by Tish Cohen
“It’s okay. The scholarship matters more.”
“Yeah, but you won’t be able to come to New York if you get it. Think what you’re passing up.”
Her eyes traveled from his battered, thrift-store desert boots up past his paint-spattered jeans and lumberjack shirt, to the red spot on his neck where he’d nicked himself shaving. She pulled a tissue from her bag and dabbed at the cut. “A girl can’t have it all.”
“I don’t know why I listened to her. No, I do. She said I look like a cult member when I take the other.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My sister. She convinced me to take DayQuil.” He reached for her fingers and pressed them to his neck. “Time my pulse. See if it’s the same as yours.”
She prodded the skin around his throat. “I can’t even find it.”
“What are you saying?” He started breathing fast and shallow. “Of course I have a pulse. You think I don’t have a pulse?”
“You have a pulse,” she said, louder. “I just can’t find it. Pull it together, Adam.”
“I can’t do this. Tell them I’m sick.”
She took him by the shoulder and led him inside the lobby. “No one’s sick. We’re going straight up there and you can stay perfectly silent. Let me do all the talking. We’ll say you lost your voice.”
He stopped her from getting on the elevator. Slithered one hand beneath her hair to rest it on the back of her neck and grinned, his eyes scanning her face. “Delilah Blue?”
A jolt shot through her. “Yes?”
“Hi. Just hi.”
THE DESIGNER STOOD face to cheek with Lila’s nearly naked and glowing bottom, then reached up to touch the faint stain that was the birthmark on her upper hip. If Lila had ever imagined being touched by another female, she could not have conjured up a more unlikely participant. Norma Reeves was less than five feet tall, all boxy torso, banged mahogany bob, and cat’s-eye glasses with blue-tinted lenses. She wore silver lipstick and a black unitard under a pleated pastel mini that looked as if it had been peeled off the underside of a muffin. As much as Adam’s nude of Lila, titled Nude with Denim, fascinated Norma, she seemed to have no idea the model stood right next to her.
There was something both sensuous and ordinary about this particular nighttime nude. Adam’s talent was obvious in the intense shadows, the lines of Lila’s body, and the luminosity of her skin in the milky moonlight that trickled through the windows, but it was more than that. The true mastery was more commercial, in the way he’d positioned the pair of faded jeans across the curve of her hip. Perfect for a denim designer.
Norma hadn’t spoken to them except to nod a silent hello. Adam and Lila had been ushered by an assistant into a boardroom with leather walls lined with several nudes. The assistant had offered them espresso, which Adam wisely refused, and they’d waited for the great Ms. Reeves herself to arrive. When she had, she’d walked straight over to the artwork, pausing for three or four minutes in front of each. Adam’s pieces weren’t the only pieces being considered, Norma’s assistant had made that perfectly clear. He was just one of about five artists invited to submit works, and probably the only student.
At the far end of the room, a monster-size wall clock ticked with all the drama of a bomb. Other than the sound of Adam trying to slow his own heartbeat, the room was completely silent.
Five more minutes of silence and it was over. Norma turned away from Lila’s lunar-lit bottom and marched toward the door. Just before she vanished, she called back, “I’ll have the one titled Nude with Denim. Tell my assistant to cut you a check.”
Thirty-One
There he was, marching across campus, his stinger leading the way past the water fountain and toward the parking garage. Lila, on her way to a third-year sculpting class where she would re-create the same pose she’d been holding for five classes straight now, broke into a run. It was mid-November. It had been more than three weeks since she’d turned in her pieces. Part of her didn’t want to ask—why hurry bad news? But mostly she could no longer take the waiting. Wondering.
Just as he was about to step out of the sunlight and into the darkness of the garage, she called out, “Lichty!”
If he heard her, he didn’t react, disappearing into the three-story structure. She followed him up the stairs, which smelled faintly of urine and beer, calling his name and blinking hard to adjust to the dim light. There was no sign of him on the second floor, so she raced up to the third and saw him climbing into a little yellow Beetle.
