Painting Sage

by Rachael K Hannah

  “I’m going to try their black bean enchilada,” she said. “And regular tea is fine.”

  “Sounds good. Just so you know, the cheese is vegan.”

  There was a pause.

  “What kind of monstrosity have you taken me to?”

  “Shhhh!” hissed a woman two tables down. She was accompanied by two toddler girls and was holding a baby. All three of her children managed to behave perfectly.

  Oh, this was going rather painlessly.

  “Sage…” I planted my palms firmly on the table.

  “Yes?”

  Ignore and shut it down, I told myself. “I’ll just head up to the counter and place our order.”

  She smirked but backed down. And we were back to good terms. Maybe. We just needed a distraction, a chance to get away from the apartment, share a meal over neutral territory, and somehow stumble onto common ground. It was no easy task; that was for certain. Nevertheless, the two of us had had our moments of cease-fires in the past. After our food arrived, Sage actually seemed completely entranced by it, scrutinizing the slab of cutting board used as a plate for her enchilada. With her fork, Sage poked at her meal with the seriousness and precision of one conducting a science experiment, at one point holding up a dollop of vegan cheese above eye level—closer to the overhead light—for further assessment. She didn’t talk much. When her food inspection was complete, Sage slowly cut it into tiny pieces, focused, and ate using even smaller, mouse-like bites. A few minutes passed until she pulled her phone out of her messenger bag and snapped a photo of her half-empty plate.

  “Are you going to post it?” I asked casually.

  Sage crinkled her nose in response. “No, I don’t like to do stuff like that. I’m just adding it to my collection, I guess,” she replied.

  We were at least speaking at a regular volume again. I quickly looked around to assess the crowd’s approval. There were definitely conversations going, albeit quiet ones. It appeared as though as long as everyone spoke in hushed tones, the guitarist and her fans remained unbothered.

  “Collection?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I have this thing I’m creating with the camera on my phone. I have all these pictures. Most of them are recent. There’s a few from last year, you know, around that time. It’s not that interesting, but I’m going to make a collage for both my rooms—the one at home and, well, your place. I still have to move my stuff out of the house in Connecticut, so I haven’t had much time to print this all out and piece it together.”

  “Oh. Can I see?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  Sage paused, looking doubtful, then cautiously handed me her phone.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not snooping through your stuff. I’m a little into photography, too. Our department works very closely with the photographers at the company. And, you know, I actually went to school for film, so I have a bit of an eye for this stuff, you could say. The whole writing thing just came up, and I kinda fell back into it.” I meant just to tap left, but my finger slipped and swiped a bit too hard, skipping rows of pictures.

  “Oh, don’t worry. That’s probably good anyway,” she said. “You should go all the way back to the beginning and then move photo by photo.”

  I could see what she meant. Sliding through her photography, I could see that the forward progression made artistic—and not just chronological—sense. In the little time I had known her, I had figured Sage was into technology, but I also noticed that she really liked to take pictures. She always had that phone out, snapping away at something. But I had no idea as to the extent of her level of skill. There was something in the way she captured the light and angles. It was actually almost on par with some of work I’d seen in our photography and art department.

  “Sage, this is really good,” I said.

  “Everyone takes pictures now,” she dismissed. “It’s really no big deal.”

  “Yes, but,” I paused. They weren’t just really good photos; there was a narrative quality to them. That was it. It wasn’t the photos necessarily that drew me in, but the story. She was obviously telling a story in her work, reaching out to an observer to enter her world.

  Most were shots of the city, a few of people. Some I didn’t recognize, and some probably weren’t even aware that their pictures were being taken. It was all quite moving, in some cases even a little bit disturbing. Some of her earlier work… well, there was an unsettling darkness to it. Back in school—and even at the office, when we had a spare moment not to get all wrapped up in client-centered agendas—we’d talked about how real creation made you feel something. Whether you were comfortable with those feelings or not, if it provoked you or inspired you, you had something there. Those pictures on her phone told a story—her story. They were by no means perfect, but definitely, something was there.

