ignite imagination with fairies, goblins, witches, warlocks, and lessons of
good versus evil. Wire strings attached to wooden dowels hang from the ceiling
on delicate silver chains, and metal clips support canvases suspended in
midair. Mythical creatures dance in my personal universe: angels surrounded by lush
white wings, goddesses with crowns of gold and jewels, tempting fairies, and
shimmering ghosts.
    I spin in
circles, allowing them to take me into their music.
    Popping a
few glass panels for ventilation, I set the fans to spin, just enough to
circulate the air. Digging through my wicker basket of oils, the colors sing to
me: tangerine orange, blood red, crisp white. I release them onto my pallet and
prime my brush, feet planted, canvas ready. The brush pulsates. My heart pounds
with anticipation. The colors join the dance and off we go, into a magical
world, my solace, my escape.
    Hours
evaporate until thoughts of Abby float to the forefront. She’s at school,
wearing her favorite dress. Lowering my brush, I soak up the sun and consider
my canvas. I catch the movement of the clock, my mind foggy and distracted.
    Ten to
one.
    Shit, I’m
late.

 
 
    The spa is fairly
new, wedged between a Polish deli and organic café in what locals call
“downtown,” which is basically a strip plaza bookended by a steakhouse and post
office. My guide makes a show of opening the set of double doors to an
expansive room. Huge leather lounge chairs dominate various hubs throughout the
spa, each decorated in a different theme. Romi , the
aesthetician, inclines her head to the right and asks if I’m a bride-to-be. I
shudder at the thought.
    My wedding
included a court justice and Grams’s blue denim shirt
and a skirt borrowed from Karen—the only things that fit over my
whale-sized form. Abby was due to join us any day. Meyer was eager to marry,
having asked me several times before I said yes, and I just needed the day to
be over and done with. I wanted a family, yes. Badly. But a wedding? No. My
little girl dreams never included iridescent pearls and white silk roses. All I
ever wanted was a normal life and something to eat.
    “Look who
it is,” says Karen, her fake southern drawl filling the room.
    Karen is
vivacious and loud and the best friend a girl could ask for. She’s sitting in a pedi -chair, feet soaking in the tub. Her fingernails
are already painted, a rather brilliant shade of lime green.
    I smile,
sheepish, and blow a kiss. “Sorry I’m late.” Climbing into the black leather
seat beside Karen, I shake my shoes to the floor. “Wow. The chairs rub you
down.” I feel like I should be strapped in for take-off.
    Romi returns
with a basket of pedicure tools, asking if I’d like some pineapple ice tea. I
just stare at her, puzzled. I’ve never heard of pineapple ice tea. She tells me
I’m in mini Maui and lights the pineapple scented candles surrounding my lounger
before pointing to the headset. Apparently it plays Hawaiian music.
    “She’ll
pass on the pineapple tea,” Karen says to Romi before
leaning back and miming throwing the headset over her shoulder, a heads-up to
skip the cheesy music.
    “Man,” I
mumble. “How much is this gonna cost me?” The chair has nubs that rotate in
circles along my spine. It quickly becomes creepy, and I grope for the remote.
    Karen
dismisses me with a wave. “It’s on Frank. He missed our anniversary. Again.
Consider this his get-out-of-jail-free card.”
    Karen’s
husband is a doctor, a heart specialist. He’s considerably older than Karen,
who is thirty-five and a good ten years older than me. He’s dull as a