Dad is out of the ICU and in a regular room. I tell Dad how great the painting of Ruth is and ask if it’s finished. “Of course it’s finished. Can’t you tell? I thought you pretended to be an artist. I want to get home and send it off.” He growls about having to spend another night in the hospital. In a loud voice he complains about the food and the nurses and about the man in the bed next to him who keeps the TV on. I try to hush Dad and look apologetically at Dad’s roommate, but he’s totally involved in a soap opera. Back home I get out wood, saw, hammer, and nails. It takes all day, but the crate is finally finished and ready for Dad. Just as I try the painting in the crate to be sure of the fit, I make a tiny scratch on the surface of Ruth’s blue dress. I’m destroyed. Dad’s a perfectionist. He’ll see the scratch. I mix cerulean blue with a touch of white. My hand is shaking. The brush barely touches the canvas. The match is perfect. I’m sure he won’t notice.
