Take Some Time For You

Francis leaned on the ship’s railing and watched the creamy clouds swirl against the sky, though their doubt dampened the edges where the cerise and rose glimmered against a golden ocean. They couldn’t shake the lingering thoughts that they didn’t deserve to be on the cruise, but when $20,000 fell into their lap and a last-minute spot opened up on the ship, it was too hard to say no.

Francis pulled a black notebook from the bag by their feet, and looked at their options list: use the money to pay off student loans, use it for a down payment for a house, help their brother pay off medical debt. But $20,000 felt like a drop in the bucket for any of those big -- albeit smart -- moves. You know what wasn’t smart? Francis thought. Buying a lottery ticket in the first place. Taking a break. On the other hand, you know what $20,000 more than covered? Unlimited breakfast buffets, three pools, and a room that was, honestly, little more than a closet in the ship’s interior. That was fine, since Francis didn’t plan to spend much time in the room anyway.

They shook the blond curls out of their eyes, picked up the bag and replaced the notebook. It’s not like Francis planned to blow the whole amount on their vacation, and they could make the smart move with whatever was left after they got home. Just as long as their parents didn’t find out -- they would roast them alive. Francis could feel the guilt rise in their throat as they thought about their parents’ struggle to help keep Brandon afloat as he took a forced medical hiatus from work. But their parents weren’t the ones taking him to treatments, spending hours a day tracking medications, calling doctors and making sure that one physician’s ideas wouldn’t make another’s ideas quit working.

Brandon told me to go, Francis repeated to themself. He had practically pushed them out the door, and the money had allowed them to hire a nurse, at least for a little while. Siblings could love each other very much, but still need a break from seeing each other’s faces for a few days.

Still lost in thought, Francis wasn’t really paying too much attention as they turned inside and started wandering down to the bottom of the ship. They’d signed up for a mountain climbing excursion for the next two days and needed to meet the bus.

Snaking through the other passengers, many in brand new, top-notch gear that seemed to Francis just a little over the top for a guided climb, they walked down the plank and onto the vehicle.

As one of the first people to hop on, Francis had their choice of seat options. After carefully surveying their fuzzy blue-and-yellow zig-zag covered options, they decided on a window seat half-way down the bus to best counter motion sickness on the bumpy roads.

They pulled the notebook out, and flipped further back, where lists had given way to sketches of waterfalls, sunsets, mountains -- anything they could share with Brandon when they got back. He’d made them promise before leaving to share everything once they returned home, but said he wouldn’t look at a single photograph.

Francis hadn’t drawn anything for eight months before the trip, and the pent-up energy made their hands feel like they were going to explode. At the same time, the pencil felt clumsy. Pencils, charcoal, and watercolor had abruptly given way to hours in hospital waiting rooms, a litany of MRIs, specialists, and, as a last resort, months of trying to access experimental drugs. Francis felt more qualified to run an insurance company than to pick up a sketchbook these days, but still, it felt good to get reacquainted. And they may as well work now, there’d be no chance once the bus started moving. They stretched their hands, separating each finger to take up as much space as possible, relishing the movement. Francis stared at the pointer finger on their left hand -- their calluses were coming back.

Francis was lost in shading the rivulets of a waterfall, making it cascade into a hot spring, when they felt the thunk of a seat partner joining them for the trip. He grinned, said his name was Mark, and asked for theirs.

Sharing their name was the only word Francis got in for the next 45 minutes. Mark wove story after story as the bus rolled through the angular grids that made up the port and into the city center, with its vibrant oranges and yellows. The story of Mark’s first time holding a baby monkey entwined with a tale of accidentally spending $40,000 on cases of Pinot Noir as the city’s red bricks faded to the rust of the shacks that ringed the town. Francis barely noticed as the glint off of metal roofs faded into verdant foliage and the bus worked its way up a tiny two-lane road toward the hiker’s basecamp in the mountains.

Listening to Mark spin his tales, Francis realized they hadn’t laughed that hard in years.

They stopped abruptly, flying through the air as the bus dipped into a washed out section of the road. The sketchbook spun off their lap, lying open on the floor. Mark stopped to pick it up, handing it back with a quizzical expression that made Francis’ stomach drop. They quickly slammed the book shut.

“Mind if I take a closer look?” Mark asked.

Francis looked into his brown eyes, and uttered their second word the entire trip -- “Why?”

Mark smiled, easy, wide, practiced. “Well, I consider myself a man of good taste. Would you mind?”

Francis sat quietly for a few minutes, and Mark let the silence hang in the air. They hadn’t made a smart decision since the minute they’d scratched that lottery ticket, why make one now, Francis thought. Besides, it’d been a while since they had a good critique.

Francis smiled, and reopened the book. “Just don’t flip through the whole thing -- but I suppose you can look through a few sketches. Start here,” they said, indicating a page about halfway through the book, “and just flip forward.”

Mark nodded and reached over to the book. The jovial story teller was gone, replaced with studied curiosity that took Francis by a surprise that only grew when he asked, “Do you have representation?” and “What galleries do you usually show at?”

Francis stared, open-mouthed. They hadn’t thought about galleries and exhibitions in years, probably since graduation.

“It’s...it’s been a while since I’ve shown at a gallery,” Francis finally blurted out.

“Well, if that’s what you can do on a bus, I’d be interested in looking at what you’re capable of when not going 50 miles an hour,” Mark said. He pulled out a card. “Seriously, I’d love to see your finished work since your sketches alone are similar to what we typically exhibit. Would you be interested in sharing your portfolio?”

Francis squinted in the fast-fading light -- Mark Hamilton, Miravalles Gallery, owner and operator.

They sat straighter as the weight of guilt was countered by the buoy of possibility.