Who Are You? (9780307823533)

by Nixon, Joan Lowery

  “I can help,” she says. “I know the person to talk to.”

  “Thanks,” I answer. “That’s very nice of you.”

  She smiles, then points out a spot where a little shading will add a third dimension to my work.

  While I have her to myself I ask, “Have you ever been to the Royal Heritage Gallery of Art?”

  “Yes,” she answers.

  I wait for her to go on, but she doesn’t, so I ask, “What do you think of it?”

  “I don’t know much about it, and I’ve only been there twice,” Ms. Montero says.

  “Well?” I prod, repeating, “What do you think of it?”

  She shrugs, then says, “I think their prices are too high. They do carry some marvelous pieces. Once in a while they handle truly valuable paintings. I remember reading about their sale of a John Constable, and last year they were agents in the purchase of a Camille Pissarro.”

  “Wow! I’m impressed.”

  “But they aren’t consistent. They occasionally feature what I’d call second-rate artists at first-rate prices.” She smiles at me teasingly. “Are you thinking of buying something by one of the old masters?”

  “Not yet,” I answer, and smile in return. “I’m asking because I met the owner of the gallery.”

  “Alanna Chase,” Ms. Montero says.

  “Right.”

  I wait for Ms. Montero to continue, but she doesn’t. “Keep up the good work,” she tells me, and moves on to take a look at Jonathan’s sketchpad.

  Jonathan. Wonderful, handsome Jonathan, who invited me to go with him to the Museum of Fine Arts tomorrow evening. Jonathan makes me completely forget Alanna Chase. I sneak a look from the corners of my eyes and admire the way his profile is backlighted by the sun-soaked windows. I pull out my notebook and make a quick sketch of Jonathan.

  At our lockers Lindy reminds me that I promised to go to the office of Child Advocates with her. “Tomorrow after school,” she says. “I’ve got an appointment. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I tell her. Tomorrow’s too far away to think about. My mind is on my upcoming visit with Douglas Merson.

  At the door of Riverview Hospital’s room 655, a tall, muscular guy with a thick, hairy neck rises from a wooden chair, blocking my way. For a moment all I can see is his orange-brown checked suit and mustard yellow tie. He’s got the right outfit for a bodyguard. That outfit would scare away anyone.

  “I’m Kristi Evans,” I tell him. “Dr. Lynd said it was all right for me to visit Mr. Merson. He said he’d tell you.”

  “Go on in,” the bodyguard answers. His eyes are bored as he looks away from me, searching the hall. I get the feeling that he quickly loses interest in anyone who doesn’t seem to be a threat.

  I stop in the open doorway. “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Gurtz,” he says.

  “Gurtz? That’s all … Gurtz?”

  “Gurtz,” he repeats.

  “Thanks, Gurtz,” I answer. First name? Last name? What difference does it make? If I had a bodyguard, I’d hate to have someone like Gurtz hanging around.

  Gurtz resumes his position in the hallway, and I close the door.

  Mr. Merson is propped up in bed. He watches me walk toward him. I can see the pleasure in his eyes.

  “You’re sitting up. That’s great,” I tell him. “You’ll be going home soon.”

  He picks up a pad of paper and a pencil. He writes “tomorrow” and holds it up so I can see it.

  “So soon? But won’t you need a nurse? Someone to change your bandages and take care of you?”

  Quickly Mr. Merson writes, “I’ll have a private nurse.”

  “Oh, of course,” I say. I should have known. Mr. Merson probably has enough money to hire a whole medical staff.

  He motions toward the armchair next to his bed, so I sit down. On the small table next to me is a framed photograph of a guy who looks like he’s a senior in high school. He’s thin, with pale blond hair, and there’s just a touch of a smile on his lips.

  Mr. Merson writes, “My son, Roger. He was eighteen at the time. It’s the last photograph I have of him.”

  “I’m sorry about Roger,” I say.

  He nods. For a few moments he stares down at his hands. Then he turns to a new page in his notepad and writes, “Roger had great promise. He was studying at the University of Houston in the honors program. He would have made a fine architect.”

