Many Points of Me

by Caroline Gertler

  I pull open the glass doors to the side entrance and march up to the security desk with confidence.

  The guard asks me who I’m here to see. I give him Evelyn’s name and my name. I wait nervously while he calls up to her, looking around the walls of the education center, where the winning entries of NYC ART will be on display when the exhibit opens in April. Where I used to imagine my own entry hanging one day.

  A young woman in an ankle-length skirt, cardigan, and heels, walks toward me with a welcoming expression on her face. “I’m Jenna, Evelyn’s assistant. You must be Georgia Rosenbloom.” She extends her hand toward me. “So nice to meet you. I thought it was so cool when Evelyn told me you’re Hank and Sally’s daughter. I never knew your dad, but I love his work, and your mom is just the best.”

  I smile at her, wishing I had something clever to say, but I’m just hoping she won’t say anything about me to my mom next time she sees her.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I’m talking your ear off! And I know this is about a surprise for your mom—Evelyn’s waiting in her office.”

  As we pass the familiar route up the stairs to the first floor, through the Greek and Roman galleries, the African galleries, and into the modern galleries, Jenna chatters away about how she’s new on the curatorial staff and lucky to have the opportunity to work on the show.

  We take the stairs to the second floor, to the gallery with a Chuck Close and an Andy Warhol painting.

  We reach the empty spot where Sally in the Stars, Dad’s asterism painting of Mom, usually hangs.

  But now, across from that wall, there’s a barrier in front of the smaller series of side galleries where Dad’s exhibition is going to open in a couple of months. A framed poster with the image Sally in the Stars advertises it. In dark gray, bold letters, it reads: Hank Rosenbloom: Artist and Man.

  “It’s going to be amazing, isn’t it?” Jenna says. “Studying your father’s art is what made me decide I wanted to pursue art history.”

  The full meaning of it all hits me. How thousands of people—strangers—will come to the Met, to these galleries, to look at Dad’s paintings. How the three asterism paintings are going to hang together for the first time. How there’s still a big question mark, a blank canvas, where the last asterism painting should be.

  A question I can answer. A blankness I can fill. With the pencil points on the back of G, age 10.

  I follow Jenna into the modern art department and down the corridor to Evelyn’s office. I’m struck, right away, by seeing the three asterism paintings together again. Sally in the Stars, reunited with Bird in the Tree and Man on the Moon. I haven’t seen them all together like this since they left Dad’s studio one at a time. The three equal-sized canvases tower over me, forming a giant window in the wall of Evelyn’s office. I half expect Dad himself to appear, pull me into a side hug, and say, “Let’s take a closer look together, sweetheart. Tell me what you see in these paintings. How do they make you feel?”

  But there’s only Evelyn Capstone, like the queen of Dad’s art, sitting on her throne above her loyal subjects. She’s sitting behind her sleek wooden desk, with her back to the window, illuminated by the midday light.

  I feel for Theo’s lucky eraser in my pocket and give it a squeeze.

  “Here she is. Georgia Rosenbloom!” Jenna announces me.

  “Thank you, Jenna.” Evelyn nods her head in dismissal, and Jenna leaves us alone.

  “Have a seat.” Evelyn gestures to the two wooden chairs across from her desk.

  I sit in the one closer to Dad’s paintings. The chair is stiff as a board. It keeps me upright and makes me straighten my posture.

  “Isn’t it wonderful, seeing Hank’s asterisms here, together like this?”

  I nod.

  “It’s a bit unconventional to keep them in the curator’s office. The other paintings are in conservation, but I just couldn’t help myself with the asterisms. I wanted to be surrounded by them for inspiration as I work on my catalogue essay.” She smiles. “The Q&A your mother did with that boy, Theo Goodwin, is just darling. Shame you didn’t want to participate.”

  Oh, little does she know.

