Lost (34 page)

  Me and Peter connecting. 

  Peter wanting to connect with me. 

  Every time he said the word connect, he seemed so desperate for me to share myself with him.  He always seemed so in need of a connection with me.
  Suddenly finding myself trying not to cry, I thanked Margaret.  I thanked her as she looked between me and the 2 customers down the aisle.  She looked like she didn't want to stop talking to me but felt she should at least acknowledge the others in the store.
  “Margaret? When did you see Peter last?” I asked holding my breath.
  “Sadly, the third week of March, before the paintings arrived at Perry's.”
  “What paintings?  What's Perry's?” I begged nearly breathless.
  “The little art gallery past Medina's Chocolatier,” but I was at a loss.  I never had to pass Medina's chocolatier so I didn't know there was a little art gallery beyond it.
  “Does he still have paintings there?”
  “I think so.  You should go see his work.  They’re beautiful,” she smiled kindly.  “If I see Peter should I tell him you were asking about him?”
  “Yes... I want him to know,” I admitted sadly.
  “Okay.  If I think of anything else do you want me to let you know?”
  “God, yes.  Thank you, Margaret.  And please tell Terry I'm sorry I was such a bitch the last time I saw him.  I just didn't really believe anything he told me.”
  “And now?” She asked calmly.
  Looking back at Margaret’s kind face, I confessed. “I’m not going to lie- everything you just told me seems so farfetched and kind of insane, but you seem so sincere, and little things you said I remember Peter saying, so it's a little easier to believe, though it's still really crazy to me.  Did that make sense?” I laughed.
  “Yup.  My husband thought I was crazy too, but then he met Peter here once and he said immediately Peter was 'on the job',” she quoted.  “He said as soon as he met Peter he knew he was on the job because of his mannerisms and the way he answered questions.  So there you go.  I might sound crazy but I'm not wrong, I don't think,” she smiled.
  “Thank you again.  I'll go see Perry's art gallery and maybe they can tell me something about him,” I said leaving quickly with a wave and filled with purpose.
  “Good luck!” Margaret yelled walking to the back of the store.
  Once outside I was again surrounded by
what the hell?
  Everything Margaret said sounded almost plausible, and yet my logical brain wanted to dismiss everything she told me because it just seemed too unbelievable and made for TV or something.
  But I remembered a few things as I bundled up tighter outside.  I remembered weird moments of Peter looking around suddenly, or taking my hand and suddenly leading me a different way when we walked.  I remembered a few times he would act a little paranoid and we would have to leave a restaurant or store while he looked around intensely.
  I remember the time in Murphy’s when Peter jumped up almost abruptly and said he had to leave while he looked around strangely.  He was being weird, and I felt the weirdness all around me, but we were so new then I didn't know what was wrong, or why he acted so paranoid when he left the pub quickly.
  But maybe... 

  Walking down the street my head nearly exploded with the conflict between
as if
versus
maybe?

CHAPTER 27

  When I finally walked to Perry's Art Gallery from Sunshine and Life I was freezing.  It was mild for December but there was still a definite bite in the air, and because I hadn't dressed for walking outside for 2 and a half blocks, my hands and face were numb by the time I arrived.  But as I entered the little gallery I was quickly filled with warmth. 
  The gallery was so colorful and just warm.  There was warmth everywhere.  The music was soft instrumental, and the art was so lovely I stood still to take it all in. 

  Immediately, I could tell it wasn't a place of abstract artistic craziness, or paintings that screamed what the hell am I looking at?  It was a place of beautiful paintings of people within scenes with people, surrounded by people seemingly sectioned off by each artist.
  Looking, I knew what I was afraid to see.  But without any arrogance, I was sure I would see a portrait or painting of myself inside.
  When a gorgeous man sitting at a little corner desk came and greeted me, I almost begged,
Am I in here?
But amazingly, I kept it together.
  “Hi,” he smiled.  And he really was gorgeous, and even straight I think. “Is this your first time here?”
  “Yes.  I live not too far away in the village, and I was told to come in.  It's beautiful,” I spoke honestly. “But I've never made it past the delicious Chocolatier,” I grinned.
  As he laughed, he nodded. “We hear that a lot on this end of the block.  Don't feel bad,” he grinned.  “Why don't you have a look around, and let me know if you have any questions.  Everything in here is by a local artist,” he said smiling again, as he slowly walked away and sat back at his little desk, semi-hidden in the corner.  So I looked. 

  I tried to make it seem like I was interested in the art because I didn't want to just run through looking for myself.  I even faked an interest in at least one piece of almost each artist's section of wall.  But I was dying inside and I needed to know.
  Eventually, in the middle of the gallery I gasped when I finally found myself.  On a wall, halfway through the little gallery, behind a panel that separated the room into 2, I was up on the wall, and I was stunned. 