  “But?”

  “Do you like to write? Like your dad?” I asked.

  “What makes you mention that?”

  “Well, it’s like you’re telling a story here.” I pointed to an image taken at Washington Square Park’s water fountain. Although the photo displayed a small crowd of people who either stood around or within the fountain’s waters, the sunlight’s ray seemed to singularly capture this one girl—she couldn’t have been more than eleven or maybe twelve. She stood in the fountain, water almost up to her gangly knees. She wore a yellow t-shirt and faded denim shorts that blended smoothly along the warm, subtle undertones of her skin, and her torso delicately arched over the water as she wrung out what looked like a floral printed sundress that had gotten drenched—perhaps only seconds before. Zooming in, one could make out a pattern of even the tiniest water droplets as they slid their way back to the fountain’s surface.

  “Do you see what I see? We work closely with people who spend shot after shot trying to perfect an image like this. Remember my friend Jeniyah who featured you in that article? She’s all about this.”

  “So? I’m more into tech,” Sage replied dryly.

  “So? If that’s the case and you are into technology, you could pick up a photo-editing program real quick. I mean, these pictures haven’t even been edited, and they’re gorgeous. Imagine what you could do with them.”

  “I’m not a writer like Dad… or Mom. Did you know she writes, too?”

  Truthfully, I didn’t know much about Julia, except for the nagging fact that Mike was on the phone with her a lot lately.

  “No, I didn’t know that about your mother. Mike said she teaches high school English, right? That’s closely related to writing.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Sage’s voice rose. “Mom is a wayyyy better writer than Dad. The difference is that he had the guts to actually go for it. Julia Brody does not take risks.”

  “Is that right?” I took a long sip from my tea.

  “Oh, yeah. I have a friend who goes to her school. Mom teaches all the honors and AP courses in that department. She’s not the chair or anything, but she’s like super-talented and well-respected. And harsh. Like, it’s ridiculously impossible to get more than a B+ from her. It would be a total GPA killer if her class wasn’t weighted come report card time.” Sage laughed out loud. “There was this one time, even, when this kid Hunter Wakefield’s dad came in to fight her on a grade… The guy brought his lawyer to the meeting. Mom wouldn’t budge and fought them both, right to the last semicolon. The headmaster made her change the grade anyway, but that was all on him. Mom wouldn’t back down.”

  She seemed so proud.

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. “Well, you’ve certainly gotten this talent from somewhere. This is the real deal, Sage.” I almost couldn’t believe it. Mike never mentioned how gifted she was. He hinted that she wasn’t living up her potential. “You’re a storyteller,” I insisted. “Look, I know a lot of people these days are into posting online, but this is more. Do you like to read? I’d love to see you just try to write a story. I’d be interested in seeing what it’s like.”

  She shrugged.

&nb
sp; “I’ll be sixteen next month. I’m just focused on passing this year. College isn’t even on my radar right now. Or did you already forget? Kinda in a new school because the old one didn’t want me anymore. Oh, yeah, and the whole being crazy thing.”

  “That’s complete nonsense, and you know it. There are plenty of talented and gifted people who have persevered despite all sorts of illnesses. If you hold on to the past, you’re just grasping mediocrity. What happened then doesn’t have to happen now, Sage. You’re slaying it at Tillman.”

  “If you ignore the past, you’re doomed to make the same mistakes,” she argued.

  I couldn’t believe how dismissive she was. Sure, everyone knew that New York was filled with amateur photographers, geared with real equipment, making a few extra bucks on the side of their day jobs by focusing on some street imagery and a few Central Park engagement shoots. But at least those people had dreams. She was not pushing herself at all when this was the time to create a portfolio. She could easily intern at FEADURHEDZ or any other similar media outlet. That one time Mike actually brought her to work had been a complete disaster. She came off like a smart mouth with a huge chip on her shoulder, and if she hadn’t been so darn cute, my friends would have never forgiven her.

