But You Chose Art

It’s been twenty three days since I started taking the medication again. Mood stabilizers. It would be more accurate to call them muse killers. 

I’m sure Ellie was exaggerating my state to the doctors when she took me to the hospital. Four days awake was hardly that long. I could have stayed awake for days longer to finish my painting. 

Now, the painting stands on the easel, still unfinished. If only she hadn’t found me, even for another day. It would have probably been complete by then.

Flatness is all that remains, a leveling of my mood and my mind. My thoughts now are abortive, unfinished lines, fading to nothing. Even if the speed of my mind was overwhelming before, I would much prefer that multitude of ideas to this white, empty space, ideas dying in utero, stillborn. 

I can hear a faint voice, a part of myself that I’ve dubbed my muse. It calls out in a daze, asking for release from the torture of so-called stability. 

Don’t you call yourself an artist? It asks. What good is sleep without art? Without art, you’ll surely die. Or be good as dead.

It’s decided then. I have to stop taking the medications. Even with just this idea of freedom, I feel the muse stir, anticipating.

Two days later, two days without the pills. I can still feel the meds in my system, but I wonder if I can speed up my metabolism by sheer force of will. Then Ellie is on my doorstep, Melanie by her side.

“Daddy!” Mel squeals, rushing in to embrace my waist. I pat her head as it rests on my stomach. 

I look down. “Hi Melly Melon. What a surprise!” 

Ellie raises an eyebrow at me. I never could say the right thing. “It shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s your weekend with her for this month.”

I can apparently count medicated days, but not the days of the month. “Right,” I nod. “Of course I remembered.” I kneel down to look at Mel. “And I have plenty of plans for us, Mel. We’re going to that amusement park we went to a couple months ago. Won’t that be fun!” I can tell my enthusiasm rings false for Ellie, but Mel just smiles, swinging my hands in hers.

“Okay! But I don’t want to go on that roller coaster again, the one with the loops. It was too scary!” 

I laugh. Even with the medication deadening my emotions, Mel’s excitement sparks a bit of my own. “But the roller coasters are the best part!”

Ellie seems appeased. “Well, sounds like you’ll have a great time with Dad, right Mel? Make sure you call me before bed every night, okay?” Her look is hard, demanding. My memory on trial again.

“Yes, Eleanor.” I give a mock salute, while Mel giggles and Ellie just sighs. 

“You’re still taking them, right?” Ellie asks, oblique.

In a way, yes. They’re still there. I nod, say, “Yes.” I even believe it.

Ellie looks over me closely, as if she can tell just by looking. I’m sure she can’t; she hasn’t been able to tell in the past. Eventually, she kneels down herself and gathers Mel in her arms, hand cradling Mel’s head. “Be safe, okay? I’ll come pick you up on Monday.”

“Monday?” It slips out before I can stop it. 

“It’s Labor Day weekend. Do you even look at a calendar?” Ellie pauses, begins one of her breathing exercises she always went on about. “It’s fine, it’s all going to be fine. I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun. Just remember to call, okay?”

“Yes, Mommy, we’ll call!” Mel is young, but she can already tell when Ellie is stressed and needs reassurance. “Promise,” she adds, such a serious look on her child’s face that it could almost be considered comical, if it weren’t for the circumstances.

“Yeah, promise,” I say, grabbing Mel’s suitcase from the doormat. “We’ll see you Monday. Come on Mel.”

A last hug and Mel and I are inside. My muse is restless, frustrated at this new obstacle. Nothing for it though. And I don’t want to resent Mel, ever. It’s just a change in plans. I can do both, art and parenting. It’s possible; anything is possible once the medication wears off.

The next day, after time mostly spent at the park, Mel and I are on the couch, flipping through a photo album.

“It’s me!” Mel says. “That’s me, right? I don’t remember.”

Laughing, I look closer. A two year old Mel has made a mess of herself, birthday cake all over her face and clothes, frosting clinging to her short brown hair. “No, you wouldn’t remember. You were only two. It was your birthday, see the candle?” This Mel has the wax ‘two’ in her mouth, as if ready to take a bite. It’s such a sweet picture. My muse even thinks so, sees the possibility in the photo. It’s been some time since I did a hyperrealistic drawing. 

