Soul’s Palette

Danielle Nolan
Aug 25, 2017 · 18 min read

Responding to the prompt “With the tip of his paintbrush, he soaked up one of my tears” by Eva Deverell.

www.pixabay.com

ALEXANDER

“Wow, Daddy. They’re so pretty!”
I still remember taking my daughter, Bailey, to the National Gallery when she was six years old. She had been so enchanted by the beautiful paintings that she had insisted on staying until closing time. As we were leaving, she asked me the strangest question.
“Daddy? How many colours are there in the world? I tried counting them, but I kept getting mixed up.”
I laughed. When I had been Bailey’s age, I had asked lots of impossible questions as well. I looked out at the horizon and spotted Venus piercing through the sunset.
“There are as many colours as stars, Bay. I am not sure if it is possible to count them all”.
Instead of being frustrated by my vague answer, Bailey was delighted.”
“I want to collect as many as I can,” she declared. “Will you help me?”
I promised to help Bailey with her colour collection. If it had been within my power, I would have promised her the moon and the stars as well.

On the way out, we visited the gift shop. I searched the shelves until I found what I was looking for; a box of Crayola crayons. They were the old fashioned kind, the ones with the exotic colour labels that I had owned as a boy.
“Would you like to try making the world a beautiful place as well, Bay?”
Bailey grinned and hugged the box tightly to her chest as we walked towards the counter.

On that day, Bailey became a colour collector. She started her first colour journal that evening and, like a bowerbird, she went on the hunt for photographs, cut outs, and scraps of material to add to her collection. My little artists drew every day. After attending her first painting class, we discovered that this was where she truly shone. Bailey made the world beautiful and continued to make me proud, long past the day that I died.

BAILEY

“I don’t want to do this anymore. Please can’t we just save our time and money and go home?”
I wished that Mum would accept me for the odd duck that I was and let me grieve in my own time. How was it fair that she wasn’t supporting my decision to give up on therapy after I had done everything to support her and my sisters during this year of hell? During Dad’s funeral, I had felt nothing but an eerie calmness. As everybody else was falling apart and coming to terms with losing him, I found myself unable to shed any tears. For months, I had drifted, barely existing without any emotion or colour in my life. It was an unexpected trigger that had broken through to me at last. While cleaning out Dad’s closet, I came across a box with my name on it. Inside I discovered the display books. As it turned out, Dad had kept all of the pictures that I had drawn for him, even the terrible ones from when I was six years old. Immensely touched by this token of love, I started to cry. I have been struggling to stop ever since.

Over the last few months, Mum has been sending me to every therapist in the book in an attempt to ‘fix me’. Even though these have only resulted in my humiliation and misery, my protests continue to fall upon deaf ears.
“Dr Thomas is a highly regarded specialist, Bailey. Dr Farrah even said that he is ‘exactly who you need to see’. You must give him a chance.”
I still wasn’t willing to unclip my seatbelt and leave the car. It was bad enough that I was a weepy mess at school, did I seriously have to fall apart in front of strangers during my free time as well? Knowing how determined Mum was for me to see him, I decided to cut a deal.
“I’ll only go if you swear that this is the last time. Promise me, Mum. I cannot keep making a fool of myself over and over again. It is bad enough everybody else thinks that I am so..”
I choke on the word ‘odd’. I had loved being odd once, but without Dad, it had become tiring, difficult and lonely. I wait for Mum to argue that I was being unreasonable, but to my amazement, she agrees to our deal.
“I have a good feeling about him, Bailey,” she declared as she escorted me out of the car. Reluctantly, I followed her into the clinic.

The man behind the front desk smiles at us.
“You must be Bailey Frey. It is lovely to meet you. I’m Dr Thomas, though I insist that you call me Sam”.
“No, you’re not.”
Usually, I am the kind of girl who remembers her manners, but this was an exceptional case. Sam looked more like a mad scientist than a therapist. Instead of a suit, he was wearing an oversized white coat and wire glasses that had a subtle rosy tinge. His cheeks were stained with strange, dirty streaks. Not only did he look like he had just wandered into the clinic from the street, but he barely looked old enough to be a University gratitude.
Sam chuckled and assured me that he was reasonably certain of his identity. Put off by his joking manner, I refused to shake his hand. I turned to Mum to give her a pleading look, but she just shrugged.
“We made a deal, Bailey.”
I sighed. It seemed that the only way for this nonsense to be over was to get on with the session.
“Are you ready to come into my office, Bailey?”
I reluctantly nod. Mum smiles at me, encouragingly. I cannot wait to tell her that I will never have to go back to therapy ever again.

