Sketches (24 page)

“It's okay,” I mumbled, and she nodded.

I followed Nicki through the main studio and into her office. I followed behind her like a little child, powerless to resist.

“I just knew,” Nicki said. “I knew because of the painting.”

“The painting . . . my painting?”

She nodded.

“How could you know anything from my painting?” “It's all right there.” She opened up her closet and removed the painting from where it was still being stored. She placed it on top of the filing cabinet and
leaned it against the wall so we could both see it. My sister and I were staring out at us. I looked away. I didn't like looking at it.

“Sometimes I get so busy that I lose track of things. I was so happy that you did a great painting, thrilled that you had done something that Becca thought was good enough to sell, that I didn't really look at the painting. If it had been hanging on a wall instead of hidden inside my closet I would have seen it sooner. I just knew that something about it bothered me. And now I know why. Now I see it.”

“See what?”

“The way you've painted you and your sister. The expression on your face . . . you look angry, sad, scared, and worried. And your sister? She looks happy.”

“She is happy. I'm the worrier in the family.”

“Not always. You used to be happy, like she is. That changed,” Nicki said.

“Things change. I grew up.”

“It's more than that. It's what's behind the two of you. The background in your painting.” She paused. “Those dark strokes, they look like fingers, like hands, reaching out, touching you,
violating
you.”

I felt myself shudder, but I didn't blink, or flinch, or change my expression in the smallest way. I just kept on staring straight at the painting. I didn't want her to know what I was thinking, what I was feeling, the way my guts were rolling and raging, and how much I was
fighting the urge to cry or scream or puke or run out the door.

“That's how I knew you had been cutting yourself on your thighs,” she said. “Lots of kids mutilate themselves, but when they cut themselves on the legs it's usually because they've been abused . . . sexually abused.”

I stared harder at the painting, not daring to look at Nicki.

“I'm not going to ask if you've been sexually abused,” Nicki said, “because I
know
you have been. What I want to know is if you're safe now.”

“I'm safe,” I whispered.

“That's good,” Nicki said. “I'm so glad you're safe. But there's one other thing I need to know about. Look at the picture.”

There was no need to say that to me because I couldn't take my eyes off it.

“The darkness that's in the picture, the part that's engulfing you, surrounding you.” She paused. “Do you see the way it's starting to extend toward your sister . . . how the fingers are moving toward her? Do you see that?”

I gasped. I'd painted it but I'd never seen it, I'd never really looked at it myself. There they were, the dark strokes moving toward her. My God.

“Dana, this is important,” Nicki said. “Has your sister been abused?”

“No . . . I . . . I . . . I don't think so . . . no, I don't think so . . . not when I left,” I stammered.

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. She would have told me. She tells me everything. She couldn't keep that a secret.”

“Didn't you keep it a secret?”

My guts started to roll around even more violently.

“Is she in danger?” Nicki asked. “Is the person who abused you still in the house?”

I nodded. “My stepfather. But he never touched her. I
know
he didn't.”

“There's lots of things you can't know for certain,” she said.

She was right. How could I know about my sister if my mother didn't know about me?

“When did the abuse start with you, Dana?” Nicki asked.

“A long time ago,” I said. “Almost four years ago.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

“And how old is your sister now?”

“She's ten . . . no, eleven . . . she just had her birthday.” I felt like my heart was stuck in my throat, like I couldn't breathe.

Nicki reached over and took my hand. “Dana,” she said. I looked away from the painting and at her. I was panic-stricken. “We have to do something. Something to protect your sister.”

“I can't do anything. I couldn't even protect myself.”

“We have to protect her.”

“I can't. I can't go back,” I stammered.

“Nobody's asking you to go back, but we have to do something. Dana, do you trust me?” Nicki asked.

“I guess.”

“Then you have to trust me to do the right thing—the right thing for you and your sister. This isn't going to be easy.”

“Nothing ever is,” I said. “Ever.”

“And I'll be there to help, every step of the way,” she said.

I took a deep, deep breath. “Do what you need to do . . . what we need to do for my sister.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“
DO I LOOK OKAY
?” I asked Becca nervously.

“You look fine, very nice.”

“But do I look like an artist?”

Becca laughed. “Do you mean do you have enough piercings and tattoos?”

I groaned. “I don't have any tattoos, and the only parts I have that are pierced are my ears.”

She laughed. “Don't worry about it. I have enough piercings for both of us, and I just got a new tattoo.” She rolled up her sleeve to show off the new artwork, a beautiful design that went all around her upper arm. I was guessing she'd drawn it herself.

“It's nice, but I don't think I'll ever get a tattoo.”

“Probably smart. My mother says she remembers when getting a tattoo was a sign of rebellion, not conformity.”

“What exactly does that mean?” I asked.

“It means don't get a tattoo unless you really want one. It's not about keeping up with your friends or looking like an artist or being anybody but yourself,” she explained. “And tonight is all about the art, and your painting is going to wow them. So, you ready?”

“I guess.”

“Then take a deep breath and let's go.”

Becca pulled back the curtain that separated the backroom from the gallery and we stepped through. All around us on all the walls were paintings. Most of them were Becca's, and I was familiar with a lot of them. That didn't mean I wasn't impressed, or disturbed—Becca said it was hard to do one without the other. There were also paintings by other artists, and of course my painting. It was hanging on its own. Becca said it was in a very, very good location in the gallery.

Interspersed among the paintings were pieces of abstract sculpture. They were made of old computers and TV sets, scraps of metal, fast-food wrappers and containers, and broken Barbie dolls—all things that had been found in the garbage. They were welded and glued together in strange and bizarre patterns and combinations. The program for the night called them “
avant-garde, street-inspired art that makes a poignant statement about the disposability of humans and their possessions
.” I just thought they were kind of strange, and not really art. But what did I know? I didn't even have any piercings and my hair wasn't pink.

