Authors: Melissa Brown
My pulse is still racing out of control as Vince leads me to a barstool.
“
I think you could use a shot,
”
he laughs uncomfortably, standing behind the bar, pouring three shots. One for Jason, himself and me. My breath starts to slow slightly and I
’
m feeling more like myself.
“
You
’
re such a badass,
”
Jason laughs, clinking his shot glass with mine.
“
To Kate,
”
Vince raises his glass,
“
the badass. That guy needed a nice slap.
”
“
I
’
ve never done that before,
”
I say, my eyes wide, still taking in what happened.
Jason downs his shot.
“
How did it feel?
”
“
Surreal, but fantastic
.”
I smile.
“
For two years, I
’
ve thought about what I would say if I saw him again.
”
“
Well, you don
’
t have to think about that again.
He won
’
t be back,
”
Vince says, looking confident.
“
I hope you
’
re right,
” I say, downing my shot.
“
Good riddance.
”
***
I didn’t sleep at all last
night. And I
’
ve been jittery all day. Bree attempted to distract me by taking me to lunch and toasting my success as a photographer. I laughed at her and rolled my eyes, but deep down I have to admit that I
’
m hopeful. I
’
m really proud of what I created. Even though it tears at my heart since Patrick
’
s wedding. When I woke up the next morning in Vince
’
s office, my first instinct was to go home and destroy my piece. The thought of looking at Evan
’
s face was unbearable. I wanted to tear it apart and forget about him. I stormed into my apartment, determined and angry. But, when I saw it leaning against the wall in my living room, I couldn
’
t do it. I
’
m proud of it and my reasons for making it. I can
’
t control Evan, but I can respect myself enough to show the world what I created. And even if nothing comes of this exhibition, I
’
ll know that I made something I
’
m extremely proud of. That
’
s enough for me.
The Gallery sent some of their employees to pick up my piece earlier this afternoon, so all I have to do is get my frazzled ass over there. Bree forced me to have business cards made. She seems to think I need to make connections. I realize that at some point, I
’
m going to have to embrace the business side of my passion. But, right now it
’
s not something I can focus on. I just want to see my work hanging on the wall of a gallery. And I
’
ll be able to do that in just a few minutes.
Fixing my makeup one last time,
and touching up my hair, I put on my winter coat and head to the gallery with Bree.
We walk in silence, mainly because I
’
m so nervous that I can
’
t muster small talk. I just want to get there, see how everything is going to go, and absorb it all. I
’
m ready for tomorrow morning to be here already.
We walk into Blue Door and I hear jazz music playing through the speaker system. Waiters and waitresses are walking around with trays of appetizers and tiny glasses of white and red wine.
“
This is fancy,
”
Bree whispers.
She
’
s so excited for me. I can see it all over her face.
She
’
s right, it is. And I
’
m a part of it.
“
Kate, welcome,
” Tosha,
one of the event coordinators
,
says to me as she gestures for me to give her my coat. I slide it off of my shoulders and hand it to her, trying my best to control my shaking hands.
“
Your piece is right near the front. We wanted everyone to see it. It
’
s so unique,
”
she smiles. This sends my pulse racing. Suddenly, this has all become real. Completely real.
“
Um, this
might be a silly question, but
what should I do?
”
I ask, looking around the gallery.
Tosha chuckles and pats the side of my arm.
“
Mingle, make connections.
Try to stay near your work so if people have questions, you
’
ll be there to answer them
.”
She smiles warmly before carrying my coat to a room down the hall.
“
All right,
”
I say, raising an eyebrow at Bree,
“
here goes nothing.
”
“
I
’
ll get us some wine, you go see your piece.
Is it lame if I take a picture of it with my camera? I
’
m dying to know what photo you used.
”
Bree walks towards one of the waiters as I walk around the gallery, looking for the familiar faces of my art. When I see it hanging on its own small wall, I almost lose it. My work is hanging in a gallery.
My work is hanging in a gallery.
“
Kate,
”
Bree gasps as she stands behind me, putting one hand on my shoulder,
“
it
’
s magnificent.
”
“
Do you really think so?
