by Kieran York
“I need a couple of days…”
“The hell you do. If I gave you a bouquet of roses, you’d find a fucking thorn and impale yourself on it.” Her voice rose. “Until you die, it can always get worse. Molly wouldn’t have wanted you to throw away everything you’ve worked to achieve.”
“I’ll get back to the easel when I’m ready.”
“I’ve seen artists leave the easel for a little rest. Just a few days. Get over a bad bump or two. They get fucking lost. That is their few days. The rest of their life. They never return. I’m not going let you get lost,” she yelled. “Do you hear me?”
My return shout was as cyclonic. “I need time. Either that or I’ll leave London.”
She was in my face like a smashing tempest. “That would break our contract. Don’t let stupidity get the best of you. Fate is the shits. Sometimes you’re the dog. Sometimes you’re the hydrant. There’s no passport to paradise, baby. Human suffering is basic. Life’s storms are deep fucking drama.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Fiona, I know you’re trying to help, but it isn’t working. In fact, you’re making it worse.”
“I don’t mind you moping. You artists are always moping. But you hit on tragedy, like death, and the wheels go out from under the cart. I can read it in your eyes, Danielle. You’re ready to break. And damn it, I have no intention of watching you crumble in a slow out-the-door demise. It begins with a day, then a week. Soon you haven’t produced for months. Then it’s all over. I’m damned well not going to let you sink when you’re finally on a roll.”
“I need a rest.”
Fiona wouldn’t be deterred. “You need your art. I doubt if you’ve been away from your art for more than a day or two running in your entire adult life.”
“Right now I don’t really care.”
“That’s exactly what I was worried about and why I rushed over here. I see it in your eyes.”
“I don’t want you to worry. It’s my life.”
“Okay, you can continue to avoid the world, but it’s going to cost you. You have always been autonomous, and we both know that’s been expensive.” She paused, then stood and walked to the door. “We’re all here for you. We all love you. Whatever you need, you call me.” After another hesitation, she added, “Go to an art museum.”
“Cézanne said an art museum is a book in which we learn to read.”
“Hot damn. See, you’re not totally illiterate. Must be the Saph that saves you.”
I smiled slightly. “Thanks. That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“So I’m still the Ladybugs Rock official mascot?”
“It’s yours for life.” I glanced away. “I’m sorry I can’t paint right now. Sorrier than you are. Sorrier than your fifteen percent and my eighty-five percent together.”
She gave me a sympathetic smile. “You do realize I don’t care if I ever make another dime off of your work. I care about your work and about you. Fool.”
Fiona left. Having always been impassioned by art, even during other adversity and loss, I’d felt the need to paint.
I picked up a brush and twirled its spindly handle. It felt foreign to my hand. I gripped it tightly. I tried to envision myself dipping it into a bright pillow of paint. I viewed the tubes of paint, the bouquet of brushes, and the canvas that needed attention.
With a sharp turn away from my painting station, I choked. Molly’s name was on my lips. I whispered it to myself several times until it chained into my sobs.
Tears didn’t feel cathartic, as they perhaps should have. I threw the brush down. I had nothing left inside me with which to create. A nightmare had replaced that part of my soul. I stepped over the paintbrush on my way to the bedroom, on my return to further sorrow.
Chapter 41
As I reclined in my bed, I realized I’d scarcely moved for nearly the entire day. From my fetal position, I continued staring across the room. Evening’s twilight contrasted with the wall’s darkening patterns. Traffic from below was screeching, wailing, and blaring with little cadence.
I ignored the pounding on my door until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Who is it?”
“Spencer. Spencer Murphy. Fiona’s personal assistant. Miss Revere’s assistant, Spencer.”
I swung the door open. “Spencer?” I smiled in spite of my sorrow. “Your first name would have been enough to do the trick. You’re the only Spencer I know.”
He stepped inside my suite with four large canvases. “Fiona said to bring these by to you.” He scrutinized my appearance. “You look like crap.”
