I spent the next two days making the piece that would get me a solo exhibition with Caroline Rosen. I barely left the apartment and the only people I talked to were my mother and Scott. Sometimes I still catch myself getting nervous, thinking that when my phone vibrates, it'll be... you know? I hope you know. I hope that doesn't make me stupid or pathetic or... anything. And if it does, don't tell me.
Scott had been a great friend. It took time for this to happen. If it would've been for me, I would've never talked to him as long as I'm alive. I can be resentful and it's not something I'm proud of but it's a tool I use to remind myself not to allow certain people to hurt me again.
But he was there for her. He did his best and supported her and made things just a little, just a bit better. And back then, she was the only thing that mattered, so if you did anything to make her happy, I owed you.
By Saturday morning, I got a call from this woman named Elisa, Caroline's assistant. She told me she'd be there to pick me up in less than an hour and I should be ready to leave immediately as there was no time to lose. I rushed to wrap the piece up, take a quick shower, and wait for Elisa to call me again saying she'd arrived. It took her forty minutes to call back, which meant I was running a bit late.
I picked up my keys, forgot my phone, forgot to turn off my bathroom light, forgot to eat breakfast, and just went running to the elevator. Elisa seemed very annoyed at me being late two minutes. Oh, sorry, no I wasn't. She was early twenty! How's that my fault?
I sat in complete silence in the back of the car staring at the window.
I was nervous. Very nervous. Do you know the feeling? That kind of thought in the back of your mind. When you're so close to achieving something big, there's this tiny voice inside your mind that kinda hopes you fail. Because sometimes failing is easy, isn't it? You came, you tried and it didn't happen. Now you can go home. There was something warm about just going back. They don't call it the comfort zone for no reason.
But then again, I don't have a home. My home was a person, not a place.
Also, those feelings never last. It's so easy to walk away from something but in the end, you do hate yourself for not being strong enough to move forward with it. I had to move forward with this. We arrived a few minutes later, the gallery wasn't that far away from my apartment and for all its flaws, gridlock seemed tolerable.
It was a large place with all the front walls being windows. I remembered I wondered how you could possibly protect something having half the protection being glass, but what do I know.
As soon as we walked in, I felt I didn't belong there. Like I was way out of my depth. The walls were painted white. I know that's done for two reasons. Reason number one, white, gray, and black make things look elegant. It's color theory, it's the way our brains process the colors we perceive, and whether we notice it or not, we assign meaning to colors. Reason number two; it creates contrast making the paintings pop.
And the paintings. Where to get started? I didn't know who's paintings they belonged to, I don't think I ever found out, but holy crap they made me feel inadequate. I think Ellen once told me it's an artist thing. Always thinking that other people's work is better than yours but, in the end, you need to learn to root for yourself. That's one of the few good pieces of advice she ever gave me.
Wait. Hold on. No, no, no. Back up. At that point, I wouldn't meet Ellen for another week or two, so let's not talk about it just yet. There are still a lot of things I need to process when it comes to her.
The place was spacious, with high ceilings, and everyone inside was impeccably well dressed. It smelled... sophisticated. I don't know what that means but what I'm saying is that if sophisticated was a smell, that was it.
Elisa led me through the hallways in the back of the gallery. These people were obsessed with white and glass. Everywhere I looked, every office was delimited by a large wall of glass, with glass doors and glass desks inside, and the few walls you could find were painted white with the exception of some small paintings that were clearly not for sale, but for decor.
When we finally arrived at Caroline's office, I could see she was on the phone from outside. Elisa knocked on the door, I don't understand why, but she did. Caroline nodded at her and Elisa gave me the sign I could walk in.
As I walked inside and sat across from her, Caroline didn't seem to acknowledge my presence. She was speaking to someone on the phone, someone important. I didn't know how important at the time. I hardly knew anything of what I know now. It's funny how things come together when you take a spet back, once everything is over.
