He painted lines. Just lines. Side-by-side. Parallel. Thin or fat, short or long, but always perfectly straight.
 

Many analyzed them — doctors, nurses, behaviorists, therapists. Sometimes, even Caroline, when she visited from Atlanta. The lines always ended abruptly, halfway across the page, fading into white space. There’d often be an indication of downward motion at the end of the side-by-side lines — perhaps a few wavy marks or even a bold arrow pointing down.
 

Sometimes, crimson color splashed across the straight brown lines and the white paper.
 

Bright. Startling.
 

He was twenty-one now. An adult, technically. But no one knew if he felt like one. No one knew if he thought like one. No one knew if he missed his mother. No one knew what filled his mind when he lay in his room on the fourth floor of the Ocean View group home.

No one but him.
 

Every day, he got up, ate his oatmeal, dressed in his Dockers and white button-down shirt, slipped on his loafers, and painted brown lines on white paper. Opinions varied, but most agreed the paintings were “interesting.” They clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder and spoke to him in their best institutional voices.
 

“Marvelous, Eddie,” Dr. Santiago might say. “Painting the stairs again, I see. Can you paint a picture of Caroline for me tomorrow?”
 

“Eddie? Why don’t you paint something besides the stairs? Just look at the garden. The flowers are so pretty today,” Nurse Lowden would suggest as she swept past with her med cart.
 

Even Orson, the enormous black orderly on the fourth floor, tried gently. “Eddie, my man. Miss Dalores was looking at you today. Maybe paint her a butterfly or a dolphin, huh?” He’d laugh loudly and move on to the coffee station.
 

Eddie never answered. He kept his head down, eyes narrowed, focused on the paper as his hands maneuvered the brush. Short, precise strokes. Tense body. Fierce blue eyes.
 

Later, his movements would become erratic, wild — but his lines stayed straight.
 

High-pitched whimpers would rise from his chest. Every few minutes, he’d shake his head, rock back and forth, visibly calm himself, and return to the paper. Orson would come then, gently removing the brush from his cramped fingers and leading him, unresisting, back to his room.
 

People often asked Eddie why he painted what he painted. Eddie could not answer them.

But if he could, he would tell them:
 

He painted what he saw from the top of the stairs at his home in Washington, Georgia.
 

He had seen so much from there.
 

There was a narrow space, hidden between the stair landing and the first bedroom — Eddie’s room. He fit there perfectly. That was his place.
 

From the top of the stairs, he looked down into the cool, open parlor and the front door.
 

Mommy met the other children there each day after school. Eddie couldn’t go to school. He stayed in his place at the top of the stairs and watched her greet them with kisses, collect their lunchboxes, and laugh at their stories.
 

At bedtime, Mommy would bathe him. She sang softly while rinsing his hair, then tucked him in.
 

“Eddie, my little angel. One day you’re going to open your mouth, and the wisdom of the world is going to tumble right out.”

The light in her eyes warmed his skin. She kissed him. He always slept well.
 

He saw Daddy, too. Saw Mommy kiss him, hang up his coat. Daddy would sit on the embroidered bench, emptying his pockets, patting Mommy’s bottom playfully. She’d laugh and swat him. Eddie smiled.
 

He watched Caroline kiss Roger in the parlor. She was the prettiest thing Eddie had ever seen. He saw Roger try to slip his hands under her skirt. Caroline slapped him, made him leave, but they were both smiling. Especially Caroline.
 

He saw when the men building the Kmart brought Alan home after he’d wrecked his bike — his body scraped, pale, and bleeding. Mommy cried, Daddy held her, whispering it would be okay. And it was.
 

Christmas trees, Easter eggs, scary Halloween masks… he remembered it all. The good things made Eddie happy.

But Eddie saw other things from the top of the stairs, too.
 

He saw Alan stumble in drunk, vomiting broccoli casserole onto Mommy’s white carpet. The stain stayed for years. Daddy was angry. Mommy was frightened.
 

Caroline let Roger kiss her more each time — until the night Daddy came home early and found them. Shirtless Caroline. Roger’s zipper is down. Daddy’s rage filled the house. That night, thunder shook the walls. Eddie remembered the sound in his bones.

Things changed. Mommy grew sad. Alan drank more. Daddy shouted. Caroline cried.
 

Eddie shrank into his place, helpless.
 

Eventually, Alan moved out. For a while, things got better. But Daddy’s anger turned toward Caroline. Eddie heard their arguments from his bed, curled tight.
 

“Where have you been?”
 

“Out.”
 

“Roger again?”
 

“Yes, Daddy. Can I go to bed now?”
 

“You let him put his hands on you again? Maybe more than that now, huh?”
 

The tone of Daddy’s voice made Eddie feel sick. Something was changing in him. Something Eddie couldn’t name. Mommy stopped fighting. She stayed in her room and cried.
 

Caroline would sometimes come to Eddie’s room, brush his hair, whispering, “Someday I’ll be gone, Eddie. It’ll just be you, Mommy, and Daddy. Maybe things will be better then.”
 

He whimpered, not understanding. She comforted him, held him, and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Eddie. Goodnight.” He always slept well those nights.
 

But the worst thing Eddie ever saw happened in the dark, long after everyone else had gone to bed.
 

Loud voices. Caroline sobbing. Eddie crept to his special place. He looked through the rails — the straight, brown rails. So straight. So safe.
 

Caroline stood by the door, suitcase packed. Daddy blocked her.
 

He shouted. Called her names. Grabbed her arms and shoved her against the wall.
 

“Daddy, no. Please, you’re hurting me.”
 

“If you want to act like a slut, then by God, I’ll treat you like one.”
 

He shoved her onto the flowered bench. Tore her shirt. Eddie whimpered. His thumb in his mouth, rocking.
 

“Touch it,” Daddy growled. “That’s it, baby. Do it for Daddy.”
 

Caroline sobbed. Daddy climbed on top of her. Eddie couldn’t understand what was happening, but his belly turned. He wanted to run, scream — anything — but he was frozen in place.
 

When Caroline’s head tilted back, her eyes found his.
 

She saw him. “Eddie… no… go away… please.”
 

Daddy stopped. Looked up. Saw Eddie too.
 

He flew up the stairs. Eddie squeezed his eyes shut.
 

“Don’t you ever tell, Eddie! You saw nothing!” Daddy shook him hard.
 

Caroline screamed, “He can’t even talk! He won’t say anything! Please!”
 

She pulled at Daddy until he dropped Eddie to the floor. Eddie scuttled backward, curling into the wall. But Daddy advanced.
 

Then Mommy appeared.
 

“You bastard!” she shrieked. “Leave my children alone!”
 

Her voice cracked through the night. She lunged. Nails, fists, teeth.
 

They slammed into the banister. The wood groaned.
 

Eddie opened his eyes just in time to see it give way, splintering into a thousand clean-smelling shards.
 

Mommy and Daddy fell.
 

They landed hard on the glass-topped occasional table beneath the stairs.
 

Eddie stared through the broken rails. The white carpet was splashed with startlingly bright crimson.
 

That’s what Eddie might say if he could.
 

Why did he paint what he painted?
 

Caroline knew he saw. He had seen everything in her eyes.
 

But she never spoke of it.
 

Eddie just loved her.

And painted the view from the top of the stairs.