Falling Under (31 page)
“You gonna send out any of those invites he gave you?” Sal asks.
I look down at the stack of platinum vellum in my hand and think about the e-mail I received from Hugo last week.
“Checking in” was the subject line, and he’d pasted a picture of Pollock unraveling toilet paper to the body of the text. “Wondering how you are and where you are,” the message said.
I didn’t know how to respond and I still had ten paintings to finish, so I figured it could wait.
Now I don’t know what to tell him, how he’ll react to what happened with Erik and me, whether or not I’ll ever feel ready to be in love again...
But I laid awake thinking of him that night and wished I had him to cuddle up to.
And then, imagining me cuddled up to Hugo made me think of Erik, alone in his bed across the city and the heavy, sad truth of never seeing him again.
“Maybe a few,” I tell Sal, and then head inside.
Later I address envelopes to Dad and Shauna, Mom, Bernadette, Faith, a couple of old professors and then, with my hands shaking, to Hugo.
At the bottom of Hugo’s card I scrawl a short note: “Hope you can come. Mara.”
All I can do is open the door, right?
In the morning, I walk to the post office unmolested by gruesome daydreams and mail the invitations. Back at home I make a phone call.
By the time the courier arrives, I’ve triple-bubble- wrapped a small painting, one that Caleb didn’t want, and tucked a copy of the invite inside with “FYI” written on it.
In the other lifetime, that parallel lifetime where Lucas is not part of us, Erik comes to the opening and stands by my side. In this one, he will at least know I’m all right and that I’m thinking of him sometimes. Perhaps he’ll read the re- views online, if there are any, and smile when he thinks of me. Perhaps he will come to the gallery and look at my work when I am not there. If he does, he will see himself, and he will see Lucas, buried deep but everywhere, in my work.
H
is hair is silver now and still long, worn in a ponytail. He looks like Vidal Sassoon—all arty European, lean in a crisp, collarless shirt and pleated linen pants.
His eyes are the same.
“Good morning, Ms. Foster,” he says when I show up to inspect the layout the day before the opening.
“Hi, Caleb.”
His eyes hold mine for what seems like forever.
“Hey, Sixteen,” he says, and his face breaks into the old grin. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too, actually,” I say. “Now that I’ve recovered from the shock.”
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I could have warned you, but then you might have declined my offer.”
“Probably not,” I say.
“So... how has life treated you? You look wonderful— hardly a day over seventeen.”
“You got charming, huh?” I say. “That’s new.” He chuckles, runs a hand over his hair.
“Life’s okay,” I say. “I keep learning, which must count for something. And I’ve tried to take your advice.”
“Ah?” he says.
“‘Work hard and become brilliant. Try to forget about me.’ You remember that?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I suppose you’ve looked back on me as a heartless bastard.”
“Sometimes.”
“But you did become brilliant, Sixteen,” he says.
“Don’t take too much credit,” I say, then soften it with a smile.
“I don’t,” he says. “And did you forget about me?” I laugh. “Well, you made a strong impression.” “You too, Sixteen, you too.”
He clears his throat, steps back and gestures at the walls where my paintings hang. “Do you like how we’ve hung them?”
I take a moment, then say, “Yes, it makes sense. I didn’t realize they were so.. .”
“Good?”
“No, I mean, thanks. I was going to say intense.” “Ah.”
“But I don’t really look at anything again once it’s finished—I just move on.”
“Interesting,” he says.
“So... are you still painting, Caleb?”
“Of course. The gallery is Michelle’s mostly, except when I take an interest in someone.”
“Like me.” “Yes, like you.”
I hesitate, then ask, “Did you know it was mine? That first one Sal brought?”
“Not until the day we sold it. But there was something in it—it spoke to me, gave me a déjà vu, you could say.”
“You did teach me a lot.”
“Good. Good luck tomorrow night, Mara. I hope you’ll allow me to feel just a little bit proud.”
6
Bernadette and Faith force me to buy high heels and a new dress. It’s red, and very short, and I’m trying to ignore it. I’m also trying to remember not to scrub my hands through my hair, which has been styled, with lots of product, to stand up on purpose.
Sal whistles when he comes to pick me up. “You don’t think I look conspicuous?” I ask.
“Babe, you’re supposed to be conspicuous. You’re hot and scary looking at the same time.”
“Oh, yay.”
“It’s good, it’s good,” he says. “Now, let’s go.”
It’s not the entire art world of Toronto there, but still, the opening is surreal. Michelle and Caleb propel me around and I shake hands and smile and try to answer questions about my style, my techniques, and my influences.
“Vestiges of minimalism.” “Interesting use of blue.”
“Obvious commentary on the politics of our time.” “Gritty.”
“Rich.”
“Sparse.”
Can I be rich and sparse at the same time? This crap cracks me up.
I also overhear the less positive comments and try to keep the same sense of humor.
“Gross.”
“It doesn’t speak to me.” “Derivative.” “Indecisive.” “Inaccessible.” “Melodramatic.” “Cold.” “Overwrought.”
And so on.
Bernadette, resplendent in pink vinyl and see-through knitwear, circles the gallery hand in hand with Faith. They walk up beside people and make loud, positive comments. I take them aside and ask them to stop, but Faith just giggles and Bernadette winks at me and wanders off.
“Can you do something?” I ask Faith. She shakes her head.
Later someone asks me if it’s true that I’ve been con- tacted by the Whitney, and I see Bernadette giving me the thumbs up.
“No,” I say, and the poor guy walks off looking confused.
Mom comes, looks at the price list and nods her head in approval before taking a call on her cell and disappearing.
Dad and Shauna come later and, likely at Bernadette’s provocation, contribute further to the ridiculous Whitney rumor.
“Deny it all you want,” Bernadette says, “it’s all about spin—it’s marketing. And who knows, the Whitney might call you.”
“Sure.”
Sal keeps me in diet soda and I find myself glancing at the door and feeling disappointed as the hours pass and Hugo doesn’t come. Maybe I should have called him to invite him personally.
Should have, should have, should have. I have drunk too deeply of “should have.” Perhaps it is time to banish “should have.”
And there’s that stupid ache for Erik again.
The crowd, which seems large mostly because the gallery is small, thins eventually and I have time to breathe and be with my paintings. Not that I’ve ever found them great company, but these particular ones on this particular night are different.
I send my thoughts out to wherever Lucas may be. I won- der what he would think of me tonight, and whether he would see himself here, all over the walls. Perhaps he would be happy for me. Perhaps he would want me to let him go, to let time heal the mess we all made. Or perhaps he wouldn’t.
Perhaps I will accept that I’ll never know. And I will start to think about what I want. And then I can begin to deserve it.
6
Midnight: Michelle goes to lock the front door, but a last straggler is asking to come in.
“Sorry, you’ll have to come back tomorrow,” she says. She’s about to shut the door when I see who it is. “Wait,” I call out in a strangled voice. “I know him.”
She lets him in and goes back to join Caleb for more champagne.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says.
We stand by the door. He shuffles his feet, I pull at my dress.
“I’m not too late?” he says.
“Probably not,” I say. “Why don’t you come in?” “All right.”
I would have been fine to do this alone. But perhaps I won’t be.
The end