As I reach Sam’s office, I clutch at the door frame. No! Did Dr Farrah refer me here as some kind of sick joke? Instead of being surrounded by motivational posters, the walls were covered in artwork. The paintings were so lifelike that I felt like I could reach inside and touch them. The floor was covered in plastic, paint cans and brushes. Most disturbing of all was the giant easel and the stool that awaited me.
“Take a seat, Bailey”.
Stunned, I shake my head. My tears are streaming so rapidly that my vision blurs. Dad was an art lover and the reason why I had become an artist. We had collected colours together. I hadn’t painted a stroke since Dad’s passing since the very thought of being in an art studio made me ill. Sam may have had some kind of grand plan to fix me, but I didn’t care. There was no way that I could enter this room.
“I’ve got to go,” I mumble. “I’m sorry.”
I hadn’t the strength within me to explain why I had to leave. All that I could manage was to flee and cry. Unexpectedly, I felt a hand on top of my left shoulder.
“I wish that you would give this a chance, Bailey. Everything is going to be just fine. Please, trust that everything is going to be okay and come back inside.”
Even as my brain protests, my muscles relax. I find myself looking up at Sam and smiling at him like he is an old friend. He grins and offers me his hand again. Despite myself, this time I take it, calmly follow him back inside of the studio and sit down upon the stool.
“What have you done to me?” I asked in horror. It was a relief to know that I was still able to question him.
Sam insisted that it was nothing. As I glared at him, the doctor assured me that I could leave whenever I liked.
“Oh really?” I asked, attempting to stand. To my amazement, I was indeed able to stand on my own two feet. Once again I started walking towards the door, but then Sam calls after me.
“I want to help you, Bailey. More than that, I believe that I am the exact person that you need to see to stop your crying. Please, believe in me.”
I feel myself relax once again. I turn back to the stool. As I sit upon it once again, I note my absence of panic. More than that, my suspicions of Sam had subsided completely. I couldn’t describe why but all of a sudden I trusted him with all of my heart.
“Please help me, Sam” I sobbed. The words caught in my throat. The ‘doctor’ poured me a glass of water. As I slowly gulped it down with one hand, he grabbed hold of the other.
“Of course I will help you,” he promised. Then he cryptically added, “we’re kindred spirits, you and I”. I didn’t understand why but hearing that made me feel incredibly safe.

As calm as anybody could be while crying, I waited for him to sit at his easel. Instead, with the tip of his paintbrush, he soaked up one of my tears.
“You must have loved your father so much,” he remarked as he softly swept the brush against my cheek. He then walked over to his easel, mixed the teary brush into his palette and made his first stroke upon his canvas. As Sam painted my portrait, he lost himself within a blissful trance. His focus was unshakable, and his hands seemed to take on a life of their own. Every so often, he would cleanse the brush in water and then return to my side to soak up another tear. The first time that he had done this, it had felt strange and tingly. Immediately I felt lighter. As he continued to dab at my cheeks to refill his brush, I started to feel calmer and a little closer to finding inner peace.

About forty minutes into the session, Sam soaked up his last tear. He blinked, awoke from his trance, and met my gaze.
“Are you feeling calmer?” he asked me. When I nodded, he grinned.
“Then my work here is almost done.”
Sam then made me a tempting offer. He offered me a chance to look at the painting before it was finished.
“May I?” I exclaimed, for my curiosity had been torturing me.
“You may if you can pass my test,” he teased.
A test? Hadn’t I already left school behind for the day?
“I’m hopeless at tests,” I sighed.
Sam remarked that he doubted that very much. He fetched his palette of paints and brought it over for me to inspect.
“Name all of the colours,” he challenged.
I laughed. Maybe I had a chance after all. My recollection of colours was flawless. I had to hope that Sam could say the same and not fail me by mistake.

