Who Are You? (9780307823533)

by Nixon, Joan Lowery

  “I went too far,” I say. “I shouldn’t have asked about a particular patient. I didn’t mean to upset him.”

  “It’s okay, Kristi,” Jonathan says. “He wasn’t that upset. I know how you feel about that little kid you told me about. The story got to you. It bothers me, too.”

  He reaches over to take my hand and squeezes it. I don’t try to tell him his assumption is wrong. “I’m glad you came,” he says. “It’s still early. Want to get pizza and hear some music?”

  “I’d love to,” I tell him.

  “Now that the interview’s over, I can relax,” Jonathan says. “It’s a good feeling to know that I got answers to all my questions.”

  I desperately wish I could say the same thing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Getting ready to visit Douglas Merson is a pain, and it’s Mom who’s making it so difficult.

  “Kristi, you aren’t going to wear jeans!”

  “Why not, Mom? I wore them the last time I went to visit Mr. Merson in the hospital.”

  Mom groans. “This visit is different. We’re going to his house. Wear what you wore this morning to church. Remember, it’s Sunday.”

  “What does Sunday have to do with wearing jeans?” I ask.

  “Kristi!” I can tell from Mom’s voice that there’s no use arguing. “Put on a dress. And stockings. And your good shoes. And please, do something with your hair. Get it out of your eyes.”

  Mom doesn’t know what Mr. Merson will tell us. A part of me wants to comfort her. I want to hug her and say, “Hey, look, whatever reason he gives us for keeping that folder about me doesn’t matter.”

  But it does matter because I think I already know his reason. And I’m scared too.

  I back off from Mom and run upstairs to change. I’ve always believed everything Mom and Dad ever told me. I’ve never questioned them because I’ve trusted them. Are things different now? It shakes me.

  I lean toward the bathroom mirror, my hairbrush in my hand, then stop and stare hard at my reflection. “Who are you?” I whisper.

  The doorbell jangles, and I jump.

  Mom yells up the stairs, “Kristi!” So I smooth back my hair, fasten it with a clip, and hurry down the stairs.

  Detective Balker smiles up at me from the foot of the stairs. I’m surprised to see him. “We’re getting ready to visit Mr. Merson,” I tell him.

  “I know,” he says. “I just came by to make sure the meeting was still on.” As he takes a step toward the door he says to Mom, “I’ll meet you folks over there. You can ask him whatever questions you want, but we’ll keep the visit short.”

  “Of course,” Mom says. She looks the way she did when she had the flu. She’s put color on her cheeks, but she’s so pale underneath that the two pink ovals stand out, looking weird.

  “Does it have to be a short visit?” I ask Balker. “Mr. Merson has a fabulous painting in his entry hall. He’s an artist himself. I’d love to see his work.”

  “Kristi!” Mom explodes. “Be reasonable! This is not a social call. Mr. Merson is not a friend. We’re not hoping to have a pleasant chat with him.”

  Her anger startles me.

  “See you there,” Balker says, and quickly leaves the house.

  I get a tissue from the pop-up box in the guest bathroom. “Hold still,” I tell Mom, and I blend in the stark edges of color on her cheeks.

  Mom glances into the mirror in the entry hall. “Thanks, honey,” she says. Her eyes fill with tears.

  Dad claps a hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he tells her. “Merson can’t hurt Kristi.”

  “He can’t?” Mom says. “Look what he did to his son.”

  “Mr. Merson loved his son!” I’m surprised at myself for strongly defending a man I don’t even know.

  Mom takes the tissue from me and wipes her eyes. “If a parent really loves a child, he nurtures him. He doesn’t try to control him.” Her words seem to bounce off the walls and into our private thoughts.

  I want to say, How about not allowing the child to major in art, when that’s what she wants most in the world to study? But I don’t. I can tell from Mom’s and Dad’s expressions that they’ve thought of that.

  Finally Dad clears his throat and asks, “Are you both ready to leave? We don’t want to keep Detective Balker waiting.”

  Mom takes a deep breath and throws back her shoulders. “We’re coming,” she says firmly.

  I silently follow my parents out to the car.

