Three days later, I'm helping out in one of the Center’s art classes. Marie, who usually leads the children's programs, is out sick. I suspect we'll lose her to another job in the near future anyway.
I lean over the shoulder of one of our regulars, an enthusiastic seven-year-old named Erin. We're working with watercolors today, and she holds up her work-in-progress.
“It's a garden, Miss Lily,” she says. “Like the one in my book.”
“It's beautiful. You've been practicing, haven't you?”
She beams at the compliment.
“Look, those are the roses,” she says, pointing them out. “And these are the daisies and these are the tulips. And here's the cat. He likes to sit next to the fountain.”
I smile at her, trying to ignore the pang I feel in my stomach. I was in a garden like this only a few days ago—minus the cat, admittedly—and I'd thought it was one of the most beautiful places I'd ever seen.
But I'm not supposed to be thinking of that. Or him.
“It's beautiful,” I tell her again.
She grins and picks up her brush once more, and I turn to the boy sitting at the table next to her.
“And what are you painting, Ben?”
He shows me his artwork, which features a T-rex attacking a fighter plane. I smile.
“That's awesome!” I say. I give him a high five.
I remember when Ben first started attending classes with us. Both of his parents work late, so they signed him up for our after-school program. For the first several sessions, he refused to take part in the activities. He said art was dumb and “for girls.”
Now, though, he's often the first one diving into our supplies for the day. A couple of times his mom has had to literally drag him away from the table at the end of the session.
I look around the room. Ben's story isn't unusual around here. The Frazer Center has impacted the life of every child in this room—and hundreds of others of all ages besides. What will happen when this place is gone?
It's not that I believe they won't explore other hobbies, or find equally productive uses of their time—but how can I not bemoan the loss of these smiles, this enthusiasm?
I return to the front of the room and sit down to watch the children work. I'm exhausted. I've spent every night since my return tossing and turning, trying to brainstorm some magic solution to our monetary problem. I've been here every morning at seven, and I've taken to the phones as early as it’s socially acceptable, calling every contact I could find. I've tried begging, I've tried offering incentives—everything I can think of. But people are either unwilling to give or have already given as much as they can. In this economy, I'm grateful for everything we can get, but it's just not enough.
I sigh. There's no way around it. I know Dad is hesitant to even consider it, but I think we're going to have to cut back significantly on our program offerings if we're going to hold on. We've done our fair share of fundraisers, but no single event save Arts & Hearts has ever come close to matching the pledge we would have received from the Cunninghams. And fundraisers require manpower and many hours of planning and preparation, but we're low on those, too.
I nibble on my nail. At least focusing on the Center's problems keeps my mind from straying to this past weekend. Garrett's called several times since I left him back at the Cunningham estate, but I let all of them go to voicemail. Calder hasn't tried to contact me at all.
But why do I care if he contacts me, anyway? We were just fucking. Nothing more. He lied to me and he used me, and that's not something I can forgive easily.
His accusations still haunt me. The Center is just an excuse. You’ve buried yourself in this little mission of yours so you don’t have to think about how you really feel or what you really want.
Is that true? I’ve sacrificed a lot for this place—a social life, a decent income, and no small amount of sanity—but I have genuine personal stakes in its fate. And an even deeper interest in the emotional well-being of my dad. True, I’ve thrown myself even deeper into the Center’s affairs since Garrett and I broke up, but it seemed like a healthy thing to do at the time. It gave me a distraction, a purpose, an emotional anchor. It’s my passion, but that doesn’t mean I can’t emotionally invest in other things, too.
Except when it comes to Calder. How could I even consider it when he was actively responsible for the Center’s current situation? I think that’s a fair reason to hold back from him.
But I’m not supposed to be thinking about him. I need to focus on the Center right now.
“Lily?”
When I glance up, my dad is standing in the doorway.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, pulling up a chair beside me. “You've seemed a little preoccupied since you've been back.”
I force a smile. “I'm fine, Dad. Just trying to figure out a way to get us out of this.”
He watches me for a moment. “No. I think it's something else.”
I look down at my lap. He was always really good at reading me. It must be some super-parent sense or something. I’ve been rather closed-mouthed since my return. When I confessed to him that I hadn’t been able to secure any more money, he was so completely crestfallen that I couldn’t bear telling him the rest of the truth.
I mean, what was I supposed to say? Oh, by the way, Dad, I lied to you about where I was going this weekend. I went to see Calder Cunningham, even though you asked me not to. And oh yeah, I slept with him a few times. Oh, and while I'm making confessions, I don't think Garrett will be helping us out after all.
I’m ashamed even now of my behavior. Just seeing the hope and trust in my dad’s eyes makes me sick to my stomach.
“What's going on?” he prompts. “You can tell me.”
That's just it, though. I'm not sure I can. There's no way I'm telling my dad about everything that went on this weekend. There is one thing I can talk to him about, though.
“Dad, I don't want Garrett helping us. I know he found us some money, and I’m grateful for that, but I can’t do it. And I promise I’m not being petty. If it were just old feelings I’d suck it up for the sake of the Center. But he’s…” How much can I say without worrying him? “He’s done some things this past week that have made me very uncomfortable.”
My dad considers this a moment.
“I understand,” he says finally. “I knew it would be hard on you. It wasn't fair of me to ask that in the first place.” He glances around the room. “Sometimes I get so caught up in this place that I forget the important things.”
“It’s not—you had no way of knowing,” I say quickly, trying to drive that guilty look from his eyes. “If it were anyone else, I’d just deal with it. But Garrett…”
“What has he done? Something I should know about?”
I take a deep breath. “He thought me asking him to help was an invitation to come fully back into my life. If you knew how many times he’s called me, what he’s said…”
“He's been harassing you?”
Harassing. I remember how Calder accused me of that very thing after all of my calls and letters and emails. I freaking broke onto his property, for crying out loud. Am I really any better than Garrett, in the end?
“It's just caused more problems than it will help,” I reply diplomatically.
“I’ll call him and tell him we won’t be needing his assistance,” my dad says.
It only makes me feel a little better. I haven’t seen him here at the Center since I’ve returned, but I know this isn’t over yet. But I don’t tell my dad how uneasy I am, how I’ve been a jumble of nerves these past few days.
“Thank you,” I say simply.
My dad nods and turns back to watching the children. For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just watch our charges laugh and chatter and create.
When my dad does speak, his voice is so soft that I hardly hear the question at all.
“When do we give up?”
I look at Ben, who's adding a Pterodactyl to his dinosaur picture, and Er
in beside him, who's painting a princess next to her explosion of flowers. I reach over and grab Dad’s hand.
“Never,” I answer, just as quietly. “Not until the very end. Not until they make us.”