Sam held out the palette and points to the first dollop of paint. Following his lead, I rattle off each colour.
“Crimson, magenta, coral, hot pink, tangerine, goldenrod, spring green, forest green, cyan, sky blue, midnight blue, violet, cream, ivory, sienna, silver, slate grey, black.”
I glared back at him, daring him to fail me. Instead, Sam whistled with approval.
“Wonderful, Bailey. Now, see if you can pass part two.”
The Doctor walked over to his desk and reached into a drawer. He pulled out a bundle and handed them to me.
“These are my spares. Feel free to try them on.”
I removed the glasses from their leather pouch and noted that they had a rosy tinge, just like Sam’s. I tried them on and shrieked in surprise. The number of colours in the palette had suddenly doubled. Each of them was uniquely strange. Some were wispy, and others were gloppy. Some swirled in midair, while others sparkled. I placed my ear up to the palette and noticed that several of them were humming.
“Sunlight,” Sam started to educate me, pointing at the swirling patch of brightness.
“Fresh air, raindrop, birdsong, laughter, hope, happiness, luck and love.”
Then he pointed at my hands. To my amazement, they were stained with golden paint that was glowing.
“Trust,” he confessed quietly. “Sorry about that. It is the only way that I can think of to get anybody to sit in the chair.” I was too awestruck to get angry. There was so much that I was desperate to understand.
“Are all of these are colours as well? How is it possible? Where did they all come from and how did you know to find them in the first place?
I think that Sam enjoyed my questions. His cobalt eyes were sparkling. He enthusiastically told me that they were called glimmers. Sam’s family had been painting with glimmers and studying them for generations. While they didn’t know for certain how they worked, understanding where they came from was easier. Nature was an endless source of glimmers. As for the emotions, some had been collected by Sam after they had been abandoned by his clients. Others, like laughter and happiness, had been freely given as these were easy to share and replenish.
“And is it possible for you to steal an emotion?”
I was building up the courage to confront Sam on his deception with the trust paint. Instead of confessing that he had stolen my will, he assured me that our emotions were too tightly bound to their owner’s hearts. While it was possible to trick somebody into shedding tears of rage or sadness, the subject would have to be willing to sit while they were being absorbed.
“Before you say another word”, Sam continued.
“I assure you that you were a willing subject, even if you don’t think so. No glimmer is powerful enough to cancel out your free will. I merely asked you to trust me. I mustn’t come off as too terrible a person because there was a part of you, deep down, that decided to give me a chance. Whatever it was that I did, I am glad of it. I’m a colour collector too, and I am so pleased that I could help you.”
The last of my suspicions faded as I realised why I had taken this leap of faith. There was a mad eccentricity within Sam that I had recognised. He too was an odd duck, just like my father and myself.

Since I had failed the second part of Sam’s test (like I had ever had a chance of passing), I had to sit patiently and wait for him to finish. At last, Sam turned the easel around. What I saw in the painting took my breath away. It was hard to know what to make of it at first, as the entire canvas was shimmering. My tears stand out like morning dew upon roses. Unable to make out the picture, I remove the glasses and gasp. Captured within the segments of colour were myself and my father, from the time that I was little until recently. Just like the other paintings in the room, he appeared to be so real that it felt like I could reach inside of the canvas and hug him. I grasp the packet of tissues in my pocket, in preparation for the waterworks, but they never came. Once again, the eerie calmness had returned.
“Is this… are you the reason why I am not crying?”
Sam nodded.
“This was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
Slowly, I nod.
“So what happens now?” I asked. Was this magic a kind of treatment? Did Sam have to paint my picture every time that I felt like crying or was this emotional shift within me permanent?
Sam explained that he had soaked up my sadness within the painting. These tears contained great love and power, but they were also as fragile as raindrops.
“You know what happens to rain in the warmer weather, don’t you?”
I nodded. Rain, like any drop of water, could not remain where it was forever.
Sam explained that tears weren’t glimmers. There was a magic within them that was different.
“Water and oil don’t mix. It is impossible for your tears to remain on the surface of your painting for long. Sooner or later they will evaporate. Where they end up next is up to you.”
“It’s up to me?” I exclaimed, surprised that I had a say over such powerful magic. Sam nodded.
“If you decide to take this painting home with you, once the tears evaporate they will find their way back into your heart. Living with them inside of you again will be just as painful as before, but they are also an important part of you. As unlikely as it sounds, I suspect that you will miss them once they are gone. You could choose to leave the painting here and have a think about it. If you take too long and the tears start to evaporate, I will attempt to collect them for my own personal use. If you are certain that you want to leave them behind, there is also a drastic option. There is a fire pit at the back of the clinic. We could always burn the painting and the tears. It would only take a second for your sadness to disappear permanently.