"Dumont, Dumont," Caroline repeated, almost as if trying to calm down the person on the other side of the line. "No, no, I understand. It will be done, you can count on that. When have I ever not hold my end of the deal? Yes, I will secure the space. Yes, that space. You have my word. I'll see you next week. Don't be late. This is important. Good."
After that, she hung up and finally looked at me.
"Hello, Miss Burton-Brenan."
"Could you please call me Faye?"
"Show me what you brought," she said.
I stood up and ripped apart the brown paper I had wrapped it in and with trembling fingers lifted the painting so she could look at it.
Her first impression was.... confusing, to say the least. She stared at it, craned her head to the side a bit, then straightened it back up. Finally, she took the painting off my hands to have a closer look, and said, "This is depressing."
I couldn't say otherwise. I painted something I was feeling. I painted a little girl in the middle of the living room of a run-down cabin, with no furniture around. She was wearing a dirty old dress, she had her arms around her legs and her back to the viewer. The painting was dark and red, and it was meant to look a bit dirty. Not being able to see many details transmitted a sense of unconsciousness. Etherialness. Delusion.
"Yeah," I finally replied. "I guess it is."
"I like it," she said. First, I thought she was joking, but she really seemed to appreciate the painting.
"Really? You said it was depressing."
"We're not a movie, it's not our job to leave you feeling happy or hopeful. Sometimes, a depressing painting can move more in you than a beautiful ocean can." She placed the painting on the floor, leaning against her desk.
"Okay, so...?"
"I want to make something very clear. I don't do this. We don't do this. Normally I get paid to do this. However, Scott has made it very clear that it is important to him for you to have this, and I've heard from some of your previous buyers. So listen to me closely. You will not mess this up. I want twenty-six pictures in total. None smaller than 38" or bigger than five and a half feet. I will give you the freedom to decide what you want to paint about, however, that is the last piece of freedom you will have. I will decide the release date, I will book you for dinners, and parties, and cocktails, and gatherings, and fancy restaurants and you will go to each and every one of them and you will be likable, and memorable. These are not the casual art appreciator, these are the collectors, the people that call me when they want to spend half a million on a new painting. The kind of men and woman who will pay a hundred dollars for one of your pieces and not blink. The more they like you, the more they'll want to spend money on you. You will also have a few photo shootings, which shouldn't be a problem since Scott is our best photographer and I'm guessing you'll feel right at home with him." That last part sounded a bit like jealousy to me, but what do I know?
"I think so, yes."
"You'll have around three months to paint, maybe four. Depends on when I can get some space for you. You will be exhibited for eight days starting on the openning night unless I decide otherwise, and you will be paid 30% of the total sales. Normally is half and half, however, I'll be paying for your marketing so, count yourself as lucky. We will transfer three to four days after your exhibition ends provided it's not a weekend, if it is, you'll have to wait until Monday. If by that moment there are still leftover paintings and I manage to keep selling them privately, you will still get your commission."
"I want forty."
"You want forty what?"
"Forty percent."
She sighed, "You're testing me. I could still take the offer off the table. I'm doing you a favor. You'll be left with nothing."
"I'm divorcing my wife, someone I spent twenty-two years of my life with. Do I look like I'm afraid of being left with nothing?"
For the first time, Caroline smiled. It was a complicit smile. Like a coach showing you he's proud of you for something. It didn't last, but I still picked up on it.
"Keep that attitude. It'll take you places. Forty percent then. I'll have the contract ready this afternoon. In the meantime, go grab some lunch, have a look around. If everything goes according to plan, it'll be your paintings covering the walls soon enough."
I nodded, thanked Caroline for everything she was doing. She nodded but her attention was already on something else. I was about to grab the door handle and leave when she called out to me.
"Faye."
"Yeah?" I said turning around.
"What did you name painting?"
I stared at the picture she was now picking up from the floor and looking at it like she was trying to figure out where to hang it. I sighed and I answered.