  “When did Roger die?”

  “Sixteen years ago, while he was still a student.”

  “I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say, so I change the subject. “You were going to answer some questions for me, before we were interrupted by Sergeant Nims,” I tell him. “Will you answer the questions now?”

  “You first,” he writes.

  “I was first,” I complain. “You were supposed to be next.”

  “You didn’t finish. Tell me about yourself. Tell me what you like to do. Tell me about your artwork.”

  “You know something about my art—about the awards I won at school.”

  Mr. Merson waits patiently, so I find myself babbling on. I tell him that I love serious art, but I also love to sketch, and sometimes my sketches become cartoons.

  He’s actually listening, soaking up every word I say, so I go on. I talk to Mr. Merson as if he’s an old friend. I tell him about wanting to go to the summer art school and major in art when I’m in college, then confide that my parents are against it. I tell him what Ms. Montero said that gave me hope that someday I’ll do it on my own.

  Mr. Merson holds out the pad and pencil to me.

  I laugh. “Are you asking me to make a sketch of you?”

  He nods, so I set to work and pretty soon I’ve drawn a comical sketch of a patient in a jumble of bandages, tubes, and bedclothes. His eyes twinkle as though he’s part of a huge joke.

  When I hand Mr. Merson the pad his eyelids crinkle, and a chuckle rolls up from the back of his throat. He tears off the page and anchors it on the table with the edge of his son’s framed photograph. Then he points a finger at me.

  “I get your message. You want me to sit still,” I tell him.

  I watch with interest as he sets to work. From time to time he looks from me to the paper and back again, and he draws steadily. He takes longer than I did, and I’m eager to see what he’s drawn.

  Finally he tears off the page and hands it to me. I look at the sketch of my face and shoulders and gasp with surprise. The drawing is not only a perfect likeness, it has a three-dimensional quality. And there’s a light behind my eyes that makes me look as though at any moment I’ll begin to speak.

  “You’re a professional artist!” I exclaim. “This is beautiful!” I study the sketch. “The shadows at the side of the face … the highlights on the cheekbones … Oh! I see how you got that effect. But the quality of making the sketch come alive … Will you show me how to do that?”

  “Yes. Later,” he writes. “You have the talent, so there is a great deal I hope you will learn.”

  “Oh.” Embarrassed, I try to explain. “I won’t be able to take art lessons for a few years.”

  “You will if you have a benefactor.”

  It takes a moment for what he has written to sink in. “I don’t understand. Do you mean you?” I blurt out. “Oh, no. I mean, thank you very much, but I couldn’t.”

  “All through history artists have had benefactors.”

  I’m overwhelmed at what he is offering but confused about how to handle it. I don’t want to seem rude, but there’s no way I can accept his financial help. Flustered, I change the subject. “May I keep this?” I hold the sketch protectively to my chest as though I’m afraid someone will take it away.

  “It’s yours,” he writes.

  I lean back in the armchair and smile at him. “Now I know one thing about you—that you’re a very talented artist—but I want to know more. It’s your turn. Tell me who you are. And tell me why you’ve kept a file about me.”

&nbs
p; He writes slowly and holds up the pad. “Later. I’m tired.”

  I can’t tell him what I’d like to—that he’s unfair and that he’s avoiding my questions. He’s recovering from serious injuries, and he probably tires very easily.

  As I get to my feet he writes, “Bring your parents to my home on Sunday.”

  My parents. I’ve forgotten them and the visit they’ve planned.

  “I will,” I answer. “And thank you for the beautiful drawing.”

  He nods, then leans back against the pillow. He looks exhausted, and I feel guilty for thinking he was trying to escape from answering my questions.

  “Goodbye, Gurtz,” I say as I pass the hulk in the hallway.

  Gurtz grunts in return, which is probably the best he can do.

  I should feel pleased with my visit to Mr. Merson. He enjoyed it, and the drawing was a wonderful gift. I still feel uncomfortable about his offer to be my benefactor, but something else bothers me, and I don’t know what it is. It’s not until I climb into the car and turn on the ignition that the stray uncomfortable thoughts come together with a snap.