“I choose the fire pit.”
I had never been more certain of anything in my life. No more tears. No more embarrassing meltdowns at school. Dad had wanted me to live a life filled with joy, not one that was burdened with grief. The sooner this painting and my tears were burned, the better.
“Now, Bailey, you don’t need to make your mind up about this right away. Why don’t you take some time to think about it?”
“I don’t need time. Did you say that the fire pit is out the back? Let’s do this.”
At that moment I was so keen that I was prepared to light the fire myself.
“So you are choosing avoidance,” Sam muttered under his breath. “That’s very interesting.”
Of course, when I needed Sam to stay interesting and eccentric, he had to switch to speaking like a therapist. I scowled. Maybe we didn’t understand each other after all.
“I am choosing to move on with my life”, I informed him. “I am choosing to go back to the way that I once was. I want to be a regular, high school kid who doesn’t cause a scene wherever she goes and whose family doesn’t have to worry about her all of the time. I am choosing not to feel this sadness all of the time. I want my sanity back. Is that such a horrible thing to ask for?”
Sam replied that it was a perfectly understandable wish. I felt like screaming. My hatred of therapists rekindled, I couldn’t wait for the session to be over.
Ding.
My prayers were answered with the chime of the timer. My hour was up, and I was eager to leave. I placed the rosy glasses back into the leather pouch and handed them back to Dr Thomas.
“Burn the painting, Sam,” I told him before making my exit down the hallway. I couldn’t wait to be free of my sadness at long last.

At first, being ‘cured’ of my sadness was a dream come true. My sisters are thrilled that I am back to my old self, though Mum still looks at me strangely.
“You are allowed to cry over him sometimes,” she reminds me after I had shown no trace of sadness on father’s day. I guess there is no pleasing some people, is there? Initially, I am annoyed at her remark, but then I grew conscious of the other people in my life, staring at me and judging me again.
I am not all that different, am I? Surely my tears don’t define me that much.
To cheer myself up, I attempted what I had been avoiding for months; creating a new painting. I tried my hardest to get swept away in my art, but I found myself dully going through the motions. My art was the one thing in my life that always gave me joy and yet I was finding it a bore.
“I’m colder now,” I whisper, for deep down I knew that it was the truth. Without my tears, I was quicker to anger. My patience with others was paper thin. While I was still capable of laughter and happiness, they did not feel as good as they had once.
“My emotions must be adjusting,” I told myself. “Everything is going to get better. It has to.”

During the next few months, I hoped for the best. Then, during the last week of English class, I come across a quote that scares me.

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain - Khalil Gibran

Oh, God. Did this mean that by giving away my tears, I was no longer capable of feeling my other emotions as deeply? I read further down another quote from the same author and shiver.

He who has not looked on sorrow will never see joy.

Desperate to feel something, I sought after happiness wherever I could. While I experienced many pleasant moments, nothing comes close to making me feel joy. Then, on Christmas morning, Aunt Sophie surprised us by bringing around an album containing photographs from when she and Dad were kids. I looked at Dad’s face for the first time since the painting and felt nothing. In a panic, I ran to the back of the house to fetch Dad’s display books. If anything was going to wake me up from my numbness, it was this keepsake. Looking through these pictures all of those months ago had broken me, not just because they had made me sad but because they had made me feel everything; pride, contentment, happiness and fierce love. In theory, looking through these books without my sadness should have been blissful, but instead, I barely felt anything. Once again I was broken, and this time it was entirely my fault.

