“What do you think?” Roland asked.
“It’s amazing.” Every time he looked in any given direction he saw even more that stunned him in its sheer scope: hundreds of men dressed in military uniforms, brandishing rifles and pistols while re-enacting the American Civil War, yet without firing their weapons or resorting to hand-to hand combat. Even more bizarre; hundreds of people examined the beautiful flower gardens set beside the group of history buffs. Behind the flower beds was a dense forest where people hiked and children played hide-and-seek.
“I thought you’d like it here,” Roland said. “But for a different reason. Turn around, Nicholas.”
Nick did. He spotted a crowd of hundreds circling a man who stood before an easel, his hand sweeping a paintbrush across a canvas. Two other individuals did the same on either side of him along canvases of their own. Yet, a final easel and canvas did not have an artist rendering a painting. “What’s going on?” he asked, drawn in by the activity and heading in that direction. “Is it a competition? To find out which man completes his work the quickest?”
Roland joined him at his side. “Let’s go find out.”
Nearing the edges of the crowd, Nick could swear the man facing him looked like…Pablo Picasso. And the man beside him resembled Claude Monet. Opposite him stood Salvador Dali. Nick blinked and rubbed his eyes, attempting to clear away what had to be his imagination. But, of course, it was his imagination. This whole world only existed in his mind. “This can’t be,” he said, cracking into a disbelieving smile.
“Oh, no? Why not?”
Nick stopped outside the circular crowd. He pointed to three of the greatest artists in history. “All of them here together? At the same time? Working side-by-side?” He shook his head at Roland. “I didn’t think this up.” His subconscious must have taken on a life of its own.
“Roland,” shouted a man, breaking the silence around them.
Nick followed the voice to find Picasso, wearing a white shirt with thick black bars stretching horizontally across it, waving at him and Roland. “You know him?” asked Nick. “You know Pablo Picasso?”
Roland met Nick’s doubtful expression with a shrug. “Would you like to meet him?”
“Are you kidding? Let’s go check this out.” He didn’t want to look at Picasso, Monet, or Dali, because doing so would no doubt make him nervous. And at this moment, a time where he should have felt completely intimidated, he didn’t feel the least bit apprehensive. But why should he? These men were figments of his imagination. They didn’t exist outside of his own mind, so why should he feel anxious? They were in his world, not the other way around. He took that attitude as he followed Roland through the aisle the crowd had made for them.
Walking beside the spectators, Nick glanced at their faces. Each person examined him with a skepticism that he didn’t understand. It shook his nerves, but he refused to let their inquisitive glances rattle him. He looked up and saw Dali fingering his waxy mustache as he cocked an appraising eye at Nick, gazing at him with suspicion. He wore a black suit and a red tie.
For a moment, Nick almost shied away from this artistic master, but he refused to let his imagination get the better of him. He held Dali’s gaze, challenging him, even though doing so somehow felt…wrong. Regardless, he remained steadfast until he joined their inner circle.
Picasso lowered his paintbrush and pushed both hands through the thicket of hair on either side of his head, his fingers swiping across the baldness at its peak. “Roland, my friend. Great to see you.” They shook hands.
Nick stood there watching the exchange with a strange sense of discomfort.
Picasso gestured toward Nick, but he still looked at Roland. “This is him? Your friend?”
Roland nodded.
Picasso turned to Nick. “You’re an artist, are you?”
Nick watched Dali’s intense eyes open wide, unable to look away from the thin, curling black mustache points that rose toward his nostrils. Nick cocked his head in Picasso’s direction and nodded, unable to respond.
“He better be an artist,” Picasso said. “He seems to have a difficult time talking.”
Monet, wearing a white coat with the first few buttons clasped while the rest lay open, revealing a thick chest and burgeoning stomach, stroked the puffy white beard that got lost in his jacket. He chuckled without humor, but his eyes glimmered with excitement.
“I can hold my own,” Nick said to Picasso. “My name’s Nick Malloy.”
Picasso smirked at him. He turned to Monet. “He thinks he can hold his own.” He glanced at Dali. “Should we give him a shot?” Receiving a nod from Dali, Picasso grinned as he spun toward the crowd. “Would you welcome Nick Malloy into our inner circle?”
The crowd roared with approval: clapping, whistling, and hollering.
Picasso nodded at their consent. “It seems they expect a lot from you, Mr. Malloy. I hope you don’t let them down. Feel free to set up shop. We just got started.” He motioned toward a variety of brushes, paint, and a palette.
As the gentlemen went back to work, Nick refused to check out their progress; although he’d never liked Picasso’s artwork, he’d admired his skill, technique, and his ability to co-create an entirely different style of art: Cubism. Even if he didn’t enjoy Picasso’s artwork, each time he walked through Daley Plaza in downtown Chicago, he passed by The Picasso, a fifty foot tall steel monumental sculpture that Picasso had designed, which had become a local landmark. Nick had no illusions that he would ever create an actual landmark in one of the most famous cities in the world.