  Sixteen years ago Roger was in the honors program at the University of Houston. So was my mother.

  Why did my mother tell me she didn’t know Roger?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It’s a quarter to five when I reach home. I pick up the telephone and stare at it. Maybe everyone in the offices at the University of Houston has gone home by this time. Then again, maybe not. It’s worth finding out.

  To my surprise I reach the director of the honors program without any trouble.

  “Barry Jenkins here,” he says.

  “Hi,” I say. “I need to ask about someone who was at the University of Houston in the honors program a number of years ago.”

  “I may not be able to help you,” Mr. Jenkins answers. “I’ve been in this job for only three years.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment rises in a lump and clogs my throat. “Well, this was sixteen years ago. Thank you very—”

  “Hey, wait,” he says. “You’re in luck. I was a student in the honors program at that time, so maybe I can answer your question. So tell me, what’s your name and what do you want to know?”

  Hope fills my body like helium. I introduce myself. “My mother was in the honors program then. Callie Evans. Do you know her?”

  “You bet I do. We were good friends. How is Callie?”

  “She’s fine, thanks.”

  “What do you want to know about her that she can’t tell you herself?”

  “It’s not about Mom,” I tell him. “It’s about someone named Roger Merson.”

  “Oh, gosh, yeah,” he says. “Roger. You know he committed suicide.”

  “Yes.”

  “It really got to your mother. He was a badly mixed-up kid—drugs and alcohol—and Callie had taken him under her wing. She did her best to turn his life around. When he died, Callie blamed herself She thought she hadn’t done enough.”

  In shock I stammer, “Sh-She knew him? She knew Roger Merson?”

  “Sure. Except she didn’t know him as Roger Merson. None of us did. He’d broken away from his family. I think they lived in California. At least his mother did. There was a lot of anger on Roger’s part, especially with his father. Roger refused to use his name. But I found all this out later. At the time we knew him as Chip Blair.”

  “When he died, didn’t you learn his real name?”

  “No. Chip had mailed a letter to the director of the honors program. He told him who to contact. After the first story about the suicide on the back pages of the newspaper, there wasn’t another word. I guess the police must have notified his family, and they took care of everything. We did have a memorial service for Chip. That’s all we knew to do.”

  “When did you all find out that Chip was really Roger?” I ask. I’m still puzzled about Mom’s denial.

  “As I told you, we didn’t,” Mr. Jenkins says. “I’m probably one of the few of our group who knows the facts, and that’s because I went through the former director’s files after I took this job.”

  “So Mom really doesn’t know.” I must have spoken my thoughts aloud, because Mr. Jenkins answers me.

  “It happened a long time ago. Is there some reason Callie should be told about it now? It might just bring back a lot of unhappiness.”

  “You’re right,” I mumble. He’s waiting for some kind of explanation, but I don’t know what else to say.

  “Call me if you need me,” he says.

  “I will,” I answer. “Thank you for your help.”

  We say goodbye, and I hang up. Telling Mom that she really does have a tie to the Mersons is going to be tough. I can’t rush into it. I’ve got to think it out. What am I going to say? How am I going to put it?

  Mom. Guess what I found out.

  No! That’s awful. I shudder. I’ve got to come up with a better idea.

  Mom. I’ve got something to tell you … something sad to tell you.

  That might work. I’ll start by saying, Sit down, Mom. I’ve got something sad to tell you. I sigh and lean back in my chair. That might prepare her for what she’s going to hear.

  I’m so busy trying to decide just how to break this news to Mom that I forget all about starting dinner. I don’t give it a thought until Mom and Dad walk through the kitchen door.

  Mom stops in the middle of the kitchen and stares around the room. “What happened to dinner?” she asks.

  “Dinner? Oh, no! I forgot about dinner.”

  “You forgot to make dinner? Kristi, what’s wrong? Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

  “Mom, sit down,” I begin. “I’ve got something sad to tell you.”

