E. Montes - Perfectly Damaged

“No, everything here is exactly how I had imagined it would be. I’m sure it’ll be beautiful. Mrs. Cunningham mentioned how amazing your work is, so I know I’m in good hands.” The Cunninghams are great friends of my parents. Mr. Cunningham, formerly known as Senator Frederick Cunningham, graduated grad school with my father. They’re now frequently seen together at the local golf course.

George strokes his dark grey goatee. “Laura, we understand that you want this to be a two-month project, but we usually ask our clients to give us an extra month. This gives us some leeway with ordering materials, weather conditions, and any delays or restrictions with the building permits. Again, this is just in preparation for any unforeseen circumstances that may arise.”

“Yes, of course. So you’re looking at a deadline of mid-September?”

“Roughly around that time. We’re pretty quick workers, so I’m sure we can have it finished by the end of August, providing there are no setbacks. We can start as early as Monday morning.”

“Terrific. Jenna, is this time frame agreeable to you?”

Both George and Bryson turn their gazes in my direction, waiting patiently for my approval. Why did my input matter so much to her? This entire thing was her idea. One day she woke up and said, “I want a guesthouse!” And bam , she made a few phone calls and now we’re here. Instead of making a fuss in front of our visitors, I simply nod.

“Will it be just the two of you?” I’m not sure why I ask exactly; it just seems like a big project for two men to take on alone.

George chuckles. “Oh no. There’ll be several of us. My nephew, a few other hard workers of mine, and some subcontractors like plumbers and electricians when the time comes.”

“Oh. Okay, then,” is all I say.

Bryson shuts off the laptop and rolls up the site plans. “Awesome. We’ll fax over the contract and see you on Monday.”

My mother stands and shows our guests out. Before she returns to ignite an argument about my ill-mannered behavior or disappointing ensemble, I scurry out the back of the house, past the side of the colonial-style structure, and into the three-car garage.

“Where the hell are they?” I mumble beneath my breath. “This is ridiculous.” I huff out as I continue to rummage through the neat pile of plastic containers. It’s been over an hour since my searching escapade began.

A red container labeled Christmas.

An orange container labeled Halloween.

A blue container labeled Fourth of July.

There’s even a pink container that reads Easter with bunny ears drawn beside it. Every damn holiday is labeled on a color-coordinated container. Who needs Martha Stewart when there’s the OCD Laura McDaniel around? My mother makes certain that things are never left undone or unfinished, that everything is always in its rightful place. But for some reason, my two boxes are gone. I distinctly remember placing them in here almost seven months ago. I search every corner of the garage, every shelf, every cabinet. Nothing.

“What are you looking for?” my mother’s breathy tone pokes from behind me.

I take in a lungful of air before turning around and facing her. “Where are my boxes?”

She leans against the entryway of the garage door. “Why on earth are you looking for them?”

“Last I knew they were my things.”

Mom tugs a hand through her perfect hair and her shoulders deflate as she sighs loudly. “Dr. Rosario—”

“Dr. Rosario said I could start again.”

A stunned expression lines her soft features. “Oh. Well, then. I placed them in the shed.” I nod and move swiftly past her, but before I can exit she reaches out and grabs my arm. Her touch is warm and soft. I shut my eyes at the contact. It’s abnormal for her, for me. “Jenna,” she says softly, “I’m trying to make things better between us. I know our relationship isn’t ideal, but I am still your mother. I do care for you.”

I manage to open my eyes and focus on her troubled expression. Care? Interesting word choice. “Is that all you wanted to say?” I ask coldly. My mother’s stare lingers, turning hard as the muscles around her mouth tighten almost imperceptibly.

“Jenna, you know these cold little remarks are not helping. I’m trying to make an effort here,” she bites out.

“How? By having us design a guesthouse together? I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry.” Her hand drops to her side, releasing me and my arm from her uncomfortably intimate attempt to connect.

That’s the end of that.

My two boxes are neatly stacked at the far right of the shed. They’re both pretty heavy, so I have to carry them separately to the back patio by the pool. Once they’re both out, I open the one labeled Jenna’s Work first. I reach in and take out each abstract painting one by one.

A soft smile tugs at the corner of my lips; warmth settles over me and soothes my chest. I don’t remember the last time I felt like this. There’s something about art that brings joy to my heart, always has been. It’s peaceful and beautiful. No matter how downright raw or gritty the appearance may be, there’s always a story behind it. As much as others try to figure it out, the true meaning remains with the artist alone. The paintings in this dingy cardboard box hold my secrets, my life, and my journey. They’re me… painted in different textures and colors, splashed with different emotions.

Bliss. Fear. Love. Desire. Loneliness—most of all loneliness.

Every one of my emotions is trapped in one large box.

After examining each painting, I place them back and open the second box, which holds blank canvases, paintbrushes, and wooden pieces that, once placed together, create an easel. The fleshy pads of my fingers graze along the bristles of the brushes and tingle with the desire to pick one up and start again. But I can’t. Dr. Rosario thinks I’m ready to start painting again, but there’s something within me that lurches every time I think about it. Art brings out strong feelings for me, feelings that I’m not ready to face. I decide to hold off and put the boxes away for now.

As if on autopilot, I find myself turning around and locking my bedroom door behind me.

In my room I’m safe.

With my headphones plugged into my ears and my music blasting, I’m away from everyone and everything, in a place where I can forget the world.

Jenna

Today is a good day.

I woke up feeling better. Days like this I feel brave. Brave enough to conquer the world—even from inside my room, which is where I spend most of my time. I’m not sure if it’s the nightmare-free sleep or the fact that I’m able to paint again that has me feeling slightly optimistic today. Paint . I’m tempted to glide a brush along canvas, but I can’t fully find the inspiration to go for it. Before, I used painting as way to cope with my feelings; now, I’m just afraid.

Fear is one of my most battled emotions. Fear of the unknown, of never knowing where each step I take will lead, terrifies me. For others it’s a rush, a thrill—the beauty of taking risks. For me, a risk can ruin me. It’s the reason why I grapple with every decision I make, constantly fearful that any and every choice will affect my life for the worse. To avoid triggers and potentially damning consequences, I keep hidden, locked behind my door.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll find some more courage. But for now, I’ll continue to sit by the window with my legs comfortably crossed, watching the pool boy snatch debris with an extended net. My eyes scan over his sweat-dripping body as he reaches his arms out and slowly sways the mesh from side-to-side, just along the top of the clear water. His biceps flex as he taps the edge of the net along the concrete, dumping the debris aside.