Love and Vandalism

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  Hayes’s expression falls. “Rory, you know—”

  “Yes, of course I know she’s dead.” I pause a moment and draw a deep breath. “I mean, lots of artists break through posthumously. Have you ever heard of the Sean Kelly Gallery?”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  “Well, it’s an important gallery down in Hell’s Kitchen, and my mom was a featured artist there once.” I lean against a wall of rock that is cool but not frozen.

  “Wow, that’s impressive.” Hayes pulls a Nalgene bottle from his pack and unscrews the top. “When was this?”

  I shake my head when he offers me a sip of his water. “Around two years ago.” I wait for him to take a short drink and add, “It was a really big deal that she got her own exhibit at such a selective gallery. They’re known for discovering new artists.”

  “Wow. Good for her.” He screws the top back onto his bottle and slides it in his bag. “But that must’ve been a little rough on you. I know when I was little and my mom got absorbed with work, it was easy for me to feel neglected.” He puts a hand on my arm. “And my mom just sells real estate part-time.”

  A little too quickly, I shoot, “I loved having an artist for a mom.”

  The truth is, my relationship with my mother was more complicated before she died. Before she made the videos I’ve been watching on repeat at the kitchen counter every night. Pretending she’s not only alive, but that she now also has time to sit and talk to me endlessly.

  When she was alive for real, I loved Mom’s bouts of spontaneity. We had so much fun going on discovery hikes and scavenging for art supplies, but her moods were wildly unpredictable. One day, the two of us found ourselves at the dump gathering a discarded flock of plastic flamingos for her to melt down and form into pink furniture for my Barbies, and the next week, she was camped in her bed, unable or unwilling to do anything at all with me.

  Dad was always working, making a big reputation for himself on the force, and so it was my job to get her up and moving when she had her “low energy” days. Thinking about it now makes me exhausted.

  I say, “My mom was always big on achieving creative flow. You know, getting to that place where time just seems to stop and the world falls away? She lived for that. Do you ever feel it while writing?”

  “This sounds like an attempt to change the subject, but yes, I have gotten into flow while working on my dragon books.”

  “Getting high is not the same thing as achieving flow.” I step over a jutting stone in the path.

  “I’m aware.” Hayes follows me. “Although, before I got sober, I noticed that giving a drink to my inner critic seemed to shut her up. Now it can be harder to push past that harsh negative voice that says my work is crap.”

  I turn and squint at him. “And the critical voice in your head is a female because of course.”

  “It’s not like that. My mom is great and encourages me all the time, but interior scolding will always sound like her voice to me.”

  I turn and walk faster. I love listening to Mom’s tapes, but I can’t allow her voice to really enter my head. If I do, I’m afraid it will take root and won’t stop harping on me to make art until I’m crazy too.

  That unintentional too hits my collarbone like an ice pick. Before I even think the words, I say them out loud. “My mom was broken.”

  “I’m sorry.” I can feel Hayes’s now-warm palm press into my upper arm, but I pull away.

  “I mean, she was isolated but brilliant. It was part of her becoming a great artist.” I step out into the open air, letting the breeze steal the rest of my words before they form. And I’m destined to be like her.

  Hayes moves close behind me but doesn’t try to touch my arm again. “Tell me more about her.”

  I stand, looking off through the trees for a full minute, but he doesn’t move. His silent patience pulls a good memory of Mom forward and I sigh. “Her installment for the Sean Kelly Gallery was amazing. It was even featured on their website for a few months.”

  “What did she do for her exhibit?” Hayes asks.

  “She blew up photographs of all these unique people, so that they were each life-size; then she mounted them on pressboard and cut around their silhouettes. She turned each person into a sort of door that gallery visitors would pull open to find an indent in the exact shape and size of the person.”

  “Cool.” Hayes is watching me, and I look away as I keep talking.

  “Written inside the indent behind each person’s head were words that represented what that person was thinking.”

  He squints in confusion, so I go on.

  “For instance, there was a woman standing with a screaming child and inside her head she’s thinking, ‘Please, everyone stop judging me. I want my kid to shut the fuck up too.’ And one bald guy wearing a suit had the whole top half of his body filled with run-on sentences about what a bitch his wife was and how he was going to get even with her and win.”

  “Sounds like a cool concept. That must’ve been intense.”

  “There was one of me,” I say. “I felt like a superstar. My picture was the one they featured on the front page of their website.”

  “What did it say inside your head?”

  I shrug.

  Hayes leans forward and looks at me in a way that says, Spill your guts, and I know he won’t let this go.

  If he really searched, he could probably still find the picture and quotes someplace online anyway. I draw in a breath.

  I make him wait another beat, still wondering why I’m opening up to Hayes so easily when I say, “I was about fourteen in the picture and looking into a small hand mirror. Pulling my picture door open on its hinges revealed a series of questions inside my head.”

  “Asking?” he prods.

  I sigh. “They asked things like, ‘What is happening to me?’ and ‘Will I ever get to be beautiful?’”

