Downstairs, my mother was curled in the same position on the couch in the living room. I found my way into the kitchen, which was entirely white from the cabinets to the countertops to the floor. I walked over to what I thought was the door to the pantry and nudged it open and inside, with her back to me, sat Leah. The room was small and on either side sat two long tables. She turned and motioned for me to come in and then, without saying a word, handed me a watercolor set.

I sat at the table beside her and held the brush in my hand. Next to spelling, my favorite thing to do was paint and, when you’re nine, part of the magic of painting is that you can also color water. I spent the first fifteen minutes watching the paint spiral and float into the water in my jar and turn from red to orange to brown. I listened to the sound my paintbrush made as it scraped against the fibers of the sheet. I filled the page with broad strokes of rainbows and clouds and butterflies and then I looked up to see what Leah was doing.

There was an orange on the table. A very large piece of paper was clipped to her easel and she was drawing it in such enormous scale, it didn’t fit into the confines of the sheet. Her work was so detailed I could see each and every bump on the fruit’s surface. I looked around the room and, for the first time, noticed other samples of her art—everyday items blown up to cartoon-like proportions. I saw a hairbrush and a can opener and a slice of pizza. All enormous and exposed in such an intimate way that even though I didn’t understand what I was feeling, I felt myself blush. It was only days later that I realized that all of her work was in black and white. Otherwise, I might have found it strange that she had a watercolor set to give me.

She peered over my shoulder. “That’s beautiful.” She pointed to a swirl that looked surprisingly like a wave in the ocean. My favorite parts of art were the things that happened when you didn’t mean them to, and I tried to nod, but she was too close and I could feel my face turning red.

“Want something to eat?” She put down her pencil and stood. I followed, waiting to be told what to do.

“What kinds of things do you like?”

I didn’t answer, and then I saw my mother standing in the doorway rubbing her fingers across her forehead like she was trying to erase something from her brain.

“Eggs?” Leah asked.