Painting

“Fuck,” Jamie muttered under her breath as yet another haphazard tower of boxes nearly crushed her. She pushed the boxes back, scurrying away from the stack before it could come at her again. After her mother’s passing, her estate transformed into a carnival of all things eclectic and dust collecting. Jamie felt trapped by these oddities. Their safekeeping, sale, and ultimate demise were all left to her.

 Without her mother’s loving gaze, her belongings seemed distraught and unhinged to Jamie, as if they longed to be admired. They reached out to her, begging to be seen, but she was not her mother, and their charms were lost to her.

As a mid-century minimalist, Jamie viewed the collection as an assault on all things that are clean and useful. After four days in the house, she longed for her empty apartment. For the carefully matched colors and front-page design. The snake plant in the corner which was both aesthetically pleasing as it was useful for purifying the air.

During the previous days, she had cleared away and cataloged four rooms. She now stood in the dining room, having just cleared enough space at the cluttered table to eat and rest her coffee cup, the least jarring one she could find. The one she chose had an assortment of eyes at various stages of blinking so that at any given time, one was staring directly at her while another was squinting, judging. Although unsettling, it was better than drinking out of the vulvas, breasts, and dicks that adorned most of the other ones.

Jamie was getting the house prepped for an estate sale she had scheduled for next Saturday, a day that seemed all too close now that she was submerged in the clutter. She placed the handmade coffee cup down and scanned the dining room for her next project. Overwhelmed, she picked a random cabinet and opened the door. She sighed; it was filled top to bottom with intricate and oddly shaped glass jars and empty perfume bottles.

Without an appraiser, she had no idea what was worth money and what was trash. She spent the next few hours scanning each bottle with her phone camera and followed whatever links Google Lens offered. She priced out the least expensive ones and placed them neatly in color order on the freshly dusted shelves. The more valuable ones were set aside to be later paired with the appropriate certificates.

She repeated this process with each item in the dining room until it resembled a well-organized antiques/ oddities shop. As she appreciated the consequences of her hard work, she noticed the corner of a picture frame sticking out from behind the China cabinet, which had been modified into a giant terrarium of moss and vines and decorated with brass figurines and small bones. Jamie walked over and tried to pull the picture out, but it was wedged defiantly between the cabinet and the wall. She managed to shimmy it an inch or two, only to be halted by the radiator. The corner of the frame was now stuck. No matter what Jamie did, she couldn’t get the frame back into its original position.

She huffed, wracking her brain for a solution. So, like her mother, to leave one thing out of reach. One loose end that would never be tied up. Jamie tried to move on to the next room, but she couldn’t get the picture out of her mind. 

As a child, her mother’s tendency towards chaos clashed with Jamie’s quiet, reserved nature. She liked things neat and orderly. Expected. Her mother was always trying to “get her out of her shell.” She wanted an artist, a dreamer, but Jamie wanted to do her work and be left alone. She likes structure. She liked knowing what was expected of her. “Grain-oriented,” as her mother liked to say. Her mother’s inconsistency and outspokenness often catalyzed cocktail party disagreements and gallery showdowns. Jamie hated it when her mother threw parties with her artist friends. Nights dissolving into chaos as the house is filled with pot smoke, loud music, and the sweet stench of orange wine and naked bodies.

Jamie was an outcast in her home. Preferring seclusion and silence over the ruckus of the house. Now that her mother was gone, she felt numb and realized that she had never really known the woman or loved her or liked her but instead tolerated her out of obligation. This pissed her off enough to storm back into the dining room to confront the defiant painting. She didn’t have to live in her mother’s world anymore. She was gone. Her power should be, too. Jamie could make this house what she wanted and what she wanted was to rip that painting from its hiding place so she could have peace.

“You’re gonna move,” she said to the China cabinet. She grabbed its side and put her weight into it. It didn’t move. She widened her stance and tried again, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Come on,” she grunted. “Move. Move. Mooove! MOOOOOVE! God, damn it! Fucking move!” The cabinet rocked slightly but was otherwise unfazed by her effort. She pulled her phone from her back pocket, flipped on the flashlight, and shined the light into the darkness between the furniture and the wall. Peering, deranged through the crack like a trapped animal, Jamie saw the painting resting a few inches from her. She inched her hand as far back as she could but still couldn’t bridge the gap. Sunk down to her knees and reached for the bottom corner, which was tilted slightly more towards her. Her fingertips brushed the edge. She dared more of her forearm to the cause, her fingers groping uselessly like a mouse in a bucket of shallow water.

Defeated, exhausted, and angry, Jamie melted to the floor. It was no use. She was never going to get it. She was simply not strong enough or nimble enough to navigate this problem. She was useless. Helpless. Alone.

For the first time since her mother’s death, Jamie cried. Long broken sobs, half stuck behind the cabinet. She kicked the wall and cursed the crystal chandelier that so cruelly decorated the ceiling with little rainbows. None of this should be happening. A girl shouldn’t feel so empty after losing her mother. She should be distraught. She should be broken. Not… nothing. Nothing was bad. Nothing was evil. There was something wrong with her. She was the devil. A curse. A pale plague sent to desecrate the colorful memory of her mother. Petunia deserved more than indifference and utilitarianism. She deserved paper lanterns and music and deep, deep love. Bottomless love. She deserved a house full of people partying, tripping, communing with her in the mirrors. Instead, she got her stuffy, basic daughter who was more concerned with the bottom dollar than the memories embedded in every belonging.

Was there anything of her mother left in her, or was she doomed to be her own? She wrenched her arm free and aimed for the bar cart shaped like a mushroom. Inside the cap, she found a bottle of orange wine. Next, she turned on the record player. Whatever her mother had listened to last was what she wanted to hear. Dancing music. Electric guitar with a slide upon the strings. A soulful, raspy voice of a woman Jamie wished would love her. A base so deep it took dominion over the beats in her heart. Jamie kicked her shoes off and jumped around the house until she felt at one with the chaos around her. Until sweat demanded the removal of clothing. First, her shirt, then her pants. The knickknacks clattered and bounced, delighted by the erratic stomping of her feet. She didn’t care. She didn’t care. Let it fall to the ground. Fuck the price tag! Fuck the obligation!

Tits free. Ass out. Socks on. A poorly packed pipe curling in her palm. Jamie let misery and confusion drive her. She slid into the dining room on her toes a new woman, grabbed the back of the cabinet, and heaved. Glass, dirt, the viscera of plants exploded on the ground. She had to know. Why out of all the strangeness in this house had her mother hidden this one painting?

Jamie let the wine guide her through the glass that littered the floor and retrieved the painting. She flipped it over. It was a mid-century modern painting. Something you’d find at Target. Something hanging on the walls of fifty thousand homes. Jamie couldn’t help herself. She started laughing. Hysterically, tears fell down her face. Until her reflection couldn’t tell if she was breaking down or cracking up. It was so simple. So ordinary. So unlike her mother. Department store. Mass-produced. Overpriced and ordinary. It was ridiculous. This was the most ridiculous thing in her mother’s house. So stupid. So Jamie.