See What I See Read Online Free

favorite painting of yours is the one in the Whitney Museum, the one of the woman in the red dress.” Most of the figures in my father’s portraits look like the people have begun to melt, morphing into splotches of color. Even the portraits you might recognize as people are like reflections in a fun-house mirror, distorted and grotesque. In all their ugliness, they’re powerful, although you do have to wonder what goes on in his head. But there’s something attractive about the woman in the red dress. That’s why it’s my favorite.
    â€œThe woman in red is Julia, someone I particularly dislike.”
    â€œBut not when you painted her.”
    â€œNo, not when I painted her.” When he has emptied his cup, he puts it down and begins to work his way out of his chair. When I move to help him, he slaps my hand away. “I don’t need your help.”
    â€œDad, what’s wrong with you?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œRight. Will you show me what you’re working on now?”
    â€œCertainly not.” He indicates the computer. “You can get tomorrow’s bus schedule online. There’s a vacant room upstairs.” He looks at my suitcase as if it contains something dangerous, a bomb or an eviction notice. “No need to unpack that.” He disappears into what must be the living room. Before he slams the door shut, I have a glimpse of paintings stacked against a wall, their vivid colors like shouts. So that’s his studio. One more part of his life I’m shut out of.
    I tiptoe past Dad’s studio, listening to the grunts and curses and happy shouts. It sounds like he’s engaged in ferocious warfare and enjoying it. Upstairs I find the empty bedroom. The walls are a dark, depressing green, the color of a rain poncho, and on the ceiling is a water stain that looks a little like an abstract painting. There’s an iron bed and a dresser with one drawer missing. A small shag rug lies on the wood floor like a sleeping dog. Ugly as the room is, I’d give anything to stay here. In the trailer I’ve never had a room of my own, just a pull-down bed where I can’t curl up during the day.
    I peek into Dad’s room. I know he’d hate my poking around in his space, but I’m just catching up. After all these years I’m desperate to know something about the man who is my father. Dad’s bed is a squirrel’s nest of soiled sheets, looking like they need vacuuming more than changing. His clothes are draped over a chair, and books are piled up next to the bed. I’m about to back out of the room when I see it tucked into the edge of his mirror. It’s wrinkled and a chunk of sky is missing, but it’s the drawing of a pine tree I sent Dad all those years ago. I edge nearer to the dresser to get a better look, feeling like someone has just swept their hand over me, erasing everything I had believed about Dad’s feelings for me. I have been a part of his life, even if I was nothing more than a piece of paper stuck in a mirror. When I didn’t even know it, he was thinking of me. That does it. I won’t give up. I’ll find a way to stay. I don’t care what it takes.
    After a long minute of staring at the picture, my watery eyes drop to an official-looking letter on the top of the dresser. It’s addressed to Dad and comes from some sort of medical department. A committee is informing Dad that regretfully they cannot recommend a liver transplant for him. They commend him for having “abstained from alcohol as is required for a transplant,” and they’re sure that will be “beneficial to his advanced cirrhosis,” but his physical examination indicates “a dilated congestive cardiomyopathy,” which eliminates him from consideration for a transplant. They say they are “sorry.”
    I hurry downstairs, pausing at the door to Dad’s studio to be sure he’s still painting.