141In every work I create- no matter how much planning I do prior to laying brush to canvas- there is always a moment when the image first starts to take shape and I can tell if the piece will turn out well or not. It doesn't matter how early into my work I experience this moment. If it isn't right, then the piece will turn out mediocre at best, despite any effort to salvage it. But, if the image that takes shape is right in this moment… the possibility exists for the final product to be truly remarkable.
I'm about six hours into work on this canvas when I realize that, right now, it's not right.
Sighing heavily I toss the brush I'm using in the basin of water sitting on the floor, splashing water over my paint-speckled Converse. I need a smaller brush to render strokes delicate enough for the effect I'm going for. The only question now is not whether this will be a great piece, but whether it will be a good enough piece to satisfy the woman who has commissioned it. Realistically, I know it will be- nobody ever sees faults as clearly as the artist. But I don't like selling "good enough" work. I like selling great work. My reputation and, therefore, my livelihood depend upon it.
I sigh and, wiping my hands on the towel slung over my shoulder, glance toward the back of the pole barn that serves as my studio, thinking maybe I need to set the canvas up somewhere else to achieve a different perspective on the work. This barn was a major factor in my deciding to buy this house. The previous owner was a car enthusiast who used it as a garage, so the floor was nicely paved and he had the skylights installed to spotlight some of his more unique restorations. The second I saw the expansive and well-lit space I knew I could create beautiful things in here.
When I turn back toward the nearby workbench that holds my selection of brushes I am distracted by a movement toward the front of the barn. I'm surprised to see a small, dark-haired woman silhouetted just inside the large opening of the roll-up door. I can't really make out her features from this distance with the bright afternoon sunlight behind her casting her in shadow, but I feel fairly certain I don't know her.
"Hi there," I call out. She jerks, almost as if I've startled her and her hand immediately whips up to the braid trailing over her left shoulder and begins fussing with it. Receiving no other response I try again. "Can I help you with something?"
"Um… A-are you…Peeta Mellark?" she fairly squeaks so quietly I probably wouldn't have caught it if it had been anything other than my own name.
"Yeah… that's me," I say slowly, growing suspicious at her odd behavior. "What can I do for you?"
She doesn't respond for a long moment and as I begin making my way toward her she turns away, intently perusing the canvases stacked against the wall near her. She looks too young and not nearly refined enough for me to assume she has been referred to me by one of my regular patrons. I let my gaze wander over her thin frame and notice that her body is fairly radiating with nervous tension.
I turn off the stereo which has been playing loudly as I pass it on my way toward her, the silence seeming to ratchet her tension up even more. "Did Mrs. Eliades send you to check-up on the progress of her piece?" I try, thinking perhaps she might be the assistant of one of my newest clients.
The young woman shakes her head causing her braid to shift slightly and I notice that it appears to be hiding a patch of scarred skin on the side of her neck that disappears beneath her shirt collar. The sight causes a cold prickling sensation to chase up my spine and I repress the urge to shiver as a niggling of recognition attempts to make itself known.
She turns her head slightly as she continues to examine the large frame in front of her-or perhaps as a an attempt to gauge my progress toward her from the corner of her eye- revealing her partial profile. I acknowledge absently that she's very pretty, causing my stomach to drop a little as I begin to wonder if maybe I've met her before. Not anytime in the last four years since I've been back in Scotts Corners- that I would've remembered. But its possible I may have met her back in the city, where she could've been any of a number of women, in a number of bars, on a number nights. A wave of revulsion passes through me as it does whenever I remember that period of my life. This is why I try hard not to remember any of that- or even worse, any of what came before it.
She looks young, though. Maybe too young for me to have known her then. God I hope I didn't know her then.
I stop when I'm still a good 8 feet or so away from her. Her back and shoulders are raising and lowering with rapid, shallow breaths and she is fidgeting with the small bag slung across her body as though it is the culprit for restricting her breathing. I'm no stranger to anxiety attacks, and I think she may be attempting to stave one off. I can't quite figure out why she seems so reticent when she has clearly come here looking for me, but I don't want to scare her anymore then she already is.
"Are you okay? Do you need something?" I ask, using the same gentle, yet firm tone I mastered during my years in fire and rescue.
This seems to startle her and she finally turns partially toward me, her glance briefly meeting mine over her shoulder before skittering away again. But not before I catch a glimpse of quicksilver eyes that hit me like a punch in the gut. You don't see eyes like that every day, and suddenly I know where I know her from. I wouldn't have recognized her after all these years, having lived on as a child in my memory. But those eyes along with the patches of burn scars she is clearly trying to hide spell it out pretty clearly.
