by: Laura Browne-Lambert
Diptych is a series that should be read in order. To read other issues of Diptych, click the link below:
Isa woke to darkness. Murky shadows rippled just beyond her reach. A heaviness in her limbs bound her to a hard surface. Slowly, the undulating shroud settled over her, bathed her skin, and leached into her pores. A faint noise drifted as if it came from underwater.
A whisper grew to a murmur grew to a hum. Unintelligible.
A shout.
“Isa!”
Her eyes snapped open. Her felt swollen and sluggish in her mouth. A cloying flavor she did not recognize sat on her tastebuds. Her eyelids were heavy. She could still feel a phantom sludge in eyes, her nose, her mouth, her ears.
“Hm?” Isa tried again. “Wha—?”
“I’m taking you to the hospital.” Lenna knelt over her, worry overwhelming her features, and pulled Isa to a sitting position.
Isa looked down at herself. The thick globs of paint were gone and had left her skin stained with splotches of rainbow colors. Strange. She only remembered opening the teal bottle. She looked at Lenna. Dark chocolate orbs stared back at her, wide and terrified.
“Yeah – yeah, okay.”
Lenna transferred Isa from the floor to the wheelchair and from the wheelchair to the car without much help from Isa. Rather, when Isa tried to buckle herself into front seat, Lenna batted her leaden hands out of the way.
They spent the ride to the hospital in stilted silence broken only by questions from Lenna that Isa failed to answer.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.” Fear and shame snuck their way into Isa’s stomach.
Lenna’s brows crossed. The look reminded Isa of Lenna’s hangry face. “Did you eat enough?”
“I think so.” Isa shrugged. She felt hollow and, yet, oddly full.
“Feeling lightheaded? Dizzy?” Lenna’s eyes shifted from the road to Isa and back.
“I think – maybe?”
“Could it have been a seizure?” A muscle ticked visible in Lenna’s cheek.
“How would I know? I’ve never had a seizure before?”
Lenna gripped the steering wheel tighter. “It looked like you might have vomited.”
“I couldn’t breathe.”
“Did you use your inhaler?”
“I can’t remember.”
Lenna heaved an anxious breath as she pulled into the parking lot and threw the truck into park. They rolled into a busy emergency room. Bright lights droned overhead and threatened Isa with a headache. The chatter buzzed distractingly. They checked in with a short woman dressed in scrubs and sporting a severe-looking bun atop her head. She handed them each a surgical mask and sent them to a waiting room that had run out of chairs.
“Do you want to sit here for a little?” Isa pointed to her wheelchair.
Lenna looked at her with angry incredulity. “Are you kidding? No, I don’t want to sit in your wheelchair.” She crouched beside Isa. “Just sit there and try to stay awake.”
Isa hunched in the chair and fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. Soon, she felt herself drifting. Hands shook her awake and she opened bleary eyes.
“I thought I told you to stay awake,” Lenna said bitterly.
“I’m trying.” Isa reminded herself that concern sometimes made Lenna lash out.
Lenna sighed, “I know.” She wrapped a hand around Isa’s.
Isa drifted and woke, drifted and woke until her name was called and strangers wheeled her down long corridors. The strangers lay her in a loud machine, took her blood, and stuck wires to her body. She drifted some more. Wild blends of colors swirled.
Voices swam through the eddies in Isa’s mind.
“There’s no evidence of seizure activity.” A woman in a white coat studied a chart, only occasionally glancing over the edge of the clipboard at Isa and Lenna. Isa sat up in a hospital bed, dressed in an open-backed shirt, with the blankets pulled up to her chin. Lenna stood beside her, tired lines decorating her forehead. “Blood work all looks good. Scans aren’t showing anything abnormal. You probably just overdid it.”
“She vomited while she was unconscious, Doctor,” Lenna pushed. “That doesn’t sound like overdoing it to me.”
“I’ve never passed out from the virus before.”
The woman in the lab coat flipped through the paperwork once more. “Well, it’s still new. There’s a lot we don’t understand about the virus. For now, you’re breathing well enough and I don’t see anything that tells me you should stay here overnight.” She gave Isa a wry smile. “So you’re good to go home and rest. Take it easy and remember to take your medications.”
“Seriously?” Isa asked, brows raised.
“Seriously.”
CW: health issues, hospital visits, ableism
Image Description: A simple sketch of a hand, cupped with the palm facing upward. The hand is sketched over pastel splotches of pink, orange, blue, green, and purple watercolor paint.
Credit: Laura Browne-Lambert
Lenna hooked her arms under Isa’s legs and shifted her onto her back. They worked their way up the stairs, piggyback style.
“I’m working from home tomorrow,” Lenna said.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Obviously, I do,” Lenna panted. “We don’t know what’s happening to you, and I can’t keep coming home to find you on the floor.”
Isa flipped off the light switch to the stairwell. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing for being sick.” Lenna deposited Isa on the bed. “Do you want a change of clothes?”
“Yes, please.” Isa pulled off her socks and flung them far enough that she would not trip on them if she took a late-night visit to the bathroom. “I just don’t like that this affects you, too.”
“Well, we can’t change that, can we?” Lenna tossed a tee shirt and sleep shorts at Isa’s face.
“I guess we can’t.”
“Skip brushing your teeth, tonight, so you don’t have to get up again.”
“Alright.” Isa flopped on the bed and shimmied under the covers. She waited until Lenna was settled in bed beside her before snuggling into her wife’s chest and closing her eyes. Warm arms wrapped around her shoulders and heat seeped into Isa’s skin. Goodness, this woman is a furnace, Isa thought as she snuggled closer.
“Goodnight, my love.”
“Sleep well.”
