Page 45 of Jane Deyre
My stomach knots. That means I may have to sleep in the guesthouse with no security or light, with a storm raging outside. I dread going through another night like last night.
I nervously fidget with the Band-Aid on my middle finger with my thumb. “I understand. Thank you. And just one last thing... when the locksmith comes, can he also install a bolt or latch on my bedroom door?”
Ms. Fairfax’s entire face scrunches. She slams the book down on the table.
“Jane, you are testing my patience. For the second time, I’m telling you to please leave. You are not being paid to waste my time.”
If looks could kill, these would be them. Without another word, I turn on my heel and head to the kitchen.
Grace prepares a platter of turkey and cheese sandwiches for lunch using the cold cuts and bread I bought yesterday at Target, but makes them taste gourmet with a delectable dressing she whips up. Serving them with potato chips and a medley of raw veggies—baby carrots, celery, and cherry tomatoes.
Adele gobbles down her sandwich and consumes all her chips. I make her eat some of the vegetables.
“Jane, let’s make the fruit salad now and feed the snails.”
While making the fruit salad with her would be fun, I have a better idea. “Sweetie, let’s give Stripe and Speedy the leftover veggies. They love all these vegetables.”
Eager to see her pet snails, she readily agrees. Lunch is served. Happy snails. Happy child. And happy me.
A half hour later, we’re back in her suite.
“Do you want to color with me, Jane?”
“How ’bout we draw pictures? You can make something and give it to your daddy as a present.”
“That’s a great idea!” my charge pipes, stopping me in time from fantasizing about him.
A few minutes later we’re on the carpet with the sketchpads and colored pencils I bought. Adele is lying on her tummy, her elbows anchoring her and her knees bent, with her feet in the air, her sketchpad in front of her. The tips of her braids dust the carpet. I’m seated next to her, cross-legged, my sketchpad on my lap. The box of colored pencils between us. I take them out of the box to give us easier access.
Adele plays with one of her braids. Twirling and swirling it. “What should I make, Jane?”
I scratch my forehead with my bandaged finger. “What kind of things does your daddy like?” I’d like to know the answer to that question myself. I know so little about her mysterious, handsome father.
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“I bet he’d love a picture of you. All daddies love pictures of their little girls.” A sting of sadness thickens my throat. I’m not talking from experience. Maybe my Mexican father loved me, but I never got to know him. Sadly, don’t even have a photo of me with him or my mother.
Adele cuts into my somber thoughts. “What else can I draw?”
“What about the snails?” Snails are easy to draw. Even for a five-year-old.
“I know! I’m going to do a picture of me with Stripe and Speedy.”
“That’s an awesome idea.”
Adele reaches for a brown pencil. “What are you going to make?”
I stare blankly at a blank piece of paper. “I don’t know yet. It’s going to be a surprise.”
While Adele gets to work on her drawing, I tug on my bottom lip with my thumb, a habit I have when I’m thinking. More precisely, not thinking clearly. While I used to love to draw, I haven’t drawn anything in ages.Think, Jane, think. You don’t have all day. Though I do have all afternoon, I decide not to overthink it. I’m going to do a self-portrait too.
I’m going to sketch it first... then fill it in with the colored pencils. I need to find a lead pencil with an eraser. Then I remember I threw a pack into the cart, thinking that I’d work with Adele on the alphabet in preparation for school. I find the pack on the shelf, slip out a pencil, and return to my spot. I start to sketch. Totally focused. Unaware of passing time. Adele as quiet as a church mouse, totally into her drawing. We’re surrounded by silence, except for the scratch of pencil against paper. And the drum of the rain that fades to a hum as my concentration deepens. Soon, there’s nothing but me and my drawing.
“I’m almost done,” says Adele, almost startling me.
“Me too.”
“Done!” she shouts out.