by Leigh Kramer
I didn't know what became of this vision. He hadn't included any pieces like this in his portfolio. Either it became too personal or didn't live up to his expectations.
He continued, “When I returned to my canvas, the castles appeared in all their glory, as they would today. The ruins were still there but instead of detracting, they added to the appeal of the castle, while also bolstering their protection. Instead of faltering from their past wreckage, the castles integrated it into something better. From there, I moved onto landmark buildings and imagined what they might look like if they fell into disrepair in the future.”
He glanced down and chuckled, his finger tapping on his glass.
“I'm sorry to take over like that. We had this morning to talk about art. We should—”
I cut him off before he could turn the conversation on me.
“Are you kidding me? No need to apologize. I live for this kind of conversation. Plus, those pieces sound fascinating. I don’t remember seeing them in your portfolio.”
He shrugged. “They’re not in there. I guess they're more for me.”
He didn't elaborate. I searched his face for clues to no avail, and decided to test the unspoken boundary.
“How did the idea of redeeming ruins come to you?”
Reagan didn't respond right away. He looked at his beer glass and bit his lower lip. It was a simple question and I wanted to know the answer.
Doubt slithered around me as the silence held between us. I'd pushed too soon. Here was a nice man who understood the beauty in art. I disliked the tension of starting a relationship. Even finding new friends could be as angst-filled as dating. Never knowing how much of yourself to reveal. Wanting them to like you as much as you like them but not wanting to scare them off. Adding an attractive man to the equation threw me off my game.
Even though we were destined for friendship.
I sat still, my back leaning against the chair, trying to give a patient air. I took a sip of wine and waited.
He finally looked up, rueful grin in place.
“I haven't thought about this in a while,” he said. “Before Ireland, I went through a bad time in my life. Nothing made much sense those days. Not even art. I landed at the bottom and I was broken, ruined. But as bad things were, there was still hope.”
He occasionally glanced at the table as if requesting guidance, only to swing his gaze back to me. He was looking for approval or reassurance, of what I wasn't sure.
I nodded my understanding, not wanting to spoil the moment with words. I wanted him to trust me with whatever he had to share. I hadn't thought much about how this evening would go but a heart-to-heart was something I'd hoped to avoid. At least, I'd hoped to avoid sharing my own heart. It wasn't fair to pin that on an acquaintance.
Reagan's depth wasn’t surprising, but I was surprised he’d let me in so soon. Yet, he still held back. What had this self-assured man gone through?
He didn't seem like someone with a substance abuse history. Then again, how many people look like they’d abused drugs? He wore a long-sleeved henley shirt, making it impossible for me to see any track marks.
It would be up to Reagan to fill me in. If I didn't feel ready to discuss Gram, I could only imagine how he felt.
“One day I flipped through a magazine and saw a picture of the Rock of Cashel. Everything clicked into place and it was clear I needed to see it for myself. Once I was there, I knew I was that ruined castle.”
Pain reflected in his eyes. I wanted to reach across the table to touch him but restrained myself. Remember your place, I told myself. Let him tell his story without trying to make him feel better.
It's what I would want. I'd stopped sharing difficulties with my family long ago. They wanted to problem solve and apply logic when all I wanted was a listening ear. Gram was the only exception. I had great friends to talk to but there was something about a family member turned friend that lent itself better to my troubles. I wished I had another family member to confide in since I couldn't very well talk to Gram about her cancer diagnosis and the perfect storm she’d tossed me into. No one else would understand.
He exhaled and ran his fingers through his hair. This simple gesture undid me and I tried not to let my gaze linger.
“This is heavy. I'm not normally like this.” He rolled his eyes at himself. “Are you sure you want to hear this after the day you've had?”
There was nothing I wanted more, I wanted to say.
“It's nice to let someone else do the talking for a change,” I offered with a tentative smile. He smiled back. “Please keep going. If you want.”
“All right,” he said. “Just remember—you asked for it.” We both laughed and I lifted my glass in tacit acknowledgment before taking a sip. It felt good to laugh, in spite of the topic at hand.
“You headed to Ireland,” I prompted.
“Yes. Have oils, will travel,” he deadpanned. “I was working at a bank at the time.” My stomach turned over at this information. He continued, “but it became a dead-end job for me. I got caught up in the rat race of success until I was forced to realize I’d screwed up what mattered most. And for what? I wasn’t actually fulfilled by any of it. I came alive when I was creating but everyone told me art was a hobby, not a career. I stupidly listened to them.”
“No, that's not stupid, it's the way things are,” I told him. “My family feels the same way about art. In fact, they still don't understand why I don't want to be a part of the family business.”
“But you didn't let that stop you,” he countered. “Unless the gallery is a part of the family business?”
Mid-sip, I almost spit out my wine before managing to say, “Definitely not.” I composed myself, incongruous images of Uncle Marcus with a painter's palette and Aunt Elaine curating an exhibit dancing in my head.
