The Unbreakables

by Lisa Barr

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I CAN’T SLEEP AGAIN, AND IT’S BECOMING A PROBLEM. I DEFINITELY NEED SOMETHING to take the edge off. I glance up at the loud ceiling fan hovering over Lea and Jean-Paul’s bed, a bed that is now mine, and am counting rotations when the phone rings on number eighty-two. I see Ava’s smiling face light up the screen. I grab the phone off the nightstand.

  “Ava! How are you? You’re home.” I am excited to speak to her. I check the clock. It’s late afternoon there.

  “I’m sitting here with Dad.”

  “How was the rest of your trip?” I ignore the Gabe part, picturing them both at the kitchen table.

  “Jake and I had the best time together,” she says. I place my hand on my chest, grateful. Ava sounds good. “But it feels really strange to be home after nearly eight months abroad . . . and yes, Mom, I can tell you don’t want to talk about Dad.”

  That obvious? “Tell me more about Jake.” I cross over to the only neutral subject available.

  “Love the diversion,” she sniggers. “Jake is amazing. We’re good again. He’s back in Seattle with his family. But I’m still not talking to Monica.” Long pause. “When are you coming home?”

  I sigh deeply. What home? I don’t want to go home, go there. I’m not ready. And how can I leave Nathalie right now? I just started. But Ava’s last year in college . . . “I don’t know exactly yet.”

  “You don’t know yet? Mom, school is in, like, a few weeks. Aren’t we going together as usual? Why are you being so weird?”

  And why didn’t you tell me that you posed nude for Nathalie Senard—that you are Eve? “I’m not being weird.”

  “You are and we both know it.”

  “Okay . . . maybe a little. Big news.” Another diversion. “I’m sculpting again.”

  “You’re what? Oh my god—where?”

  “At a studio, nearby. I’m just beginning, but I absolutely love it and realize how much I missed it.”

  “I’m so happy for you.” And Ava means it. “But school starts in eighteen days,” she emphasizes again. “Are you coming home or not?” She sounds hurt. In the old days, we would have been planning the back-to-college weekend together weeks ago.

  I wonder briefly what would happen if I announced that I’m not coming home. “I’m thinking I will come home on August twenty-seventh and I will stay through the weekend. We can shop then and get it all together.” I decide this as we speak.

  “Four days? That’s all? Coming from France—that’s crazy.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Will you be staying here at the house at least?” Ava is pushy, always has been.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s a good idea.” I don’t ever want to go back there. It will be too hard. But god knows, I miss my dog, my lilacs. “How’s Pablo?”

  “The best. Right here next to me . . . Just come home, okay. Please. For me.”

  We are both silent. Ava knows I will do anything for her. “We’ll see.”

  “Do you want to talk to Dad?” she asks. Her voice is wistful and young.

  “No. I’m sorry, Ava, but I don’t.” I have to draw a line somewhere.

  “Can’t we just fix this somehow?” she pleads. She is now standing outside on the deck. I can hear the neighbor’s dog barking in the background and Pablo barking back. “Even for me?”

  No, this I can’t do, even for you. Instead, I say, “I love you. I will see you very soon.”

  I place the phone down on its face in slow motion, knowing sleep is no longer an option, and having no patience to count fan rotations. The worst part is that I don’t want to go back home. I don’t want to see Gabe, deal with my broken marriage. Not now. I want to stay here and work on Eve, immerse myself. What is happening to me? Being a mother has always been first and last. Ava needs me. I used to drop everything for her, no questions asked, no matter how it impacted me. But now . . . Luc’s face flashes inside my head. What the hell is wrong with me? I cut off the image quickly, looking up to the ceiling for safety. Eighty-three, eighty-four . . .

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I NEED TO LEAVE FOR FOUR DAYS TO TAKE AVA TO COLLEGE,” I TELL NATHALIE THE next day. “Thursday, August twenty-seventh and be back the following Tuesday.”

  Her face drops. She doesn’t hide her reaction. For Nathalie every minute, every hour counts. She doesn’t have Thursday through Tuesday to spare. I know exactly what she’s thinking. I’m thinking the same.

  “Ava can’t take herself?”