“Did she send you in as some kind of a comic-relief delivery man?”
“I’m not supposed to say, but I’m to report back to her on your condition. Also, can I bring you something to eat?”
“I have room service, but thank you for the offer.”
“Wow, I love these pictures.” Spencer examined the paintings of Bethany and the one of Bethany and me. “I’ve never seen one of your self-portraits.”
“I haven’t done many and certainly not for the past couple of decades.”
“I’m sorry you’re so sad. I hope I can always understand artists the way Fiona does. She’s really worried about you.”
“I promise I’m fine. And you do understand artists, Spence. I think you’re terrific. If Fiona ever retires, I hope I’ll be working with you.”
He grinned, showing off his boyish good looks. “I’d like that. You elucidate the human emotion on canvas like no other.”
“Is that what I do?” I asked with amusement.
“Fiona and I will always be there for you. You can count on us.”
“I know that. Thanks, Spencer.” I looked back at the packages of canvases he’d lugged up. “And thank you for the canvases. If you wouldn’t mind hauling the two larger finished canvases back to the gallery, I would appreciate it.”
“Anything for you, Danielle. Fiona will be pleased.” He pulled the wrapping from the new canvases and carefully packaged my two larger paintings.
“Tell her I’m okay. I need a little time before I can begin elucidating human emotion again.”
He blushed. “You know what I mean. I think you bring clarity to your art.”
“At least you’ve made me smile. Maybe you’ll become an art critic.”
“I sort of am now,” he said with enthusiasm and then sobered. “I’m sorry to hear about your friend.”
“I’ll be okay. Right now I just need some alone time.”
“Fiona said you’d be as impregnable as a medieval fortification.”
“Fiona’s right.” I walked him to the door. “Spence, I appreciate your coming up here. I like you immensely, and I think you’ll make a great art critic, or a great art agent, or anything else you’d care to be.”
“I think I’ll stick with art agent. If I follow Fiona’s lead, she’ll see that I’m good at it.”
I nodded in agreement.
After he left, I sat back a moment but not for long. Someone was again at the door. Certain that Spencer had forgotten something, I opened it quickly.
“Bethany.” I stepped aside so she could enter.
“I’m sorry to intrude. I’ve been worried. Danielle, can I do anything?”
The moment was tense, and I had no idea how to make it warmer. Then she took me in her arms. It wasn’t a sexual embrace, only one of gentle, tender friendship. I hugged her back, holding her tightly until I realized I was holding her too closely. I pulled away and began to sob. Again, she drew me close.
“Danielle, I’m here for you. As a lover, a friend—as your family. I know the sense of loss, and I know what you’re going through.”
“Thank you for coming. I’m sorry I didn’t phone you. I’ve just been…”
“I know how difficult it is to be around others. Esther called. I rung up Fiona and she told me she’d seen you. I had to know you’re okay. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No. Not at all.”
�
��Look, I can leave.” She motioned to the door. “I can call you later. Or if you need me, you can call.”
“I appreciate your dropping by. I’m afraid I’m not good company right now.”
“What about dinner? Would you like to go out for something to eat? We can grab a quick dinner and then walk, if you like. It would be good for you to get out. We don’t need to talk. I only want to be near you.”
“I don’t think I can eat right now.”
“Well, I’ll leave you then. But I hope you’ll at least order something to eat.”
Her eyes held a compassion that mingled with the pain of remembrance.
I relented. “Have a seat. I’ll shower and get on some fresh clothing. Then we can go out. Do you mind waiting?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, she said, “I’d wait forever. Like you would have waited forever for Molly, and I would have waited for Tricia.”
I was well aware of what she meant. Fate had reduced our number. We were only two now.