  “Now.” Evelyn clasps her hands under her chin. “Tell me about this special surprise project you’re working on for your mother?”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Four

  I squint at Evelyn Capstone, trying to see her form solidly against the glare of the window, to figure out what color I’d use for her. Fuchsia, like the color of the blouse I saw her in last time.

  “Um, there isn’t really a project. I just needed a reason—actually—it’s about NYC ART.”

  I expect for her to be angry that I lied, but she looks amused instead. “I see. What about NYC ART?”

  “I’m—I was—I want to get my entry back.”

  She cranes her neck forward even more than usual and gives me a questioning look. “Did you enter? When I saw you last, you seemed quite sure that you weren’t going to.”

  Ah, of course. Having to lie now and tell her that I decided to enter makes me want to be sick. But I have to do it.

  “I entered at the last minute,” I say, surprised at how easy it is. “But it was the wrong decision. So I came to see you, to get it back.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  I wish I could tell her why. The truth. But you have to save your truths for the people who won’t judge you. The ones who hear the bad thing you did and love you anyway, like Theo. Evelyn Capstone is not that person for me.

  But I can tell her something. Not the whole truth—a part of it.

  “Because—it’s not mine.” The same words I used to explain to Theo last week. I think fast how to answer what I know will be her next question.

  “This is an interesting situation.” She leans back in her chair and looks at me almost with a new respect, as if she didn’t think I was capable of acting so out of line. “Then whose, may I ask, is it?”

  “I can’t tell you,” I say, fully resolved. “For now—all I can tell you is that I’ve done something wrong. And a friend is also involved. I mean, nothing illegal—nothing dangerous—” Evelyn’s hand goes to her phone as if she might be about to call Mom, or security or something. “It’s personal, and it’s wrong, and I know I have to fix it. I just need to get the drawing back, and then tell my mom. And then I promise, I’ll fix everything.”

  Evelyn takes her hand off the phone, and raises an eyebrow. “Truly an unexpected situation. I don’t know what to make of it, but I respect the guts it takes to have gotten yourself here and told me this much, at least. So as long as you promise me that you’re going to tell your mother first thing, and you’re going to fix this situation—whatever it is—I’ll agree to give you the entry back. And you know I’ll be seeing her to make sure, tomorrow.”

  As she speaks, and as the clouds roll in, shading the brightness of the sun, her color becomes clearer, brighter.

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling shy around her, as always, but a little less so. “I promise.”

  “Before we find your entry, I want to remind you what I said to you the other day: getting into NYC ART isn’t everything. In the end, it’s just a contest, and there’s always a certain amount of randomness in the outcome. Not everyone gets in, but that doesn’t mean those who don’t, won’t go on to become successful artists. And maybe you’ll find you don’t want to be an artist, after all. You don’t have to follow in your father’s footsteps.” She looks me in the eyes. “So what I’m trying to say, Georgia, is you be you. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.” She sits back and smiles. “Mini-lecture over—relax!”

  I let out a giggle. I feel like I’ve unwrapped a scarf that’s too hot and itchy from around my neck, making me able to breathe again.

  “So there’s no special project for your mom?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. But in a weird way, I realize, this is for Mom—for both of us. Proving Dad’s last asteris
m. “Actually, sort of. Yes.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to see what it is.” Evelyn shakes her head and sighs. “Come on. Let’s go to the conference room to find your entry.”

  We get to the door of a windowless room, with metal shelves that are filled with files and boxes and a long conference table covered with paintings, drawings, sculptures, collages, photographs—NYC ART entries.

  I look at the entries spread out on the table. These must be entries by older students. They look professional. There’s an oil on canvas of a girl in shades of blues and greens that’s so powerful, I know it has to be a top contender. A clay sculpture of a boy’s head that looks like it could rival an ancient Roman portrait bust. But I don’t see my entry—Dad’s drawing—or Theo’s, either.

  Evelyn and Jenna look up my entry number and its location on the computer.

  They pull up my entry, and Evelyn shows me how they’re striking a big red line through it with the word withdrawn.