As for Claude Monet, how could Nick not extol the virtues of the pioneer of impressionism? When he’d first started creating landscapes, he’d analyzed Monet’s works for inspiration and direction. And while Nick had quickly outgrown Monet’s unique way of viewing nature, he couldn’t disguise his awe for someone who had created one of the most loved artistic movements in history.
And finally, Salvador Dali, one of Nick’s most beloved artists. Even though Nick had admired Dali’s craftsmanship for over a dozen years, he could not help but stare in awe at a man whose bizarre images revealed hidden depths and striking portraits of the most twisted, perverse and original viewpoints in artistic history. Nick most often identified with Dali’s warped way of seeing the world. He felt a connection to Dali’s darkness, his edge, his unhinged personality. Nonetheless, Nick most admired the idealistic beauty in Thomas Kinkade’s work, and he felt a little disappointed not to see him as well. He blended both Dali’s surrealism with Kinkade’s romantic vision and created something entirely unique.
So, while Nick attempted to ignore Picasso and Monet and their artistic contributions, he couldn’t overlook Dali’s presence, because they were bound by a similar taste for grandiosity and attention-grabbing behavior. And since Nick considered himself a poor man’s Thomas Kinkade, he couldn’t contribute anything nearly as profound or influential as any of these men.
Yet, he had every intention of showing the crowd his skill level, despite knowing that he could never compete with the trio of world famous artists around him. Hundreds of people sat around him in silence with high expectations.
Nick picked up his paintbrush and approached the canvas. But his mind went blank. He had no idea how to start. Or what he should paint. There he stood, in a dream of his own creation, in a place where he would try to outshine Picasso, Monet, and Dali. And every bit of creativity had abandoned him.
CHAPTER TEN
“You can’t hide from your past,” Mei Lee said, catching up to Nina. “It’ll always catch up with you.”
That comment stopped Nina in her tracks. It explained life and the afterlife. And it revealed why people continued to perfect their souls: because no matter what they experienced and no matter how much hardship they’ve endured, they would make countless mistakes but always work to correct their behavior and outlook.
“Now that you know you’ve lived over one hundred times, don’t you wonder why? Aren’t
you curious to find out what you’ve been working to perfect? Don’t you…care?”
Of course, Nina wanted to find out why she’d visited earth so many times. She must have made a plethora of blunders and needed to rectify numerous aspects of her personality. After all, she had visited earth thirty-three times for every incarnation Mei Lee had taken on. But why? She opened her mouth to speak, but words didn’t filter out.
Mei Lee said, “Shall we continue?”
Without replying, Nina walked back into the darkened room, knowing her friend followed closely behind.
The screen sparked to life. Nina sat alone in a movie theater. Wearing a blue Northwestern t-shirt and jeans, not to mention a weary expression, she got up from her seat and walked down the aisle and soon exited the theater to look for her boyfriend of four years, Rick Steele, an architect who she hoped to marry.
She met Rick while studying in a Panera Bread restaurant during her junior year of college. Upon seeing him interacting with an irritable employee, Nina watched as he completely reversed her mood; after completing his order, the associate met the next customer in line with a smile and an optimistic tone. Rick reminded Nina of the character Woody from the Toy Story films (minus the cowboy persona): short red hair, bright brown eyes, a figure as wiry as a clothes hanger, and a personable, upbeat demeanor that never failed to win new friends no matter where he went or what type of personality he encountered.
Since he didn’t look her way as he headed toward the exit, and because she didn’t know how to get his attention, Nina stuck out her foot and tripped him. Both he and the bag in his hand pitched forward. The bagel flipped onto the seat beside her, but the lid on his cream cheese spread splashed across her blouse. Although it had ruined her favorite blouse, she got a date (and a four year relationship) out of the encounter.
In the entire time they’d dated, he’d never argued with her once: whenever she raised her voice in anger, Rick asked her to speak with him so they could “talk it out”, and if she refused, he’d just walked away. It forced her to take a mature stance when negotiating arguments. He had a supportive family that treated her as one of their own, and rather than feel self-pity because her parents didn’t encourage her to live her dreams, she soon understood the role family should play in one’s life.
And while his exuberant energy and social interactions often wore her out, she found his quirks charming: as someone who read a novel each week, he eschewed reviews from friends in favor of a more eccentric method – every time they strolled through a parking lot, Rick looked through car windows to find out what others were reading. He carried around a cheap Kodak camera and snapped pictures of couples in intimate moments and, figuring they would want to have the memento for posterity, handed them the developed film with a smile. And since he looked so affable, while in any given store, customers often suspected he worked there and consulted his opinions on everything from smartphones and furniture to clothing and various knickknacks of home décor. If he wasn’t in a rush, Rick, whose curiosity had resulted in collecting information about everything, used what he knew about the product to craft a heartwarming story around the merchandise in question and explained how it had transformed his life in one way or another. During these encounters, Nina eagerly anticipated what he might say, knowing only that he’d leave those who approached him feeling good about either themselves or their purchases.
And while she felt lucky to share every day with her best friend, she felt something missing from their relationship. A ring. After four years, Rick hadn’t proposed, and she had the impression that he never would.
On the screen, Nina exited the movie theater and entered the hallway.
