Drift (Lengths)

by Steph Campbell

  I didn’t prepare enough, and it isn’t because I don’t care.

  I know what a huge deal this is. After I graduated with my MA in fine art, I needed some direction. Spain felt too small for my father and I, and an ocean plus most of a continent seemed almost far enough away. I had already had two very strong shows, one in Madrid and one in Barcelona, but my father’s name buzzed in the background when anyone talked about them. I considered doing some prep toward my PhD, but wanted something more tangible.

  After a few months of inquiring, I managed to arrange this semester-long spot at the university, as a resident artist and long term guest speaker. I found an apartment and spent the summer working on my pieces for this fall’s showing and wandering campus, smiling at the pretty girls in the library and catching up on reading next to the pond full of gliding ducks behind the art studios. Now that class is back in, I’ll be spending part of my time preparing lectures for my twice-a-month guest lecturer spot.

  The best part about it is I did everything without having to reference my father at all.

  Outside Spain, I seriously doubt anyone realizes he and I are related, so I can be fairly confident it was my professors’ recommendations and my portfolio that got me my spot here.

  “You know I’ll be front and center,” she gushes, her thousands of tiny blonde curls shaking, her blue eyes wide behind thick glasses. She giggles through a hand over her mouth. “Well, not front and center. That’s where the students will be. And this class is really a fine group. We pulled from every department on campus to get a real renaissance feel. I’m so glad we could count on you for the art portion. Your portfolio is tremendous already.”

  “You’re too kind,” I say, pressing her hands in mine. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some last minute things to prepare.”

  “Of course.” She practically flutters as she walks out the door.

  I slump into my chair, flipping through the folder I have filled with a dozen false starts. What I don’t need Nina or anyone on this campus knowing is that the second I got my acceptance letter for my semester here, it occurred to me what a huge phony I really am.

  My father’s voice rings through my brain a thousand times a day.

  Of course you have success. You’ve lived under success all your life. My father was a barber and an alcoholic. He never gave me anything but bruises and shitty haircuts.

  I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes and try to reign in the massive migraine I feel coming on. I glance down at the paper filled with too many half-baked scribbles and decide to just go ahead and do what I need to, my father and his doubts be damned.

  3 LYDIA

  There is a chance I’ll run into Cece somewhere, but the chance is too small for me to have given it any serious worry. For the first few days after my suspension, I woke up and put on my suit, did my hair and makeup, read the paper, wolfed down breakfast, and hurried to my car.

  For what?

  I couldn’t give a shit less what my neighbors think. My family was all safely tucked across town, none the wiser about my current state of unemployment. Who the hell was I trying to kid?

  Then a very sad thought rose to the surface amid my bubbling, boiling thoughts and worries.

  Me.

  I was kidding myself, and for all my declarations of revenge and self-indulgence, the craziest thing I did was walk the Getty and eat three crème brûlées, washed down by five or so of those little bottles of crisp, cheap white wines with the twist-off caps.

  Before I turned into some kind of art-admiring, obese wino, I snapped myself out of my stupid routine.

  I slept in. I started doing yoga. I dug my sexy jeans and sandals and soft cottony clothes out of the bowels of my closet and left my suits at the drycleaners. It was nice to relax, but I’m not particularly good at taking things slow. So I decided to sign up for some classes at the local college.

  There was one that caught my eye: a life development class that reeked just a little too much of modern feel-good hocus pocus. But it promised a nice array of speakers on topics ranging from philosophy to art to literature—and it occurred to me that I might actually get to learn enough to do more than gawk at the paintings and sculptures at the Getty from the professor who handled the art portion.

  The first two sessions focused on romantic poetry and philosophy, which were way better than I expected and had me reading Coleridge and Avicenna before bed instead of watching vapid reality shows. I guess that counts as personal growth. Anyway, I drive to the art session with this mixed feeling of dread and anticipation.