  Maybe the problem was that Mike shouldn’t have used the company as a free babysitting service. She should have been there to work—to learn. To challenge herself.

  “You should intern with us,” I said. “You should come by, and we can head over to Jeniyah’s department and help you build a portfolio.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’m not even a senior.”

  “So what? You can start now. You can create a portfolio, start putting your best pieces together. By the time you’re my age, you could be working for us. Or someplace better, even—”

  “But I don’t even know if I want to do this for a real job. It’s just some stupid thing I do,” she objected. “I mean, I don’t see myself having a boring job or whatever. So, maybe. I guess.”

  “What about a summer job? I mean, when I was your age, I was a camp counselor and thought that was super-exciting. Meanwhile, here you are. You could intern in the city, and it would be so much fun—”

  She held her hand up in front of me. “Sheila, stop pitching copy to me.”

  “I’m not pitching anything to you.”

  “Look, just mind your business, all right?” Sage took a final bite of her enchilada. “I’m not interested and would like to just go home. Dad’s not out of work, and he won’t be in Brooklyn anytime soon. Let’s just go.”

  “You could give it a chance. Hey, at the very least, you can enter a photo essay contest.” I fumbled around in my purse for a pen. Retrieving one, I grabbed a napkin from the holder and scribbled something down. “Here. I have a contact with these guys, and they’re holding a photo essay competition. Submissions are due by the end of May. The top ten essays are always featured in HEDZ, Pixl Bug, The Wi—”

  “Go pay the check with Dad’s credit card, Sheila.”

  The words stung no less harshly than a slap across the face, but it wasn’t the time to fire back. Not then. There wasn’t much that could get under me, but words like that… anyone or anything that suggested what I earned wasn’t mine, that I was just another sunny West Coast ingénue in the city, dependent, needing a man to come and save her… It just killed me that at that moment, Sage was right. I had left my handbag at home, and my wallet only contained my driver’s license, Mike’s credit card, and a five-dollar bill.

  “I’ll meet you outside,” I uttered quietly, before snatching my sunglasses and heading towards the register… to pay for our meal with someone else’s hard-earned name and money.

  *

  “Well, it appears Sage hasn’t developed an interest in pyrotechnics, and the building’s still standing here—always a good thing. So, I’m guessing you two had an all right day?”

  Mike finally made it home later that evening to find me snuggled up in pajama pants and my lucky college t-shirt, my feet stuffed into those infamous, freshly cleaned moccasins, and parked in front of our television. Sage had gone over to a sleepover at her friend’s house, leaving me to binge-watch the fourth season of my favorite crime drama, NYC Case while fending off a series of texts from Tuyen begging me to meet up for drinks to chat about the cute graphic designer she’d just met. I felt bad about bailing on her, but I just wasn’t in the mood. Besides, knowing T, all the juicy details about this new guy would be circulating around the office come Monday.

  “She is a trip-and-a-half,” I replied.

  “That bad, huh?” He held up a plastic bag filled to the brim with takeout. “On the bright side, I brought Chinese. I wanted to take you out, but you sounded awful on the phone. We can throw this in the fridge and still go if you want.”

  I shook my head. “No. I really, really need greasy, carby food that is just going to wreak total havoc on me right now. You have no idea. I mean, it wasn’t that bad. Just a few flippant remarks here and there, and a few hipsters got angry with us. It’s just so obvious she hates me, and it’s no wonder, considering I probably remind her more of an older sister than an adult she actually respects.”

  Mike plopped down next to me and laughed. “Sage is a teenager. There’s no such thing as an adult she respects.” He began to unload the bag, spreading takeout containers, sauces, napkins, and chopsticks out on the coffee table in front of us. “How many episodes did you catch while I was gone?”

  “I’m on season four.”

