Echoes on the Canvas

Owen squinted, surveying the sea of people below. The crowd had come to mourn the dead. It might have been a joke if not for the art. To his right, a waiter glided by with a tray of champagne. Owen took two glasses and drained them in quick succession. The server stared as he set the empty glasses back on the tray.

He felt the server’s eyes follow him as he descended the stairs, each step sending a lurch through his stomach. His grip on the railing was so tight his knuckles turned white. He loosened his tie and scanned the room one last time, forcing each breath to be slow and controlled.

“Owen! Darling, how are you!” Meredith grabbed his arm before he could protest and escorted him towards the display.

“Meredith… I was wondering when you’d come drag me into the trenches.”

“Please, you make it sound like a battle. Shake a few hands, laugh… don’t be yourself.” She retied his tie and patted his chest lightly before pulling him in front of the crowd. “You’ll do great!”

He almost laughed.

Owen stepped past the curtain and waved at the gathered crowd. None of them would understand the truth. Even if he tried to explain, they’d probably think he was crazy.

Meredith grabbed a microphone and began her magic. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. I hope you’ve all had the time to fully experience the gallery. Our main display for the evening is a work from the one and only Mr. Lawson!” She waited for the light clapping to die down. “This painting is the result of years of effort and discovery! Showing Mr. Lawson’s tireless exploration of the human condition.”

Her words sounded so sweet. If he hadn’t known her, he’d almost have believed her himself. Almost.

“The piece is titled Ashes Still Warm. The work will be on display at the gallery for the next week. Then it will be auctioned off to benefit a charity of Mr. Lawson’s choosing. We both thank you for coming and for your patronage. Please, enjoy your evening, ladies and gentlemen! Mr. Lawson will be here for another hour to answer questions about the piece.”

Meredith stepped away from the podium, her blue dress trailing behind her like a wisp of smoke.

Two people in the crowd approached him.

“Mr. Lawson, I love your work. Ashes Still Warm is so… evocative. It breaks my heart, yet it makes me feel as if something is coming. There’s an anxiety and passion in it I’ve never seen before.”

He nodded as the man finished talking.

“Yes! I was drawn in immediately. The warm palette is so… visceral. What inspired the idea?” The woman asked politely.

Owen stared at her for a moment as if he’d been struck. His mouth opened, but no words came out. Meredith elbowed him from behind as if on cue. He quickly cleared his throat.

“The inspiration. Right. Ashes Still Warm is about survival.” He could smell the smoke.

“The… uh. The painting symbolizes the weight of the past we leave behind.” He heard the fire crackling behind him. His hands opened and closed, searching for something to ground him.

“What a beautiful idea!”

“Mr. Lawson, are you okay? You seem to be very pale?” The man asked.

“Thank you all. I appreciate your kind words.” He forced a smile and quickly turned away, heading back to the stairs. Behind him, Meredith was explaining something about working long hours. He snatched the nearest drink and downed it like water.

Eli… It should have been me.

***

He opened his eyes slowly. His vision was blurred, and his head felt three sizes too big. A surge of bile rose, and he barely had time to grab the bin next to the bed. Never again, he swore. A promise, like every time before. It was almost certainly a lie. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; the acidic feeling made his chest feel like it was on fire.

He grabbed his phone from the dresser: five missed calls and ten unread messages. He swallowed hard, throat raw. Every message was from Anne. Are you coming? Ian is asking for you. Grow up and be a father. I can’t believe—

He didn’t finish reading it. His eyes closed as he rubbed his temples. There was no talking his way out of this. The phone rang, and he jumped. His hand hovered over the little green call button. He hesitated for only a moment before swiping.

“Hello?”

“Look who finally found his phone.”

“Anne, don’t start.”

“Don’t start! Are you kidding me! Damn it, Owen, you promised him you’d be there.”

“I know. Look, the gall—”

“Again with the art! He’s your SON, Owen.”

“It’s not that simple, Anne. I owe him. I owe him everything.”

“I’m sick of this shit, Owen. You’re going to have to own this. Your son isn’t going to remember your art. He’s going to remember that you weren’t there.”

He heard the call end and threw his phone against the wall. The phone shattered. His hands were shaking. She didn’t understand. She wasn’t there. His breathing was ragged, and the room suddenly felt upside down.