  He wrinkles his nose. “What did you look like when you were fourteen?”

  I laugh. “Aaaaaaaa-awk-ward.” I point to my teeth. “Braces.” Hold up a dreadlock. “Ungodly mass of frizz.” I frame a section of my chin with my fingers. “Stress acne. I was a mess.”

  He smiles and leans closer. “It couldn’t have been that bad. And at least one of your questions got answered.”

  I look at him, confused.

  “You’re beautiful now.” He says it in a way that’s clearly designed to make me swoon, but I am not so easily swooned.

  “Or something corny like that,” I say and turn away.

  He follows me along the worn path that leads back up toward the lake. “Well, was she right? Were those the things you were thinking about?”

  “No.” I keep walking. “I never really cared much about how I looked. I was wondering if I would ever be a true artist like she was.”

  “Did you tell her that?”

  “She said the piece was meant to represent adolescent girls in general, not just me specifically. She thought that most girls consider beauty more important than having talent.”

  “If that’s true, that’s really sad.” He’s still directly behind me even though my strides have been picking up speed.

  “The whole installment was pretty sad. They even referred to parts of it as my mom’s ‘suicide note’ in the article after she…”

  Hayes tries to take my hand, but I keep it limp until he gives up. We’re silent as we climb back up and around to the pond.

  We skip only one stone apiece when we reach the water, each of our throws making three hops before sinking below the surface.

  I’m not sure if it’s pity over all the stuff about my mom or if Hayes is honestly worried about me, but when we get back to the car, he stops me.

  “Rory? I’m going to help you.” He nods decisively. “I’ll be your painting assistant.”

  I’m afraid to say anything beca
use I don’t know how I feel about him doing this for me. It makes me feel grateful but guilty, and I finally look down at the dirt and give a quiet, “Thank you.”

  We climb into the car and I pull out of the lot, taking a different route toward town. I’m sure my dad’s date is over by now, but I’d rather not even pass that restaurant again.

  It just so happens this road leads us right by the water tower, and I point at it and wink at him as we drive past.

  “I seriously need to avoid getting arrested,” Hayes says. “My parents will kill me if I violate probation.”

  I bite down on my lip, promising myself I won’t allow anything bad to happen to him because of me.

  “I can’t wait to start your graffiti lessons,” I say. “Are you free tomorrow?”

  “I certainly am, beautiful girl.”

  “Oh my God. Stop that.”

  “Now that I know calling you beautiful gets you flustered, get ready to hear it constantly.”

  “I’m not flustered. I just know we’re not each other’s type.” I gesture to his slicked-back hair. “That whole metrosexual thing you’ve got happening is fine, but it’s basically the opposite of my European approach to grooming.”

  “Rory, I know I’ve been saying we can’t be in a relationship,” he says. “But that’s for the sake of my sobriety, not because I don’t think you are beautiful as hell.”

  “I was just jok—”

  He cuts me off. “Didn’t you even wonder about that first day we met? How big of a coincidence that was?”

  “When we saw each other in the woods and I fell into the bushes?” I laugh at the image of my arms flailing.

  His voice stays serious. “In the woods. On the lake. By the cliff where you were painting. You didn’t think it was strange I kept running into you?”

  I can feel my eyes widen as I grip the wheel. “Are you saying you actually were stalking me?”

  “Well, no. I wouldn’t say I was stalking you. I mean, that first encounter really was an accident.”

  “You followed me to the lake and then later to the swim hole? That’s how you caught me?” I should’ve realized that wasn’t an accident. I never get caught.

  “I was going to confess that day you brought me back to your cabin, but then, we didn’t exactly get around to talking right away.”

  I envision the two of us making out on my art table, and when I glance over, I can sense Hayes is picturing the same thing.

  I say, “Please remind me again why we haven’t gotten around to, er…” My words speed up and run together. “That thing we were doing instead of talking that day.”

  He laughs. “I have to at least get through my ninth step. Losing myself in that sort of thing will only hurt my recovery.”

  “And what is step nine?”

  “Making a list of people we’ve harmed and then telling them we’re sorry.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He rubs his arms. “At least I’m young; the list of people I’ve hurt is pretty short.”

  “Well, are you planning to step up those steps? We won’t be young forever.” I shove him playfully, and he catches my hand.

  “I’m working on it.” He traces a finger along my open palm. “But I need you to make me a promise.”

  I pull my hand away. “I don’t make promises.”

  “I just need you to tackle your own issues. Maybe consider the effects of your grief over your mom and the problems you have with your dad.”

  “She’s dead; he’s a dick. What’s to consider?”

  “I’m serious, Rory. A healthy relationship requires two healthy people.”

  “Who said anything about a healthy relationship? Sounds boring.”

  He sighs loudly and I relent.

  “Listen, Hayes. My lions have been a way of dealing with…everything.” I feel like my insides are being exposed. “If you’ll just help me with the big one, I really think he’s the key to finding acceptance with…what my mother did.”

  “I’ve never heard of trespassing and vandalism as a pathway to spiritual wholeness.”