“Doctor Thomas? Sam?”
It was a desperate plan, riding my bike over to the clinic on Christmas day, but I did not know what else to do. I was tired of being an emotional zombie. If anybody was able to fix me, it was Sam.
At last, I heard the sound of footsteps. Sam unlocked the door and poked his head outside.
“Bailey Frey,” he declared with a smile. “Merry Christmas.”
“Is it?” I ask, for his sake as much as mine. It occurred to me that finding the doctor here, instead of with his friends and family, was rather sad.
“Not really,” he confessed, “though it is considerably better now that you are here. So, have you finally come to collect your painting?
My jaw drops. How was I suppose to collect a burned painting unless…
“You tricked me, didn’t you? When you offered to burn my painting you were bluffing.”
Sam nodded, clearly proud of his deception. Seeing his smugness, I gave him a little shove.
“Why would you do that? I’ve had a horrible time, figuring everything out on my own.”
“And did you figure yourself out?” he interrupted. As I slowly nod, he grins.
“I’m not just a collector of colours, Bailey. My diploma is genuine. I was merely looking out for you as your therapist. I am a highly regarded specialist, you know, even if my methods are a little stranger than most.”
As I watch him, dumbfounded, Sam offers me his hand. Remembering the last time, I gave him a wary look.
“My hands are clean, I promise. I am going to need you leading me around if you are going to wear my glasses. My eye sight without them is terrible.”
Before I could protest, he is handing them to me.
“Please, Bailey. I want you to see what I have been working on.”

Together we make our way through the clinic. In the middle of a glimmer inventory, there are glass jars everywhere. Each one is lit up as vibrantly as bulbs upon our Christmas tree. It was hard to know where to look first for they were all magnificent in their own unique way. At last, I make out my painting, though the luminous dew drops tears upon it had almost evaporated entirely.
“I still can’t believe that you kept it safe. Thank you.”
While I was unable to appreciate the painting’s beauty just yet, seeing my father’s face again was comforting.
“You’re very welcome.”
I waited for another one of Sam’s smiles but instead he sighed.
“Burning one canvas and living with the regret is enough for one person to bear in a lifetime. The one blessing is that I have learned from my mistakes. My grandfather’s love may be lost to me, but I will fight to protect the bond between my clients and their loved ones.”

I must have looked as miserable as he felt, for Sam apologised for darkening my Christmas with his sadness. At last he found his smile, though I could tell that it was forced.
“Your tears are the most luminescent that I have ever worked with, Bailey. You are lucky to share such a powerful bond with your father. It was my pleasure to protect it for you.”
Overcome with gratitude, I smiled back at Sam and hugged him.
“I doubt that you would have started helping others with your glimmers if it wasn’t for your grandfather.” I told him. “I can see your bond as well, even if you can no longer feel it inside of you. I suspect that his love for you is closer than you think.”

While there weren’t enough tears on the painting to fix me, Sam had been clever enough to collect my fading tears before they could disappear entirely. I lay upon a lounge chair in the corner of Sam’s office and listened to Christmas carols on the radio as he used an eye dropper to restore my tears to me. When he gave me the nod, at last, I sat up and looked at my painting. When I see my father looking back at me, I start to cry; happy tears this time. I thought that this was the best Christmas gift that I could have gotten. Then Sam handed me a small leather pouch and changed my life forever.

ALEXANDER

I had once wished that I could give my Bailey the moon and the stars. What I didn’t realise then was that she would one day be able to find them on her own. As she grew older, she graduated from seeking greens and purples to soaking up moonbeams and starlight with her paintbrush. I continue to watch over my daughter with pride. The rose coloured glasses suited her. As Sam’s glimmer seeking apprentice, Bailey continued to find beauty and make the world beautiful. She brightened up the world with every colour, even the ones that could only be seen within our hearts.

Thank you so much for reading. If you enjoyed this story, please share it with others by giving it a round of applause.

Collaborative Chronicles

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Danielle Nolan

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Fantasy writer, dragon rider, teacher, musical firefly, otaku, dreamer.

Collaborative Chronicles

Stories, poetry, inspiration and articles written by the Collaborati.

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