I haven’t even seen the place, but I’m so happy. I didn’t do the expected thing—the Helena thing. I veered off and took my own road. This is a big, old deal. I’m learning magic.
The historic Clam Cannery building on the Quincy Street waterfront is a 6,482 square foot two-story brick building, which dates back to 1873. Greer is waiting outside for me when I pull up in my rental car.
“Wow, nice car,” she says. I blush.
“It’s just a rental. It’s not very big inside. I actually really need to return it to Seattle and buy a car.”
“You don’t need a car here,” she says. “And you can always use mine.”
“Thanks.”
The kindness makes me feel awkward. I’m usually the one dishing it out. I follow her inside, and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust.
“Whoa,” I say.
“Greer ducks her head, kind of shy about it. There’s lots of space, exposed beams, and concrete flooring. Is it just me, or does it smell like saltwater in here?
“I don’t do anything with this part. I was thinking about opening it up to the community. Letting them use it for meetings and stuff.” I follow her up the stairs and into the living area. To my relief, I see that it’s much cozier up here. A small kitchen with three green barstools sits under mellow light. She’s addicted to candles, and the color purple, and candles that are the color purple. Not that it’s a new observation. I eye her tattoos and look away quickly when she turns to face me.
“The kitchen and living room,” she says. “I know, I know. I just love the color.” The kitchen/dining area leads into a hallway with two bedrooms. Greer opens the door on the left and I press back a smile when I see the large windows and skylight.
“Wow,” I say, stepping inside. “This is dreamy.”
“It’s all yours.” Greer smiles. There’s a queen bed and two nightstands. I’m going to fill the shit out of those nightstands: papers, gum, bobby pins.
When I spin around I see a large oak dresser and the door to my own bathroom.
“The closet is in the bathroom,” she tells me. “I’m next door. Please don’t greet me in the morning.”
I can’t picture her being anything but perky and friendly, but mmkay.
She doesn’t show me her bedroom. Is it purple? Or does it break all the rules and is blue? Are there giant Kit posters, or giant teddy bears? She leads me into the reading room, which is surprisingly filled with paint supplies.
“Why isn’t it called the painting room?” I ask.
Greer looks confused. “I don’t know.” There’s not much to talk about after that because her paintings are beautiful. Truly it’s not fair to be as beautiful as Greer, and also have this much talent. I get lost in all the water, the ripples. There are so many patterns and variations. Some of the paintings have more transparent water than others. You can see the smooth white rocks beneath the surface, or a little minnow.
“Wow, Greer. There’s so much hidden meaning in these. They’re beautiful.” She ducks her head, bashful. I like that about her. Humble artists always genuinely impress me. She looks really uncomfortable, so I ask to see the rest. When she’s done giving me the tour, she helps me carry my suitcases inside, and I write her a check.
“Why do you paint ripples?” She’s on her way to the fridge. Her steps falter. It’s slight, but heavy.
Her back is to me when she answers, and I don’t know her well enough to hear a change in her voice.
“Cause and effect,” she says. When she turns around she has a bottle of water in her hand. She unscrews the cap and takes a sip. “We think we can control our lives, but our lives control us. And everything that touches our lives controls us. People have less power than they think they do. It’s just the reactions we control.”
She says it with such conviction. I partially believe it.
“So we are all just sitting waiting for things to cause ripples?” I ask.
What caused me to have that dream? It certainly wasn’t me. Yet that dream rippled my life. Caused me to change everything.
“I think so,” she says.
“But we have power to choose the reaction. That means something.” I’m getting upset, and I don’t know why.
Greer shrugs. “Does it? Or are past experiences controlling our choices? It’s a scary thought, I know.”
“I like math,” I blurt.
Greer laughs.
“I don’t like to think that I have no choice,” I say. “It may be true, but it frightens me.”
“That’s why we make art, Helena,” Greer says. “Art is the war against what we do not choose to feel. It’s the battle of color, words, sound, and shape, and it rages for or against love.”
God, Kit, you’re so fucking stupid. Della?
I want Greer to tell me all the things. Like I need to know who I am, and why I’m not good at painting. And I’d like to know the meaning of life, because I think she has the answer.
She asks me if I’m hungry, and I lie and say yes, even though I just ate. I watch her make Panini in a fancy press. She squeezes oranges by hand and hands me a cup of juice. It’s sweet and pulpy. No one has ever squeezed oranges for me before, except maybe the guy at Jamba Juice.
I learn more from Greer in those two minutes than I’ve learned from anyone in the history of ever.
“I’d like for you to teach me everything you know about life,” I say. “Are you willing to do this?”
She spins around and flicks an orange at me. It hits me in the forehead.
“I know nothing about life,” she laughs.
“Okay, but I’m trying to find myself.”
Greer grins. “That, my dear, is the scariest thing you’re ever going to do.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you might not like what you find.”
I move in with my small collection of belongings: mostly clothes, and shoes, and photos. My bedroom has a view of the water, and for the first six weeks, I wake up each morning frightened that this new life will be taken from me like the other one I fell in love with. I have nightmares about having to leave Port Townsend and the cannery. Each dream ends with the Range Rover sinking into the water behind the ferry. During the day I work in the gallery, helping Eldine with the books, the sales, and shipping pieces to customers from other states and countries. I like it; it’s peaceful work, and Eldine mostly keeps to herself. Some days Greer meets me for lunch, and other days I carry my sandwich to the harbor where I wander around reading the names of the boats until it’s time to go back. Nights, I work on my art—all of which is terrible. You can’t force it, Greer tells me when I throw a paintbrush across the room. I’m not really good at anything, but I want to be. That’s enough to keep my hands and mind moving between paints, and clays, and words. What I refuse to do is anything that I did before. It takes discipline to accomplish this, as humans are addicted to the familiar. I don’t eat my usual cereal; I don’t drink a soy latte with Splenda. I don’t watch reality TV, or read romance novels to fill my life with all the things I’m missing. I do not text Kit. Except that one time. But mostly I do not text Kit. And then one day he texts me, after the longest stretch we’ve ever gone without speaking. I am taking a walk along the dock, taking pictures of the boats, when his name appears on my screen. I’m nervous to open the text. Silly. Or maybe not, since I don’t want him to know I’m living in the cannery with Greer.