“Lichty, wait!”
The car sputtered to life and started to back out of the narrow spot. It was about to speed past her when she jumped in front of it, holding up her hands and shouting, “Stop!”
The car skidded to a stop and Lichty poked his head out the window. “A very good way to get yourself killed, Miss Mack.”
“Sorry.” She struggled to catch her breath. “It’s just that it’s Friday, and I couldn’t stand the thought of going through the weekend without knowing.”
He nodded, shifting the car into park. “The scholarship.”
“The scholarship. Yes. You said it would take three weeks and it’s been longer.”
“If you’ll stop by my office on Monday, I’ll give you back your pieces.”
“So that means you’ve made a decision.”
He let out a long sigh. “In the end, we all felt the same way. I showed them the spider drawing and we all agreed the four other pieces lack the focus and clarity of that one. It’s almost as if it wasn’t done by the same person…”
It wasn’t, she wanted to say. It was done by the girl who hadn’t yet been kidnapped, hadn’t yet learned her life was total bullshit. “They were. I swear, I did all of them.”
“I believe you. But the others suffered from a certain lack of sureness. A lack of confidence and artistic sense of ‘this is who I am.’”
“Yeah, but…”
“Don’t get me wrong. We all felt you showed promise. But you’re just not ready yet. Maybe you’ll try again next year. Right now, you need to solidify a few things, develop your sense of groundedness. Some consistency. I need to know, from one quick glance at your work, the truth about who you are.”
Her eyes grew hot and she fought to keep her bottom lip from giving away her emotions. “I’m not sure I’ll ever figure that out.”
He looked at her, his face unsympathetic. “That, Miss Mack, is a terrible shame.” The yellow car thumped into gear and sped away.
Thirty-Two
Lila slammed the cupboard door shut. When it bounced open again and struck her in the chin, she grabbed the plastic knob and shut the door again, as hard as she could, again and again and again until the tiny red knob broke off in her hand. She threw it into the sink and leaned over the counter to focus on her breath, still herself, before she tore apart the entire kitchen.
“What is going on in there, Mouse?”
She didn’t answer. Just closed her eyes, turned her face to the ceiling, and tried to wipe Lichty’s words out of her memory. A terrible shame. She’d wanted the scholarship. She’d ached for it. And she’d known she’d be upset if she was turned down. What she hadn’t counted on was this feeling of absolute nothingness. Of spinning somewhere in space without any sense of where she’d been or where she was headed.
It had been raining all morning. The incessant drumming against the roof, and dampness within the cabin, and grayness outside, had only added to her misery.
“Mouse?” She heard the rhythmic shuffling of his bedroom slippers against the bricks with the clickety-click patter of tiny canine toenails. Clickety-swish. Clickety-swish. Then Victor’s voice at the doorway. “What was all that banging?”
“Nothing, okay? It was nothing.”
“Didn’t sound like nothing.”
“Yeah, well. It is what it is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She spun around. “I don’t really know. Because around here, nothing
seems to be anything. Have you noticed? Whatever happens just happens. Nothing is explained. And whoever gets knocked down is supposed to get up, wipe their ass, and gallop on as usual.”
Victor looked confused. “But that’s not true at all. I’ve told you things were complicated back then. I’ve asked you to trust me when I say I did what I had to do.”
She slid down to the floor and thumped her head against the cabinet behind her.
He picked up the dog. “Enough of that now. You’re scaring the dog.”
“And why do you call her the dog? Why don’t you give her a name? Or, wait, give her one, then just go and change it on her. Just so she doesn’t get too settled.”
“It was a nickname. Lots of people have them. Wasn’t as if I started calling you Heather or Emily.” Victor slid into a chair and reached for the vinyl placemat in front of him. He held it up like a menu. “Could you get me a pastrami sandwich, my dear? With pickles on the side, if we’re not out. And if you don’t mind, pour a bit of that kibble into the dog’s bowl.”
