Color the Sidewalk for Me Read Online Free PDF Page A

only single homeowner on my tree-lined street, the helpful person who could always be counted on to feed my neighbors’ animals and watch over their homes while they were on vacation. I occasionally spent time with Carrie or other friends, went to movies, sometimes hosted dinners in my small dining room. But Quentin was right—Celia Matthews’ friendships merely skimmed the surface. Like the purring of the cat at my feet, Quentin’s words rolled over me in undulating waves. I’d learned so well to gloss over my loneliness, filling my time with busyness. And for years a lulling “there’s still time” thread had woven through the tapestry of my estrangement from my parents. Now with one phone call that thread was rippling apart.
    How could I return to Bradleyville and face Mama?
    The day I’d fled Bradleyville, clutching every penny I owned, I took a cab to the Albertsville bus station, prepared to catch the next bus for anywhere. The next one turned out to be an overnighter to Little Rock. I remembered that ride so well—the countless stops, people getting on and off, tepid yellow lights washing over fuel-stained parking lots at midnight and 3:00 a.m. I remembered how I focused gritty eyes out the window, inviting no conversation, wondering at the sun’s audacity as it rose. I could not cry. There is a pain that finds release in tears. There is a pain so deep, so enmeshed within the very core of your being, that tears cannot touch it, and so do not fall.
    I landed in Little Rock and fainted in the bus station. For days afterward, as I stayed in a hotel, I remained in a state of near catatonia. In time I pulled myself together enough to find an apartment and land two jobs—providing maid service at a hotel by day and stocking shelves at a grocery store by night. I didn’t care that the work was hard; I needed to be busy every moment so I wouldn’t have time to think. In the fall of the following year I enrolled in the University of Arkansas, keeping the grocery store job. For five years I worked to earn my degree in graphic arts. I did not date, had no friends. Like a beaten dog skulking into the forest to lick her wounds, I kept to myself. I merely studied, worked at the store, and practiced art projects over and over, defining and refining my skills. I kept telling myself I’d call my parents, let them know where I was, but every time I picked up the phone, my heart would race, my hands shake. What could I possibly say to Mama? Would she even want to hear my voice? And how to apologize to Daddy? The longer I waited, the harder it became.
    It took six years to make the call.
    By that time I was working at Grayland Advertising. The company had shut down between Christmas and the new year, and, desperate with boredom and loneliness, I found myself propelled almost unwittingly to the phone, heart pounding.
    â€œMama, it’s Celia.”
    A long pause, a sharp breath inhaled. “Celia!”
    I heard background noise—footsteps, the receiver being pulled away—and Daddy was on the line, voice shaking, asking where had I been. Didn’t I realize their worry? Didn’t I know they’d been trying to find me? Would I come home? My throat was tight as I answered his questions, saying I was sorry I’d had to leave, that I couldn’t bear to face Mama, then or now, that even hearing her voice brought it all back. My quiet daddy talked for a long time, urging me to “let God forgive you so you can forgive.” I found myself softening. But then Mama returned to the phone, her tone reserved, cold, the way I remembered her. “Thank you for the call,” she said stiffly, as if I were a distant relation. “I hope you’ll stay in touch.” And I knew afresh that the wounds between us would never be healed.
    All the same, during that call the guilt I already bore was deepened by the hurt in Daddy’s voice. After I hung up, I