My Sweet Annie

6

I led the way up the old, creaking stairs, my palms sweating. I hadn't been in Gran's studio yet. I hadn't even been in the house for a full day, not nearly long enough to brace myself to explore there. It was the soul of the house, in its way just as private as my grandmother's bedroom. When I'd come upstairs I had stopped only to close the door.

"I'm sorry," said Anabel. She smiled sheepishly as we walked together down the hall.

"What? Why?"

"This must be so strange for you. And awkward. Me barging in like this."

"You're definitely not barging," I said. "I'm just..."

"Drifting."

I looked up at Anabel with my hand frozen on the doorknob, surprised by the out-of-the-blue word, by how true it felt. "Yeah."

"I kind of know what you're going through. My dad...I lost him ten years ago. I know a million people have told you this, but it gets better. I would never say easier, because it's not easy to be without them. It's just...You sort of...settle."

I didn't know what to say, but I nodded, looking at her for a moment before dropping my gaze and letting us into the studio.

It smelled familiar, like paint and dust and possibilities. As I stepped inside, I caught the sharp scent of paint thinner and the warm smell of old paper. Whereas the rest of Gran's house was cluttered-but-neat, the studio was an actual mess. There were a few easels with canvases resting on them, and among them were several small tables and stools scattered with tools of the trade: paintbrushes in cups or strewn about, old mugs half-filled with murky water; crumpled paper towels; tubes and bottles of paint; wrappers from granola bars; photographs.

I couldn't believe that the woman who'd worked here had died. It all seemed so unfinished. People shouldn't die with half-finished paintings standing on easels. I stopped before the nearest one, a still life. The items in the arrangement were resting on a nearby stool draped with a checkered cloth: a filmy glass of forgotten wine, an old book, and a Mars candy bar.

"Always a traditionalist," I murmured.

Anabel wrinkled her nose with amusement. "I really liked this one."

"Which one's yours?"

She gestured to the next easel over. A photograph of a vibrant tropical flower was taped to the top of the easel, and she'd been working to replicate it on canvas in excruciating detail. Just the flower, alone and strangely naked in the very center of a white canvas that seemed much too big for it.

"It's beautiful." It wasn't finished, but it seemed like Anabel had started from the most intricate parts in the center of the flower, faithfully reproducing everything down to tiny crumbs of orange pollen.

"Thanks." Anabel looked at the painting for a moment. "I was thinking of painting the canvas around it black. Or maybe I'll leave it like it is. I can't decide."

I nodded, trying to compare the options in my mind. I knew nothing about art—certainly not enough to make a suggestion.

"Are you going to leave it like this?"

At first I thought she was still talking about the painting. "Leave it?"

She turned, surveying the room, her eyes catching on an object here or there, and I realized she was talking about the studio itself. Again, I hadn't thought that far ahead. I'd cried over a jar of mustard. How was I going to muster the will to go through my grandmother's clothes, her books, her jewelry, let alone her studio? I couldn't bear the thought of touching anything in this room, disturbing so much as a single wadded paper towel.