  On the way to Merson’s house we don’t talk. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say. But as we near Chimney Rock I give Dad directions on how to reach Merson’s house on Buffalo Bayou Lane.

  As we pull into the drive behind Balker’s car, he climbs out and waits for us to join him. The four of us walk slowly to the front porch. Mom grips Dad’s arm tightly.

  Mom’s nervousness is contagious. I begin to fear whatever it is Mr. Merson is going to tell us.

  Frederick opens the door. Gurtz looms behind him. I feel intimidated. I let Balker do all the talking.

  We’re ushered into the entry hall, and I find myself face-to-face with the Kupka painting. The vibrant bands of color reach out to me. They wipe every other thought from my mind. “See, Mom? Look, Dad. This is Frank Kupka’s portrait of his wife.” I check the bottom of the canvas. There, in neat script, is the signature: František Kupka.

  Mom gives the painting only a quick glance, but Dad studies it, frowning. “I don’t get it,” he says in a low voice. “You can hardly see the woman’s face. Why did the artist slap those strips of color all over her? Couldn’t he have had her sit in a chair? Maybe with some flowers in a vase next to her? I bet she wasn’t too happy with this portrait.”

  Discouraged, I don’t even try to answer.

  A nurse, wearing a tidy white uniform, comes into the hall and smiles at us. “I’m Connie Babson,” she tells us. Ms. Babson is short and plump and middle-aged and looks as if she laughs easily. If I had to be taken care of, I’d like a nurse like her.

  “You’re the first guests Mr. Merson has had,” she says. She leans toward Mom, as though she’s confiding in her. “We’ll keep our visit short because he tires easily.”

  We’re led into a large living area with stark white walls, white upholstery, a white marble fireplace, and even a white carpet. I suck in my breath. We’ve been thrown into a stage setting in which the rows of paintings on the walls are the stars. Muted colors, bright colors, textures both soft, like old, faded silk, and bold, with thick, rough brush strokes. Soothing landscapes, imposing portraits, and impressions so wild they shout.

  On the far side are windows that look out onto a roofed patio. A sparkling blue swimming pool lies just beyond.

  Mom and Dad are being introduced by Sergeant Balker. I forcibly rip myself from this world of beauty and say hello to Mr. Merson.

  He’s propped up with pillows on a large sofa and covered with a light wool blanket. In his hands he holds a pad of paper and a pencil. He nods at each of us in turn, his eyes showing a smile as they meet mine. I notice that he studies Mom for a long time.

  “Please be seated,” Ms. Babson tells us.

  Four chairs have been arranged so that they’re facing the sofa, and we sit down. Ms. Babson hovers over Mr. Merson behind the sofa, and Gurtz stands at the door, his arms folded across his chest.

  I lean toward Mr. Merson, overcome by the art that surrounds us. “I wish you could tell me about each of your paintings,” I say. “Are some of them your own work?”

  He nods and points to four canvases, one of which I would have guessed was a Chagall, with its strange cow heads and scrap of a rural village. Then he writes, “The real thing. Turner,” and points to a subdued landscape. And “Monet,” then points to a scene of water lilies.

  Wow! This is like living in a museum.

  “Where do you paint?” I ask. “Is your studio in your house?”

  Mom grips my arm. “That’s enough,
Kristi,” she says, although she doesn’t look at me. She looks directly at Mr. Merson. “Mr. Merson knows why we’re here.”

  He writes something and holds up the pad so we can read it. “Kristi has been kind to me. She’s a fine young woman. I know you are very proud of her.”

  “Well, yes. Of course we are proud of her,” Mom says. She twists her fingers together.

  “Kristi realizes how important art is in my life,” Mr. Merson writes. “Please forgive her for indulging me.”

  Mom squirms as though she doesn’t know what to say next. I think she must have worked out a plan before we came, but Mr. Merson just wiped it out.

  Dad steps in. “Mr. Merson, we need to know why you have held this long-term interest in our daughter.”

  Mr. Merson holds up a hand, the way a traffic cop would signal drivers to stop. For a few seconds he writes. Then he holds up the pad. “Is Kristi receiving the instruction she needs?”

