Chapter 7

Ten days before the graduation show, my right hand lost all feeling. Alan moved the easel into my room. Using my left hand with a specially adapted brush holder, I worked on the final strokes of Winter Graveyard. The moon above the tombstone was finally done. Silvery-gray, sprinkled with tiny flecks of light like crushed diamonds. I'd used a toothpick dipped in fluorescent paint – it would glow faintly in the dark. Cathy showed me photos of the exhibition hall on her phone. "President Dale had all your pieces put in climate-controlled cases. Said he'd give every visitor white gloves, worried breath might damage the paper." I looked at the familiar gray-blue in the photo. Three months ago, crouched on the studio floor, I'd cried all afternoon because I couldn't get a single white rose right. I never imagined then that this painting would be treated with such reverence. Alan brought warm water, moistening my lips with a swab. "How do you feel today? Want to try standing?" Lately,