"Are you-" My mouth is suddenly very dry and I have to stop and swallow before I can continue. "Is your name Katniss?"
At this she meets and holds my gaze, nodding her head twice in quick succession.
"Shit-" The world falls out of my mouth as I try and fail to hide my shock at having the past I try so hard not to think about dropped so unceremoniously in my lap. I take a step back, not even realizing I'm doing it until my side rams into the large workbench to my right.
Her eyes widen in alarm and her rapid breathing increases noticeably. "Fuck," she gasps airily. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have come here should I?" She starts backing toward the open roll-up door she entered through. "I'll just go. I'm so sorry."
She's out the door and striding across the expanse of lawn toward the driveway before my brain and body start working in harmony again and I'm able to shake free of my surprised stupor. "Wait!" I call out. I can see through the large doorway that she doesn't stop as I start to jog toward her. "Katniss, please wait!"
I catch up to her near the corner of the house and reach out tentatively to touch her right arm to stop her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," I say, encouraging her to turn towards me. "I just… I was so-"
"No, I'm sorry," she interrupts quickly. "They told me not to come, and I didn't listen. I never listen-"
"It's fine, really. I was just surprised." She looks so distressed, breathing still rapid and obviously in the midst of a panic attack, that I can't resist the wave of protectiveness that overtakes me, clearing my head with purpose and action. Old habits die hard I guess.
I gently place each of my hands on her upper arms, "Katniss, look at me. I think you might be having a panic attack." She meets my eyes nodding, fully understanding her body's reaction. "Do you want to go inside for a bit? I can't let you get behind the wheel of a car like this, okay?" She nods again in reluctant agreement, so I begin to lead her inside. I keep one hand on her back between her shoulder blades so she knows I'm there but also that she can move away if she needs to, as I guide her up the back porch steps and into the kitchen.
The space is bright with the late afternoon sun and I sit Katniss down at the small round breakfast table. I pour a glass of water from the Brita pitcher in the fridge and place it in front of her as she lifts her bag off and hangs it on the back of the chair. "Here, have some water."
She doesn't hesitate, picking up the glass and taking two large gulps of water before setting it down again. Her rapid breathing continues as she stares intently down at the table. I sit next to her and begin talking, mimicking the slow, calm tone of the therapist I started seeing when I first moved back here. "Can you tell me one thing you hear?"
She glances at me but seems to understand what I'm doing as she nods and says, "I can hear your fridge running." Clearly Katniss is no stranger to panic attacks either.
"Okay, one thing you smell?"
"Bread? Maybe. Or toast?"
I smile encouragingly, "Yeah, I made a BLT for lunch. One thing you see."
She glances straight ahead of her. "White cabinets."
"Yep. Painting those was the first thing I did when I bought the place. They were an ugly dark brown. One thing you taste?"
She places her hands on the side of the water glass. "Your water tastes a little rusty."
I huff a soft chuckle. "Damn. Well water. I guess that Brita isn't hacking it. One thing you feel?"
"Cold glass," she says glancing down at her hands again.
"Are you starting to feel better?" I ask after a moment, noting that her breathing is returning to normal.
"Yes, thank you. That's a good technique."
"Yeah. I've had to use it myself a time or two," I say ruefully.
"I'm so sorry about this," she says. "I guess I didn't really think about how seeing you would take me right back…" She trails off, not needing to finish the sentence.
"Don't be sorry. Really, I get it. Obviously." We lock eyes for a moment before I glance away, feeling awkward. What do you say to someone who is simultaneously a stranger and also central to the most pivotal moment of your life? I stand quickly, needing to break the tension that has gathered between us. "Would you like something to eat? Anxiety often accompanies a drop in blood sugar. It might help you feel better to get something on your stomach."
"S-sure," she says.
"BLT sound good?" She nods and I set about making the sandwich from the leftovers stashed away in the fridge from my lunch. I'm grateful to have something to occupy me, but find myself glancing back at her frequently, watching her as she takes in the details of my home.
After a few moments she stands and walks to the fridge, probably feeling just as awkward and anxious as I am. "Is this your family?" she asks, and without turning around I assume she is pointing at the group picture from last Christmas with my mom and brothers and their families.
"Yeah, that's from last Christmas," I respond without looking.
"Oh, were you on vacation somewhere? Down south?"