  Dad and Mom look at each other in surprise. “She’s in high school—Carter High,” Dad answers.

  “Instruction in art?” Mr. Merson writes.

  “She belongs to an art club that meets after school,” Mom says. Impatience creeps into her voice.

  Mr. Merson writes, “It’s not enough. She has talent that needs to be directed.”

  Mom’s temper begins to rise. “We’re her parents. We’ll be the judge of that.”

  Just then Frederick comes into the room. He walks carefully, balancing a tray that holds four glasses of iced tea, sprigged with mint. As he pauses before each of us we say, “No, thank you.”

  The tea looks good, and I’d really like to have some, but what if I spilled even a drop on the gorgeous white carpeting? It’s a lot safer to leave the tea in Frederick’s hands. I think my parents probably feel the same.

  Mom is ready to go back into battle, but Mr. Merson hands Ms. Babson a note. She reads it, walks to the far end of the sofa, and picks up a small, framed photograph—the one I saw in the hospital. She carries the photo to Mom.

  “Oh! It’s Chip,” Mom says. I can hear the tears in her voice.

  I glance at Mr. Merson, and he’s studying Mom, his gaze so intent, it’s as if he’s trying to peer inside her head.

  Mom looks up from the photograph. “I’m sorry about your son, Mr. Merson,” she says. “Chip’s death was painful to all of us in the honors program. We all felt close to each other. We celebrated together, and we shared each other’s problems.”

  “Roger was an artist too. He had great promise,” Mr. Merson writes.

  “I know. Chip … that is, Roger, shared some of his drawings with me.”

  Mr. Merson writes another note to Ms. Babson. She hurries over to the end table again and picks up a manila folder. As she hands it to Mom, she takes Roger’s photograph, returning it to the table.

  Mom opens the folder on her lap, and I lean close to see what it contains. There is a sketch of a laughing young woman, sitting on the rim of a fountain. Her hair is long and hangs down her back. Her hands rest on her bulging abdomen. There’s no mistaking who the woman is. At the bottom of the page is a signature: Roger Merson.

  “Mom!” I exclaim. “That’s a great picture of you!”

  A tear rolls down Mom’s nose, and she wipes it away with the back of one hand. “It was a beautiful, sunny day, and some of us were sitting out by the fountain,” she says. “I was so happy because I was expecting you, Kristi. I knew Chip was sketching, but he never did show me what he had drawn.”

  Mr. Merson’s eyes seem puzzled, but Mom doesn’t notice. She wipes her eyes again and says to him, “Thank you for letting me see this sketch. It brings back happy memories of Ch—Roger. He’d been off drugs for a year. He was working hard on his studies. He was trying to make peace with you. He had plans. At least we thought …” Her voice breaks.

  She passes the folder to Dad and folds her hands in her lap. Mom takes a deep breath and says calmly, “Mr. Merson, you know that Drew, Kristi, and I need an answer to our questions. Why have you kept a folder of newspaper clippings about Kristi? Why have you hired people to photograph her during the last sixteen years? What is your reason? Please tell us.”

  Mr. Merson seems to slip deeply inside himself, like a sea creature hiding in a shell. For a few moments he closes his eyes. Then he opens them and writes, “Later. I’m tired now.”

  Mom gives a little cry. “That’s not fair. We deserve an answer.”

  She glances to Balker for help, but he shrugs and shakes his head.

  Connie Babson takes charge. Smiling, she removes the folder from Mom’s hands. In an instant we’re all on our feet. Mom, Dad, and Sergeant Balker walk toward the entry hall, but I stop by the sofa and look down on Mr. Merson.

  “You’re cheating,” I say in a low voice. “Why not tell us? You can’t put it off forever.”

  He opens his eyes and looks up at me. “Come back and see me, Kristi,” he writes.

  “If I do, will you tell me?”

  “I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

  “Will you let me see your other paintings too?” I ask. “Will you tell me about the Kupka painting in your hall?”

  He looks surprised, but he writes, “Come back. We need to discuss your future.”

  At the moment I don’t know if I’ll return or not. I’m angry, so I don’t answer him.