  Then Jenna goes to one of the file drawers along the wall and comes back with a manila folder.

  As soon as the folder’s in my hands, I flip it open for a quick glance to make sure the drawing is safe and sound inside. It’s like I’ve been missing the last piece of a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, and I’ve finally found it, and everything can go back to fitting together just right.

  Dad’s drawing is back with me, where it’s meant to be. Now I have to return it to its rightful place, with Mom.

  “Will you show us?” Evelyn asks as I go to slide it in my backpack.

  “Um, not now.” As much as I want to show it to her and tell her everything I’ve discovered, I’m proud of myself for staying strong. Mom deserves to know first. “But I think you’ll get to see it soon.”

  In the Hank Rosenbloom exhibition.

  Outside the world is surreal. Different.

  I feel different. Changed.

  I walk home through Central Park to let my heart rate slow back to normal.

  A flicker of red on one of the branches catches my eye in the dusky light. A cardinal. The background is not pure snowy white, like in Dad’s bird painting, Red on White. But still. It’s beautiful. And it’s looking at me.

  Dad’s the one who told me about cardinals. He taught me to listen for their song. He said that some people believe that when a cardinal comes, it’s a dead person visiting you.

  “Maybe it’s Grandpa,” I’d said.

  Dad had just smiled. He was sick then. Maybe he already knew that he was going to die. And he was telling me to look for him after.

  The cardinal chirps its song above me, Dooh-dooh duh dooh-dooh.

  I imagine it’s Dad. Here to tell me he’s watching and still with me. A few weeks ago, the thought of Dad being here and watching me would’ve comforted me. But I’m not so sure I’d want Dad to see me now. To know what I’ve done. Even if I convinced myself that Dad somehow meant the drawing for me, it wasn’t mine to take. I could’ve lost it for good.

  I look at the cardinal to see if he’s disappointed in me, like I am in myself. But he’s not even really looking at me. I’m just imagining that.

  The cardinal is not Dad.

  Dad is gone.

  The cardinal is just a beautiful red bird.

  And I’m all alone.

  But I’m ready for it.

  Ready to figure out my own way.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Five

  I sense the drama ahead as soon as I enter our building. Mrs. Velandry’s door is open and she’s pacing the lobby with Olive in her arms. My heart drops.

  “Oh, Georgia, there you are! Your mom called because Harriet told her that she missed you for cake baking, so she wanted to know if you were back from walking Olive, and I told her that you never walked Olive because you were with Theo, and now everyone’s in a panic! Check your phone. Your mom’s been trying to reach you.”

  I pull my phone from my backpack, and sure enough, while I had the ringer off in the museum, there were five missed calls from Mom. There’re also texts from Theo, warning me.

  “I’m okay—everything’s fine,” I say. “I don’t want them all to worry. Can we just tell them I fell asleep?”

  Mrs. Velandry shakes her head sadly, like she too wishes she could go back in time. “I used the spare key to go in to your apartment to check for you, and I told her you weren’t there. I didn’t even see you leave. How did you get out?”

  “Um, I walked.” Of course, that’s not the answer she’s looking for

  I run through possible lies in my head: I wanted to be alone today, so I went to get something to eat, to the library, for a walk to get fresh air. So many lies.

  But I’m ready to tell Mom everything—not that I even have a choice, anymore. I promised Evelyn. I just need to prepare myself. “Where’s Mom now?”

  “She’s on her way home. Come, sit with me. Have something to eat while you’re waiting.”

  My stomach is in such knots at what I’m going to say to Mom, what she’ll say to me, that I don’t think I can eat. But the smell of zucchini bread wafts out of Mrs. Velandry’s apartment.

  Olive leaps from Mrs. Velandry’s arms as she puts her down inside the apartment. I take a seat at the table. She cuts a large chunk of steaming fresh bread for me and sets it on the table.

  Usually Olive would beg for food at my feet. But today she sticks to her bed, hardly paying me attention.