She stared at him, incredulous. Nothing about this situation had affected him. He still expected his wretched victim to tend to his every need. And feed the dog without a name. She reached for the kibble and dumped it into the bowl on the floor next to the oven, then pulled open the fridge and rummaged around in search of pastrami, finally locating it beneath a package of spinach tortillas.
Something about the little deli bag looking up all unperturbed got to her. She grabbed it, along with a loaf of bread, and slammed it on the table.
“You know what? Make your own damned lunch.” She reached for her keys and her purse. “And, by the way, that dog food you bought isn’t even the right kind for your dog. It’s for seniors. And she’s clearly not a senior.”
“Oh dear,” he said. “I hadn’t realized…”
“I’m going out.” She stormed out the door and into the rain, started up the front steps, slowing as she neared the top, turning her face into the drizzle.
Damn him for looking so helpless.
She marched back down and into the house. Without removing her wet boots, she walked into the kitchen, where her father sat staring at the door, just as she’d left him. She picked up the meat and the bread, pulled the pickle jar from the fridge, then set about making his lunch. “You always put on too much mustard,” she said as she cleaved the sandwich in half, rainwater pooling beneath her feet. “Makes the bread all soggy.”
AN HOUR AND a half later and it was a different day. The skies had cleared, the sun was sucking up the puddles on the roads, and staff at sidewalk restaurants wiped down tables and chairs in hopes that the people filing out of cars and buildings might stop in, help make up for the morning’s lost profits.
Kieran—as she ambled along beside Lila in her usual puritanical uniform—insisted upon holding the dog’s green leash. The leash was long, the child was short, the dog was friendly, all of which added up to an animal who was able to race on ahead, hoist himself up on bare female calves, and mushroom his face up between the knees of every girl who happened by.
“Let me hold him, Kieran,” said Lila, tugging the pug back. “He’s being lewd.”
She shook her head and growled. “You said I could hold him all the way until there, so I’m holding him all the way until there.”
“And the leash is soaked. You’re dragging it through puddles of slop.”
“Slop.” Kieran shook her head in disapproval. “You’re so dramatic.”
Elisabeth had an appointment with Finn. No doubt to lie naked on her back among the debris in Finn’s work space. Lila couldn’t stop the image of Finn drunkenly crawling across the floor and rubbing clay-stained hands all over Elisabeth. More upsetting than this was Lila’s growing hunch that Elisabeth was reading way too much into the exchanges.
Lila had insisted Kieran spend the day with her. She had nothing special planned, just an afternoon filled with errands. First stop was the jeweler who had resized the bracelet.
“So do you dress like an executive every single day of your life?” Lila asked Kieran as they tied the dog to a bicycle rack outside the store.
“Only if I need to feel grown-up.”
“Huh. Does that happen a lot?”
Kieran sighed, as if her sweater weighed twenty pounds and her back were buckling from her managerial duties. “Almost all the time.”
“Bummer.”
Kieran examined Lila’s clothing. “Why do you dress like that?”
Lila looked down at Victor’s oversize sweatshirt—the gray one she’d cut the arms out of and made into a dress—bare thighs, and kneesocks with ever-present doodled boots. “I don’t know. I’m artsy, I guess.”
Kieran stopped and considered her sister’s outfit more carefully. “Always big and baggy on top. And then bare legs. Like look at me but don’t look at me.”
Lila was too shocked, too annoyed, to answer right away. A bus roared past, sending a fine spray of puddle water toward them. They darted to the side, but not before Lila’s boots got spotted, which only irritated her further. “You think that’s how people see me?”
Kieran pursed her lips together and mulled this over. “How should I know? I’m not even eight.”
Inside the store, the child was dumbstruck in the face of jewels set against black cloth, and the way they sparked and winked beneath halogen spotlights. She pulled away from Lila and hopped from case to case, drooling over the gold, platinum, and diamonds. As the shop assistant took Lila’s ticket and headed off to the back to locate the resized, re-clasped bracelet, the owner invited Kieran behind the counter and encouraged her to drape her neck in finery.