  Nathalie has no clue. “Yes, she could, of course. But it’s our ritual. She’s my daughter. We do this together. And she’s dealing with a lot right now. Honestly, I don’t want to go, but I have to.”

  “I see.” She sniffs deeply.

  No, she doesn’t see. She has never been a mother. She doesn’t understand that umbilical pull, only to her artwork. “I don’t want to lose the time either, Nathalie. So here are my thoughts . . .” I planned out this speech in the middle of the night because I never fell back asleep. “I will work late nights until I leave. We will work together as usual during the day. You can rest and then have Claudia bring you back to the studio in the evening for a little bit just to make sure you are happy with the progress. How does that sound?”

  Her eyes light up. It’s better than nothing. “I appreciate that. But driving back and forth from Èze to Saint-Paul so late? No. Maybe you should stay in our guest room for the few weeks before you go?”

  I think of Luc, the painting, their private time. No way. “I don’t want to disrupt your family time. What if we brought a bed into the studio? That way if it’s really late and I don’t want to drive back to Saint-Paul, I can sleep here and work without having to worry.”

  Nathalie turns to Claudia. “Arrange a bed in here for Sophie. A small refrigerator and amenities as well.”

  Claudia nods with pursed lips. It’s clear she cares deeply for Nathalie but is not at all thrilled that her famous patient is spending her final days holed up in a dust-filled studio. But this is what makes Nathalie happy, this is what keeps her alive. This is the job. “I will get on it immediately,” she says.

  Claudia leaves, heading back to the house, and Nathalie removes a fat joint from her purse. “And how is Ava doing?”

  I light it for her. “She is good. With her dad.”

  “And you?” She tilts her head, scrutinizing me closely. The pungent scent fills the air. I presume I’m high every day due to secondhand smoke.

  What is she getting at? I shuffle my feet against the dusty floor.

  “How do you feel going back there, seeing your husband again?” She raises a curious brow. This is the first time she’s asked me about Gabe.

  “Not thrilled. But I’m going for Ava.” She offers me her joint and I take it, inhale deeply, and quickly hand it back. It’s just after nine and I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet. “Truthfully, I don’t want to leave now in the middle of all this. I feel like we have real momentum going here, and I love it.”

  She sighs deeply and releases a fat plume of smoke in the process. “Life tends to get in the way of our art, doesn’t it? If only we could freeze those we love while we finish those we create. Believe me, my work has hurt me so many times over the years. It has destroyed friendships and relationships. And—” She stops herself. She has that same angsty look that she had that very first day in the studio, like she wants to tell me something but is hesitant.

  “And what?” I push gently.

  “It has hurt my marriage. Only he doesn’t know it.” Her voice is barely audible.

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  She hesitates. “Before I was sick, or at least before I became very sick, I was with someone else . . .” She eyes me closely, gauging my shocked reaction.

  “Someone you still care for?” I manage, every mixed emotion hitting at once. I think of that painting. That love. Yet another lie.

  “Yes . . .” She coughs, and then steadies herself, eyes
me squarely. “It’s Olivier.”

  Olivier. I cover my mouth, mortified. That despicable man has no boundaries, no morals. And he lied to me again, used me somehow . . . and she lied too. I glare back at her, sick to my stomach, unable to hide my disgust.

  “When?” is all I can muster.

  “When?” she repeats, her gaze becoming misty. “It’s complicated. So many years I have known him, since art school, we were barely twenty, and never once did we take it further. Oh, make no mistake, he tried countless times. But I wouldn’t allow it. He was a player even then. I respected myself too much to fall prey to Olivier’s charms. I enjoyed our friendship too much, our light flirtation—but that’s where it ended. And then I met Luc, who was a few years older in school, and then Olivier did not stand a chance.” She reaches for her water and a pill. I watch her in stunned, gut-wrenching silence. “I used to think that I was the only woman alive who Olivier had not slept with. I’m still surprised that he didn’t try to hit on you.”