”
I ask, almost surprised at Bree
’
s enthusiasm. I thought she
’
d at least reject the subject of my work. But, that doesn
’
t seem to be the case. Instead, she seems blown away. Her eyes are moistening as she gazes at the collage of photos, the many faces of Evan and of our life together. The canvas I used was a standard 36
”
x54
”
, and I covered it with a collection of expressions that my love made while we were together. But, dispersed throughout, there are several tiny prints that are not faces, but memories. A small photo of the Christmas tree, the sign for Molly
’
s tavern, a picture of Soldier
’
s field, bacon cooking in a pan. They
’
re almost meant to be hidden treasures that you only see when you really study the piece.
“
A Thousand Faces,
”
Bree says, reading the small placard next to the large canvas.
“
It
’
s so beautiful, Kate. I had no idea his face was so expressive. You
’
ve captured every emotion on the planet.
”
“
That was the idea. He was a good subject,
”
I smile weakly, still looking up at the piece.
“
Impressive,
”
a voice says from behind me. She
’
s a petite redhead with a glowing expression and tiny glasses. Her black business suit tells me she
’
s not just attending this event for fun.
“
Thank you,
”
I respond.
“
Are you the artist?
”
she inquires.
I nod and she extends her hand.
“
I
’
m Deb Stuercke. I work for Shutterbug magazine. Have you heard of us?
”
“
Absolutely, I
’
m a subscriber,
”
I say, doing my best not to seem overexcited. But, I am.
I am in love with Shutterbug because, although they focus mainly on digital photography, they still have the occasional article about the value of film.
“
Well, that
’
s good to hear,
”
she says.
“
This piece is incredible. Tell me about it.
”
“
Um,
”
I say, taking a deep breath,
“
well, these were all taken on my Canon EOS 55
—”
“
Wait,
”
she says, extending her hand towards me, looking shocked.
“
This was done with a film camera?
”
“
Yes, I
’
m not very modern,
”
I laugh nervously.
“
Wow,
”
Deb says, getting closer to the photographs to inspect them,
“
to say I
’
m impressed would be a giant understatement.
”
“
Thank you,
”
I say again, watching her as she studies my piece for several minutes.
“
Do you have a card?
”
she asks, not making eye contact.
She
’
s still inspecting the piece. Bree gives me a look that says
‘
I told you so.
’
Quickly, I pull a business card out of my pocket and hand it to her. She still doesn
’
t peel her eyes away from my photos.
“
Now, that I
’
m really looking at this, I can tell this was done with film. What developing service did you use?
”
“
Um, I have a darkroom in my apartment.
I developed all of these photos,
”
I answer.
She raises an eyebrow before looking once again at my piece. She then nods and gives me a knowing smile, looking down at my card.
“
Well, Kate Armour, I will most certainly be in touch. Good luck tonight
.”
She extends her hand once again and I shake it, barely able to catch my breath as she walks away to greet another photographer.
Bree turns her back to Ms. Stuercke
,
and her eyes look like they
’
re going to pop out of their sockets.
“
Can you believe that? We
’
ve only been here for five minutes and you already made a connection with someone important.
”
“
That was surreal,
”
I say, taking a deep breath and exhaling through my mouth.
“
Here, drink this
.”
Bree hands me a glass of wine and I drink it down like it
’
s water.
“
Thanks, wanna walk around a little?
”
I ask, my hands still shaky. Bree nods and we stroll around to the photographs near mine, not going too far. The rest of the pieces are all very nice, but similar to one another. Landscapes and skyscrapers, mostly. No faces, no faces at all. At first, that makes me nervous, that perhaps I
’
ve stepped too far out of the norm. Maybe I
’
m too outside the box for my own good.
After about twenty minutes of looking at artwork and introducing ourselves to the other participants in the exhibition, we make our way back to my piece. Bree
’
s convinced that another
‘
important person
’
might be waiting. She
’
s not entirely off base. Someone I never expected to be here is standing in front of my piece, studying my photos intently. My breath catches as I observe her. Hair tied back in a bun, a powder blue cashmere sweater set and long black pants on her thin frame.
Tasteful black heels on her tiny feet.
She
’
s here
.
“
Mom?
”
I say, walking towards her, unable to hide my shock,
“
you came.
”