Things Not Said

Chapter 16: Kyle

Kyle

Walking through the double doors sends a rush of warm air to meet me and I smile gratefully.

As I’m about to sign my name, the receptionist rolls up to me.

“If you’re here to see Allie, you’ll have to come back tomorrow,” she says.

I frown. “Why?

She sighs and answers, “She’s not feeling very well. The doctors want to limit the visits as much as possible."

Looking at my worried face she adds, “Don’t worry, she should be better tomorrow.”

I smile at her, reassured by her words, and leave the hospital. My hands and face hadn’t had time to warm up and I wonder what I’m supposed to do with my day now that I can’t go see Allie.

I wander through town, reluctant to go back home, and find myself in front of Arte Di Casa.

I peek through the glass door and push it open.

“Can I come in?” I ask, to the emptiness. Like the last time I was here, nobody answers and I let myself into the hall where the quote greets me like an old friend.

As I walk into the art studio, I’m disappointed to see my art isn’t on the walls next to the other beautiful pieces. I sigh and make my way through the hanging canvases and sculptures. I look closely at the details and think to myself how complicated it must be to sculpt. I’m about to bring my hand out to feel the soft ceramic when I here a voice behind me.

“You can touch it if you want I mean, I’m not gonna call the police or anything, but I can tell you’re the kind of person who doesn’t want to ruin a work of art.”

I spin around, almost knocking the vase over and straighten myself.

“I-I was just, you know, looking… around and stuff and I thought, I just… yeah.” It takes a lot of strength not to face palm at my idiocy. Was it really that hard to get some words out?

The man doesn’t seem to mind. A thought suddenly passes through my head. Has he ever told me his name? I wonder.

“Just call me Roe,” he says.

I hadn’t realized I’d been speaking out loud. Or had I? I can’t remember.

My mind floats back to the sculpture and I think about how hard it seems to create something so beautiful without a base to it, some kind of background. I can paint, but there's no way I can sculpt.

“Any artist can sculpt. Even a painter, like you.” His voice makes me jump and I wonder again if I’d been speaking out loud. I’m sure I hadn’t, but that’s the only explanation. I shudder anyway.

He laughs and says, “Come” before disappearing back into his workshop. I stand warily in the middle of the studio, reflecting about him knowing what I’d been thinking about, and follow him into the next room.

His workroom looks just as messy as when I’d last been in here. I hear music drifting from a radio in the corner and I hum along to the song Carry On.

At first I don’t spot Roe and I even look under the table wondering where he’s gone. I look everywhere but can’t even find a door from where he could’ve left. I pass a hand through my hair and scratch my head, turning back to the doorway, ready to leave.

Instead, I find Roe standing in the middle of the room with what looks like a giant lump of clay.

“I,” he begins, “am going to show you,” he pauses again, placing a seat in front of the mud, “how to sculpt.”

I’m taken aback by his words and I stand cautiously away, scared to make the lump of clay look like something even less artistic than what it is now.

Noticing my hesitation, Roe gestures to me to join him. I take a step forward tentative, and finally make my way to what might become a sculpture eventually. I just doubt I’m the person who’ll make it one.

When I reach him, Roe sits me down on the stool and puts sculpting supplies on a table to my right.

“Now, here’s how you do it,” he says. Grabbing my hands, he sets them on the clay.

“You take all your feelings, everything you want this chunk of mud of mud to become and you just…” he holds the answer for a few seconds before whispering, “sculpt.”

Although many people wouldn’t have grasped what he meant, I understand completely. It’s exactly like painting: what comes out of your brush is what is on your mind. This is like painting, but you get to make your picture come the closest it could ever be to alive.

I feel my hands start to move with the material on my skin and I start to shape. I round off some corners and bend others; I sharpen some edges, and smooth the next.

Minutes turn into hours and before I know it, I’ve used every tool there was to use. I finally step away from what I’ve created.

The eye stands out to me, looking at me, and I want to reach over and touch it again, make it mine.

Roe pops up behind me and I jump.

“Picturesque,” he says, “You’re now ready to paint.”

I look to what he’s handing to me and find pots of yellow, blue, and red with black and white on either edge. I thank him and set the paint next to the tools.

The brush feels welcome in my hands in such a strange world and I dip the hairs into the white. I paint the iris with the light shade and the pupil in black before going to rinse off the paint.

As I sit back on the stool, I whisper to myself, “Let the fun begin.”

I dip my brush into the yellow and swirl it with some red before spotting the eyes with orange.

The orange is soon joined by some purple, blue, green, pink, red, and yellow and before I know it, the eye is set with multicoloured dots. I take a deep breath and look at it from a different angle, and another before finally stepping back to oversee my final work.

I look hardly at the colours and, when I’m finally satisfied, I laugh. Before I know it, I’m out of control and the chuckling overtakes me. I laugh, and laugh, unable to stop.

Finally, when I can calm my thoughts, I see Roe standing by the doorway smiling. I smile back and he makes his way to my side.

Taking one look at my sculpture he comments one word.

“Magnificent.”

Pride floods me and I look up to him with a sense of gratitude.

As he starts to leave the room I call out to him.

“Hey!”

He turns around immediately as if he’d known I was about to call him. I shake my head at the strangeness of it all and smile.

I smile because I just sculpted. I smile because for the first time in a long time I’ve laughed uncontrollably. I smile because for the first time in a long time I feel like everything is going to be okay. I smile because I’m happy.

“Thank you,” I say.

He nods, and smiles at me.

“I’m glad you’re happy.”

He leaves the room and I stand in front of my sculpture. My sculpture. I grin and run out of the room, twirling like an idiot, but smiling like there’s no tomorrow.