Appointment with a Smile (22 page)

Esther placed the sack she was carrying on the coffee table. I eased back against the sofa. She sat beside me, wrapped her arms around me, and allowed my tears to flow against her shoulder.

“How?” she asked after some length.

“Her heart. She was to have an operation when they returned. She’d had two episodes before. That’s the reason she wouldn’t encourage me. To spare me.”

“I’m not sure what to say other than I’m sorry.”

“I feel so empty inside, Esther. I remember Molly always said that her family, on both sides, had heart problems. When her grandmother died of cardiac difficulties, her parents told her not to attend the funeral. They didn’t want her near the family because she was lesbian. It saddened her so.”

Esther waited for a moment, then she asked, “Will you call Bethany?”

“Not now.”

“Do you want me to call her? Like I said, she was afraid you’d gone to Molly. Or that you weren’t well. She’s concerned.”

“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind calling her. Please tell her I need a little time to myself right now.”

Esther phoned Bethany and spoke out of earshot. She hung up and sat down again beside me.

“She said to tell you she’s there if you need her. And she’s very sorry. At least Molly didn’t suffer.”

“I believe we’ve both suffered for thirty years.” The silence in the room seemed thick. I thought how my grandparents had handed down their wisdom to me, but none of it was of any help now. Death excluded sagacity. Sadness was never right side up. I felt so very alone.

Esther took a deep breath. “We lionize the people we lose. Maybe it’s part of love’s mystery. That makes the search deeper.”

“I don’t know why all this is happening.”

“The rhythm of the stellar world is remarkable. We have the opportunity to select a cadence with it all, but we often opt against accepting. We continue to explore the reasons we believe to be correct, and the planet continues its route. That circling escapade.”

I thought for a moment. “Maybe the rotation of earth is the only evidence of our existence. Death is a lifelong companion. It remains ready to act upon us at any time.”

“We’re all concerned over death’s justification,” Esther said. “After all, the body is home to us, and when that body collapses, home is gone. In the survivor’s case, the home’s neighbor is missing. Some believe that people become jaded to death when they’re older. I don’t believe it for a moment. Maybe, if anything, it’s more difficult. Youth knows the rules, but age teaches exceptions.”

“I seem to know nothing, Esther. I’ve always firmly believed in a creator. Right now, I’m not certain about a loving supreme being. The creator seems to be more of a henchman. The ultimate exterminator. To me, religion has always felt as if one is consulting with a boogeyman to connect to the higher boogeyman.”

“I’m a scientist and not truly religious, as you know. But I’ve never doubted there is some type of beyond. Energy never ends. It only disperses or transforms. We approach our termination from birth. The same spirit, that energy that begins with us, has to go somewhere. Some scientists have tried to prove that immediately after death there is a miniscule, yet measurable, loss of weight. Their explanation is that this is the weight of the human soul leaving the body. There’s no real proof, but I believe there is a beyond.”

I sighed. “I was thinking, if there is this gigantic beyond, a heaven, then Molly has been reunited with Pamela. How sad is it that I’m jealous of a ghost?”

“From everything you’ve told me, I’d say Molly wouldn’t be within a country or a heavenly mile of Pamela. She stayed with Pamela for Samantha’s benefit. Molly said she was still in love with you. That says it all.”

“And I still love her. When I felt a final rejection from her, I allowed myself to have feelings for Bethany.”

“You always fight fate, Danielle. Maybe meeting Bethany was part of some grand plan. If not, maybe it was the best luck you’ve ever had. Accept it. She’s a terrific woman. She makes you happy.”

“I haven’t done much in the way of making her happy, though. All I’ve talked about is Molly.”

Esther held my gaze. “So why don’t you crack open your heart enough to make room for Bethany?”

“Even now, I’m considering that as a transgression against my love for Molly.”

“How is guilt connected to replacement love?”

I picked at my slacks for nonexistent lint. “Even if we knew, we probably couldn’t pronounce it.”

She chuckled slightly. “You know, there’s a stellar family out there that is all crowded and in a violent neighborhood. Yet within the chaos, it seems normal. Sort of comparable to our existence down here on planet earth.”

“That bit of minutia brightens my day.”

“Oh, before I forget. Call Fiona. She’s on your trail. She’s getting fifteen percent to brighten your day. I’m only here to torment you with trivia.”

“Mission accomplished,” I replied dryly but with the hint of humor. Esther’s mere presence had lifted my spirits.

“Danielle, you can’t let this damage your health. You look very ragged around the edges. You need some food and sleep. Can I bring you anything?”

“No. If I get hungry, I’ll order room service. But thank you. I’ll sleep when I’m ready, so don’t worry about me. Face it, I usually look disheveled.”

“You’re an artist. You’re not supposed to look normal.”

Then we hugged, and she left. I dialed up Fiona only to find her line was busy. After downing the remainder of my coffee, I redialed. Although I wasn’t emotionally fortified to talk with anyone, Fiona would keep me out of the world’s stormy spots for a few moments.

But her phone was, as the Brits say, still engaged.

Chapter 40

Fiona burst into my hotel suite. I hadn’t bothered to lock up after Esther left.

Glancing up, I asked, “Why don’t you come right on in? Don’t bother knocking.”

“It was fucking open! What’s with your vanishing act crap?”

“I tried to call you, but your line was busy.”

“I was talking with Esther. Oh, Danielle, I’m so sorry about Molly.” She sat down in one of the armchairs. “I must have left a dozen calls trying to get hold of you.”

“After I tried calling you earlier, I haven’t wanted to talk. I’m not thrilled about it now.”

“I hate being ignored.” After silence, she wrestled around in her chair. “I apologize for barging in. But you obviously aren’t working. You’ve gone into hiding. I’m stymied.”

“I’m mourning,” I said angrily. “I don’t have anything to say. Fiona, this is a shock to me.”

“Meanwhile, you could be working. Look,” she said and waved her hand at the paintings, “you haven’t touched the canvases. Why don’t you paint it out?”

“Paint it out?” I asked incredulously.

“Think of the great art that’s been produced when the artist is depressed. Grieving. Pick up a paintbrush. It would be good therapy. Great art might come of it. I’ll order a few canvases to be delivered. Paint. Pick some subjects and paint.”

“Subjects.” Sometimes Fiona got on my last nerve.

She gave an enormous sigh. “Artists are mostly semiliterate. You’re borderline, but just barely. Yes, paint now. You’re finally coming into your own. Danielle, the art world is revisiting your work. Or maybe taking a first look at you. Last week, two international art magazines had articles about you. One said you’re one of the finest contemporary realists in the world. That’s major.”

“Right now I’m the saddest artist in the world. Aren’t you getting this, Fiona?”

“You’ve always been an emotional painter. So ratchet up your production. Tap into that powerful fervor of bereavement.”

“I have no fervor.” I stood, at the end of my patience. “Fiona, I’ll paint when I’m damned well ready. Right now, I don’t even feel ready to take the next breath. That’s how flipping devastated I am.”

“I’m trying to shake you back to reality. Approval in the art world is difficult. Accolades are rare. When you’re the buzz, you’d better be there. I’ve witnessed your slow and steady climb. You’ve been in the vestibule. You’re center stage now. That meteoric rise you’ve awaited for your entire career is here.”

“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.”