Sensing Serafina Read online

  My art classes are better. Entering the art department, I am comforted by the smell of clay, acrylic paint, lacquer, and pencil shavings. A smell of creativity. A sense of belonging as I enter my realm. The first couple of weeks have been spent on basics, and this week, we finally begin to work on our first project. The class is small with about fifteen students, probably only half who are serious. To my left is Ray. He speaks quietly but is worth hearing. I have to pay close attention, but his intelligent and dry sense of humor is a relief to the frustrations of the day. He doesn’t treat me differently, even teasing me about my situation. At first, I was taken aback, but I appreciate it now.

  “Dude! Watch what you are doing,” he tells me. My initial internal response is sarcastic and irritated, but he continues, and I realize it’s what I need.

  “Whatever, man. Why don’t you get up and help me?” I knocked over a glass of water that is for cleaning tools. I have it at my table so that I don’t have to waste time going back and forth to the sink, but obviously it isn’t very helpful at the moment. He puts paper towel in my hand telling me, “Nah, looks like you’ve got this.” I sigh in response, but inside, I’m thankful for the opportunity to be forced to do something so simple, yet significant to me.

  After my table is once again dry, Ray asks, “What are you making for your project?”

  “You can see it better than me,” I respond, deciding I might as well make light of my situation.

  “Ha ha. Yeah, that would help if it actually looked like something,” he jokes back.

  I chuckle and answer, “Well, you will be able to tell what it is soon enough,” continuing to keep my project private. I think I just want to wait until it takes shape before declaring what it is. I have an idea of what I want it to be, but it takes time to actually form it, and I wouldn’t be able to do it justice with words.

  “Fine. I guess we will all see later, that is, if you can make it more obvious than the big lump it is right now.”

  “Are you telling me that your project is already finished?” I ask him, skeptical that it will be very good if so.

  “Nah. It still needs the finishing touches. It’s coming right along, though,” he reassures me.

  “Cool. When you are done, let me feel it and see if I can tell that it is even a skull. I’m betting it will feel more like an apple with holes in it.” He’s been talking about making a sugar skull since we are sculpting with clay for our first project.

  “Shut up. You’ll see. Or not,” he jokes.

  I feel my jaw clench, knowing he is teasing, but feeling frustrated that I won’t be able to actually see it. I tell myself it isn’t worth seeing it anyway. My project will be more abstract. Intentionally.

  “You just crack yourself up, huh? Stupid asshole.”

  We both laugh, continuing to work and talk a little here and there.

  Before

  Hanging out with Sera at the park is a new beginning, a seed sure to blossom into glory. Each time our eyes meet, I hear her laugh, or we just sit silently together, it sprouts something more. Growing peace, beauty, comfort, ecstasy. Love.

  We have been seeing each other for three weeks now, but our meetings are limited. I work most days, and Sera’s dad is not a fan of her having a boyfriend, or even a friend who is a boy. Her mother passed away when she was seven, so her dad is close to her, but also very protective. She doesn’t want to disappoint him. His new wife is just a distraction, unable to completely fill the void that was Sera’s mother, and he can’t lose what he has left. I hate it for them, but I wish he could loosen his hold, allow her room to live her own life. Sera stayed within her boundaries before meeting me, and I can see her desire to explore, to flourish. Her light is too strong to be hidden.

  I fear my ability to provide her what she seeks, but I’m willing to take the chance.

  We had planned to meet after I got off work tonight at nine, but I’ve already been waiting twenty minutes and she isn’t here. I sit alone in a booth inside a local restaurant in our small town. It is open until 10:30 since it’s a Friday, but it’s already empty and the waitresses are finishing up their end-of-night tasks to prepare for the large expected Saturday crowd they have every week for breakfast. One waitress, Marge, a lady in her sixties, has worked here ever since I can remember. She is wiping tables down and refilling salt and pepper shakers while another younger waitress is vacuuming the short-piled carpet covered in various colors that reflect the 70s, stains blending in perfectly. I notice her glance at me several times, probably ready to go home, my preventing their closing.

  Marge finally comes over to my table and leans on the opposite booth. “Hey, Cal.” She looks at her large-faced watch and back at me, hoping I will explain myself.

  “Hi, Marge. Sorry. I’ll get out of your way,” I say, getting up and grabbing my cap.

  “I don’t mean to rush you, honey. But I think you may be waiting here all night by yourself,” she says, looking at the door like it’s confirmation.

  “Yeah, it’s ok. I was just leaving.” I don’t plan to explain anything to her. She is a nice lady, but I don’t want my life being discussed at tomorrow’s breakfast any more than it already will, speculation of my waiting alone sure to come up at some point.

  I’ve already texted Sera a few times, wondering what happened. Resigned, I get on my bike to head home when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket just before starting it up.

  “I’m so sorry. My dad got home late from work and insisted I stay and eat dinner with him. I still really want to see you. Any chance you could come over here?” I read her message and smile, despite her situation.

  She wants to see me. That’s all that matters to me right now. I quickly hit the kickstand with the back of my foot and crank up the bike. I text her back, “I’m on my way.”