  As I turn to walk away, I can see that he’s wrestling with problems too.

  “Kristi, your parents are waiting for you,” Ms. Babson calls from the doorway.

  “Okay, I’ll come back,” I say in a low voice to Mr. Merson.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Questions spin through my mind, twisting themselves into a tangled mess because none of them have answers. Mom thought she was helping Chip … Roger … to turn his life around, but he ended it. Chip hadn’t shown the sketch he did of Mom to her. Instead, he signed it Roger, and his father has it.

  I think about the secret sketches I’ve drawn of Jonathan. Nobody knows about them but me. Chip might have planned to give the sketch to Mom later, maybe even as a gift when her baby was born. He signed his real name, as any artist would. After Chip’s death, his father probably went through his things and packed them. Is that how Mr. Merson got the drawing?

  Mom’s brooding, and Dad retreats into silence, so I call Lindy and ask if I can come over.

  “Sure,” she says. “I’ve been working all day on my report, and I’m ready to relax. I’ve got this new really great CD we can listen to.”

  Ten minutes later I’m at Lindy’s house. We make brownies and eat some of them still hot from the oven. We listen to music, and I tell her about my Friday-night date with Jonathan and about going for pizza with him on Saturday night. I don’t tell her about the visit to Dr. Salinas, though. This is something I need to keep to myself.

  But it’s fun to talk about Jonathan and what he said and what I said. The questions that have to do with Mr. Merson get tucked away, into a hidden pocket of my mind.

  When I get home I quickly kiss Mom and Dad goodnight and run up the stairs to bed.

  As I lie in the darkness, warm under my quilt, drifting slowly into sleep, I see Mr. Merson’s words: your future. An electric jolt of excitement jabs me, and my eyes fly open. My future as an artist! It’s suddenly so real, I want to reach out and cup my future in my hands and hold it tightly. My future as an artist. Mr. Merson wants to give me the future I dream of.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and burrow into my pillow. This is no time to wrestle with what this means. I’ll think about it tomorrow.

  The next morning, as I enter my art appreciation class, Ms. Montero calls me to her desk. “I made that telephone call, Kristi,” she says.

  At first I’m blank. Then I remember. “Oh. To the Museum of Modern Art in New York?”

  “That’s right. About the Kupka painting. I was told that Madame Kupka among Verticals is with a group of paintings on temporary exhibit in Milwaukee.”

  Then it hasn’t been stolen.
I’m puzzled, and I say, “But I saw it yesterday.”

  “You must have seen a copy. I hope the owner is aware that his painting is only a copy. Of course, it might be a forgery.”

  “What’s the difference between a copy of a painting and a forgery?” I ask.

  “A copy is recognized as the work of someone other than the original painter,” she answers. “A forgery is a copy that is represented as the original painting itself. In a forgery, there’s an intent to deceive.”

  “But this painting looks so real!”

  “A good forgery is hard to detect. Forgers have developed many ways of making their work seem authentic. If it’s supposed to be an older painting, it’s baked and aged artificially—sometimes under an ultraviolet lamp. Age cracks in the paint can be added by taking the canvas off the stretcher and rubbing it over the edge of a table. Occasionally stolen gallery labels giving numbers and dates of exhibit—faked, of course—are on the back of the canvas. The history and verification of the painting are falsified as well. Some forgers are so skillful they can fool even experts. Almost every museum director—with art experts at hand—has at some time unknowingly purchased a forgery.”

  “I don’t understand,” I tell her. “A person has to be a really good artist to be a forger. So why doesn’t he exhibit his own paintings? Why copy someone else’s?”

  “A forger is interested in only one thing—making money. If he’s still struggling to become known, he might get as little as a few hundred dollars for a painting. However, if he can come up with what passes for a Picasso or a Matisse his share of the profit could amount to hundreds of thousands of dollars. The economy is so good that the art market is booming. It’s big business. More and more people are buying art as an investment.”

  “Wouldn’t the artist want to take pride in his own work?”

  Ms. Montero sighs. “Unfortunately, the forger does take pride in the fact that he’s good enough to fool people and get them to part with large amounts of money.”