Even Lila had to admit the girl looked cute, gobbed as she was with pearls and chains, her prim blouse rumpled by extravagance.
“Can you take my picture, Lila?” Kieran asked as she admired herself in the mirrored wall.
Lila pulled out her phone and snapped a few times as Kieran crinkled her nose and grinned. Kieran was a natural, posing for the camera as if she’d been doing it all her life. There were poses sitting on a stool, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Hands on hips with feet planted apart. Modeling must be in the genes. But when she caught Lila grinning from behind the camera, she stiffened up. “I’m done now. Can we print one for me?”
“Maybe when we get home.”
“Can we go home now?”
The owner waved toward the open door behind him. “I don’t mind printing it out for her. Just send it to me from your phone.” He gave her his e-mail address, disappeared for a minute or two, and returned with a warm sheet of paper. “Here you are, Missy. Pretty in pearls.”
Kieran thanked him and, as he disappeared with Lila’s debit card, stared at her image, her cheeks flushed pink with pride. “Lila, can we play hide-and-seek?”
“Not here.”
“Please.”
The jeweler came back to say Lila’s debit card didn’t work and did she have an alternate method of paying. She dug through her bag for rumpled bills and change at the bottom.
“Please.” Kieran tugged at Lila’s sweatshirt. “Play with me.”
“How much did you say?” Lila asked the man.
“Thirty-five dollars, fourteen cents. That’s with our November discount.”
Kieran tugged at her belt. “Do a long count. A hundred.”
“No. There’s nowhere to hide here anyway.”
“You’re lucky,” said the jeweler, slipping the box into a paper bag. He summoned a quiet burp and released it into his hand. “Discount ends tomorrow.”
She counted out $35.14, watched the man recount the money, and then scooped up the paper bag. When she got to the door, she turned around, looked for her sister. Kieran was nowhere to be seen. “Kieran? Time to go buy dog food.”
A tall cardboard sign fell over to reveal Kieran sitting cross-legged, elbows resting on angry knees, photo of herself on her lap. “You didn’t even pretend to look for me. You didn’t even know I was gone!�
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THE WALK TO the pet store had been quiet. Kieran hadn’t been able to take her eyes off her photo. After she tripped over a curb, got tangled—twice—in the dog’s leash, and walked straight into a baby stroller, Lila had threatened to take the photo away. But Kieran threatened to shout out that Lila wasn’t her mother and was abducting her, so Lila took the dog leash in one hand and Kieran’s elbow in the other.
You could smell the pet shop before you could see it. A whiff of Riverdale Farm back in Toronto, complete with twenty-five-cent pellets and goat fur and dung-packed hooves, wafted toward them from the open door. Kieran parked herself beside the window full of dachshund puppies—a tempting vista for any child—and informed Lila she could pick out the dog food on her own because she wanted to examine her picture.
“Come in. We’ll play hide-and-seek in here while I shop. This time I’ll look for you. I promise.”
Kieran sat cross-legged on the sidewalk and placed the photo on her lap. “I’m not falling for that.”
“Seriously. I’ll even count to one-fifty.”
The twitch of her mouth revealed the count of 150 tempted the child, but Kieran pushed her nose in the air. “No.”
“One-seventy-five and you get to pick the dog cookies.”
“Two hundred and you choose your own stupid cookies.”
“Two hundred it is.” Lila started inside with Kieran and the dog on her heels, but stopped to allow Kieran to stuff the photo in her purse. As she waited, a poster tacked to the door caught her eye. The poster flapped in the breeze of a passing bus. STOLEN DOG, it read in thick black marker strokes. Under the ominous headline was a full-color photo of a pug. And not just any pug. A pug with a serrated green collar. A pug with a matching lime green leash. A pug that could very well be squirming right now in Kieran’s arms.
The poster said the dog’s name was Sammi. Barely daring to breathe the name, Lila whispered, “Sammi?” Sure enough, the dog looked up. Squirmed. Yipped.