“Here,” I take the album from her hands, remove the picture. “Would you like me to draw you?” 

Mel’s eyes light up, she begins to bounce in her seat. “Really? You want to draw a picture of me?”

I smile. “Of course. You’re my Melly Melon.”

Mel smiles, jumps into my lap and hugs me tight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She leans back. “Do I have to do anything? How long will it take? I promise I’ll sit still as long as it takes!”

Chuckling, I sweep her up again, plant a kiss on her forehead. “You won’t have to do anything. I’m going to use this picture here.” I hold up the picture of her in my hand. 

She frowns. “But, that’s already a picture. Won’t you be making a new one?”

Her naivety is adorable. “It will be new. It will be like this one, but bigger, and all by hand. See that painting over there?” I point to the large canvas, still on its easel. “It’s going to be that big.”

Mel’s eyes get wide. “Really? Can I watch?” She’s bouncing again, excitement unbound. 

“Sure, but it might take a while. We’ll need to go to the art supply store.”

Thankfully, Mel doesn’t watch me draw for too long. As expected, she got bored within ten minutes, and I put a movie on for her. All during the outlining process, I feel my muse unfolding, stretching, at times guiding my hand or my eye. I hold back from entering a flow state completely. Wait until Mel’s bed time. Then, I’ll have the whole night. 

The movie ends, we call Ellie, and she asks all about our day. Mel speaks for both of us, never running out of things to say. Ellie just laughs along. Already, I can tell that this conversation could last an hour if I don’t do anything. 

“Well, it’s been a long day, as you’ve heard. Time to get you to bed, Mel. We’ll call tomorrow.” 

Mel pouts, “But I don’t want to go to bed. Can’t I watch another movie? It’s Saturday, I don’t have school tomorrow!”

Ellie’s voice interrupts. “No honey, you need to go to bed. There will be plenty of time to have fun tomorrow.”

Before Mel can start again, I say, “Your mom is right. It’s time for bed. We can do whatever you want tomorrow, okay?”

“Anything? Promise?”

I nod solemnly. “Pinky promise.” I hold out my pinky for her to entwine with her own.

“Good night sweetheart,” Ellie says over the phone. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Love you!”

“Love you too, Mommy!” Mel calls, and I hang up the phone.

With a bedtime story and a forehead kiss, Mel’s securely in bed.

My muse has waited, as patiently as possible, for this moment. At least eight uninterrupted hours lie ahead. I give over control gratefully, fall into its rhythm, until my body fades away. It’s only the pencil, my hand, the drawing. I reach a point where I no longer need to look at the reference photo. It hovers, in complete detail, in my mind’s eye. The drawing forms from the flow of the graphite across the paper, my fingertips smudging to form the shadows. I hardly have to use my eraser, except to create highlights. 

“Daddy?” 

Mel’s voice is jarring, as if the sound awakes me from a dream. But the drawing is in front of me, my pencil hovering above the paper, just where I’ve left off. 

“Yeah sweetie. What is it? Have a bad dream?” I press the tip of my pencil back to the page, adding some extra detail to the hair. Mel’s hair. I look over to her. Behind her, light intrudes from the window. Daylight. 

I check the clock. It’s already seven in the morning. Ten hours since Mel’s bedtime. 

Mel is looking at me with an expression I don’t recognize. “Daddy?”

I study her face. My mind’s eye begins another picture, a drawing of this moment, her look of confusion. That’s what the look is, I can name it now. 

“What is it?” The words come out haltingly. 

She looks behind me, sees the drawing. “Wow!” She rushes forward to look closer, but I hold my arm out so she can’t get close enough to touch.

“It’s not done yet.” I say. My muse is just under the surface, thrashing. But I know I have to feed Mel at least.

I rise from my chair, sensation coming back to my body all at once; stiffness in my back, soreness radiating from my tailbone. Hand cramping, eyes dry and straining. 

Irritated, I take Mel’s hand and guide her to the kitchen. “What do you want for breakfast?” 

