The Soul Painter [completed]

-Chapter Twenty-Five-

Location: Taholah, Washington, US

It's dinner time when the red Lexus pulls up to the curb in front of the house Lottie grew up in. Nothing about the little red brick home has changed, except the curtains in the windows are purple now, instead of light blue like they are in Lottie's memory. The lights in the living room are on—she can see them through the window—and the smell of orange-glazed chicken is thick in the air. 

She wishes they could have gotten here before dinner time, but they had somehow ended up with a blow-out when they hit the halfway mark for getting there. She still doesn't know why the tire on Paul's car exploded, but it did, and it was a circus trying to get the spare on. 

Paul puts his hand on her shoulder as she gazes uncertainly at the little house, with its cozy, lit up windows, and the smell of authentic Chinese food.

Lottie remembers the food all too well. One of the perks of having grandparents who were first-generation Americans was that they really knew how to make dumplings and rice, or whatever other dish was customary. They taught her parents how to cook, but her parents had never taught her. They did teach Laura, though. She was always at home when dinner was being prepared. 

"You ready?"

"No," she whispers, suddenly feeling the cold all too well on her skin. It was so nice earlier, summery, with those retro songs playing while she had her feet out the window. 

Her mouth waters for more of those lovely honey-barbecue peanuts, but she swallows her cravings in a wave of nerves.

"Well, we need to go in soon." His voice holds a gentle urgency.

She slaps blindly around beside her until she catches his hands on the center console in a rough smack. "Just chill for a minute. I need to breathe."

He sighs. "I'm sorry, but you've been breathing all day. Now let's get you up there. You'll thank me later, believe me. And then I'll say 'I told you so.'" He pats her arm. "Come on, Lottie."

"Okay."

They climb out at the same time, loud, uncomfortable breaths filling the air as they walk up the path to the front door. 

Lottie draws yet another shaky breath and knocks.

There's a faint scuffle on the other side, and a lock clicks a moment later. The door opens.

"Can I help you?"

She stares into the much-aged face of her father. The one whom she remembers being the most angry, who handed her the key to her apartment, a bit of family real-estate, for her to have. So she'd be far away, like a sad letter stored away in a box. Not quite thrown away, but kept well out of sight. That's what Lottie sees herself as in their eyes. A bad memory.

She blinks. His face is so much the same, and yet, so incredibly different. Softer, older, gentler. It lacks most of its mischievous edges, and all of its youthful glow. 

He doesn't recognize her. "Can I help you? My wife and I are about to eat dinner."

She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue. "It's me, Father. It's Charlotte."

He frowns, not in anger or hatred, but in light confusion. "Our Charlotte is gone."

"No, I'm here." She doesn't trust herself to reply well, without bursting into tears or collapsing. They don't want her, still. She just knows it.

But instead of saying something hurtful, the elderly man crushes her in a hug. "Oh..." He sounds like tears, and doesn't let go right away. "I thought you'd never come back."