  “She’s still sad about Royal,” Mrs. Velandry says. “The missing never goes away, does it? It just becomes a part of who you are.”

  I nod, taking a bite and letting the bread fill my insides.

  Mrs. Velandry goes over to her messy desk and rummages through some papers. “I found those drawings I was telling you about. Your dad’s sketches for the bird paintings. Ah, here they are.”

  She sets a stack of loose papers down on the table before me.

  The first drawing shows the regal lines of a blue jay. I feel the same tingle as when I first found the portfolio with the drawings of me. I know I was there when Dad got the inspiration and when he made these drawings. In this very room, at this very table. His art is a part of me; I am a part of his art. That’s how Dad lives on.

  “They’re special, aren’t they?” Mrs. Velandry says.

  “Yes.” But I don’t explain what makes them even more special to me.

  “You can have them.”

  “Really? But he gave them to you. They might be worth something. See, he even signed them.”

  “I always meant to give them to you. When you were old enough to be responsible. How old are you now, anyway? Eleven?”

  “I turned twelve yesterday.”

  “Yes, of course. Happy birthday. They’re yours. Take them.” She stacks the papers together and hands them to me, like they’re sections of the newspaper.

  I go through the pile on my lap, turning each page over and looking even more carefully at the backs.

  And, almost three-quarters through, on the back of the sketch for the cardinal in the snow, Red on White, are pencil points! Ones that I just know will match up to the asterism painting Bird in the Tree.

  My heart flutters. I now have sketches for three asterism paintings.

  And then the building door clangs open. Frantic footsteps follow, and a knock at Mrs. Velandry’s door.

  Mom.

  “Mrs. Velandry?” she calls.

  Mrs. Velandry unlocks the door and Mom bursts through, panicked in a way I haven’t seen her in years. It’s like she’s forgotten to worry about me all this time, and she’s suddenly remembered that I might not always be safe, either.

  “Georgia! Where were you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Everything’s okay. I just—”

  “Then I don’t know what explanation there could possibly be!” Mom’s voice is shrill, and the worry on her face turns to anger. “You told Harriet you were walking Olive, and Mrs. Velandry that you were baking a cake? And then, you—you just prance back in here l
ike it doesn’t even matter!”

  “Sally, she’s here. She’s okay.” Mrs. Velandry touches Mom’s shoulder. “Sometimes we make mistakes.”

  Mom nods, her eyes glistening.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper, clutching the bird drawings that Mrs. Velandry gave me against my chest. They make me feel safe.

  Mom notices the papers now. “And what are these?”

  “Dad’s drawings.” I hold them out to show her.

  “You mean the one that’s missing?” she asks, confused. “The portrait of you?”

  “No, not that. Birds.”

  Mrs. Velandry and Olive swivel their heads between Mom and me.

  “It sounds like you two have some talking to do.” Mrs. Velandry hands me my backpack and walks us to the door.

  “Yes,” Mom says. “We do.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Six

  “Mom,” I say, as soon as we’re inside the tiny elevator. “I have the drawing that you’re looking for, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  For a split second, the elevator jolts as if it’s going to get stuck, but it keeps going up. And everything comes out in a rush, my heart pounding a rhythm beneath my confession.

  I tell Mom how I looked through Dad’s portfolio and decided to keep the one drawing, G, age 10, for myself. I was so jealous of Theo and what he had that I didn’t, and I thought if I could just have one thing for myself, that’s all that mattered. But then Theo submitted the drawing, and I wanted to get it back without having to tell her what we’d done.

  Mom shakes her head. I want her to say something, anything, even to yell at me and tell me how angry she is and what I did was wrong.

  But for once, Mom is speechless. Instead, she wraps her arms around me, and pulls me close. “I should be so, so angry at you right now,” she whispers. “And I am. But I’m also . . . I don’t know yet. Let’s see this drawing.”

  We go into our apartment and sit down at the drafting table, which has some open space. There aren’t as many piles as before. The exhibition is getting closer.