Strictly speaking Abigail didn't need to work.
She had never been too into women's lib. She was just as smart as a man and she knew that she could have done the same job as one, plus there was no reason that she needed her dad's permission to get the pill, but aside from that she had never been too into it. She liked the option of having a career but she had never considered herself to be a career girl.
She had wanted to be an artist.
That was what had brought her here. She had come here for a year to study traditional ink wash paintings and improve her technique. That was all. She was one of only five students who had been chosen to come, and the only woman, too. She hadn't planned on staying forever, just long enough to get better at her art and make some contacts. Maybe even improve her Japanese, too. She had only picked up so much from her friends back home over the years. She had never planned on having Touichirou. She had never planned on getting married. She had never planned on moving into this house.
She had never planned on quitting painting.
"Fly, robin fly…up, up to the sky…" sang Abigail as she diluted her ink. In the hands of a master a single brush stroke could have gone from the deepest black to the most silvery gray. She was no master…but she was getting there. She had been at this since she had been a kid and she wasn't going to give up now. She had kept this up through all of Mom and Dad's consternation, she wasn't going to quit now just because she had a baby to take care of.
He was asleep, anyway.
There. That was diluted enough. This was going to be something basic…she needed to get back to the basics. Touichirou was finally sleeping well enough at naps that she could do more than sink into the couch and try to find something that she could wash. She could get back to it. She didn't think that she was going to go back to school…she would never become a master…but she was pretty damn good.
Which was more than a lot of people could say.
She put down her first stroke. This was the most important stroke, it would set the tone for the rest of the piece. This was going to become a landscape. It was hard to mess up a landscape. A…a mountain…with a stream. That line wasn't solid. It flowed, like water. That was what she loved about this, about ink wash. It was just so…so vibrant, so lively. Better than the still life's she'd been forced to paint at school when she'd been younger. Honestly. She had grown up in L.A., right by Little Tokyo. There were more interesting things to draw than bowls of fruit…or they could have at least drawn something more interesting than apples, pears, and bananas…
What she wouldn't have given for a good pear right about now…
Fruit was so expensive in this country. Maybe that was why people didn't really like to paint bowls of fruit here. Fruit was expensive, landscapes were free. Two dollars, almost, for a bowl of fruit…ridiculous…well she had the money, of course, but Yoshio had been on her about the budget. Of course he was the one running out and getting drunk with his work buddies every night, plus the cost of parking downtown, plus the cost of gas, plus the cost of…of everything. Everything was just so damn expensive here. Food, electricity, clothes…
Ink.
She pressed harder, now. Just hard enough to suggest something solid and unmoving. Largely unmoving. Semi-permanent. That was a good word for it. She didn't know the word in Japanese…Han'eikyū-teki. That sounded right. She wasn't sure…it wasn't like she had anyone to ask. What was she supposed to do? Wake the baby and ask him? He could barely say 'mama' and 'dada'…if he was even trying to speak yet. All the books said that if you tried to teach a baby two languages then the baby would get confused and end up being a late speaker.
She would rather Touichirou have learned how to speak both languages correctly than to have picked up some bad Japanese from her.
"Furai, Robin, Furai…sora made…" sang Abigail…that hadn't sounded right. Whatever. She was learning…she spoke just fine. She was just out of practice. She put her brush down in her ink and turned the record player up. Not loud enough to wake the baby, no, just loud enough that…that she could hear it. She needed the noise, she needed human voices.
She needed to hear someone speaking a language that she understood.
She picked up her brush…and forgot to dilute. So now there was this ugly, black, line right in the middle of her river. Too dark…not even the barest hint of movement. It was like something had gotten stuck right in the middle…she did not throw her brush. It was in her hand. She closed her fist around it. Her knuckles were white. She was not going to throw her brush.
Brushes were expensive.
Ink was expensive…paper was expensive. She was already so out of practice…she would have done better if she'd actually had time to practice. If she'd actually had more than half an hour a day to herself. She could hear…she turned the record player up louder. She could hear the TV…but that just happened sometimes. The electricity in this house was defective or the set was defective or she was losing her mind…she felt like she was losing her mind.
She didn't throw her brush.
She opened her hand…she had grabbed it by the brush end, not the handle. The entire palm of her hand was black…she wiped it off on her smock. She had to keep going. This was not just a silly hobby. She was not flighty. She was not wasting her life on art. She had not…she hadn't made a mistake. She could practically hear it all in her head. She had ruined her life…she should have planned it better…she shouldn't have gone in for…for any of this…
Shut up.
She picked her brush up and diluted her ink. She was not going to give up. She had no reason to. She put her brush back to the paper. Water. Movement. Lots of it. The transitory nature of water mixed with the solid line in the middle…it must have been something. People drew solid objects in water all the time. This was…she had meant to do this. A plain landscape was boring, child's play, and she was not a child. She was twenty three years old, she was a grown woman, and she may not have been into the whole 'lib' thing but she was perfectly capable of painting something interesting. Something better than she had been able to do when she got here…
She had improved.