  Dread because, what the hell am I doing? Every day that passes that I’m not working my tail off climbing the law ladder leaves me wondering if I’m insane for accepting the suspension without even mentioning Richard’s part in the whole thing. He’s under review, too, but, because no client identified him, he’s still allowed full access to the case work. It’s not fair, and it makes the rage well up in me.

  Along with the fear.

  One fact sledgehammers into me every single morning when I open my eyes: I have worked for years, given up on pleasure and accepted sleep-deprivation, exhaustion, and unholy amounts of stress to make it where I stand at the firm, which isn’t nearly far enough along in my career to call it quits. How can I consider turning my back on it all? I can’t.

  The anticipation is more a feeling I’ve been trying to cultivate to combat the dread that would weigh me down otherwise. I try to enjoy the moments that are good when they come and let go of the worry: especially since there is absolutely nothing I can do to control any of it.

  I think the lack of control is what keeps me in a constant, stomach-wrenching tailspin.

  I pull my gorgeous maroon Mercedes into a parking spot, running a hand over the leather steering wheel, biting my lip hard as I wonder if and when I should sell this car, this one big splurge that signaled to me and all who knew me that I’d clawed my way to the top and made it, damnit!

  Now that victory feels a million years away and completely hollow.

  “Lydia!” A sweet girl with too many blond extensions that aren’t blended well, and lips plumped out by her dazzling white caps catches up with me as we walk into the arched entranceway.

  She’s exactly the kind of girl you’d expect to take a class like this: smart, pretty, and very pampered. She’s thinking about a career in curatorial consulting.

  “Hey.” I smile and walk at her side, peeking at her notebooks and wishing she scribbled her name in hearts on them like girls did in high school. Unfortunately, her notebooks are all neat and perfectly unmarked, cradled in her arm and giving me zero hints. Shit. What is her name? Damnit. “You must be excited about tonight’s class,” I say as we make our way to the front and center, where we’ve been sitting since day one.

  “Oh my god, can I just tell you?” She flips a long strand of her shiny hair back over her tanned shoulder and adjusts the strap of her beautiful designer sundress. “Isaac Ortiz is, like—seriously—my art world crush.” She blushes and breathes rapidly. “I mean, mine and the entire world’s right?”

  “Um, sure,” I say with a distracted smile. I notice that a few people are clambering to the front, filling up the chairs that are definitely usually left empty. I don’t remember them from class before, but they’re all disproportionately young, shiny-haired, and dolled up.

  She-Who’s-Name-I-Need-To-Try-To-Learn cranes her neck back and huffs. “Ugh. Please. Trolling sluts.”

  “Those students?” I ask, trying not to laugh at her unfiltered description. So much for unfettered feminism in college.

  “They heard Isaac would be here, so they just barged in to sit and ogle him.” She rolls her pretty green eyes and gives me a tiny smile. “I know I sound like a hypocrite, since I just confessed my crush and all that. But I was signed up for this class when Professor Westermann was supposed to do the art segment. And I would have been happy to have her as a professor,” she assures me quickly, her big eyes earnest. “Really. Sh
e’s brilliant. But she wound up picking up a senior seminar and then Isaac’s application came through.” She ducks her head and blushes. “I mean Professor Ortiz’s application. Or that’s the rumor anyway.”

  I nod, my mouth hanging open a little when I hear the back door creak open and a wild wave of titters and giggles fill the space.

  Um, seriously?

  This is a senior level course. There are even a few graduate students auditing it. If these committed, driven girls are seriously getting all flustered over this professor, I can’t wait to see him.

  And then I see him.

  Oh. I. See. Him.

  “Holy. Shit.” I whisper.

  My nameless friend pats my arm, gives me a sympathetic look, and whispers, “I know, right? He’s distractingly hot. It’s crazy. And he’s so much better looking in real life.” She makes a noise that sounds like a hybrid of a coo and a sigh.