Confused I turn around and realize the misunderstanding. She is looking at the picture of Annie and Nick that I took a few summers ago when we all made a day trip out to Coney Island. "Oh, no sorry. I thought you were talking about that one there in front of the Christmas tree," I say gesturing toward the top of the fridge with the butter knife. "That's my friend Annie and my god son Nick. She was married to my best friend, Finnick." I don't elaborate any further, but when I turn around a moment later to place the finished sandwich on the table, Katniss is still looking intently at the picture with her brows knit together. "Here's your sandwich," I say, drawing her attention away.
We are both quiet as she begins to eat, but I finally relent breaking the silence. "So, do you still live in the city?"
"Mm hmm," she says nodding and swallowing around a bite of the sandwich. "I'm in my third year at NYU."
"Yeah? That's great. What are you studying?"
"Social Work," she says with a sardonic smile that I'm not sure I understand.
"No shit. That's what Annie does," I blurt before I can stop myself.
Katniss shifts her gaze back down to her sandwich before saying, "I saw her… at the memorial. Her and Nick both. She read some of the names, and he- he read his dad's."
It takes me a long time to respond. There is a lot in her words that goes unsaid. Does she know that he was with me that day? That I sent him up to his death while I carried her, and myself, down to safety? Does she understand that hers is the life I chose over his?
I don't say any of these things. Sitting here across from her- young and alive and, yes, beautiful- with her whole life ahead of her, I hate myself for even thinking them. I clear my throat a few times before I can manage to get any sound past the lump in my throat. "Yeah- ahem- she said she had been asked to do that- ahem." I keep my eyes fixed steadfastly on my hands, afraid that if I look at Katniss she will see all of the horrible things I think. All of the horrible things I am.
The quiet in the room feels brutal, only the sound of the fridge humming steadily amid all the things neither of us dare speak aloud. After what feels like an exceedingly long time Katniss says, "I should get going. I don't want my sister to worry."
The immense relief I feel at that is shameful... but I am relieved. I feel like I've barely gotten a handle on my life in the past few years, and I'm not equipped to face the girl, who is now a woman, whose life I spared at the expense of my best friend's.
I walk her out to her car and she climbs in after an excruciatingly stiff and awkward half hug. I step back, expecting her to drive away immediately to escape the discomfort radiating off me, but she pauses, clearly composing words in her head. "I am sorry, Peeta" she says, meeting my gaze directly through the open car window. "I was only thinking about myself, I guess. Wanting some kind of closure. I see know that was naïve. And selfish."
I want to respond, but before I can think of what to say she puts the car in gear and is backing down the long drive.
I remain standing in the driveway long after Katniss's battered old car has disappeared. I eventually turn and walk back out to my studio, hoping that I can refocus on my work and stop thinking about the encounter. Hoping the paint on canvass will wash away the image of hurt grey eyes etched into my mind. It only takes twenty minutes or so of angrily swiping meaningless strokes of color to accept that I won't get any work done in this state of mind.
Sighing I toss the brush into the basin at my feet and pick up my phone from the workbench. My finger hovers over Annie's number for a moment before I hit the home button to close the call screen. I know I'm a coward for not making the call, but I can't bear to face her disappointment on top of Katniss's. I know she is upset with me for not showing up to the memorial last week. And it's not like I could really tell her about meeting Katniss anyway. She'd be so ashamed of how I handled things. Annie would have seen the situation with the clarity that I could not. She would've understood this hurt young woman who was taking a major risk to seek some peace after having endured hell. Annie sure as hell wouldn't have sent Katniss off thinking she had done something wrong just because she was too scared to face up to her own shit.
I return to the house and briefly consider calling my sponsor before dismissing the idea. I'm really feeling the urge to drink so much as the urge to punch something. Namely myself. Being unable to manage such a feat, I decide on the next best thing and change into some athletic shorts and sneakers before heading out for a run.
As my feet pound the dirt road I welcome the pain in my left knee, knowing I'll pay later for abusing it in this way, but not caring. The pain helps take my mind of my whirling thoughts about Katniss for a while and that seems worth it. Instead, my brain wanders to the night I sustained the injury that left the leg heavily scarred, slightly mutilated, and forever a throbbing pain on the edges of my thoughts. I typically try my hardest to not dwell on these things, but it somehow seems inevitable to rehash them now. It took almost dying for me to finally reclaim my life.
In the months following 9-11 I was able to avoid the inescapable truth of what I had endured. Like so many of my comrades I threw myself into the rescue effort, spending hours, days, weeks at ground zero. Doing what I could. Doing too much. Doing nowhere near enough. But eventually the rescue efforts ended. The work of first responders was replaced by the work of clean-up crews, then politicians, then architects and designers and any manner of other people for whom that day was a tragic event to live on in history. But not for me and the brothers in my company- the ones who actually made it out anyway. It was our reality. Our daily life. And moving on wasn't so simple.