All throughout our cereal, I’m only half listening to Mel as she talks about what she wants to do today, and about the park yesterday, and the movie she watched. My mind is still in front of the easel, guiding the pencil along the paper, planning the next lines. 

Finally, after she’s done eating, I convince her to watch something, anything she wants, on the TV. She seems happy enough and begins flipping through channels.

I return to my seat in front of the easel, enacting each line just as I’d planned in my head moments before. Soon enough, once I blink the blurriness from my eyes, my muse is in complete control again. We are one with the paper, the pencil, the lines, the shadow and light. 

“...Daddy? Daddy, can you hear me?”

Jerking, I see Mel right beside me. “What!” I nearly shout. 

Mel jumps back, eyes wide. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if I could go to the playground outside.” She’s hunched, curved away. 

“Sure, I don’t care.” I turn back to the drawing. “Just don’t talk to me until I’m finished with this okay? I should be done soon.”

I hear the front door shut. I am almost done. Just some of the background left, the nose, the eyes. The eyes last, I decide. The background forms more and more clearly with every stroke of my pencil.

Finally, I’m finished with the nose. Only the eyes left. 

There’s a pounding at the door. I jerk again. This time, something twinges in my back. Wincing, I head for the door. If Mel has locked herself out, she’d be in big trouble. 

I whip the door open, expecting Mel on the other side, but it’s a middle-aged woman. She’s frantic. “Sir, there’s a girl out here, she’s really hurt. We’ve called the police, but I don’t know who’s girl she is. I’m asking every apartment. Can you come look?” 

So close. I’m so close to being finished. All Mel had to do was wait a little longer.

I follow the woman outside to the playground, less than fifty feet from my apartment. Outside, it’s so bright, the colors oversaturated when my vision has been monochrome for what feels like days. I have to squint my eyes.

The woman stops, there’s a crowd of people all looking down at something on the ground. She moves, guiding me past the ring of people so that I can see what they’re all looking at. 

I can’t tell what I’m seeing. The colors are still too vivid. All I can make out is a white oval, surrounded by a thin layer of brown, then a larger halo of bright red, spreading. It keeps spreading. My eyes adjust, honing in, as on a picture. I begin to make out details of a face, small parted, pale lips, upturned nose, glassy eyes. I know those eyes.

“Mel?” I feel myself float towards her, drop to the ground. The shock of the blood soaking into my pants, sticking to my knees. “Mel?”

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink, or smile, or cry. I reach out, but a hand drops on my shoulder, startling me. “You shouldn’t move her,” a voice says. “Wait for the ambulance.” 

Time runs forward at an indeterminate pace. I remain on the ground, watching and feeling as the blood moves out and out. I’m trapped by those eyes that look, but do not see. 

I come back to awareness in a hospital room. Ellie is talking to a nurse, she looks more panicked than I’ve ever seen her. I follow her line of sight. Mel is lying on the bed, her eyes are still open. Still not blinking.

She’s dead, isn’t she?

I recognize my muse’s voice. But I don’t understand. She can’t be dead. She was only out of my sight for a few minutes. How did this happen?

You couldn’t watch and draw her at the same time, could you?

Ellie is shouting at me now. She tries to lunge toward me, but the nurse holds her back. I can’t make out anything she says. 

Sometimes art comes at a price. You paid before with lost sleep, lost relationships. This is more of the same.

No, no, no. Nothing is worth this. 

Not even art?

Nothing.

Even if that’s so, it’s too late now. She is lost. But you still have the drawing. You could finish it when we get home.

I balk. My muse is no muse at all, it’s a demon, a devil, and I’ve made the worst deal of my life.

A devil? I am you. You know it. Call me a devil if you want. It doesn’t change what you did.

Ellie’s howling sobs drag me back from my warring mind. She’s clutching Mel’s body, rocking her back and forth, back and forth. One of Mel’s arms dangles lifelessly, hand swaying side to side along the edge of the bed. 

I look down at my own hands atop my bloodstained pants. I can still make out the gray smudge of the graphite on my fingertips. I see the drawing in front of me, only the eyes left to do. 

I already know I’ll never finish drawing them.