  It only takes about five minutes to arrive and park in front of her large house. Intimidated enough by just going in and definitely about meeting her dad, I wipe my hands on my jeans. I head up the walkway anticipating shaking his hand and I don’t want to make a bad impression with sweaty hands, evidence of my nerves. I lift my shoulders and stand up straight, trying to exude the confidence I’m lacking and knock on the door.

  Her father answers. “Hello. You must be Cal. I’m Henry,” he says, shaking my hand firmly. I respond in kind, “It’s nice to meet you, Sir.” He hesitates before letting me pass, and I notice his eyes on my bike.

  “Is that your motorcycle?”

  I turn back to look at my bike even though I know mine is the only one parked in front of the house and nod as I look back at him again.

  “Doesn’t seem very safe,” he states, like he can somehow influence me.

  “It’s not bad. I’m careful.” I don’t care about me. But I am careful when Sera is with me.

  Thankfully, Sera comes around the corner smiling brightly. She hugs me and welcomes me in. I would love nothing more than holding her in that hug forever, but with Henry standing next to us, I let her go and follow her to sit next to her on a floral couch that looks like it is never used. A large Oriental rug adorns the hardwood floor, on top of it a granite-topped coffee table heavy enough to indent the four corners where the decorative, wooden feet rest. A piano stands against one wall, a picture window on the adjacent wall. The room opens to a foyer, and stairs meet in the middle guided by shined, cherry wooden bannisters. I’ve seen enough to recognize I don’t belong.

  My mom and I live in a two-bedroom apartment where we share a bathroom with a small shower. Our small, plain kitchen provides well enough with an attached dining area that leads into our square-shaped living room. We have an old couch and two blue recliners that have seen better days, but are comfortable. A brown and gold metal TV tray serves as a table between the chairs that sit facing our 19 inch box tv. Clearly, our unassuming home is no match for the beautiful abode where I sit across from Henry. Sera sits next to me with one foot under her, leaning into me innocently, unaware of the glare I can feel from her father.r />
  He doesn’t seem angry, just concerned, like he needs to protect Sera from me. Ironically, though, I feel the same desire to protect Sera. From everything, including him. Like it’s my job now, because she is mine.

  The room is quiet, so our voices sound a little too loud causing the awkward silence to extend even with the sound of our conversation.

  Henry crosses one leg over the other and addresses me: “I understand you are a senior like my Sera here. What are your plans for after you graduate?”

  I’m sure nothing short of an Ivy League school would impress him, and I especially don’t want to tell him I had planned to travel on my bike and take a year to just kind of find myself. “I haven’t decided, Sir,” I say, thinking that’s the best response I can think to give.

  “Oh. Well, ok. I hope you figure it out pretty soon. Graduation is just around the corner.”

  I nod to acknowledge him, thinking I can’t wait. I can’t wait to get out of this town. I want to explore, not just other places, but also who I am. I’m searching for purpose, for freedom, for my life.

  Sera wraps her hand around my arm in a reassuring way. We haven’t discussed our futures, but I sense her need for the same things. But her dad is important to her, and I don’t know if she can break away. I really hope so because, even after a short time with her, I don’t know if I can find what I’m looking for without her by my side. The door is before me, but she is the key.

  To me.

  Chapter 9

  Now

  Molding clay, the cool and silky material forms beneath my hands therapeutically. We are still working on our first project in art. On the first day, Mr. Kenan gave us a syllabus describing the objective for this class: to create a collection of pieces using multiple media that express one emotion. Each student’s interpretation of the assignment is considered valid and, with the instructor’s guidance, we are to use different materials to build multiple projects that relate to one theme. Everyone uses clay for the first project, and I’ve heard students discussing their themes with each other. Death, love, seasons, school. Most of the ideas sound superficial, which isn’t surprising considering the majority of my classmates live typical college lives, none of them having gone through life-changing experiences or anything too deep. I’ve continued to remain quiet regarding my plan. Words inadequate and too revealing.

  Mr. Kenan has agreed to teach me, intrigued by my desire to create despite my lack of sight. Most of the classes already have some sort of protocol for disabled students, but according to Mrs. Penny, art wasn’t one of them. My initial response: irritation. Am I supposed to be thankful? Feel indebted? My sarcasm, a tyrannical vehicle recklessly guarding my insecurities. But when Mr. Kenan introduced himself to me prior to the first class, he surprised me.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Cal. It’s very nice to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand.

  I nodded in response, still wishing for normal.

  “I appreciate your desire to learn art, Cal, but let me just tell you now, I won’t baby you. You are expected to perform just like everyone else. I will not make accommodations on assignments or grading. If you feel like you can’t keep up, you are welcome to drop the course.”

  “I’m not too worried about that, Mr. Kenan. See you in class,” I said, a small smile acknowledging his challenge.

  He’s been true to his word so far. I hear him occasionally walk around checking on students and their progress. As he nears my desk, he sighs.