I left the office and headed for the main entrance. It was almost midday and since I hadn't had any breakfast I was starving.
Scott walked in as I was going out and smiled at me. "Hey! So, how did it go?"
"Twenty-six pieces."
"Yay! I'm so happy for you." At that moment, Scott interrupted the conversation because his phone rang. He got a text message. He answered quickly and by the time he finished, he had come up with an idea. "Hey, I just need to give Caroline these photos," he said lifting the manila folder in his hand. "Afterward, how about I take you to lunch to celebrate?"
"Uh, yeah, sure."
"Alright! Just give me fifteen minutes."
Scott went the way I'd come and I looked around for a while waiting for him. Sometimes, I'm impressed by how much our friendship has improved. Something, a few years ago, I thought was impossible. It goes to show that you never really know, do you?
I think it started five years ago. It was the end of August. That much I remember because it happened soon after my birthday, and my birthday is August 4th. We didn't celebrate that year because of what had happened. She was having an acute depressive episode, and in this particular instance, we couldn't blame her, at all. Anyone would've gotten that depressed after what happened to her.
People said I needed to stop saying 'what happened to her' and begin saying what happened to us. That sounds unfair to me. Yes, I lost something too, but my experience, my pain, couldn't compare to hers, and putting both things on the same level felt so unfair to her. To her feelings, to her experience.
She had been in bed for about two weeks by then and she was still in pain, but it wasn't the pain that kept her staring out the window, saying a word to no one but me.
I think the day Scott and I spoke for the first time in three years, her mom was in the room with us. I was sitting on a white puff by the corner, watching her mother sitting next to the bed, trying her hardest to comfort her baby girl.
"How are you feeling today, sweetheart?" her mom asked. She gave Erica Brenan her weakest smile. Like she was trying to make an effort to be better, but she couldn't quite make it.
"Does it hurt?" She shook her head as a response. "Have you eaten?" To this one question, her answer was to look away.
Her mom then turned to me hoping I could answer the question her daughter was refusing to. "I made her a protein shake this morning. It took some time but she drank it all. I also gave her some chocolate pudding and some tea with honey. She's not eating solid yet."
Erica Brenan turned to her again and asked. "Hun, you can't, or you don't want to eat solid?"
She let go a big sigh and then shook her head at her mother. It wasn't an answer. It was more of a 'can you please leave now?'
"I think she wants you to leave now," I said.
"Yes, I got that." her mom stood up and turned to me. "If you need anything, just let us know."
This was when Scott walked into the room. I had no idea who let him in. It was either Connor or Mr. Brenan because they were both outside waiting for Mrs. Brenan to give them some news since she didn't want to see either of them.
Scott looked at the three of us and said, "Mrs. Brenan, Mrs. Brenan, Mrs. Brenan," to each of us as a way of saying hello in his stupid sense of humor.
I stood up and grabbed Scott by the wrist pulling him out of the room. Mrs. Brenan followed me. Once we were outside I said, in a low tone but clearly pissed. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I'm sorry. I just heard what happened and I needed to be here."
Before I answered, Mrs. Brenan, apologized and said it was better if they left since she was still not speaking to them and she had asked her to leave. I followed them downstairs and apologized for her reaction. I asked them to give her time. It'd get better.
They weren't happy, but they left. They knew there wasn't much they could do.
"I want you to leave, too," I said to Scott.
"Just let me see her for a moment, please," he begged.
"She's not talking to anyone, and I really doubt she'll start talking to you, so please go. I don't want you in my home. I thought I made that clear."
"I know, and I know it's your job to protect her but.... please. Just let me see her."
"No," I said and went back upstairs.
She was standing by the window. I think she was watching her family get in the car and leave.
"You think I was mean?" she asked.
I sat on the bed and answered, "I don't know. I don't think it matters. If you need space to recover, you need space to recover. They love us. They'll understand."