  “Yes,” I agree weakly, though I have no clue what he looks like in pictures. This is the first I’ve seen of him. And that makes some young, stupid, jellied part of my brain regretful.

  It’s not just how he looks. I mean, other than being six four or five with chiseled muscles and a killer smile chock full of brilliant white teeth, he’s not that incredible looking. Even with all that thick, jet black hair. And those striking green eyes, studded with inky lashes. Also that mouth—sinfully kissable and set above a strong, wide jaw that makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand straight up.

  Besides that, he has this air of confidence. It’s almost regal, like he was born knowing his full worth. But it’s not a swagger. He looks around the room with a quiet calm and, when he sees the gaggle of preening, giggling girls in the front, that sexy mouth quirks into a smile of pure humor.

  Everything inside me feels liquid. Carbonated, boiling liquid, and that smile is what brought on my internal melt. Despite what my family thinks, I love a good sense of humor. Which is a little strange, since Richard was one of the most uptight, humorless assholes I’d ever has the misfortune of watching a comedy with or telling a joke to.

  He turns to a white board and writes his name in curving letters before he looks over the class. “Welcome. I’m Professor Ortiz, and I’m so happy to be able to lecture at your wonderful school.” His voice is taffy dipped in chocolate, and it makes my stomach growl. “I wasn’t anticipating this many students, so I’m afraid I only have a few copies of the syllabus. I’ll be sure to bring more next week.”

  He hands the paper to one of the girls in the first row, who practically falls out of her chair attempting to give Isaac Ortiz a better view of her cleavage. He smiles warmly and keeps his eyes on hers, bringing out a slew of titters from that section. I roll my eyes, though I can’t be too high on my horse. They aren’t acting all that different than I would have when I was an undergrad.

  I never had professors like Isaac Ortiz. Thank all that’s holy, or I probably would have dropped out of the law program and become an art groupie.

  “I had several different speeches prepared today. I wanted to talk to you about what art means to me. What it’s meant to my family. But I couldn’t get anything right.” He paces back and forth, and the students follow his trail like they’re watching a Ping-Pong game. “So I thought, at least for this session, we’d begin with conversation. I want to hear what you think of art. The first time a sculpture or painting or photograph grabbed you by the throat and choked everything extraneous out of you. The last time a piece brought you to your knees and left you feeling inadequate and fulfilled all at once after seeing it.”

  He has a slight accent, something twisted around Spanish.

  The second the question is out of his mouth, the classroom explodes into a sea of demurely raised hands, and the women especially share tales of random Banksys sprinkled in London, a first face-to-face glance at Lucifer in New York City, an actual knee-buckling experience in front of David with all the tourists snapping pictures and reaching into their fanny packs for bottled water or aspirin to help bring her back to life.

  Isaac Ortiz’s lips remain planted in a serious, scholarly line, but his eyes are hysterically laughing, and, at that moment, they meet mine. The girl elaborates on her story, adding that she hit her head, spattering a little blood, and her voice finds a pitch that’s bordering on desperate. Professor Ortiz turns his attention to her, gives a sympathetic nod, and moves on.

  To me.

  I’m not raising my hand, which puts me in the marginal one percent. I imagine it’s only me and the debilitatingly shy who don’t want to wave our most exciting art tidbits in front of Professor Ortiz.

  “Do you have a work you’d like to share?” he asks, those green eyes blinding up close.

  He leans against a podium and watches me with a look of intense concentration. Like he’s willing to wait all day for me to produce my ridiculous story about art. It’s the way my sisters and I watched baby chicks hatch from their eggs under the incubator lights at the fair when we were kids.

  I hope he’s not expecting that kind of miracle from me.

  “A work?” I stall.

  He leans forward and the fabric of his shirt pulls tight. I look at the buttons and imagine flicking them open.

  “Yes. One that grabbed you by the guts,” he explains, holding his hand out and balling his fingers into a tight fist. He flicks his wrist to the side and grinds out, “And twisted.”

