Chapter 4
At ten the next morning, I walked through the front door with Chloe and three of our artist friends.
The moment Gertrude saw us carrying in wooden easels, canvases, and supply boxes, her face turned pale green.
"What do you think you're doing?!"
"Painting," I replied with a bright smile. "Mom, didn't you say I was costing the family too much? I'm painting a few more pieces to bring in extra cash."
I directed my friends to set up their easels around the living room and stretch out their canvases. The pungent, sharp scent of turpentine quickly filled the air.
Gertrude looked increasingly panicked. Pressing a handkerchief tightly over her nose, she flattened herself against the wall.
"Stop! Stop this right now!" she screeched. "These fumes are toxic! You're going to poison me!"
Chloe smiled cheerfully. "Oh, Mrs. Miller, paint isn't toxic. We're art majors; we work around this stuff every day, and our health is fantastic."
Another friend chimed in with a grin, "Exactly. Weren't you an elementary school teacher? Schools have art classes all the time; you should be completely used to this."
Trembling with pure rage, Gertrude retreated to her bedroom and slammed the door shut with a deafening bang.
About twenty minutes later, the sound of a key frantically rattling in the front lock broke the quiet.
Mark burst inside, panting heavily. He had been right in the middle of his company's quarterly review meeting when Gertrude called him in hysterics.
"Claire! How much longer are you going to keep throwing these tantrums?!"
Seeing the living room converted into an art studio with easels and open paints, his face turned completely livid.
"Don't you know Mom is allergic to paint fumes?! Are you trying to murder her?!"
I paused my brush mid-stroke. "How do you know she's allergic to paint? Did you personally take her to an allergist to get tested?"
Mark choked on his words, caught off guard.
Right on cue, Gertrude threw her bedroom door open, clutching her chest and swaying as if she were about to faint on the spot.
"Mark... I can't do this... I can't catch my breath... These chemical fumes are going to kill me..."
Mark rushed forward to steady her, then spun back toward me with a furious glare.
"Claire, can't you show a shred of empathy for Mom? She's an elderly woman with fragile health! Do you have to make everything a battle?!"
"How am I making it a battle? I'm painting in my own home. What's the issue?"
"This is our home, not just yours!" Mark raised his voice, shouting over the room. "You need to think about the rest of the family!"
"The rest of the family?" I set my brush down and stood up slowly. "Mark, did you ever consider my feelings? Did you think about me when your mother forced me awake at six in the morning to scrub the floors on my hands and knees? Did you think about me when she called me a toxic, abusive wife?"
Mark's face flushed hot, alternating between shame and anger.
I turned my back on him and picked up my palette. "I am painting today, and nobody is stopping me."
My friends watched quietly, their eyes filled with a mix of solidarity and worry.
Mark stood in the hallway, completely cornered.
Finally, he stomped his foot in frustration. "Fine! Paint all you want! I'm done dealing with this!"
He guided Gertrude back into her bedroom and shut the door behind them.
I exchanged a victorious glance with my friends.
Yet deep down, I knew this war was far from over.
Sure enough, later that night, muted whispers drifted from the master bedroom down the hall.
I hadn't intended to eavesdrop, but as I walked past the door, a single sentence caught my ear.
"Mark, when on earth are you going to divorce that woman?"
I stopped dead in my tracks.
"Mom, we can't divorce her right now," Mark's voice came through, hushed and tense.
"Why not?! Did you see how out of control she was today? She's completely unhinged! I am not going to cater to a daughter-in-law like that!"
"Mom, keep your voice down," Mark whispered urgently. "I told you before... about my condition."
"Azoospermia isn't a death sentence!"