She smiled, it was a genuine smile. Then she went back to bed. She got under the covers again and I took her hand in mine and kissed it. "How do you feel?" she asked.
"That doesn't matter."
"Of course it does. I feel bad that I can't... be better for you right now."
"Don't worry about me. There'll be time for that." I stayed quiet for a few seconds before saying, "Scott wants to see you."
"I don't want to see him."
"Yeah, I said that but I don't think he's leaving until you agree to see him. Do you want to?" I asked more as a way to make sure I wasn't going against her wishes, but I was pretty sure I knew the answer.
"No, and if he's not leaving that's his problem. God...I'm not hungry, but I know I should eat something."
"I know. I'll make you some soup. Maybe you can eat a bit of chicken without puking. I also need to clean up a little, laundry's way overdue."
"I'm so sorry."
"Stop saying that. I'm glad to take care of you, you know that."
"Yeah, but still. Who's taking care of you?"
"I can deal with that later. Try and get some sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"But you still need to try. Want me to leave the TV on?" she nodded.
I left her upstairs while I went downstairs and made some chicken soup for her. To no one's surprise, Scott was sitting on the couch in the living room, I ignored him and went straight to the kitchen.
I grabbed a big saucepan, filled it with water, and added two chicken breasts to it, and put it on the stove.
"So, does she want to see me?" he asked.
I started chopping the carrots and without looking at him I said, "No. And I would really appreciate it if you could just leave. Last thing I need right now is to worry about unwanted visits."
"You haven't been sleeping either, have you?"
"That's not your problem."
"Fine. Can I at least help with something? Maybe clean up a bit?"
"Scott, stop! I want you to leave. How is that so hard to understand?"
"Look just... I just want to be helpful, okay? When was the last time you spent time together? Not as a caretaker and an ill person. I mean as spouses. Holding each other, talking, supporting each other."
"Oh, so now you know all about how to be a good spouse, don't you?"
"No, I don't. But I know how you two are with each other. If she doesn't want to see me fine. Then I'll cook, or I'll clean up a bit. Just let me be there for her!"
I was just so tired by that point. He was right, neither of us was sleeping. She was feeling the crappiest but I also needed... just a moment. Just a little rest, to recharge batteries and then I could keep going. And I really, really needed to be with my wife, but with so many things that needed taking care of I had hardly been able to be with her as a couple. I mean after the hospital papers, paying the bills, buying her medication, calling her psychiatrist, her physical therapist, taking her temperature, making sure she would eat since she didn't eat the first four days after she was released, making sure she wasn't in pain, washing her with moist towels and soup because she couldn't douche for the first few days. I was overwhelmed and I couldn't give in to it because she needed me to be strong for her. But I needed a break. Just a little break.
"Fine, whatever. I'm making chicken soup. No pasta. Just broth and a bit of chicken. When she gets this depressed is like her body doesn't process food properly so she starts puking anything solid. The house needs cleaning and the laundry's been piling up. Can you do that? I'm just asking since you didn't wash a single dish when we were together."
He didn't take the blow, instead, he smiled and replied, "Absolutely. Leave it to me."
I frowned not convinced. But being able to just rest for a moment was so tempting. I went upstairs and found her crying. She had her back to me and was covered from head to toe. Her sobbing was quiet, but it was there.
"Oh, baby," I said and lay down. I wrapped her in my arms, placed my face against her back, and kissed the back of her head. "I'm so sorry, my love."
She didn't say a word, but she stopped crying soon after I hugged her and without making another sound, both of us soon fell asleep.
I hadn't had a nap like that in a long time. Three hours straight we slept and when I woke up I felt so much better. I felt warm, comfortable, just a little bit lighter. I think I woke her up when I myself woke up because she started moving slowly. Like when you're stretching. She grabbed the arm I had around her and pulled it closer to her.
"How did you sleep?" I asked.
"Great. I feel much better."
"I know right. God. We really needed this."
"Yeah."