  “I’m not sure art makes me feel that way,” I answer, thinking of my cool, calm walks through the Getty, nothing but the silent art and the sound of my expensive heels clicking on the polished stone. No stomach knotting there. “Just the opposite actually.”

  Professor Ortiz’s eyes widen and he takes two steps back, like I struck him a physical blow. “The opposite?”

  “Art…soothes me. I feel at peace when I see something beautiful.” I watch his brow furrow.

  “Okay. Some art, of course, makes us feel peacefully connected. And that’s good. Some may say that’s the point, even. But there must have been a visual reference that shook you somehow, at some point.” He takes a few steps towards me, like he wants to crack me open and suck out the passion he knows I’m hiding.

  And then a very private memory flashes through my mind, and I tap into what he wants. I’m so willing to put myself completely in his hands, it’s scary. “There was a print in my house growing up—”

  I break off because I don’t like talking about it. I still get annoyed when I see it hanging serenely in the hall, as if it’s not remotely culpable, as if it never witnessed sorrow so extreme it had to manifest itself in a modern art print. It doesn’t bother anyone else in my family, because no one else connects it with that day. Because I was the only sibling home and the only one who witnessed it.

  It’s really just a childish memory, but an ugly one I’d rather not explore.

  “Tell me about it,” he coaxes, his voice a silken lasso drawing me closer, making the rest of the room recede until it’s just me and him.

  “It’s a Baruj Salinas,” I begin. His eyes light up.

  “A Baruj Salinas?” He gives a long, low whistle. “Gorgeous, gorgeous work. Very gripping, very vibrant and unafraid.”

  I don’t know if I agree with Professor Ortiz’s adjective list, but I nod as if I do. “I don’t know the name of it. There’s a dark triangle on the bottom. A curve of white, like an arch. Looser dark lines on top.” I move my hands in an approximation of the shapes, and it’s like he’s reading sign language that makes sense to him.

  “It sounds like White Flow. A very distinct piece. Please, go on,” he urges, his entire body tensed and leaned close to hear my story.

  “It hung in the hallway of my childhood home,” I relate with careful disconnect. “My mother had it framed for my father for his birthday. It had just arrived from the framer’s that day, and my father hammered a special hook into the wall to hold the weight of it while we were eating breakfast. I had just come in after my violin lesson. I was only ten, maybe. And the ph
one rang in my parents’ room. I was putting my violin away in the hall closet, across from the painting, and I stopped to look at it.”

  The lecture room blurs until it’s not in front of me: instead I’m back in my parents’ house, before they laid the hardwood in the hall, so there’s still the soft crush of the gold shag carpet that my mother loathed under my shiny new loafers.

  It smelled spicy and rich, like my mother had a soup bubbling on the stove. It was rare for my father to be home this early from work, but his father was very ill and he was taking a flight to Mexico that night. I could hear my parents moving around their bedroom, packing and talking to each other in Spanish, my mother laughing softly when my father sang her a few lines from a dirty folk song. I was about to go in and tell them that I was starting Mozart and my teacher said I showed “incredible promise.”

  And then the phone rang. I don’t think they realized I was home.

  I’m positive they didn’t, actually, because my father never cried in front of any of us before or he never has since. If he knew his daughter was in the hall, I think he would have internalized all the emotions that split open and spilled out. All the crying.

  Except it wasn’t even ‘crying.’ That word has to do with tears and hiccups, sobs and maybe a groan or two.

  This was a wailing that came from somewhere deep and low in my father’s soul. I heard a drop, like he’d collapsed. My mother said something in rapid Spanish into the phone, and then she tried to comfort my father. I heard her try. But he was screaming too loud, the noise punctured with pain and misery in pure vocal form, and it slithered into the hall and into me.

  It’s not just that I heard it. It snaked into my ears and webbed over my brain. It sank low into my heart and even—yes—twisted my guts.