Chapter 42
Lindsay’s Tea House seemed strange, as if I’d never been there before. Bethany watched as I slowly sipped tea. She had ordered tea and Cornish pasties for us. I found the food bland, with no taste and flavor. I continued to pick at mine. The usually delicious tea tasted stale. Even sounds were muted, and colors seemed dull.
After our meal, we walked through London’s center for what seemed like many miles. Bethany seemed to know the affection of silence, as well as the benevolence of having someone near. Boxy black cabs whirled the roundabouts. Sights blurred. Only a smile from Bethany brought me back into the soul of the moment.
“I haven’t had the desire to paint since Samantha’s call. That’s never happened to me before. Ever. There were times when I didn’t want to paint. Yet I felt the desire, regardless. Even if I wasn’t actually painting, my mind was planning a work. Sketching. But not now.”
“You’ll begin again,” she said with utter certainty.
“What if I can’t?”
“You’ve been shifted into a new dimension of love. You’ll paint again.”
“I don’t know, Bethany.”
“Of course you will. You have to paint.”
“I don’t recognize this feeling inside,” I said, my voice shaky.
As we approached the Marshall, she kissed my cheek. “I think you need to be alone tonight. I’d love to hold you in my arms, but I’m not sure that’s what you need most right now. I’ll make a suggestion you may or may not understand. Have a talk with Molly. Talk out loud and visualize her across from you. Tell her you’ll always keep her in your heart. And you will.”
I thought about it, and it somehow made sense. “Thank you, Bethany. You’ve been wonderful.”
“Tomorrow afternoon, are you free?”
“Aren’t you working?”
“I requested the day off.”
“But why would you want to be around my sadness?”
“No one is allowed to grieve when on a picnic. I have somewhere special to show you.”
I couldn’t help but smile at her kindness. “Noon?”
“I’ll pick you up in front of your hotel.” She hailed a cab and then turned back to me. “Danielle, there are a thousand shades of night’s heartbreak. In the darkness, it’s easy to fall. Artists can’t work without luminosity.”
I leaned near to kiss her cheek. “Can I bring anything to the picnic?”
“Only your sketchpad and desire to sketch. I’ll provide the nosh and models.”
I waved at her and walked toward the hotel lobby. I took one more look at her taxi pulling away. She had lifted my heart.
As I walked through the lobby, I heard Esther calling my name.
“I’m glad to see you out and about, Danielle.”
“Bethany came by. We went out for a quick dinner. I got half a pastie down. Then we trudged the city streets awhile. I bet you’re probably leaving to see Carrie.”
“Right.” She tugged on my shirtsleeve. “Come on, I have time for a glass of wine at the bar.”
“I’m really not in the mood.”
“Then make it a half glass. It might help you sleep tonight. You look like you could use the sleep. Why did Bethany leave?”
“She believes I need my space. I didn’t ask her to leave.”
“She’s a remarkable woman. Come on, one wine to catch me up.”
“Okay. One glass and then I’m going up to my room. I doubt if I’ll sleep, but I’m going to try. I wish I still wanted to paint. That might help me. But I can’t even look at a paintbrush.”
We sat in a booth. I caught a glimpse of myself on a panel mirror lining the inside wall. It stunned me for a moment. My reddened eyes were puffy and dark. Creviced lines crossed my face. I appeared to have aged years overnight.
Esther ordered for both of us.
“Are you going to mention the fact that you still don’t want to paint to Fiona?” she asked.
“I’m sure she knows. I have other things on my mind.” I sipped a glass of excellent cab. “Tastes nice. I haven’t been able to experience flavor.”
“You could use several of those. So did Bethany understand?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t she? She’s experienced what I feel.”
“You can take lessons from a woman of class and expertise in the matter of loss. Hell, Bethany lived with the woman for twenty years. Right up until the time her lover died.”
“Does that mean because there was an interlude between the years Molly and I were together that I don’t love her as much? I shouldn’t grieve?” I snapped.
“I’m not using a damned scorecard on time, Danielle. Don’t be so touchy. I’m not saying you weren’t in love with Molly. So what now?”
