The Secret Nook - Chapter 3 (Looking Back)

Somehow Meadow knew she would wake up at the appropriate time, so when she opened her eyes almost immediately after having that same dream of her father’s hand, there was no sense of panic or dread.  She was perfectly calm and instinctively had that same sense that she was being drawn into something she didn’t understand.She looked over at her nightstand and saw that she still had a couple of hours before heading to work. She rose, pulled on her housecoat, and began the practiced routine of using the washroom, switching on the kettle, and getting the tea ready.  On the table before her was the photo album from last night – closed but strangely welcoming.  Gently blowing away the light steam rising from her cup, she landed on the place where she had seen that photo of her Mom and Dad.Meadow continued on as though she was observing a movie of her own life.  There she was on the first day of school, or riding her favourite horse. And then, when she flipped over the next page, she drew back, emitting a quiet breath.  She scanned the two pages with what felt like a kind of guardedness, suspicion even.  For a number of pages her mother had fastened a collection of beautiful pieces of art – watercolours, oils and pencil sketches.  On the bottom left of each depiction was a name she knew all too well – Meadow Hartley.  Where she once saw numerous flaws in shading, shape or the mixing of colours, she now saw them for the beautiful pieces they truly were.Her mind drifted back to a time, just as she was about to enter her teens, when her parents perused the wall at school that had been selected to highlight Meadow’s prodigious talent.“God has given you a remarkable gift, honey – truly remarkable,” exuded her mother at the same time as her Dad moved forward and, ever so gently, ran his forefinger over her signature.“Meadow Hartley,” he said, almost in a whisper.  “To think that I knew her before she became so famous,” he added with a grin. “They’re special, Meadow.”That praise from her parents lingered in her mind.  Had she ever been more proud than at that moment?  She doubted it.  Her future was before her now, so clearly apparent to even those observers who understood little about art.  She had inherited her Mom’s innate ability to draw and added to it an understanding of the layering of colours that gave her pieces a depth that would normally take someone years to developHer parents had been so exultant over her ability that they went out for Chinese food after they left the showing.  She had listened to them debate about which was their daughter’s main strength – drawing or painting, depth or perspective.  There had been an energy to it.  Meadow had said nothing, but the look of accomplishment on her face had spoken volumes.“Next year you’ll be in school, honey, and I’m told that the art teacher has only been there a couple of years but is fantastic.”Thinking back on her mother’s words now, she realized that that observation was a bit of an understatement.  Duyi Kaol had lived in America for most of his adult life, but his early eastern art training had infused his knowledge and work with a kind of exotic flair that brought new life and nuance to traditional art.  One look at Meadow’s landscapes was all that was necessary for him to say, “These are very, very … unusual and stimulating.  You say she hasn’t had formal lessons?”Her parents had answered in the negative, sensing what was coming next.“If you would support it, I would like to work with Meadow a couple of times each week to refine her talents.”It was a statement, not a question, so all her parents did was nod in understanding.For the next two months, Meadow was delirious in inspiration, feeling as if she was painting her own Sistine Chapel.  Her teacher would sketch out some ideas and then leave it to his prodigy to take her time and give his strokes life.  He taught how to construct paintings from other angles that most other artists would ignore.  Over a series of lessons, he opened her mind to the prospect of painting images from overhead, as if from a drone.  Drawing and painting human figures from up above had proved challenging, especially with less space to develop the characteristics of the human frame.  Yet, by the end of the fourth lesson, she had mastered it.Her teacher had retreated towards the rear of the classroom studio and turned to view her efforts from a distance.  He said nothing, but instead walked to his desk and began writing in an economical hand. He was requesting that her parents come to see him sometime in the next three weeks to discuss their daughter’s future.Meadow had raced home, handing the note to her parents over dinner.  Her mother scanned it first and, bursting into a huge smile, handed the paper over to her husband.  If anything, his grin was even wider.“Okay, let’s contact him tomorrow and set up a time after our Thanksgiving break,” he said, obviously impatient for that moment to arrive.Which it never did. Three days later, while journeying back from a camping weekend, everything had suddenly been taken from her, leaving Meadow in deep grief and with an invalid mother.She had never picked up her brushes again.  The paints had dried or hardened and were eventually tossed out.  The brushes were eventually given to someone else.  And though her Nana had compiled a collection of some of her best works, their creator couldn’t bear looking at them. Her teacher had occasionally approached her, attempting to entice her back to the studio but, to the disappointment of everyone, she dropped out of high school in her final year and spent the best part of her time attempting to minister to her mother in the hopes that she would recover – a dream that never materialized.Now, as she looked at her paintings in the photo album, Meadow realized she had seized herself up tighter than a drum.  Her creative juices and inspiring visions of what to compose next never got the opportunity to slowly drift away; she had shut them out in a spirit of finality that was tragic to observe.  She was as one of those barren women so forcefully presented in the Old Testament – rejected, insecure, and terribly alone.  But seeing her paintings in the album revealed to her that she hadn’t fully succeeded in casting her imagination aside.  She felt that … what was it – desire?  Yes, that was it: a longing she had denied for almost two decades.Where had it come from? These photos?  In a moment of clarity, she understood that it was the dream, her father’s hand, the suspense and excitement of that hidden note.For the first time in years that hardened ground of her imagination had begun to break, permitting shafts of light to break through.  But what was she to do?  She had no parents?  No money? No direction?  And no idea of where that special nook was that had inspired her Dad to place within it a piece of paper he felt sure would convince his daughter of the undying love of her parents.Somehow the idea began to build within her mind that if she could perhaps find that special hiding place, then she might regain so much of what she had lost since the tragedy.  Fixated by that thought, she drew on her drab coat and headed for the bus stop.