“My family is actually in banking too. My dad was the only one who didn't expect me to follow in their footsteps. He died a long time ago, so there weren't many people around to back me up when I decided to do this instead.” I gestured vaguely in the direction of the gallery, knowing full well I wasn't being completely honest. His words hit closer than I wanted to admit. Still, I didn't want to tread on ancient history tonight. I wouldn't see much of Reagan outside of the gallery anyway. There was no need to parade the skeletons in my closet.
I avoided his gaze, as if he could see through my words. I shrugged. “Anyway, the bank apparently was not the best place for either of us. No matter when it happened, you realized that at some point.”
He waited a few seconds to see if I would elaborate before picking his story back up.
“I worked at the bank and painted in my free time. Ever since I was a kid, I imagined myself immersed in art. I never saw myself going the safe route but that's what I did. I was blinded by my achievements until it was too late. I woke up one day and I couldn't do it anymore. After everything I went through, even though painting did not come easily in those days, it was no longer a hobby for me. Honestly, it was the only thing keeping me going.”
“No, I get that. Art helped you feel like yourself again,” I said.
“Exactly. The one good thing about the bank was the salary. I’m not a Scrooge but I’ve always been diligent about saving money so when visiting Ireland popped into my mind, there was nothing to stop me from going. I gave my two-week notice and got on a plane my first day of freedom.”
“Whoa! You quit? Just like that?” I stared at him, unsure what to make of it. I understood the allure of art but stopped short of her siren call.
“Ireland was the catalyst. I hadn't been happy at the bank in some time, and with everything I went through, it was just a matter of time before I walked away.” Again, he alluded to a dark period in his life. Something brought him to the bottom and led to leaving his job. I wanted to ask him about it, but such are the limitations of new friendships. I could only hope he would fill me in.
I recognized my hypocrisy. Wanting him to tell me his secrets and
fears without disclosing my own. I brushed the thought aside and contemplated the man before me.
Even though he'd spent much of our time talking about himself, it was entirely due to my encouragement. He continued to check in with me throughout, making sure I was an engaged listener. Everything about Reagan focused on me. I could imagine how his friends and family felt about him.
He discussed his old job and what those final days there were like. How he'd felt sitting on the plane, unsure of what was next but certain he'd made the right decision. Then, seeing the Rock of Cashel for the first time and knowing he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
“I stood in front of this amazing place. No job to speak of anymore, which should have freaked me out. I didn't know how I would pay my bills long-term or how long I would stay in the country. I only knew I needed to paint again. And not just paint, but grow my idea of people's hidden sides to buildings' hidden sides, starting with these ruins.”
“When I was painting the castle as it might have been and how the ruins were still a part of it but not the sum, I realized I was painting myself in a way. This was my second chance. I had an opportunity to define my life and how I was going to live it.”
“I painted like crazy for a few weeks and then I knew it was time to come home and see what it was like to call myself an artist.”
“What happened to all your work?” I asked, hoping the canvases were stowed somewhere safe.
“I gave a few away and sold the rest to a gallery in Cashel. They didn't stay for long, which I took as affirmation of my new calling. I have one hanging up. Or rather, it'll be hanging up once I get my place unpacked.” My eyebrows shot up at this news and Reagan must have caught on to my excitement. “Why? Do you want to see it?”
“I bet you say that to all the ladies,” I said with a grin. I had to force myself not to jump on to the question and beg to see the painting. All in due time. Between the conversation and the merlot, I felt relaxed and ready for witty banter. This was the true test for any guy in my life, whether platonic or otherwise.
“Only the ones I like,” he replied. Before I had time to process his meaning, he changed subjects. “Actually, I could use some help with my apartment. I sold most of my furniture before moving. I have a bed but I need a couch, table, that sort of thing. Any ideas?”
I told him about a few furniture stores with an aesthetic that I thought would appeal to him. He talked about how his apartment was set up. When he shared he lived in Wrigleyville, I grimaced.
“What, you don't like Wrigleyville?”
“It's not that, per se. I mean, there are great shops and restaurants up there. I have a bunch of friends in Wrigleyville. I take issue with the Cubs, however. And they're the reason Wrigleyville is named Wrigleyville. Kind of makes me shudder.” My brow furrowed. “Please tell me you're not a Cubs fan. I'm not saying this is a deal breaker for our friendship,” I teased with a smile.
Reagan's whole body began to shake with laughter. “Is baseball really that important to you?”
“I suppose it's time I tell you this. Yes, yes, it is. I'm a White Sox fan, born and raised. It's in my blood.” A belligerent tone crept into my voice. To say I was passionate about the White Sox was an understatement. “Don't tell me you're not a baseball fan,” I added incredulously.
“Are you going to hold it against me?” He cocked an eyebrow at me, daring me to do so.
“No, of course not. Seriously, you don't like baseball?” I couldn’t let it go.
“It's not that I don't like baseball. My family wasn't into it. We were more of a football house, Steelers fans. Maybe I'll have to give Wrigley Field a try.”
My blood pressure rose. Those were fighting words. He had to be kidding me. “If you want to know what a real game is like with real fans, then you can come with me tomorrow night.” The words flew out of my mouth before I realized it. I did need someone to take Kristy's ticket after all. Reagan needed to learn about baseball from someone who was qualified, and definitely not a Cubs fan. I didn’t care how many people were on their bandwagon, Reagan would not be one of them.
