Chapter 3

Mom and Dad were not Mom and Dad; they were Tricia and David. That was the thing about having hippie parents: they insisted on having a first name basis with their kids. According to Tricia and David, such titles as Mom and Dad were aging and diminutive.

Tricia was always there when Janey got home, painting. Janey dropped her bag by the door and tip-toed into the painting room. Tricia was pacing back and forth in front of a huge canvas with a normal-sized painting set in the white space. That was how she worked, giving herself too much so she wouldn’t feel trapped, in case “magic” happened.

Tricia turned, the dark hair that Janey had not quite inherited spilling out of its knot. She extended an arm to her daughter. “Come here, tell me what you think.”

Janey wrapped herself in her mother’s arm and scrutinized the painting. It was a beautiful woman framed from the breasts up, head tilted back in ecstasy, hair flowing upward.

“She’s drowning,” Janey said.   

Tricia laughed. “Yes, my little critic! But what do you think?”

“Is her name Ophelia?”

“You did not like Shakespeare. I’m sorry,” Tricia kissed her forehead. “I didn’t do it on purpose, I promise.”

Tricia and David had been disappointed when their daughter did not take to Shakespeare.

“No, she’s beautiful,” said Janey. “Is it a commission?”

“Sort of. He gave me this picture and said, “Go crazy. Just make her beautiful.” I’ve never had such vague instructions in my life. Here’s the original snapshot."

Janey wrinkled her nose. “Wow. You went crazy.”

“I’ll tell them that’s the effect water has on skin, and they won’t know any better,” said Tricia. “David is going out of town again this weekend. Film festival.”

“Good. I need the house for Saturday, I think. I assume. We have exchange students this week, and everybody wants to have a party. No one’s told me the details yet.”

Tricia sighed. “I’ll lock up the valuables and the interesting plants and powders, shall I?”

The front door slammed, and there was a tap-tapping of a cane as David stumped down the hall and into Tricia’s studio. “Ladies,” He said, grinning. “The most important ones in my life.”

“The only ones in your life,” said Tricia. She saved him the effort of crossing the room and ran up to him herself.

David had lost the ability to bend his left leg in the panic of a peaceful protest disrupted by gunfire the police later assured the public they had not been responsible for. Something or someone ran over his knee and he was down, in danger of being trampled to death. Tricia had found him and dragged him to a nearby alleyway. She used her own t-shirt to wrap his wound, and even in the uproar of the afternoon the sight of her had been breathtaking.

A friend had offered to make a documentary about him and his ‘sacrifice’ for peace, but David insisted he was better behind a camera than in front of it. They were, however, blessed by generous contributions from friends who had made it big in the arts.

David looked Tricia’s painting up and down, nodding.”Good, good, good,” He said, reaching for Janey. “And how are you? How did it go?”

“Fine,” Janey ignored his second question. “When do you leave?”

He laughed. “Friday. I was going to invite you to come along, but it sounds like you have other things in mind.”

“I didn’t do it. The whole thing was planned before anyone talked to me. I just have the house. And the chill parents.”

Janey ran up the stairs, and Tricia squeezed David’s free arm. David sighed. “Did she say anything about the project that was due in photography?”

“Did she have one?”

“I think she got into some of my old film for it.”

Tricia frowned. “What did we buy her that camera for?”

David looked at Tricia’s painting. “Well, that’s a strike on film. I think we can put that one to rest.”

“And painting.” David tried to protest. Tricia shushed him. “She’s politely interested. It’s alright.”

“And an emphatic ‘no’ to the written word, apparently.”

“Well, it’s not genetic. We knew that.” Tricia shrugged and rubbed her hands on her jeans. “She could be a critic. She’s been surrounded by quality work all her life, so she knows the difference.”

“A critic?” said David. “A critic?”

“It’s better than nothing,” said Tricia. “Maybe we’re expecting too much too soon. She’ll have college to figure things out.”

“Yes. Local college. She needs a change of pace, she needs inspiration! Not salty, gray Coos Bay.”

“She likes it.”

“We were too easy on her,” said David. “The ‘chill’ parents. I didn’t get the balls to get into photography until my parents told me it was a waste of time.”

Tricia smiled. “My mother hated the smell of vermouth. We wanted to be her ‘friends’, remember?”

“Her friends! Who does she hang out with? I keep hearing about some ‘Taylor’ girl.”

“Taylor who likes parties so much, who can’t host them at her own house.”

David snorted. “She must not have ‘chill’ parents.”

"But we’re the coolest parents in Coos Bay. She’s the coolest kid. All the cool things happen here. She’s doing exciting things. Remember when we did exciting things?”

“Remember when it was rebellious to do exciting things? We made it too easy for her.” David glanced up the stairs.”I want her to know it takes work to do exciting things, that’s all.”

“You want another cultural revolution, that’s all,” said Tricia, kissing him. “They don’t have a cause yet. They’ll get one.”

“I need to pack.”

“Say hi to the boys for me.”