"Catherine Zeta Jones?" Henry said when I told him about my new mission.
"No; it's not; you once told me you would like to be President Clinton." I said.
"Yeah mate, at least we have the same hair colour, Catherine and Pam don't. And besides, Catherine is forty three going on forty four, Pam is sixteen that could never be seventeen."
"Don't say that." I said, seriously
"Sorry, I'm kidding. So what exactly do you have in mind?"
"Ok, Pam is into a lot of things, you know kick boxing, singing, ballet and acting, all in preparation to reach her main goal..."
"Catherine."
"Yeah; so I am thinking of helping her get at least two of those."
"Let me guess; ballet and acting."
"Aha! so how can we make that happen?"
Henry scratched his head, like he has no idea about ballet and acting. He then looked at me and said. "Sorry mate, I don't have any idea about ballet and acting."
That's when I remembered once hating my instincts. No kidding
"Look Brad; seriously, first, you have to get her have some hope; that will get the interest back. You need to get the passion sparking in her again so she gets to agree to fight."
"Well, how can I do that? Pam is just as difficult as an IQ test."
"IQ test is not difficult when you put your head to it; so also is brain surgery. All you have to do is believe you can. You have all the chance with Pam; use that to help her. She won't be difficult to you because she's not an IQ test; she's someone that likes you cuz of some extra ordinary stuff she saw in you. Don't mess it up." I sighed; and the next sigh stopped half way when he made the next statement: "Kiss her."
"You're kidding me right?"
"No, I'm not."
"Henry that's crazy man; believe me, that's not going to solve the problem at hand."
"Yes, it will." He said, looking very serious on a statement that sounded so absurd to me. I chuckled again and he maintained a straight face.
"Great." I said.
The next day, I got a call from Pam; she was hospitalized again. "Please come quick." She cried.
I was painting before the call. I had my hands and apron stained with colours and was kind of happy with the work as I had gotten it just the way I wanted it to be. Mother was at work and I wasn't expecting her back until after an hour or more.
I put down the brushes, ripped off the apron, and just walked out of my room. I can't even recall how I got downstairs and out of the house without calling mother or at least leaving her a note.
My heart was banging since I got the call, and even when I hopped into a taxi to Heath, I still felt the dull thudding in my chest. The last time I felt that way was when I fought with Phil; that one was due to anger; but this one was fear. Awful thoughts streamed into my mind; pictures of Pam in the hospital, funeral home and grave yard competed violently for attention. My throat was dry; and when Heath hospital was on sight, I opened the door before the car stopped.
When I located her room, I saw her sitting up on her bed, looking weak and pale. Again, no one was with her. My heart went to her instantly, I embraced her, when I wanted to let go, she held me to her.
"Brad, please get me out of here." She sobbed.
I didn’t know what overcame me. I just heard myself saying okay. She got dressed and in minutes, we were out of the hospital.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Take me to your house."
She said it with a firm voice that I didn't object. I told the driver our destination and he drove off, heading back to my house. I didn't even think of what mother would say; as a matter of fact, I didn't care, especially that I know she won't use a short gun on me.
She nearly dropped dead with shock though; her mouth hung open when I helped Pam into the living room.
"Pam, this is my mother; mother, this is..."
"Pam; I know." Mother cut me off. "Are you alright, child?"
Pam looked at mother, then at me and back at mother again.
"No mother, she's not." I said. "She's not alright."
Mother and I have this awkward ritual whenever there's a stranger in the house; we behave. Of course that's normal, the abnormality comes when I have erred and a stranger walks in just before she scolds me. In that situation, both of us will keep the silence and behave like everything is ok, but there's always that look in her eyes I find so uncomfortable. Now, the awkward part is, she smiles at me with the stranger, then scold me hard when we get into the kitchen to bring food. She smiles again when we are at the table; then continues the scolding right from where she stopped just before we got out of the kitchen.
And when the stranger leaves, hell will let loose on me.
