By Brynn Byrne

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Medium Orchid. I held the paint swatch against the wall. It was a pretty shade of purple. She probably chose it for the name. “Orchids are just so elegant” she always used to say. A jewel shade, I thought, however, was too much for a kitchen. She’ll be sick of this within a month. Emboldened, I asked, “mom do you think purple is appropriate for a kitchen?” “Sure it is! And it’s just so elegant.” Mom was excited. Clearly. “We’ll start with the primer” she sang. “Are you ready?” Ready? I asked myself. For an argument? To roll my eyes practically out of my head? No, I wasn’t ready for any of those things. 

I regretted not smoking that joint beforehand. I would just have to get through this project, I told myself. Helping Mom would buy me some goodwill that could last up to a year. There would be significantly fewer questions about what went wrong with “what’s his name,” or fewer criticisms of my hairstyle and comments about my supposed weight gain...besides, she needed the help. Without it, she’d have likely forgotten to crack a window or even could’ve fucked up the edges. I definitely got my perfectionism from Dad.

 

“Where is Dad?” I asked louder than I intended. “Oh he’s outside goofing around in the shed.” she sighed. “He didn’t want me to redecorate again.” I feigned surprise.

We dipped our roller brushes into their respective trays. There was something satisfying about watching the brand new brush soak up the watery white liquid. I understood this aspect of her obsession. I could slosh this thing around for an hour and be content, I decided. As if she had read my mind, Mom piped up. “I think you have enough primer on there…” and in a synchronized motion we put our first strokes on the wall. Together we inspected the accidental white “V” we painted onto the green and gold stripes that were created on the wall four years ago. I recalled how excited she was to try the “striping technique” that she saw on her favourite HGTV show.

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We methodically dipped, sloshed, and rolled in silence for what seemed like a year. With each roller brushstroke, I remembered the ghosts of kitchen decors past. When I was just a toddler there was this terrible brown linoleum on the floor. The walls were canary for the most part. Gingham patterned white and canary wallpaper adorned this wall… the one we were painting. One memory triggered another. I heard my Dad curse for the first time as he removed the stubborn gingham paper. Next came powder blue walls with a fruit motif (a bit on the nose) border through the middle. The brown linoleum came up and a white and blue linoleum went down. After that reno, mom seemed to be content for a while waiting a whole five years before the next project. The sponge painting disaster of 94’ gave Dad at least a dozen grey hairs. “Why are we painting again Daddy?”  I whispered to him conspiratorially. Without looking up from his beer he grumbled “happy wife, happy life.” Baby boomers love their cliches. This thought made me chuckle softly. 

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“What’s so funny?” Mom accused, bringing me back to the present. “Oh, nothing… I was just remembering something from a podcast I was listening to on the way here. “What is a podcast anyway?” she asked with whiny skepticism. “It’s sort of like talk radio but better” I offered.  “Like Dr. Joy Brown?” Mom asked suddenly interested. “No definitely not.” I spat out. I immediately regretted that sassy tone. I liked Dr. Joy… mom and I would listen to her in the car. There very well could have been advice podcasts. I should look into that I thought, only half-joking. I imagined calling in to say my mother has redecorated her kitchen seven times. I would probably not get past the screening. The producer would ask… “really? That’s it?” “well maybe it’s more complicated than that…” I’d offer, embarrassed at my own privilege.

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“You’re so quiet” Mom blurted out bringing me back again. I answered with a shrug. More memories revealed themselves. It was 2004 when Mom finally got her ceramic tile. A victory. It was my second year at university. I worked two jobs throughout the school year to scrape by and nearly flunked a class. I couldn’t imagine (still can’t) affording a home like this and getting CERAMIC TILE. This thought made me splash the roller brush a little too hard into the tray. “Careful!” Mom warned. The silence between us continued punctuated by a soft “squish swish” soundtrack of the soothing roller strokes. “You know, Nana is very sick,” Mom said suddenly. “I know. I’m going to visit her tomorrow” I sighed. “Good because I don’t think she’s going to make it this time,” Mom said, matching my sigh.

 

Squish swish... the strokes of the primer became hypnotic summoning hidden memories. I realized that Mom painted the kitchen powder blue after her grandfather died. The horrific sponge painting came after she was laid off from her job. The iconic “striping” was done after Aunt Bea was diagnosed with cancer. This particular onslaught of memories sped up the once dragging process, and suddenly the whole wall was primed. The green and gold stripes peeked out of the thin watery white paint. Despite our efforts, these old stripes were still there. “We need another coat or two right Mom?” I waited for her response. “Yes,” Mom choked out.  We stood there for a moment staring at our work. After a deep breath I said, “Mom, I think the medium orchid is going to look great.”