“What do you mean what now? I finish up my contract with the gallery, and I go home. I’ll be sad for a long, long time. You remember that song from years ago by Dory Previn? I think it was titled ‘Going Home—Mythical Kings and Iguanas.’ It talks about going home being a low and lonely ride. That’s how this trip will be. A very low and lonely ride. I’ll be saying goodbye to two of the best women I’ve ever shared love with.”
Esther looked at me in disbelief. “Let’s take your statements one at a time. First, I remember the song. Great song. Second, one of the best women you’ve ever been with has died, sadly. And you wouldn’t have been going home with her anyway. That was the way she wanted it. If she hadn’t wanted it that way, you would have been together years ago. And third, the other best woman is falling in love with you. Which means she might return stateside if you’d ask her.”
“You truly believe Bethany is falling in love with me?”
“I realize you wouldn’t recognize a love palpitation from a kettledrum. The passion carnival keeps right on passing you by and passing you by. Berk!”
“When we return home, are you going to stop calling me a berk?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. I haven’t decided.” She glanced down at her watch. “Speaking of passion, I’d better push off.”
“Thanks for brightening my evening, Esther. You little sunbeam.”
She hugged my shoulders. “Try and get some rest. If you need me, call. I’ll be there.”
“I know.” It was something I counted on.
Chapter 43
In my attempt to sleep, memories swam through my mind. Although my loss seemed foreign, it seemed not to be morbidly so. Perhaps death was only as temporary as life itself. We invested ourselves with others and they with us. Prayers seemed inadequate, yet admirable. I prayed to have a moment with Molly. I implored deities, saints, and angels for just another touch. Just another moment.
The reigning divinity ignored me. Molly would not return. My own beliefs were that religion had a very checkered past. But faith was a different matter. Faith could be scripted on our hearts. Of course, I thought myself intelligent enough to believe something awaited us after we died. It could be named anything. Heaven. Why not? It had a pleasant sound.
My
faith came in part because humanity was of a spirit that amazed me. Our recognition of beauty and creativity astounded me. Each time I took my liner brush, my trusty dagger striper, to sign a canvas, I felt a tinge of fraudulence. Had an aesthetic embodiment forged within my existence manufactured the work? How fortunate I was to be able to create. But now, my desire to do so had evaporated.
Finally, at four-thirty in the morning I glanced at the clock. I sat up. I began to talk to Molly, as Bethany had suggested. My words were halting and hushed. I was half-embarrassed to be saying my thoughts out loud.
“Molly,” I said, “my sorrow is compounded by my own failure to win back your love. Right now, there’s no discursive rhetoric aimed at a creator that would take you from me. Nor is there anger because you’ve left me behind once again. From the moment we met, I’ve loved you. Years ago, when a plane emptied, I realized you weren’t there. My appointment with you and your beautiful smile wasn’t meant to be. But my love for you has remained as crisp as the moment Esther introduced us.
“You confessed you still loved me. You didn’t have the confidence in my love to know I would stand by you in spite of your health problems. I would have. Maybe it was too complicated, just as it was three decades ago.
“Perhaps you were correct in leaving me. But I’ll always hear your laughter, feel your embrace, and taste your kiss. Always see your smile.
“No matter the diversion, somehow our love has remained. That’s a credit not only to each of us but to love itself. How strong those feelings have persisted over the years of our parting. After the last thirty years of my life, I’m still in love with you. And always will be.”
I held my head in my hands. Too many seasons had passed where I, and I alone, had willingly relinquished my pleasure. Because I’d feared losing love again, I hadn’t allowed the sharing of my home and hearth. I hadn’t had the wisdom required to know the truth. Fear was never a safe haven.
And what of my current inability to paint? I had a sliver of anxiety but also the conviction that when I was ready my barrier would collapse. When it imploded, perhaps I would be even freer in the realm of my art.