She was surprisingly sweet with Pam just after she knew of her condition. She asked me to come to the kitchen and bring the poor girl some tea.
"You are mad, Bradley. You are very mad." She said in a low rage tone and gritted teeth. She poured the hot brew. "She called you, you went, she asked you to get her out of the hospital, you did and instead of taking her home, you brought her here?"
"I'm sorry mother, she didn't want to go home and I didn't know what to do."
"Can't your dumb head think she's where she would be best taken care of; the hospital? Bradley, she needs medication, some serious medication and nursing. She was in the hospital because she must be, that's why she was taken there. Now what can we do for her to get better? Tell me!"
"Let's give her the tea first."
"Shut up you....." She waved and shook her head. "Just get out of here before I kill you."
I left with the tea before she kills me. Pam was sitting on the sofa, hugging herself. "Here, take this, it's a little too hot." I said. "You have to relax, feel at home."
She nodded, took a sip, then another. "Look, Brad, if I'm going to be a problem here, I can leave."
"No you are not a problem." That was mother. We had no idea she was watching us. She came and sat on the sofa, so that Pam is between us. "Pam, do you carry some medicine with you, I mean for your medication?"
"Yeah I do." She dipped her hand in her jacket pocket and brought out two little plastic cans with minute tablets in each. Mother took and examined each. "What's the dose and dosage?" Pam told her. "Ok, you need to take them in about twenty minutes. Bradley, get her some pie, she can't take medicine on an empty stomach." Mother's eyes cut through to mine, a silently noticed that there's more scolding to come.
"Ok." I said, to the errand and the notice.
Twenty five minutes later, I led Pam into my room. She stood in the middle of the room as she was greeted by my paintings displayed on the walls. Her mouth hung open; she looked from wall to wall at the canvases of which most of them had her picture painted on them in one form or the other. I noticed some alertness smeared over her weak face so I gave her a moment to look.
"I'm sorry for the smell, mother hates it too. I'm used to it; though I hate it sometimes."
She didn’t say a word. Her gaze was locked on to the painting of a girl in a boat feeding swans. She walked closer to it; I couldn't see the expression on her face as she looked on because I was standing behind her. But the way she stood still looking at it for what seemed like eternity, I guess she wasn't only looking at the picture alone, but more. The more part, I had no idea.
"It's beautiful." She said in a whisper. And when she turned back to me, her cheeks were all wet with tears.
"Pam!" I said, walked closer to her. "Why are you...?”
She turned back to the painting again and shook her head. "So you still did it after all." She said.
"Yes." I said.
"Why?"
"I guess it's because I still want to do it.”
"After all the trouble."
"Yes, after all the trouble." I sighed. "Pam, you shouldn't be standing here crying like this; you need to rest."
She didn't say anything but walked to the next painting; the birds. "I remember this one; you were thinkin
g about the birds when we closed our eyes that day at the park." She moved on to the next. "This was in the bus from the museum right? It's felt so familiar like I did all these myself." She said surprisingly excitedly.
"Yes, because everything here is about you. You have your name written in all these. You are my muse, Pam. My inspiration."
"The inspiration part doesn't make sense to me. We fought at the park, I took your sketch and you still went ahead with the painting, where's the inspiration there?"
"Yes, the yelling and the sketch were not, your mood was."
"Mood?"
"Yes, I noticed a change in mood from a happy one to a sad one. It happened just before you noticed me making sketches. Art tells more of what's on the inside, not outside and I think that's where that particular inspiration came from."
She walked to the unfinished painting on the easel. "What's this?" She touched it.
"Careful, it's still wet." She was looking at the little dark stain of paint on her index finger. "That's an abstraction. I was on it when you called a few hours ago."
"What's it about?"
"Hope!" She looked blankly at me. "You know; like the light at the end of the tunnel when situations get tough; if you believe in yourself and work hard on it you can achieve it. That's what it is."
Pam looked at the painting for a second and took off her gaze. "What about this one?" She pointed to another. I didn’t know what she felt about my motive behind creating it but my mind told me my last words sounded like bullshit to her.