A little island. That was what it was. A little island in the current, something permanent. Even more permanent than the mountain…or maybe the last of something. That was how islands formed, right? In the middle of water like that, not the ocean? Land got worn away until that was all that was left? She wasn't sure…she had never been into science. Yoshio would have known.
She wasn't going to ask him.
She kept painting. What did he even care about what she painted? He hadn't when they'd met. That student showcase…him showing up to support his alma mater. His eyes meeting hers across the room. It hadn't been her paintings that had interested him…and here she was. Another housewife. Another…she was still an artist. This was her choice…this was what she had wanted. She had always wanted to come to Japan and here she was. She had always wanted to have kids and here she was. She had always wanted to marry a man who treated her well…and here she was. He treated her very well…whenever he was around.
This week he'd only come home once.
She could hear crying. She turned the record player up even higher. Touichirou was supposed to be asleep. He knew when he had to sleep. He knew his schedule. He just didn't want to listen to her. She couldn't do anything to get him to listen. She couldn't even pull the old 'wait until your father gets home'…Yoshio had come home in time for dinner a couple days ago…but then he'd locked himself right back in his office and gotten back to work. If he could lock himself in his office to work then she could lock herself in her studio.
Her work mattered too.
"Go to sleep!" shouted Abigail. He was still crying. She couldn't even hear her music…she turned it down. It was just the instrumental part now. He was ruining it. She didn't know what he was crying about. She'd changed him before his nap, fed him, and tucked him in. He needed to sleep. If he didn't sleep then he'd just end up being fussy for the rest of the day. He knew that. They had been going through the same song and dance for months now.
He was still crying.
She ignored him and got back to work. He wasn't her servant. She was his mother. He was fine. She would take care of him but she would not bend over backwards for him, she was not going to live her life according to the whims of a baby. She wasn't done yet. She wasn't anywhere near done yet…she was going to finish.
She was going to finish one of these damn paintings.
She hadn't finished a single piece since before Touichirou had been born. Towards the end she had gotten too big to work. Yoshio had told her that she could stop…like she needed his permission. He had told her that she didn't need to do things like this anymore, that if she wanted art on the walls she could go buy some, that if she was trying to supplement his income…that it was unnecessary. A man's place was to take care of his family…and it was…but she could help…and she could do this for herself, too. She was her own person. She was…she was still Abigail.
She was still an artist.
The crying was getting louder…or maybe she was just imagining it. She wished she had left the record player on. She could have at least partially drowned it out. Touichirou was fine. He was just being needy. She kept on working. She had put him down for a nap and that was just what he was going to do, nap. She kept working…the crying got closer.
She felt the hair on her arms standing up.
The tops of her arms and the back of her neck…she was getting goosebumps. It was just chilly in there, that was all. These houses weren't built to last. That was all. She was fine. She wasn't…she wasn't going to say something crazy like there was a ghost in the room. She finished the water…a river with an island. All of it in a valley dwarfed by the mountains. Permeance, semi permanence, and movement…this was going to be her best piece yet.
Her best piece in a while.
Maybe she needed to stick to landscapes. Ink wash didn't lend its self well to portraiture. That was it. It wasn't that she couldn't, the medium just…didn't work well with portraits. Even Yoshio had told her that it had needed work…that hadn't stopped him from paying her the other half of that commission…and taking her to dinner…and what did he know, anyway? He had no idea what kind of technique went into this. He just bought prints, not even originals, of whatever was popular. Whatever he thought would look good on the walls. He had no taste…she had known that when she'd married him…but she still loved him. She had looked past it…and here she was now.
Here they were now.
She and Yoshio…and she and Touichirou. The crying was definitely getting closer. She could hear him just outside of the door….had he climbed out again? Of course he had. She sighed and got up. She had been on such a roll…she'd gotten a lot done, and in only…well it was past his naptime now. That was what mattered.
He could be awake, now, if he wanted to be.
She wiped her hands off and opened the door. They weren't clean, nowhere near clean, but it wasn't like Touichirou was going to give her the chance to wash her hands. The minute she put her hand to the knob it threw itself opened…no. Touichirou had opened it…somehow. He had probably just put his whole weight onto it or…or something. He had done this. Him…she wasn't losing her mind….
She wasn't seeing ghosts, anyway.
"Touichirou, you stop it right now. You're driving me crazy. You knew I was coming, you didn't have to leave your crib you know." said Abigail as she picked him up…and got ink all over his body suit…she'd just throw it out. She didn't feel like putting a load of laundry in, and nothing got ink out anyway. She had enough to do when it came to this baby, anyway.
"You don't even care…whatever. Come on, let's try and get some food in you. Real food, not formula. You're getting too old for formula." Said Abigail. He could understand her, she knew he could. He was pulling at the front of her shirt and crying now…well too bad for him, her milk had pretty much dried up. He was going to have to start eating real food like everyone else.
She did not exist to serve him.
She wouldn't have minded if he had at least been grateful…but of course he wasn't. He may have been a baby but he was still her son, he knew what he was doing. She wasn't going to give in. She wasn't going to let herself be manipulated. She was going to do what she had to do and that was it. If he wanted anything more than he was going to have to calm down.
She loved him, she really did, but she did not love it when he made more work for her.