“Really?” he replied. His eyes danced and I couldn’t look away.
“Actually, yes. My friend can't go anymore. We have partial season tickets together. There's no way I'm missing it. It's the perfect distraction whenever something's going down.” The more I talked about it, the more I liked this idea. “I promise you'll have a good time. We'll get beer and nachos. The Sox will beat the Twins. Everyone wins.”
“Except for the Twins,” he noted.
“Well, there's that,” I conceded, shrugging my shoulders in mock pity.
“Seeing as I just moved here a few days ago, I should probably unpack and buy a couch. Or work on my pieces for your exhibit,” he replied.
“Number one—you haven't signed a contract with me yet. Number two—unpacking can definitely wait. We're going. I promise it will change your life.”
I sat back in my chair, triumphant. With that, he lifted his glass and we toasted to the start of his baseball fandom.
* * *
Finally home, I paced my apartment. Head spinning from the day, I scarcely knew where to begin. My space showed evidence of neglect, as it often did the week before a show. It was close to midnight but sleep would not be greeting me anytime soon. The dishes piled in the sink called to me.
My feet, freed of their heels, began adjusting to a flat surface. We all conform to something and I wasn't sure how the coming days would try to bend and break me. The sink filled with hot water while I stripped my wrists of bracelets. Soap bubbled as I plunged my hands in.
As I scrubbed, my mind wandered through the day. Gram's news. Marcus' predictability. Mom and Elaine's hurt or, rather, disappointment that Gram did not choose them. And then Reagan.
Reagan. Conundrum that he was. I rinsed off a plate. Inviting Reagan to the Sox game was not asking for trouble. Surely we could maintain a professional relationship. Becoming friends appealed to me. One could never have too many good guy friends and I was beginning to lack in that department thanks to relationships and out of state moves.
He hadn't pressured me to talk about Gram's prognosis. He offered to listen but respected my wish to keep things light. Instead, he kept me laughing as he shared stories about growing up outside Pittsburgh and his failed attempts on his high school debate team.
Drinks led to a late dinner down the street. Before I knew it, eleven-thirty approached and we parted ways. I was left with only my thoughts for company.
Was I in denial about Gram? Too much was unknown, at least in my opinion, for me to know how to feel and think and grieve. Gram refused to tell us what her actual prognosis was. She declared Dr. Barnes didn't give her one but no one believed it. Why all the urgency to set up hospice if time was on our side?
The dishes barely registered as I thought about Gram. What would my old therapist make of all this? Gina would have said I was keeping a friendly distance from my feelings. If she'd been in the room with me, I would have agreed.
My time in therapy taught me so much about myself, though it went against the Frasier Way. Frasiers managed problems on their own, after all. We didn't need to talk to strangers about emotions. No matter no one ever brought up the tough stuff.
I couldn't recall the last time someone mentioned Dad's name.
It was that kind of response that brought me to Gina's door twelve years ago. Panic attacks in full swing. Generalized anxiety permeated my days. I'd started therapy to survive.
I never suspected the root of my troubles. I began stuffing my emotions the day Dad died. That's what I had tried to do today as well—keep them at bay until I decide to let them out. Now that I was home, a safe place to let go, the tears could fall into the sink and no one would be the wiser.
Still, release wouldn't come.
Dish washing led to picking up the piles accumulating around the apartment, which led to dusting. Which led to staring at the framed pictures propped
about.
Almost two in the morning but my mind continued to whir at top speed. Knowing a few hours of sleep would be better than nothing, I finally collapsed into bed.
In the cover of darkness, I broke. I finally considered life without Gram. “I have cancer. There is no cure.” The words echoed as if I was still in the great room hearing them for the first time. I swiped at my face, trying to contain the tears before giving up the battle. The pillowcase dampened and it was just one more thing wrong with this day. Why her? Why now?
More importantly, what would I do without her?
How the fuck could this be happening?
My body shook as a sob tore through me. She was the only one who really cared about me. Sure, my mom and brothers loved me but that was a love born of obligation. Gram took the time to see and understand me. There were no strings attached to her love. She may not have known about every skeleton in my closet but I was relatively sure she loved me unconditionally. I couldn’t say the same about anyone else in the family.
As much as I wanted an excuse to walk away from them all, or at least most of them, what would life be like without that foundation? If I managed to drag myself to a holiday gathering, how could I survive it without Gram’s steady, if dramatic, presence?
How could any of us survive without her?
My heartbeat ratcheted higher. I grasped for control. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath, but this was the kind of heartache that demanded full-body involvement.
The covers became a furnace so I kicked them back as I sat up. I tucked my knees up to my chest and tried to remember my counselor’s instructions as I rocked forward. I grabbed a hold of a mantra to stave off the impending panic attack. Any mantra would do. I just had to breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Breathe.
Gram was not dying tonight. Probably not tomorrow. I almost nodded my head at the rationalization. I didn’t need to fall apart tonight. Slowly my body released its tension. Slowly control returned to me. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.