  There was no mistaking me.  There could be no mistake to anyone who knew me or had ever met me that it was absolutely me on the wall. 
  I was painted 4 times in vivid color, dressed as I always did, looking like I remember I looked when I was with Peter.  There were 4 beautiful paintings of me in various displays of happiness with Peter. 

  I was smiling outside surrounded by snow in one, and in the next I was sitting on my couch smiling straight at anyone looking at the painting.  In the third painting I was striking a pose at my bedroom door in a sexy little negligee, beaming at the watcher.  And in the final painting I was sleeping and snuggled up in my sheets but looking content as I slept.
  I looked beautiful in every painting, truly.  I may have been attractive, but Peter's ability to make me look beautiful was amazing.  I couldn't stop staring at all the color and the life in my eyes and through my smiles as he saw and painted me.
  Trying to take it all in, I realized the 4 paintings were mounted as corners with a charcoal sketch sitting sadly in the middle, which seemed awful somehow in comparison to all the color of the paintings.
  Looking at the center piece I saw it was a dark, charcoal drawing of devastation.  It was a tragic portrait of me that Peter had captured.  It must have been the very look I had when I stood by the door, almost leaning against the back of my couch when he broke up with me.
  Looking even at my clothing, I realized it
was
that exact Sunday morning in March.  I was wearing tights and a long brown sweater and I still had my brown riding boots on after getting our coffee that morning.  My hair was down, and slightly disheveled from the cold March morning blowing through me. 

  Looking closely, the sketch actually showed every emotion I had felt that day.  And sadly, I looked like a woman who had just been destroyed as she walked into a nightmare.

  Staring for however long, I let the first sob take me until the tears caused me to sit on the floor underneath the sketch of myself as I cried.
  And as time passed while I sat in my heartbreak, I heard myself moan just once, “Peter...”
 

  Eventually, the gorgeous guy asked, “Can I get you anything?” But I shook my head no while he looked at me until recognition clearly dawned on his face.  He didn't whip his head back and forth between me and the wall, he just looked once at me and back to the paintings, and he so clearly knew I was her on the wall, he seemed to shake his head at the pain he was experiencing.
  “I see you're familiar with Mr. Connor’s work,” he gently prodded.
  “A little,” I moaned.  “He painted a few portraits of me, and sketched me a few times.  But I didn't know about this,” I cried.
  After a few minutes of silence, gorgeous guy introduced himself as Michael and asked if I'd like a chair to sit on, which I did.  And once he placed a chair beside me, I sat down, perfectly situated in front of myself as I stared, and remembered, and felt everything of my life with Peter.
  At one point, a couple walked through the gallery and past me, but thankfully, they didn't acknowledge me or otherwise hover around.  I didn't know if it was because I was clearly dying in front of them, or because gallery etiquette meant you didn't hover around someone else's devastation.  But for whatever reason, they were there and then gone as I sat staring at the beautiful paintings.
  Staring, there was no mistaking the brilliance or the light that came from each one.  Even the sleeping painting captured me in total bliss as I slept.  I looked like a woman totally in love, sleeping with almost a private little smile in my slumber.  I looked so happy in the painting, I could actually feel the happiness all around me in my current sad reality.

  Looking at myself sleeping, I wondered about the watcher.  I wondered how many times Peter must have watched me, and what he was thinking about me when he did.  I thought of our last night, and Eddie Vedder’s voice faded away as I remembered Peter gently singing Black to me as I wept in the tender moment between us.
  Exhaling my misery, I looked next at the beautiful bedroom doorway painting which was just that,
beautiful
.  I looked so lovely standing there gazing at the person I was going to be with.  I looked like I was happily entering my room for the best sex of my life.  I looked sexy, but so in love the painting took all the potential smut and sleaziness out of the pose and clothing.  I didn't look slutty or trampy, even though the negligee was slightly transparent. 

  You could definitely see the slight coloring of my nipples through the pink negligee but it looked beautiful, not slutty.  It didn't matter that you saw the slight dusting of my nipples, because you were drawn almost immediately to my little smile and bright eyes.  I looked like a woman so in love, everything else faded but that minute before I walked to the love of my life waiting for me in my bedroom.
  The couch and outdoor painting were also just a lovely representation of nothing specific but everything loving in that moment.  I was sitting on the couch staring at Peter, and I loved him.  And in the outdoor painting I was standing with the backdrop of white snow highlighting my green coat and eyes as I smiled at the person I loved in front of me. I was loved and adored and my smile told our story beautifully.
  But naturally, I was drawn back to the charcoal drawing in the middle.  Looking at the drawing, I finally noticed the only words to be found anywhere, because the exhibit itself wasn't titled, and Peter's name wasn't listed below.
  The only words to be found were at the bottom of the charcoal drawing.  In a desperate looking script, almost like the word appeared before the sketch itself, it read… LOST. 