He could smell the smoke. Heard the cracking and breaking of wood. Felt the heat on his back. He heard the screams.

No. NO. NO!

Owen stumbled from the bedroom towards his studio. His hands grasped the walls to keep him from falling. The studio lights flicked on as he approached. He sat on his hard wooden chair. The only remaining thing from the old house.

He grabbed a brush and slammed it into the red paint. He started making rapid strokes everywhere. His eyes traced the image he was trying to bring to life. Before long, he was openly sobbing. His hands trembled as he continued to slap paint on the canvas. Once his hand stopped moving, he screamed.

Eli… Fuck! It should have been me. You stupid son of a bitch! Why?

His hands dipped into the paint, and he flung it at the canvas. He worked in different shades of brown and blue. The colors swirled into a chaotic background. Bright, vibrant reds and oranges, like flames. Next to that was white mixed with light purples and deep blues. The contrast made it look like the cooler colors were trying to swallow the brightness of the oranges.

He worked at a relentless pace. His hands trembled, blurring sections of the piece. It added to the swallowing effect. Tears continued to stream down his cheeks. His hands never stopped, swirling over and over. Until, in the middle of the work, there was a haze of colliding color. It almost looked like something was rising from all the chaos.

Owen stepped back and sank to the floor as he looked at the canvas. His eyes were slightly swollen, bloodshot, with heavy bags underneath. Through the haze of colors, he saw for a moment the shape of a face.

Eli…

He curled into himself and sobbed. It’s all my fault.

***

The next day, Owen signed the bill of sale. His hands worked mechanically as they shuffled through the papers.

“You have one more paper to sign. Then just send off that check, and I get paid.”

“Right.” He replied.

Meredith raised an eyebrow and said, “What’s got you so tense?”

“Rough night. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You never do.” He heard her mutter as she collected the papers.

“Don’t forget, we have that exhibition next month. We are showcasing any new work you have, so be prepared… and drink some water. You look paler than me.”

He grunted. She rolled her eyes and walked out.

The office air was stuffy—too much dust and too many memories. He rose from his chair and stepped outside.

***

He leaned against his Ford Escape as he looked out over the hill. Four years…

The dry, whispered rustle of approaching footsteps caught his attention. He didn’t turn.

“Figured I’d find you out here. You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I don’t like being yelled at.”

“Fair enough.” Anne approached and leaned against his SUV with him.

“You deserved it, though.”

“What do you want?”

“My kids' father to start. Some accountability. Honestly, I kinda want to hit you just a little bit.”

He sighed, still staring at the empty lot at the bottom of the hill.

“You think you’re the only one who is hurting? What about your son, Owen?”

“Anne—”

“No! Goddamn it. I’m so tired of this. It’s not enough that you destroyed us; you have to ruin his life, too? How selfish are you?”

“What do you want from me! He’s dead because of me! I did it. I left the fucking stove on!” His breathing was ragged and deep. “He died for me. I owe him this. The art. The time. I took that from him. From his family. From his kids.”

“So you sacrifice your own? Yeah, real good logic, asshole.”

He didn’t respond.

“You’re unbelievable. This is it, Owen. I’m fucking serious. Show up this time, or I’ll take you to court, get complete custody, and make sure you never show your face around Ian again.”

Owen pushed off the car and faced her, hands clenched at his sides. “You don’t understand. You think you’ve got it all figured out. You don’t live with it, Anne! You’re not the one waking up in cold sweats.”

He walked towards the end of the hill, one hand pointing to the empty lot. “I can still hear his fucking screams, Anne.”

“That’s not an excuse! Grow up. You’re weaponizing your own guilt—”

“If I stop painting, it means he is really gone.” The words left his mouth so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.

“He is gone, Owen.” Her eyes looked at him like he was the man he used to be, not this broken thing standing before her. “Nothing you do is bringing him back. Your son is still here. Tomorrow. Baseball is at 4. Unless you plan on killing this, too.”

The wind picked up as he stared at the empty lot. Anne wasn’t a liar. She meant every word. This was his last opportunity. He got back in the SUV and burst into tears.

Between sobs, he received a text message. It was Meredith asking if he would meet her at the gallery the next day. His hand hovered over the message for a moment. He took one last look at the empty lot and began his reply. I have plans. Sorry.