Several days passed before Isa ventured back to her workspace in the corner of the kitchen. She settled onto her stool and flipped open her laptop. For a moment, studied the tie-dye splotches of color that still covered her hands. An oddity for sure, no other paint had stained her hands so thoroughly as the paint Lenna had brought her. Perhaps that’s why Wanda was trying to get rid of it, she thought. Her eyes skimmed her inbox as she set out her paints and ran a hand across a half-finished canvas. Isa left the new paints in their box, in case they had been the cause of her worsening health.
She returned her attention to her emails. Automatically, she ignored the spam, the subscriptions, and the calendar reminders. Instead, she focused on the message labeled “From the Desk of Martin O’Malley.” She clicked it open.
Dear Mrs. Bradley,
While we appreciate your years of partnership with the Cross Street Art Gallery, we consider your recent series of postponements and cancellations to be grounds for the termination of our partnership agreement. All future exhibitions or similar arrangements have been cancelled. We wish you the best of luck in pursuing a more suitable partnership elsewhere.
Sincerely,
Martin O’Malley
Development Director
Isa stared in shock at the straightforward brutality of the message. Martin knew she was sick. They had long talks about her condition and he had never come across as anything but sympathetic. That sly bastard never even gave me a warning. At first, she felt shame that her health had sabotaged her career. That her talents or skills mattered less than her ability. Shame grew to an anger that started inward. Anger at herself for falling behind on her workload. Anger at her body and her brain for failing her.
Her anger morphed into rage and turned outward. At O’Malley for giving her hope and dashing it so cruelly. At the Cross Street Art Gallery for turning on her at their first inconvenience. Isa hurled open bottles of paint at the canvas. Color splattered over a half-finished painting of a rowboat at sunset. Greens and purples marred the blue of the water and the yellow-orange of the sky. Blood-red oozed down the side of the gray boat. Browns and ochres mixed to create chaotic blends of color.
Isa yelled meaningless sounds of frustration and added globs of acrylic gel medium to the tumult in front of her. She sank her hands into the gloopy, colorful mess and swiped her fingers through wet paint in long strokes. The sensation felt oddly cathartic as it squished between her fingers and across her palms. Isa slipped into the trancelike state she occasionally found when painting something abstract and colorful. Her fiery emotions calmed. The thumping in her heart slowed to a steady pace, and the feeling in her muscles changed from the amped up jitters of emotional intensity to the nearly imperceptible shiver of fatigue.
Finally, she dropped her hands, wiping them on the apron that had gone askew in her frenzy. Isa blinked away the haze of her trance and studied her work. In the mess of colors, thick lines formed a series of rectangles. Isa stepped backward. This was a painting that required distance. Yes, there it was. The rectangles took new, recognizable shapes – a shopfront, windows with the idea of paintings hanging on the walls of the interior. The words “Cross Street” hung on a sign over the door.
Huh. Isa shifted from side to side, taking in the glistening paint from every angle. Just as she was about to turn away and wash her hands, new lettering caught her eye. A square placard hung from the door handle. On it, read the words “closed permanently.”
Dang, she thought. At least I got that thought out of my system.
Isa washed her hands and cleaned her workspace before dropping onto the couch and closing her eyes. Drifting, she dreamed of splashing color and acrylic paint medium squishing between her fingers. She woke to a cat perched primly on her chest.
“Hey Fluffy-Butt,” Isa mumbled. The cat bunted her in the chin. “What are you looking for?” Little paws stretched over her shoulders and a wet nose tapped her cheek. A deep purr rumbled from the feline and through Isa’s chest. “Hungry, Little Cat?” Whispers tickled her face as a furry face nuzzled her between the eyes. Paws kneaded her chest and dug sharply into the soft tissue of her breasts. “Okay, that’s enough,” Isa said as she swatted the animal off her chest and sat up. She stumbled to the kitchen and cracked open a fresh can of cat food. “Here you go, Kitty. Your favorite fish mush.”
On her way to the trash can, Isa paused. Most of the paint had dried onto the canvas, giving it a matte finish, rather than the gloss of wet acrylic. She stared, feeling exposed and uncomfortable. She did not usually wish ill on anyone. Isa turned the canvas around so that the image faced away from her and set it against the wall.
Before she had a chance to think about something else, the doorknob clicked behind her and Lenna poked her head into the kitchen.
“Did you hear?” Lenna exclaimed.
“Hear what?”
“About the gallery?”
A tightness gripped Isa’s chest. “They sent me a letter,” she answered, grabbing the single sheet of paper and shoving it into her wife’s hands. “Who told you?”
“No one told me,” Lenna said. She skimmed the page. “I saw it on the way—No, this isn’t what I meant.” Lenna looked up. “They sent this to you? Now?”
Isa nodded.
“That’s just cold.”
“What do you mean?” Isa’s brow furrowed. “Now?”
Lenna beckoned with one hand and crumpled the letter with the other. “Come with me.”
Isa grabbed her cane from by the door and followed Lenna down the driveway. By the time she reached the sidewalk, she huffed heavily.
“I’m gonna need you to slow down,” Isa said. Lenna slowed and offered Isa her hand. More slowly, but still with the look of a collie on a mission, Lenna led her down the street and around the block. Despite the short distance, Isa felt her feet scuff heavily on the pavement by the time Lenna stopped.
“Look,” Lenna pointed to a recognizable shopfront, framed in white and rustic in appearance. Cross Street Art Gallery. On the doorknob hung a white placard with red lettering. Closed permanently.
Isa looked at Lenna, heart plummeting to her feet in shock and an eerie sense of guilt sinking into the hole in her chest. “What?”
Image Description: Orange directional signs painted on the side of a stucco wall. The signs say "to be continued."
Credit: Reuben Juarez / Unsplash via Webador
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Love the art work