At the other end of the hall, Rick stood with his back to her, as though dueling thoughts raged in his head: one attempting to convince him to leave, while another urged him to return to the theater and rejoin his girlfriend.
“Rick, what’re you doing?”
Startled, his shoulders jolted upwards and he turned around. A smile flickered, but only for a moment. Then it died and a frown replaced it. He walked toward her with a wary gate, looking to his left and right as he came upon each theater as though hoping to find doors leading to the parking lot, rather than doors leading a room full of strangers.
“Where were you going?”
“I…um.” He came up to her, glancing in her eyes for a fraction of a second before looking elsewhere. He put his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? The restroom is at the other end of the hall.”
He focused on the floor. “I’ve been um…”
Nina’s face fell. “You were…leaving me?”
“Nina, I—”
“Four years together and you were going to leave me in a dark movie theater? You were just going to walk out on me? And not even tell me?”
He finally looked up at her. He took his hands out of his pockets and lifted them to help him expound on what he had to say. “It doesn’t feel right. We don’t feel right together.”
“I put on a few pounds, and we don’t feel right all of a sudden?”
“It has nothing to do with your weight. You look great, okay? You always do. It’s just…when was the last time we had fun together? When was the last time we laughed together? When was the—”
“So life is supposed to be wine and roses every day we’re together? Relationships aren’t like that. You’ve been through enough of them to know.” She closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just…we click together, don’t we? We like the same things. We have great sex. We’re best friends.”
He looked away at that last comment.
Her brow creased. “We’re not?”
“Look, Nina—”
“I’m in this, too. I’ve given up things in my life to be with you, and—”
“But I never asked you to. I wouldn’t do that. You’re not the same person you were when we met.”
“What does that mean? Of course, I am.”
“You’re not. You’ve settled down already. You want a home and a husband and kids, and I’m…not in love with that woman. I miss the woman you used to be. And you’re not her anymore.”
She just stared at him, breathing heavy, tears sparkling in her eyes.
He reached for her hands.
But Nina withdrew them behind her back.
“I can’t be who you want me to be. And you’re not who I need you to be.”
Nina closed her eyes and tears spilled out. “Go. Now.”
“Come on, don’t—”
“I swear to God, if you don’t leave right now, I’ll fucking scream so loud—”
“Okay, okay,” he said, raising his hands and looking around the empty corridor. But he didn’t move. “I’m so sorry, Nina.”
Her eyes didn’t even flicker at the words, but beads of moisture still escaped between them, slipped down her cheeks, and dangled from her chin. “Go. Just go, Rick. I don’t want to see your face. Just go. Please.” She hung her head.
He nodded and backpedalled. Then he turned around and half-jogged away for a few steps before slowing to a stop. He turned around again and stared at her for a moment. This time, tears surged into his eyes, and he winced, but fought off the impulse to cry and spun around and walked away.
The image froze on Nina standing in the empty hallway with a tear-streaked face.
Staring at that image, she held her head high, determined not to feel the emotions that swept through her at that moment in time: sorrow, confusion, abandonment, betrayal. Despite her best efforts, she still felt each of those feelings.
Mei Lee watched her.
Now, five years removed from that situation, Nina understood why Rick had broken her heart, and she had come to agree with his reason for leaving. But she had loved him so much that she would have changed into whatever he needed in order to keep him in her life. And he’d been right: she had evolved during the course of their relationship.
She wanted something more than weekends at bars or dance clubs. She wanted more than late nights drinking and goofing around with groups of friends. She wanted a diamond ring. She wanted the white picket fence. She wanted a symbol of their love and commitment: a child.
But Rick didn’t want the same things. He missed partying with friends. He missed trying new things and having new adventures. But their definition of new things and new adventures were too far apart to bridge the gap between them.
Despite all of that, Nina always had the impression that Rick had come to this conclusion after little thought and felt relief upon breaking off their relationship. So to see him turn back to her with a sullen expression and pain in his eyes, she felt a newfound respect for him.
For five years, she had misinterpreted the depth of his feelings, yet all she had to was raise her head and open her eyes, and she would have seen the truth. Doing so would have freed her from all of torment that she’d fallen for someone who didn’t care, who had thrown her away like a bruised apple. Imagine all of the self-abuse she could have avoided if she’d only raised her head and opened her eyes.
It seemed that she had overestimated her own role in Rick’s departure. Of course, she’d felt him pulling away, and that, in tandem with checking out other women, perhaps deliberately to turn her off and make her withdraw from him, made her conclude that he was cheating on her. In response, she’d felt guilty checking his email and his phone for odd phone numbers. And after he caught her in the act, neither of them mentioned it, but it remained a chasm that further separated them.
The picture on the screen started up again. This time, Nina sat at a bar, an empty shot glass beside her left hand while she texted her on and off boyfriend, Carlos Ruiz. A formerly muscular man who had stopped working out, Carlos had allowed chubbiness to round out what had been a toned physique. His pectorals now sagged like the breasts of a 100-year old woman. He often relied on his pudgy abs to support a dinner plate, rather than allowing a table to do the job. But it was his charm and unwavering confidence that made her overlook his physical shortcomings.
Just Like Heaven Page 11