  “This project needs to be completed in the next two weeks, Cal. If you keep adding clay, you won’t have time to finish.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  My short response frustrates him. He reiterates, “If you can’t complete this project on time, your grade will suffer.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  He concedes, sighing as he moves to the next student. We are allowed to work in the lab during open times, and considering I have nothing better to do, I am here more than not. I easily stay ahead in my other classes, finishing assignments as soon as I can. It’s almost like a competition within myself. A means to prove my competence. Plus, time is all I have right now. It seems like it’s never-ending. Like the movie Groundhog Day in my mind as I relive my loss on an automatic track. Beauty, beginning, life, tragedy, loss, darkness. Again and again and again. I don’t know if I’m just afraid losing memories will end me or if I’m already gone. A six-month period defining my entire life.

  So I try to trick my mind. I fill it with homework, music, art, whatever I can find to avoid the screams of the silence of my future.

  Ray laughs at my short responses to Mr. Kenan. “I told you. Mr. Kenan can’t even tell what you’re doing.”

  “Shut up, man. Creativity takes time,” I say, smirking.

  “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see, I guess. Hey, why don’t you hang with some of the guys and me at Triple Eight tonight? We’re going to have a few beers, play pool, just chill.”

  "How are you planning to drink? You’re only 19,” I remind him.

  “I’ve got my ways. Anyway, you need to get out more. You’re gonna turn into some kind of freak hermit, all pale and creepy, if you don’t,” he teases.

  “Whatever. I’d rather be a hermit than a douchebag like you,” I joke back.

  Ignoring my comeback, he keeps on, “Seriously, man. You wanna come? I can pick you up.”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  I’m nervous. I wasn’t exactly a social person even before my accident. But, then again, I’m not that person anymore anyway. Might as well try it. I definitely wouldn’t mind having a few beers. Mom refuses to buy them for me, not because of my age, but because she remembers how I used to be. Before I met Sera.

  I just want to escape though. Pretend I’m like a normal college kid doing normal college things.

  Before

  Since we have to be so careful around Sera’s dad, she told him she was spending the night with a friend on Friday so that we can go on a date. Her friend had already invited her to a party, so it’s not too much of a stretch. I’m just going to go to the party with them. I’m not sure this party is for me, though.

  I’m used to partying. Hanging out with the guys, smoking, drinking, behind where I work. There is a slab back there where a few of us from work sit talking, listening to music. I tend to lose myself there. My life drowned out and my mind, free in spirit, calm. Away from the stresses of what I don’t have, far from the chores that are necessary for my mom and me to live. It’s all I’ve really known, this fight to live a life not worth much.

  But tonight is different. With Sera, the fight has become real.

  I arrive at Sera’s friend’s house at 7:50. Ten minutes early. Hoping it doesn’t matter, I knock on the large wooden door and wait. I notice the intricate designs carved deep into the grain of the dark wood, majestic-looking as if it serves a higher purpose than just an entrance. With iron accents, this door is a boundary, a gate separating the meek from the strong, and I’m on the wrong side. Its beauty is enchanting. I am lost in thought when it opens, startling me a little.

  I am greeted with a smile from a woman in her 50s, assumedly Chasity’s mom. Sera has introduced me to Chasity before, and she looks like the woman before me.

  “Hi. I’m Cal. I was supposed to meet Chasity and Sera here?” I say, a bit nervously.

  “Hi, Cal. Well aren’t you something special? Come in and keep me company. I’m sure the girls will be down in a minute.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Forced to duck under her arm as she leans on the doorway motioning me in, I smell alcohol on her breath. She puts her arm around me, closing the large door behind her, and escorts me to a dark red, leather couch in front of a huge fireplace.

  “We can wait here in the den. It’s more cozy in here, don’t you think, Cal?”

  “Yes ma’am. Thank you.” I sit down on one end of the couch in effort to leave plenty of room for her. Before she sits, she pours two glasses of what looks like scotch from a decant
er and insists I drink up as she sits too closely to me, our legs touching.

  I try to scoot a little further away, but there isn’t anywhere to go without being rude, so I take the glass and sip. She places her hand at the end of my glass and encourages me to down it, so I do. She smiles and places her hand on my thigh.

  “So, Cal, how did the girls find you?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean exactly, ma’am. We all go to school together.”

  I am not interested. She’s not the first woman who has pursued me. I’ve had many ladies flirt with me when they bring their cars into the shop. They act innocent, like they need rescuing or something. Like I’m some kind of bad boy, someone they can have as their guilty pleasure. She doesn’t seem to understand I’m taken.

  I remove her hand from my thigh and stand up to look at the large amount of hunting trophies adorning the walls. I don’t really admire them, but I hope they can create enough of a distraction to prevent further interaction with her. Sadly, I think she is probably just another trophy for the man who keeps this collection, everything about her fake and doctored, even her personality.

  She’s not deterred, unfortunately. I feel her too close behind me and she reaches around my waist, like I’m a toy specially made for her. Grabbing her hand, I turn around and redirect her to sit back down.

  “Ma’am. Thank you for having me in your home. I’m going to text Sera and see if they are about ready yet.”

  She frowns playfully, not ready to give up, but I remain standing while I text Sera:

  “Babe, are y’all about ready? I’m kind of under attack down here.”