  I maintain a poker face. I’m not going there, no matter what. She keeps smoking, talking, as though I’m an attentive audience and not the mother of Olivier’s latest conquest, who did go there. “Never loyal to Sabine. Not a single day—although, she didn’t demand it. She has lived her own life. Not like Luc—loyal to me from beginning to end.” Nathalie’s words are measured. “When I heard my cancer had spread, actually the very same day I got the bad news that it was stage four and all downhill, I was in Paris at the time. Luc was working here in Èze. I went straight to Olivier’s apartment. Not to his home—to his private apartment.”

  I picture Ava there at that same apartment, the revolving door of women, my extraordinary daughter just another peg in an assembly line. I can barely breathe, but I say nothing, just listen.

  A tender expression comes across Nathalie’s face. “I told Olivier everything. I cried to him and he held me. And then it happened. Just like that. Perhaps I knew deep down it would. Perhaps I wanted it, needed it. And it was like nothing I’d ever experienced before . . . or at least for a very long time.” Her blue eyes are bold and unblinking, locked in her memory. “I love my husband, Sophie, but we met when we were so young, before our careers even began. It was once so beautiful between us, and then it became like anything else in life, old. A gorgeous piece of art that you once loved so much at first, that you had to have, treasured, and then as time passes, it becomes just another picture on the wall. You no longer stop to admire it. And with Olivier, the passion was so new, so reckless.” She dabs her now watery eyes with a tissue. “And perhaps because I had just received my death sentence, suddenly I didn’t want comfort—I wanted life, to live what little I had left. I became so lost in Olivier, we got lost in each other, and then I got really sick so quickly. I had to let him go, which I did, but not in my head, not in my heart. I lied to Olivier. I hurt him very badly, told him that it was a mistake, a meaningless fling and I broke it off harshly . . . because I had to.”

  “And Luc,” I prod, unable to mask my anger.

  “I got lucky. He never found out.”

  If Ava weren’t involved, I would perhaps feel sorry for Nathalie, living out her last days like this. Tormented. Sad even for Olivier, who had fallen in love with the one woman he couldn’t have. But I’m livid that Ava was the rebound, a consolation prize. Too damn young. It’s all so wrong, so totally unforgivable.

  “And then came Ava.” It pops out defiantly, my resentment steaming on a platter.

  Nathalie releases a deep, knowing sigh. She sees my anger, hears it. “Yes, and then came Ava.”

  “You wanted to keep her close,” I say accusingly. “It wasn’t just that she was the perfect face of Eve.”

  Nathalie looks at me with guilty glazed-over eyes. “She was the perfect Eve. They weren’t together at first. But I knew Olivier, and I knew it would be just a matter of time. So yes, maybe you are right—I wanted to keep her close, him close. I was dying. I had rejected him. My hair—that beautiful hair—was gone. The drugs, the treatment, stole everything from me—my looks, my fire, my sex drive, my ability to sculpt. I was so sick that I accepted it all. Even watching him and Ava in motion, seeing him happy once again, was a fitting punishment for betraying Luc. And I owed Luc loyalty in my final days.” Tears begin to fall and it’s unbearable to watch. I grab more tissues from a nearby shelf and wipe her eyes for her. “But I didn’t want to die carrying this secret alone.” Her voice is opaque but I can see through it. She still loves Olivier. “The truth is, this is breaking me, Sophie. I felt you might understand all this.”

  So many secrets. My daughter, who was really a pawn in a game of lovers’ Ping-Pong, is now immortalized as a statue, and loyal Luc was betrayed in the same cruel way that Gabe had betrayed me, only he doesn’t know it. No, Nathalie, I don’t understand any of it. But when she reaches for me to comfort her, I can’t help it: I take her frail hand inside mine anyway, and hold it tightly. For her and for me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  IT IS 10:30 P.M. AND I’M STANDING ON THE SCAFFOLD SANDING DOWN EVE’S backside to remove shallow scratches. I forgot how much I love working at night when no one is around. For the past eleven days, I’ve done what feels like my best work with Nathalie and Claudia out of the way. The studio, with its high-arched ceiling, was constructed nearly a decade ago to fit Nathalie’s mammoth artwork. From the skylight, the stars twinkle down on me, and through the large windows surrounding me, the colors of night stream through—inky shades of blue, gray, purple, illuminating Eve’s marble physique to an alabaster glow.