There and then, I thought of Henry and our conversation about re-igniting Pam's passion about her dreams; but this sudden reaction had made it clear to me that my efforts would suffer a painful futility.
"I still don't understand; why did you make all these paintings? Why must you make me your subject?" She sat on the bed and gave a long tiring sigh. "Maybe I'm too weak to fully comprehend what your motives are but I still want to get answers otherwise this curiosity you put on me will finish me off right now."
I was quiet. She looked at me sternly; her eyes sparkled in the light due to her tears. "What am I to you? Am I just some sort of...image you find pleasure in putting on canvass? Because what I'm seeing here is exactly that; every bit of me is on every painting. You painted our conversations, our thoughts, the places we went, the things we did, how I felt and I know pretty soon, you're going to paint me naked." Her voice grew louder, and the pitch got shaky as she broke into tears while talking. "I don't think I want this. I don't need all these, I am dying and I don't need to be remembered at all. I'm living an unfulfilled life brad. I'm on the final stage of my sickness and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it."
"What! What do you mean?"
"I'm saying all this..." She pointed to the paintings. "It’s useless. I'm no inspiration; I don't want to be. I don't want to be. I don't...." She broke into a deep cry.
I reached for her by impulse. "Stop saying that! Pam, listen to me." She was shaking in tears. "Pam!" I called, rather sternly. She looked at me with disbelief. "Stop this madness. You got to stop this madness." She pushed me away. "What is wrong with you?"
"Just don't touch me; leave me alone. Get out; Get out now!" She yelled.
"Pam!"
"Get out!"
Her eyes were completely red due to an awkward mixture of tears and frustration. It seemed like new waves of fresh energy and madness had surged and possessed her. I was appalled, at the same time, angry. And at that particular situation, I didn't think of anything rational to do to calm her down. I turned and walked out of the room, leaving her to nurse her frustration.
Downstairs was dark. Mother had hit the lights out and was probably in her room sleeping or about to sleep. I slumped on the couch, sighed, and held the back of my head as I leaned back on the seat.
I felt like hitting something, hard. I yanked one of the small pillows by my side and hauled it off at the book cabined and didn't care to look at the outcome, knowing fully it won't make any damage. I sighed again and sat up, streaming my fingers into my hair. The lights came on and mother was standing by the switch.
I didn't say anything at first; she walked up to the cabinet, took the pillow and came and sat with me on the couch.
"Are you alright?" She asked in a surprisingly soft tone, quiet not what I expected at least from someone that was mad at me for bringing a sick girl home.
"No!" I said.
"I thought as much. I mean, after what just happened up there, only a weird person will feel alright." I looked at her; was she listening to our conversations? "Oh come on Bradley, you don't expect me not to listen more when I heard her screaming at you to get out of your own room." She said. "Look, you need to give her a little moment alone. I'm sure she's not thinking right now with all the stress and frustration of her illness. But I'm sure she'll be cool in the morning."
"So what I'm I supposed to do now, mother? Sit and wait here till she cools off in the morning?"
"Yes, you don't seem to have a choice, son. I'll get you a blanket." She stood up. "And don't throw my pillows again; I love my pillows and everything in this house."
I lay awake for a few hours, thinking. My thoughts dwelt mostly on wishes and fantasies and how I can make them come true; how I can make it up with Pam, to like my work, to believe there's hope, to live up her dreams, to be a good girl, to be heald completely from cancer and be a normal girl; my girl.
I heard that Indians close their eyes and whisper their wishes whenever they see a comet in the sky. I once saw a movie where one can gulp love potions and wish for anything and sees that wish come true (at least for a few moments). But they are all sayings and movies and wishful thoughts.
I turned to the window and wished the curtains had not been drawn yet, maybe I could catch a glimpse of a comet. As for the magic potion, I wished it could be made out of tea bags. However, one thing was very clear to me: Pam is a dead-end; period!