  That's all there was- One word to sum up everything I was in that exact moment of time and everything I became afterward.
  I was
lost.
  Sitting there, I realized I could almost make a play on the word itself.  Thinking about the word I realized I was lost, yes, but I had also lost.  I lost Peter.  I lost my lover.  I lost the life I wanted.  I lost everything I had ever wanted when he walked out the door.  I had lost.
  And
I
was
lost.
  So I cried again.  I cried a harder, soul-consuming cry of agony and defeat.  I cried like a total loser right in front of my paintings in the middle of a quaint little gallery at the end of the village on a brisk day in December.  I cried almost one year after the first date I ever had with Peter.
  Crying, I suddenly realized nothing seemed more cruel to me than knowing Peter understood completely who I was and what I had felt that day, but he left anyway.  He captured me as I was with him, yet he still ended us.
  And that became the greatest cruelty of our life and ending together.
  Peter knew and saw but he still left me alone.  Peter knew but he still left me alone and lost.
 

                                              *****

   After forever I noticed Michael checked up on me from time to time.  But other than a quick look which I ignored, he never spoke to me again or made me feel embarrassed for my breakdown in his gallery. 

  Michael brought me a bottle of water which I accepted with a nearly inaudible thanks, and then I was left alone with myself, then and now.
  Eventually, after what felt like hours in the gallery I knew I had to leave.  I knew I had to function again.  I knew I had to move on again but I felt trapped in the gallery.  I didn't want to leave and I didn't want to say goodbye.  I just didn't know how to leave Peter in the gallery without me.
   So I called my mom and asked her to please meet me, which amazingly she said she would without question or even pause.  My mom said she was coming for me, but she could be up to a half hour away, giving me another half hour to sink deeper into my despair.
  However long later though, I heard a soft whisper of my name as I turned to my mom walking toward me.  Walking to me with kind eyes, I finally released everything I had felt for the hours I sat staring at my previous life.
  “
See
.  This is what we were together…”
  “Oh, baby.  I see it,” she said kneeling on the floor, wrapping her arms around my shoulders as I buried my face in her neck and sobbed all over my mom. 
  “I'm fucked up again,” I choked.
  “It's okay to be,” she whispered in my ear.
  “Can you see it?  I wasn't delusional or wrong or dramatic, or even an idiot.  It was real because he saw it too.”
  “I see it, Sophie.  Can I take a better look?” She asked as I released her so she could really look. 

  Still kneeling beside me, she kept one arm around my waist but she seemed to only see what was in front of her.  She stared at the paintings of me while I cried silently beside her.  I didn't want to interrupt her by crying loudly, so I held in the sobs that wanted to destroy me.  And I kept my hands in my lap so I wouldn't rip the paintings from the wall and run.
  With tears slowly falling from her eyes, I knew my mom finally understood.

  “These are so beautiful.  I can't believe how he painted so much life and love in your eyes.”
  “He could because that's what I was.  I was alive and I loved him,” I whispered sadly.

  “I can see that.  Oh, god... Sophie.  This hurts
me
to look at, so I can't even imagine what you're feeling.  This is the most amazing and tragic thing I've ever seen in my life,” my mother cried softly.  “The middle drawing-”
  “Was the last day,” I cried to my mom's obvious understanding.  “That’s what I was wearing and that's what I must've looked like when he walked out of my apartment for the very last time.  That was me that day, and I feel...” But there were no words. 
  Looking at the woman's face in the charcoal drawing who stared back at me was beyond tragic.  She looked terrible and so destroyed you could actually feel her pain. 

  “That's how I still feel even though I've physically moved on.  Inside I still feel like that all the time,” I wept.
  “What do you want to do?  What can I do to help you, Sophie?  Tell me what I can do.” My mom begged me.
  “I don't know...”
  “Okay.  Just give me a minute,” she said rising, as I nodded while I stared at the lost woman on the wall.
  After a few minutes I heard raised voices, but I still couldn't get off the damn chair.  Sitting there staring at myself, I wanted to know what my mom was yelling about, but I just couldn't move.
  “Sophie!” I jumped. “Show him some ID,” my mom barked walking back to me from behind the partition.
  “What?”
  “I tried to buy the paintings, or take them, or friggin' steal them from the wall, but I can't.  But he said there's a note for a Sophie Morley with the paintings,” she said loudly as I gasped and stood so quickly the chair toppled behind me.
  “What note?  What?”
  “Sophie.  Open your purse and take out your Driver’s License,” she annunciated slowly for me.
  Scrambling for my little purse beside my coat on the floor, which incidentally I had no memory of removing, I grabbed my wallet with shaking hands, as my mom took it from me.
  Opening my wallet, she ripped through the credit cards and bank cards, until she pulled out my driver’s license and practically assaulted Michael with it.
  “Here!  Jesus, it's not like you couldn't tell it was her on the fucking wall,” my mom snapped scaring even me a little.
  But totally professional, Michael held his own against the crazy bitch and her psychotic daughter in front of him.