I didn't mean to. It wasn't my intention, but I started kissing her neck, then her shoulders, and she started pressing herself closer against me. She took my hand and slipped it under her t-shirt making me grabbed her breast. Before I could think, I was on top of her kissing her and touching her and I couldn't stop myself.
With my last shred of self-control, I pulled away and asked. "Are you sure we can?"
"I don't care," she barely murmured before pressing her lips hard on mine.
I couldn't stop myself from going fast and taking her clothes off quickly and aggressively. The fact that it'd been a month since we'd been together also didn't help. But I was still very conscious about needing to be extra soft, and if you knew anything about her and me, softness was not something we were necessarily into when making love. But that was fine sometimes. It wasn't 'mind-blowing, my legs are shaking, my heart's pounding, I'm kinda dizzy' sex. It was 'I need to feel you closer to me' sex. It was 'I need to be as close to you as I possibly physically can' sex. The kind of sex that, once is over, you need to stay still, holding each other for a long time.
I rested my head on her stomach for probably ten minutes without saying a word while she stroked my hair.
"Did it hurt?" I asked looking up at her.
She shook her head, "No. I'm okay. I promise."
"Really?"
She smiled and kissed me.
I feel weird remembering those memories. Back when she still loved me it felt like it was impossible it could ever be any other way.
And now, I'm alone and heartbroken, and she loves me no longer.
Wow. That got dark pretty quick.
The point is I got up a few moments later, got dressed, and went back down. I found Scott in the laundry room, sitting next to the working washing machine reading a manga he'd probably found in her library. It big bookcase made of solid pine wood where she kept all the books she read. From horror books to encyclopedias to manga.
I had completely forgotten he was there, which meant he probably heard us.
"You slept well?" he asked.
He honestly seemed to not know anything about it, and then it dawned on me. He was sitting next to a working washing machine, which probably drawn any noise we may have made. Thank God for noisy appliances.
"Yeah," I said not wanting to be excessively friendly with him.
"Awesome. I made chicken soup. It's pretty tasty if I may say so myself. I cleaned up and Mrs. Roland came by with brownies. I put them in the fridge. Sorry, I ate a couple."
"Thanks."
Scott smiled and asked, "How is she?"
"I think... she also needed a bit of us time. And she managed to sleep which is always a win."
"I'm really glad."
I went into the kitchen, poured both her and myself two bowls of soup, and took them upstairs. When I opened the door, she was watching a sitcom. She laughed at some stupid joke and then looked at me and smiled.
It was heaven to watch her laugh again. She hadn't laughed in almost a month, and now she was laughing at the TV, and looking at me with those beautiful eyes and that incredibly attractive smile. I was so happy to watch her feeling better, so I started crying.
I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a bit of a cry baby. I cry a lot. About everything.
"Babe, why are you crying, darling?"
I gave her the bowl and sat next to her shaking my head. "No, no. It's okay. It's just, it's been so long since I watched you laugh."
She kissed me and we ate. It turned out that the chicken soup was actually pretty delicious. She smiled and said, "That's pretty good... but it doesn't taste as good as your normal chicken soup."
That made me smile. "Scott made it."
"He's still here?"
"I told you. He won't leave until he sees you. Also, Mrs. Roland sent brownies."
"Oh, yes! I want them!"
"Babe!"
She sighed, licked her lips, and said. "Alright. Let him in."
And that's how they started talking again. It was like they'd never stopped. Like time hadn't passed. They started talking about the manga Scott had been reading. She said it had eight volumes and he could borrow them. Then they talked about other comics and mangas, and that one video game that came out and turned out to be so bad, and how that really anticipated movie was better than they thought.
It took a few months for me to be friendly towards Scott again, and then another year for us to decide to be friends again.
He gave us a well-deserved rest by being persistent and annoying and more than that, he made her happy. And she was the only thing that mattered to me, so if she was happy, you could bet your ass I was willing to tolerate Scott going to our house five times a week for three months.