  I laugh. “It’s art. It’s all about making art. Art is the best form of healing, and art knows no laws.”

  He nods and lets it go, but all I can think is how much that just sounded like something my mom might say.

  Chapter Nine

  I can’t go home.

  Instead, after dropping Hayes off, I head to my cabin and work on the water tower design. Now that he’s agreed to help me, I feel a renewed sense of purpose. Like my fantasy project has more heft all of a sudden.

  I grind away in creative flow as my lions roll in the grass and bat at butterflies until it gets so dark I need to turn my big lantern on. Then I continue working until the giant battery in my big lantern decides it’s had about enough.

  The light gives two brief warning flickers before I’m plunged into sudden darkness. Ripped from the intense focus on my work, I feel utterly and completely alone.

  My eyes adjust slowly, but the thin reed of moonlight coming through the small, high window of the cabin is almost nonexistent.

  I wish I had the laptop with the videos of my mom with me now. The videos are safe. They’re all the happy version of Mom, the version of herself she showed the outside world, and the version she wanted everyone to remember forever.

  I’m pretty sure she expected me to share them in one final posthumous art exhibit. Her grand masterpiece.

  Over the final months of her life, she made the recordings while I was at school and Dad was at work. One by one, she covered topic after topic and hid the laptop on the top shelf of her closet.

  If at any point during those months Dad or I had thought to check her closet, we would’ve seen what she was up to. But as it was, nothing made us curious. Nothing seemed suspicious.

  When she stopped making art, we didn’t wonder what she did all day while she was home alone.

  We were fatally uncurious.

  If anything, we were relieved at how much happier she seemed overall those last months, more able to balance real life and the art life inside her—the side of her that so often made me feel invisible.

  Suddenly, Mom was paying attention when I talked, like she wanted to get to know me better. My mother truly mothered me. And I loved it.

  I know now she was only gathering information for the next day’s recording, but at the time, I took her attention at face value. I thought I deserved it.

  I was the one who found the note.

  Standing in the kitchen, with my school bag at my feet, my heart pounding with growing understanding. My feet pounding even louder up the stairs, racing against time—two hours too late for anything I did to matter.

  I saw her body first.

  Of course, my mother chose the most dramatic version of suicide.

  Hanging would be too quick and prim for her, unless perhaps she could’ve done it in the center of a huge open space. Preferably a round room with sunlight dramatically spotlighting her swaying body. But our ceilings are not grand enough.

  And pills would only look like she was sleeping peacefully. Gunshot to the head? Too damn unpredictable. Splatter is such a difficult medium, with its varying shape and size and projection.

  No, Mom staged the scene of her suicide as if it were a piece of performance art.

  After making her final recording, which was the day she made video number forty-seven, she wrote the brief note with a flourish and headed upstairs to the bathroom.

  I wonder sometimes if her plan began the day she decided to renovate that bathroom and make everything pure white. Or perhaps she found her inspiration in the perfection of the shining, white floor tiles after they were laid.

  Twisting a long string of cheap, plastic pearls around her neck, she applied her darkest red lipstick and removed her d
ress. Folded it neatly and laid it on the closed toilet.

  She even tidied the bathroom, hiding the half-used bottles with glops of conditioner dripping down the sides, staging her set.

  Naked, aside from the pearls and lipstick, she climbed into our deep, claw-foot tub. Let the water fill partway but twisted the knob to off while it was still too shallow to hide her body. Much too shallow.

  Old-fashioned straight razor that she got God knows where in her hand.

  Like two swift brushstrokes, she drew that razor that Dad and I had never seen across each wrist. Just a couple dramatic drops of blood for display on those pure-white floor tiles. Accents of red placed just so.

  Hands resting on naked thighs, she reclined in the pool of shallow water and watched it transition from clear to ribboned to red.

  Waited for the world to go dark and for her daughter to find her and grab her and pull her out, hugging her cold, wet mother with sightless, staring eyes and getting blood everywhere. Ruining the carefully staged scene with desperate, tearful flailing.

  Stop it, Rory! I command.

  I need to get out of my head right now. I bang on the lantern until its weak beam flickers back awake.

  I pick up my blade and find the handle has gone cold.

  I make a quick swipe at the piece of stencil I’ve been working on. My cut is impulsive and too fast, and now I’ll probably need to redo that section. Damn.

  I wish I’d brought Hayes back here with me. I could be losing myself in slow, delicious moves. The two of us fitting together so beautifully…

  Then I remember he knows. Everything is ruined. Even though he’s agreed to help me paint my masterpiece, I need to stop thinking about him in that way.

  Checking my phone, I realize it’s nearly midnight, which explains why I’m feeling so drained. In addition to the numerous call alerts from my dad, I see Hayes sent me a text a few hours ago asking how I’m doing.

  I ignore all that and try to figure out where I should sleep tonight. No way am I going home and dealing with Dad.

  I can either try to make myself comfortable inside my small cabin, or I can curl up in my car. I’m thinking there’s a blanket in the back…