  My music blares from a boom box and I don’t hear the door creak open. Nor do I hear the footsteps walking toward me as I work and harmonize with Sheryl Crow. When the song is over and my concert is done, I hear clapping from behind me. I stop working, embarrassed, afraid to turn around. Oh god, it’s him, I feel it.

  “I thought you might like a glass of wine,” Luc calls up from the base of the statue.

  I stand where I am, pull up my goggles, turning slightly. “You didn’t hear me sing.”

  “Oh, I did. I think all of Èze heard you sing.” He laughs, and the sound is hearty, warm. I notice that he brought only one glass of wine.

  “I’m mortified.” I laugh nervously, wondering if he can see how red I am as I slowly descend the ladder.

  “Don’t be. I’m thoroughly entertained.” When I reach the ground, I take Luc in. The casual elegance of his navy blue crewneck sweater with a white T-shirt peeking through, jeans, and loafers. Straight out of GQ. He hands me the wineglass, then crosses his arms. “I got home from Paris last night. Nathalie told me that you’ve been working around the clock. So I thought I would come by and see how you are doing.” He pulls up a nearby chair, gesturing me to sit down as he grabs another one for himself.

  As he sits next to me, I’m conscious of the sweat at my temples and that my hair is plastered from the sculpting workout. “It’s going really well.”

  “Funny, isn’t it? Here you are in Èze, helping my wife. And your daughter was the model for Eve. What are the odds?” He laughs again. I can see his eyes shimmer even under the grainy lighting of the studio.

  “What are the odds?” I repeat, because there are no odds. This doesn’t even feel real. I point to wine on a nearby shelf. “I do have more—can I get you some?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I really just wanted to take a moment to thank you, and make sure you were comfortable out here.” He smiles, but it feels forced. He clears his throat. “Nathalie, as you know, is in very bad shape.” He points to Eve, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is really the only thing keeping her alive and happy, her mind off the inevitable.”

  “I’m so sorry, Luc,” I say softly. “I feel grateful every day that I get to work with her.”

  “And she feels the same about you.” He takes a deep breath, trying to control his emotion. “I owe you a lot.”

  “You owe me nothing. This is truly an honor and privilege. I don’t kn
ow if Nathalie told you but I haven’t sculpted in a long time.”

  “Why did you stop?” he asks. “You’re clearly very talented.”

  I feel my cheeks heat up, not sure that I want to go there. “It’s a long story. I was young when my career took off, and then . . .”

  He leans back in the chair, head tilted, assessing me intensely. It’s unnerving. “And then?”

  I inhale, release slowly. “And then, in the middle of everything, I developed carpal tunnel syndrome, which led to nerve damage, and I couldn’t sculpt anymore, or it would get much worse. It was, as you can imagine, devastating. When my hands eventually healed, I was afraid to begin again. I guess I was terrified that I had lost my touch.” Why am I telling him this? He doesn’t want to hear my whole sob story. “I’m sorry. I’m going off on a tangent, and it’s late.”

  There’s an awkward silence between us. He checks his watch, stands. “Yes, it is late, and you’ve been working nonstop.” He points to Eve. “Fantastic what you’ve done, really. I can see why Nathalie is so pleased.” As he turns to go, he stops momentarily, gazes up at the beaming skylight. “Still gorgeous every time I look at it. Never gets old. She used to work in the middle of the night, you know, all night sometimes—especially right before an exhibition . . .” He cuts himself off. “Now I’m the one going off. Bonne nuit—good night, Sophie.” He waves, walking toward the door.

  “Luc . . . wait,” I call out just before he leaves.

  He turns, looking back at me. I don’t even know what I’m going to say. Say something quickly. “Do you want to talk just a little longer?” I ask hesitantly. “I’m not so tired.”

  He shuffles his feet against the floor, like a little boy. “Yes . . . I think, perhaps, I do.” He returns to the sitting area, to his chair. I point again to the few bottles of wine that I have on the nearby shelf. “Then please, at least let me pour you a proper glass of wine,” I say. “Pinot noir. I know you will enjoy it—it’s one of yours that Claudia brought for me.”