There was a buzz of conversation in the room as more and more people filtered in. They were young, old, men, women, couples, singles, groups, well dressed, strangely clothed. They were everything and everybody. I couldn't help wondering what would happen if somebody took a big old glue gun and stuck all the people together into a piece of avant-garde art. I didn't know if it would look any good, but it would probably have impressed some people.

Moving among the crowd were waitresses carrying trays holding little pieces of cheese and tiny sandwiches and mini-sausages and pint-sized glasses of white wine. Everything was tiny. It was like they were trying to feed a whole bunch of leprechauns.

“Looks like a good turnout,” Becca said.

“There are a lot of people,” I said.

“The more people who come, the more they are willing to spend, and the more paintings get sold.”

“Do you think mine's going to sell?”

“I'd bet money on it. But I do have one suggestion. Don't stand by your painting.”

“Why not?”

“Because other people are going to be standing there talking about it, and while some of them will like it tremendously, some will really,
really
not like it at all.”

“Why wouldn't they like it?”

“Because that's the way it is. If they were showing the
Mona Lisa
here tonight there'd be at least three
people who would think it's a piece of garbage. You'll save yourself a lot of irritation if you don't stand there to hear those three stupid people talk.”

“If you want, I'll stay in the kitchen for the whole evening,” I offered.

“Becca, darling!” a woman screamed from the far side of the gallery. She waved her hand in the air, barged through people, and came toward us. She was wearing tight pants, a low-cut top, hair piling up to the sky, and lots and lots of jewellery.

“My agent,” Becca said.

“You have an agent?”

“Yeah, and if you're not careful you'll end up with her as your agent, too.”

“How are you, darling?” She threw her arms around Becca and gave her a kiss on both cheeks.

“I'm good,” Becca said.

“Excellent! This is a wonderful night, wonderful!”

“I hope so.”

“We have so much to discuss.”

“I'll leave you two to talk,” I suggested.

“Thank you, young lady. And would you be a dear and bring me a drink?”

“She's not a waitress,” Becca said.

“Oh, I'm sorry . . . my apologies.”

“I'll catch up to you,” Becca said. “And remember to stay away from your painting, Dana.”

“Dana? Are you Dana?” the agent asked.

I nodded.

“We simply
have
to talk. Becca has told me all about you! Right after Becca and I finish up our discussion I'll come and track you down!”

“Okay . . . sure.” Somehow being tracked down by her didn't sound like something I really wanted. Maybe it wasn't too late to get her a drink and pretend I really was a waitress.

I wandered off into the crowd. I didn't know if anybody was actually going to buy anything, but they certainly did seem to be enjoying themselves. They were eating miniature food, drinking tiny drinks, talking, and laughing. I wished I had somebody to laugh with and talk to and—just then the door opened and Ashley and Brent and Gizmo and Nicki walked in!

I rushed over. “It's so great to see you all!” I exclaimed. “I'm so glad you could come!”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Brent said, giving me a hug. “You know art is my life.”

“Yeah, right. So tell me about your life,” I said. “How are things going?”

“We're doing amazing. You have to come and see our new apartment,” Ashley said.

“You got it?” I exclaimed.

“Two bedrooms above a store on Queen Street.”

“That's amazing, that's wonderful! And how about Pumpkin? How is she doing?” Ashley had promised
that as soon as they had an apartment Pumpkin wouldn't be homeless either. “I can't wait to see her again.”

“You probably won't recognize her,” Brent said.

“Why not?”

“Because Ashley's been feeding her so much that the cat's gotten fat,” he said.

“She has put on a little weight,” Ashley admitted.

“A little?” Brent questioned. “She's been spoiling that animal!”

“Pumpkin deserves to be spoiled. I'm making up for the years she wasn't treated right.”

“If you're not careful, you're going to kill her with kindness,” Brent said. “Poor cat's so overweight she's a candidate for a cat cardiac arrest.”

“She's just pleasantly plump, and I'm going to keep on spoiling her. Why shouldn't I? She's my baby . . . mine and Dana's.”

“And how is business?” I asked Brent.

“Couldn't be better. Me and the Giz here sold three scooters last week. That's two months' rent with enough left over to buy pieces for three more scooters.”

“I'm so proud of you both.”

“So when are you coming over to see our place?” Brent asked.

“She'll have to check to make sure she's allowed,” Nicki said.

“She's right, I have to ask permission before I go anywhere,” I said.

“From your foster parents?” Brent asked.

“Them and the social worker . . .
my
social worker. They watch over me pretty carefully.”

“That's good, I guess. How are things going?” Ashley asked.

“Okay. They've been foster parents for a long time so they know what they're doing,” I said.

“And they're treating you okay?” Brent said.

“Yeah. They're nice people.”

“'Cause if they're not treating you right, you know you've got a place to stay.”

“If things aren't going well she can talk to her social worker,” Nicki pointed out. “She's not going to be running anywhere, right?”

“Right,” I said. “Anyway, I don't think I'm going to be in foster care for too much longer . . . I might be going home . . . to be with my sister.”

“And your mother too, right?” Ashley asked.

I nodded. “She's there.”

“And your stepfather is gone now?” Brent asked.

“Gone forever.” He'd been arrested, I explained, and the deal was that when he was eventually let out he'd have to live someplace else. He wasn't even allowed near the house. That was probably a good thing, because my mother said she'd kill him if she ever saw him again.