The Between Years by Derek Clendening Read Free Book Online Page B

been off.

    Randy closed his eyes then opened them. The vision had vanished, disappeared like a puff of smoke, though he knew that standing in the kitchen alone would have been enough to warp him back twenty years. More. Next, he slipped into the back room, which had served as both a laundry room and Nana's studio.

    In the studio, the smell of turpentine and oil paint enveloped him, forcing a cough. His eyes grew heavy and closed. He saw himself with Nana again, but he'd grown several feet from the milk-spilling child in a highchair of yore. Nana sat behind a desk cluttered with pain tubes and a palate. Paint brush in hand, she squinted at a canvas sitting on an easel. Young Randy stood beside her with his arm outstretched and his hand open. He fidgeted but Nana helped to steady his arm.

    Not much longer, Little Duck. I need to get the arm and hand just right.

    I feel like I've been holding my arm up like this for an hour.

    Once we're done, we'll head into the kitchen and have cupcakes and some tea!

    Randy remembers this day much more clearly. Nana had wanted him to be in her bakeshop painting as a boy at the counter. And Nana had painted her share of bakeshops in her career, thanks to her upbringing as the baker's daughter in Toronto. Only St. Paul's Anglican Church down the road had she painted more often, though she vowed never to paint it again. In this painting, Randy would be shown with his hand out, counting change to offer the girl behind the counter. The two children peeking in the window at him were his real-life cousins. The original painting hung in his parents' living room, though one could only guess how many living rooms were adorned with prints of that bakeshop.

    In the doorway, Randy inched forward and tried to touch the vision, but his hand sliced through the two figures whose lips continued to move, but whose voices had fallen silent. He closed his eyes again. A rush of air escaped his lungs and he stood breathless for a moment until he sucked another lungful of air.

    He closed his eyes then opened them again. The room was empty. He wanted to tell himself that no one was there, but he couldn't deny having smelled turpentine fumes. So he searched through what painting supplies remained and found only half-squeezed paint tubes, worn brushes and a palate crusted with a rainbow of paint blobs. The tin that contained Nana's turpentine was empty.

    Tears filled his eyes and his nose felt like it had been pinched. He held back before he shed any more tears. Only then did he realize how many good times he'd had in this house, and how much he would give to have them back.

    He stuffed his hands in his pockets, bowed his head, and swept the carpet with his left foot. Time to move on from these memories and face today, he thought, but he worried that would be impossible.

    Time to pick up some groceries, he thought. Carol hadn't cleared out their bank account yet, but given time, she might try to, he figured. In the cupboards, he found glasses with dried milk caked on the bottom and others with soap streaks down the sides. Randy opened the utensil drawer and found a home for mouse turds. He slammed the drawer shut, having wondered how the place could have gone to seed this way. Then he remembered how poor Bupa's vision had been in his final years. He'd had cataracts removed just before Nana's death, yet he had still been left with an eight-five year old set of eyes.

    He screwed the dish in the sink, ran hot water, squeezed what little Palmolive dish soap remained into the water, and watched a bubble mountain rise. The dishrag crumpled on the counter looked ratty, but like so many items in the house, it would have to suffice for now.

    A decent dinner would go great right about now, he thought. Then he realized he would need to stock the fridge before he could think about eating anything. His aching muscles and tendons made him feel like he'd hauled a limestone behind him all day, and he forced himself out the