The Last Exhibition

“Look!” Colin says, pressing his nose up to the painting. “Look at those brush strokes!” He takes a step back. “And his use of light and shade is incredible. Just amazing.”

“Yes,” I say, smiling. I’m no expert but his enthusiasm is infectious. “Isn’t it?”

“What an achievement,” he says, gesturing around at the paintings on the walls.

He sighs, the corners of his mouth drooping, and I can tell that he’s comparing these masterpieces to his own works, knocked up in the garage between shifts in the warehouse. It’s not a fair comparison, I want to tell him. Some artists dedicate their whole lives to their bodies of work. But with that thought comes the guilt that Roger and I couldn’t afford to send him to art school, couldn’t afford for him to do the same.

The painting in front of us is of a sunset, shades of pink and purple merging with the blue. It’s no wonder Colin is drawn to it. It reminds me of the sketches he used to make night after night, never coming in for his dinner until the last rays had disappeared. He was such a good boy, never complaining, ever thoughtful. He used to bring me flowers, like his father before him.

“You never told me he was so talented,” Colin says, and I want to ask what he means, who he means, but the pain stabs my chest unmercifully. Perhaps it’s the guilt. Whatever it is, it takes my breath away.

“You go on,” I say, trying to fix a smile on my face, knowing I won’t be able to maintain it for long. “I’m just going to sit here a while.”

“I should stay,” he says, an anxious look on his face.

“No,” I say before he has the chance to sit down beside me. It comes out more harshly than I intended. I take a deep breath.

“No,” I say again, more gently, “you go on. Please.” My cheeks ache with the effort of smiling; my eyes are beginning to fill with tears. I suppress the words “I’m fine,” knowing they would be a red flag. He was so excited about bringing me to the library today. I don’t remember why. He hasn’t even picked out any books. But I refuse to spoil his day.

“Well, okay,” he says, his hair swinging across in front of his eyes. I wish he would get a haircut. I barely recognise him lately. “Just this once won’t hurt, I guess.” He winks at me. “But don’t tell the boss, eh?”

I open my mouth to ask what he’s talking about, but the pain is too much. I nod and watch as he walks away, struggling to keep my body erect until he is out of sight and I can slump across the bench, breathing into the pain, gritting my teeth as another invisible wave passes through my body.

“Are you okay?” The man is short, well dressed. He is wearing a hat. Roger always wore a hat, though he used to have better style. I shall have to buy him a new one.

“Yes, yes,” I say, trying to straighten up, not wanting Roger to see me like this. But it’s no good. The pain has gripped my whole body.

I reach out a hand to take his, but he pulls away. “Roger?” I say. “Roger?” but he looks frightened and that scares me more than anything. Roger was always so brave, right up until he left. I can’t think where he went now.

“Roger?” I say again, but he turns away, calling out loudly and there’s a woman coming towards me now, a badge swinging around her neck.

“Mrs Fairweather?” she says. “Are you all right?” I know her face but I can’t place her. Who is she and what’s she doing with my Roger?

The colours are swirling in front of my eyes. I feel like I have been transported inside one of the paintings. The pain is starting to ease. My head feels light. I feel there is something I need to say before I drift away.

“My son’s a painter,” I tell the woman, grasping onto her hand urgently. “Such a bright boy, my Colin.”

“Colin?” I hear her say through the fog of colours that swirl before my eyes. “Colin Fairweather?”

I nod and close my eyes, embracing the darkness.

I hear someone gasp. “The artist? But didn’t he-?”

“Poor love,” the woman’s voice says. “Such a tragedy.”

I’m floating now. I can feel their arms pulling me up, up, hear their voices calling to me in shades of lilac and pink.

“Colin,” I say.

“I’m here, Mum.”

Of course he’s here. He was always here. I press a hand to my chest. Or is it someone else’s hand? It’s hard to tell now.

“Hold on,” I say. “I won’t be long.”