So I coped. But I guess I didn't cope well.
I saw the therapist. Did my time with him and told him all the right things. I was never held back from the job, although looking back it was clear I should've been. But I was a 22-year-old kid who couldn't have begun to understand the depths of his trauma. All I knew was that when I was working I felt okay, and when I wasn't I didn't. And when I didn't feel okay, I drank.
That didn't make me exceptional. Far from it.
When I was working I had purpose and the world made sense- I thought I was okay. What I actually was was reckless. I began to think that nothing I could possibly encounter in the future could compare to what I had already been through. What was a burning brownstone compared to 110 stories on the verge of collapse. And maybe it's somewhat ironic that it was one of those unremarkable brownstones that almost did me in.
A woman who thought maybe her neighbor might've been home. My dumb ass charging in well after it had been declared a no-go. A falling beam crushing my left leg and forcing one of my brothers to risk his own life for my stupidity.
At first they said I was lucky to be alive. After that they said I was lucky to have a functioning leg. But it was clear I'd never be part of a ladder company again. Ultimately, I accepted that fate. Not because I was worried about my own near brush with death, but because I couldn't stop thinking what if another of my brothers died because of me. I couldn't have another death on my head.
So I left the company. I left the city and moved home to help with the family business. I joined AA. I started painting again. I moved on, bit by bit, getting farther from all that shit. Until a tiny wisp of a girl brought it all screaming back, making me realize that all that shit had been right here all along.
I am panting hard and pouring sweat when reach the end of my driveway. I bend over, gasping for air, and massage my knee, which I'll be lucky if I can walk on tomorrow. As I begin limping toward the house I notice a familiar figure on the porch, poised to knock on the door.
I'm at a loss as to why she would come back after my handling of the situation earlier, but I'd be lying if I didn't say I was somewhat relieved. Having some time to reflect I think I might be able to do this better on a second try.
"Hey!" I call out, drawing her attention to me. "You came back," I smile, hoping it's welcoming enough to not send her into another panic attack.
"Yeah, I'm so sorry to bother you again," she calls out as I approach. "I think I left my bag in your kitchen." She is blushing hard enough that it is obvious even on her tan skin tone.
"Oh shit, yeah. Let me get that for you. Come on in."
In the kitchen we find her small messenger bag where she had left it hanging over the back of the kitchen chair. She left in such a hurry and with so much awkward tension in the air that neither of us noticed it missing.
Pulling the bag in place across her torso she apologizes again and starts for the door. Unlike last time I am reluctant for her to leave. I want to say or do something to make this right, but I don't know how.
"Hey, um, do you want to stay for a bit," I ask, rubbing the back of my neck and battling my own embarrassment. "I just… I don't feel right about how I left things earlier and I-"
"No, I'm sorry I can't-"
"Yeah, yeah. No worries. I get it," I start awkwardly before she intercedes again.
"No, it just that, I kinda left my sister at the restaurant in town. We were having dinner and I totally spaced that I didn't have my bag… which has my wallet. She's there waiting for me to get back so I can pay and…" She trails off looking sheepish.
"Oh yeah, gotcha. I'll let you get back then." I walk her out again, this time remaining on the porch as she walks to her car. She is opening the door when I'm struck by an impulse I can't explain. I can't just let her go with no resolution at all, but I also don't know what I can possibly provide. "Katniss," I blurt out. "Do you-," I clear my throat, "Are you heading back to the city right away?"
She shrugs a bit, "We were kind of leaving our plans open ended, I guess. Depending on how…" she trails off. Depending on how meeting you went.
"Well, if you want- I mean I imagine you don't get too much fresh air in the city," my own ineptitude in this moment is astounding, "and there is a really nice hiking trail and a few waterfalls nearby. Maybe you would want to check them out? Tomorrow?"
Her brows draw together and for a moment I think she is going to say no. "Can my sister come too?" she asks.
"Yeah. Yeah, of course," I respond with a relieved smile.
"Okay. We'll come."
"Yeah? Awesome. Just, um- just meet me here tomorrow. 8am?"
With a curt nod she climbs into her car and is off again. Like I did last time I stand there staring after her for a long time. Now I just have to figure out what the hell I am doing and how I can possibly offer this girl any sort of comfort when I am more broken than she is.