  “What is it, Kristi?” Mom’s voice rises, and she clutches the back of a chair. “It’s not your grandma, is it? Oh, please, no! Not your grandma!”

  The color in Mom’s face drains to a sickly gray. Dad grabs her and helps lower her into the chair.

  I panic and shout, “It’s not Grandma. Grandma’s fine. Mom, I found out today that your friend Chip Blair wasn’t really Chip Blair. I mean, that wasn’t his name. He had told everybody that was his name because he’d made a break with his family. His name was really Roger Merson.”

  Some color has come back into Mom’s face, but she stares at me with blank eyes. Her lips are parted. Her mouth hangs slightly open.

  It’s taking Dad too a few moments to figure out what I’m talking about.

  “Mom … Dad … I tried to figure out a way to tell you without getting you upset. I even practiced what I’d say. But I did it all wrong. I’m so sorry.”

  Mom gives a huge sigh and slumps in her chair. “Chip Blair was really Roger Merson? Are you sure? How did you find out, Kristi?”

  “I talked to the director of the honors program at the University of Houston. His name is Barry Jenkins.”

  Mom perks up at this. “Barry is director now? Good for him.”

  “I wish I’d asked him to tell you about Roger. He would have done a better job.”

  Mom slowly gets up and wraps her arms around me. “Honey, you did your best. I jumped to conclusions, that’s all. I made it more difficult for you.”

  Dad puts an arm around Mom’s shoulders. Pretty soon we’re into a three-way hug. “Your mother tried to get Chip into rehab,” Dad says, “and she did. During his senior year he was completely drug free. Callie helped Chip study so he wouldn’t flunk out. She tried to get him to make peace with his family. She never gave up.”

  “The morning they found Chip’s body, someone told us. I don’t even remember now who it was,” Mom says. “I do remember how devastated I felt. I’d thought I’d been helping Chip, and I hadn’t.”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” Dad and I say, practically together.

  “Chip was as mixed up as anyone could get,” Dad says.

  Mom goes on. “Chip and I became friendly. It was nice for me, since college was a big adjustment from working. He needed a fr
iend too. He had terrible arguments with his father, who was a dominating, difficult person. The man wanted to control Chip’s life. Chip’s father had decided he should be an architect. He had arranged for the right contacts for Chip so as soon as he had his degree he’d have the perfect job. He’d even handpicked a wife for Chip and talked to him about how much he wanted an heir.

  “Chip needed someone to talk to. He said he loved his father, yet at the same time he hated him. He went back and forth between trying to please him and defying him. I never met Chip’s father. I didn’t know he was …”

  Mom breaks off. We all stare at each other. “Douglas Merson,” Mom says.

  She backs toward the chair and sits down again. “Is all this mysterious behavior on Mr. Merson’s part some kind of revenge? Does the man blame me for what happened to his son?”

  “It couldn’t be that,” I tell her, although I’ve got chills up and down my backbone. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so confused. “Mr. Merson has been very nice to me, Mom.”

  I grab my bag and pull out the sheet of paper with the drawing on it. I show it to them and say, “He drew this of me today.”

  Mom takes a closer look. “It looks just like you! Kristi, he’s a real artist. Did you know this?”

  “I just found out this afternoon,” I answer.

  “He’s a professional artist, all right,” Dad says. He takes another look at the sketch, then places it carefully on the table. He turns and looks at me. “Now let’s get down to basic facts, Kristi. How did you happen to call the director of the honors program? What information did you have that led you to do that?”

  That’s the way Dad’s mind works. Facts. X equals whatever and proves to be correct. Everything nice and tidy and mathematical. Well, maybe that’s what’s needed right now—a good mathematical mind.

  “Mr. Merson showed me a photograph of his son, taken while he was in high school,” I answer. “He told me—”

  “Told you?” Mom interrupts. “He can speak?”

  “Wrote, not told. On a pad of paper. He wrote that his son was in the honors program at the University of Houston sixteen years ago. Later I remembered that you were there at the same time, Mom. But you said you didn’t know Roger Merson, so I called, not even thinking anyone was there. I just needed to find out why.”