  Mike’s eyes bulged out as his jaw dropped wide open in mock disbelief. “Season four? Jesus, Sheila! That’s a whole six or seven episodes! Who the hell are these characters? Who’s that guy?” he exclaimed, waving towards the television. “I don’t recognize that guy!” Mike laughed hysterically while he proceeded to peel the lid off a container of soup, somehow managing not to spill pork, broth, and wonton all over himself.

  I swatted his knee. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m sitting here, watching television like some sort of middle-aged, depressed housewife because I’m completely drained. And that, by the way, is Detective Fuller,” I pointed at the television. “Ortiz got a new partner. Big season three finale drama went down.”

  “Ahhh, Detective Fuller. Well, I liked the other partner. She was way cuter than this loser,” he smiled mischievously.

  I swatted again, but this time his block was better executed.

  “I thought you were just in need of a little downtime but would bounce back. I’m sorry I was gone all day. Sage isn’t easy, and I really appreciate your help today,” Mike thanked me, the tone of his voice becoming somewhat more serious.

  “Ugh,” I groaned, tilting my head up towards the ceiling. After indulging in my own moment of melodrama, I sat up and turned to him. “Have you seen her photography, though? It was so random. We were sitting there in Arial, and Sage showed me all these photos she’s taken, and she’s going to make a collage… I mean, yeah, the world is filled with wannabe photographers, but—”

  “Sheila, I’m going to cut you off for just a second. Otherwise, this topic is going to go on and on all night. You need to hear this from me first before the texts start buzzing up your phone. Truthfully, I’m surprised they haven’t started already,” he paused for effect before adding, “It’s on.”

  I stopped for a moment, blinking, asking myself: What was on? Then it clicked: Chicago.

  “Wait. Are you telling me—” I sat up straighter, becoming more rigid in my seat.

  “They want me on board. And soon. They’re projecting no later than September. I’m scheduled to work between the two offices starting next month, and then…”

  “Wow, Mike, I can’t believe it.” Did I sound too disappointed? I wondered as I clumsily opened a container of vegetable lo mein and began to dig at it with my chopsticks. The truth was that even though I had verbally expressed encouragement about him going for Chicago, I didn’t think it would actually happen. The scuttlebutt around the off
ice was that they were eyeing Amy Larson for the position and wanted Mike firmly planted in New York. What could possibly have happened to change all that? And did it mean Amy would be the head of our department now?

  “But what about our apartment?” I asked. What about us?

  “What about it? Lots of people own more than one home. We’ll be bicoastal.”

  “It’s the Midwest. That’s not bicoastal.”

  “Whatever. It’s not important. And… you haven’t heard the best part yet.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “They want someone from our department to come with me. When we met this morning, they got a chance to consider our work, and it’s a toss-up between you and Maliek. They want one of you in Chicago, too.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I felt my heart race, but not with excitement.

  “But Maliek—he has far more experience, and he’s better than I am. It should go to him,” I protested. “And Amy, she’s all set for this. I thought you were meeting with them this morning about a project.”

  “This was the project! Besides, who do you think I’m going to recommend, Sheila? I mean, really? I’m going to fly all the way to a new state with Maliek in tow and leave you behind? Can you pass me that packet of duck sauce over there—the one with my name on it?”

  My building anxiety just as quickly vanished as overwhelming guilt settled in. Maliek was way more qualified than I was. Plus, he had been working for the company for almost two years longer. Not to mention, he had family in Chicago and had been secretly hoping he’d be selected for the transfer. What would he think? And what would people around the office think of me?

  “Mike,” I began quietly. He was trying to help, and I knew this was the break he had been waiting for, but it just didn’t seem right. “I can’t take this away from him.”

  “You’re just overwhelmed because Sage gave you the runaround. Look, we’ll talk about it later—”

  “No. No, we won’t. I’m not taking a job from my friend just because I’m your girlfriend. If they want me, then fine, but I’m not going to succeed based on who I’m with. It should be because of who I am and what I can do.”