Authors: Katrina Penaflor
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ren
Mason and I are driving back from the gym.
It’s been raining off and on today, so we decided against walking there
earlier.
“I think I
remember why we don’t normally drive back,”
Mason says. “We both
fucking reek.”
I laugh at
him, but he’s right. We smell awful.
When we pull
into our driveway and park, we both hop out of the car. Mason and I run into
the house to avoid getting covered in rain.
I steal the
shower first. I need to wash off the dank smell of working out.
After I’m
done I go to the kitchen to make dinner. Emmy said she would be packing after
her nap so I only make enough for Mason and me.
“What are you
making,
Chef Boyardee
?”
Mason asks.
“
Spaghetti. It
’s
done too. Help yourself.”
Mason and I
fix ourselves plates. We go to sit on the couch to eat dinner in front of the
TV.
I hear my
phone ringing in the kitchen. “Can you mute this for a second?”
I’m talking about the sound on the TV. Mason nods and hits the
button on the remote.
I grab my
phone off the counter in the kitchen and answer.
“Is this Ren
Warren?”
“Yes it is. Who’s
speaking?”
“This is Ray
Gardner. We met at my gallery four days ago.”
Holy fuck
. “I was wondering if you were available to bring some of your
work over. I want to take another look.”
Of course I
am. “Yes, Ray. Absolutely. When would you want me to stop by?”
“Could you
come to the studio by tonight? I know you live a ways out, but I’m finalizing
some gallery plans and I’ll be around.”
If she asked
me to bring my work over at four in the morning I would’ve said yes. “I can
bring some things over. I’ll head out as soon as I can. It’ll take me a few
hours to get to Connecticut if that’s okay?”
“It’s no
problem. Just come straight in and we’ll talk.”
“See you
then.”
I hang up the
phone.
“Who was
that?”
Mason asks.
“That was Ray.
The owner of the gallery in Connecticut. She wants me to bring my work over
right away.”
“What! That’s
amazing. What are you standing around for, get your work and go!”
He’s right. I
run to my room and start gathering my photos. I need to get to Connecticut
ASAP.
* *
What is she thinking? I wish she was like
Emmy, and I could tell most of her thoughts just by looking at her. But no,
Ray’s face and body language give nothing away. Everything about the woman is
sharp. Her dark red hair is tightly pulled back. Her glasses are square and
black, and she has a red pantsuit on. Tailored to fit her perfectly. Her age is
difficult to tell. She could be as young as in her thirties, or as old as her
fifties, but I have no clue. All I know is that she looks serious, her gallery,
which I’ve researched, is very successful, and the fate of my work is in her
hands.
She’s been
flipping through my photos for the last fifteen minutes. She hasn’t spoken a
word, just turned pieces over, looked, paused, and leaned a few pictures
against a mantle on her wall. Some of the pictures I’ve brought she’s stared at
for a long time, others she took a one second peek then moved on to another.
I wasn’t
given a limit like last time, so I brought everything I loved. I even brought
one of my older portfolios. I wasn’t sure what she would think of it because
the work is pretty old, but it’s important to my development, and I hope she
can understand and appreciate that.
Now I’m
sitting in Ray’s pristine, modern office wondering what the hell she thinks
about my work.
“You have a
much different style than your mother. Some critics might disagree with me, but
I can see the influence, but you’re each so unique.”
“You’ve seen
some of my mom’s photos?”
I ask, a bit surprised that she knew we
were related.
“I bought one
of her pieces a long time ago. Maybe fifteen or so years. I still love it. But
I don’t want to make this about her. I want to make this about you, about your
talent. I love what I’ve seen. Almost all of it. A few pieces I think aren’t quite
what I’m looking for, but I want your work in my gallery. The third Friday of
every month begins my weekend of new artists. All my spaces are filled until
Christmas, but after that I’m putting you on the list. You’ll get one wall, six
feet by twelve. I want you to display “Charlie,”
you might
need to reframe, and you get to decide on pricing. Your work will be on display
for two days, and you are expected at the opening night. It’s up to you on how
many prints you want to do, and if you want to sell the originals or not. I ask
though, that you don’t make things outrageous in price, you’re a new artist
after all. I’m here if you need advising. I’ll have my assistant contact you
when the date gets closer, but to be clear, your work, Ren, will be on display
at the start of next year.”
“This is a
joke.”
Why the fuck
did I just say that?!
“I assure
you, Ren, I’m not kidding.”
Luckily there is humor in
Ray’s voice.
“I’m sorry,”
I quickly blurt out. “That’s not what I meant to say. This is just
so surprising. And thank you. Seriously, thank you, this is a dream I never
thought would ever come true.”
I’m in a
state of shock where my mouth is probably dragging across the ground right now.
My hands are also awkwardly stretched out, because I have no idea what to do
with them. “Ray, this…oh my god. I…I’m sorry I have no idea what else to say or
do right now. I’m that happy.”
She smiles at
me from across her desk. “I see potential in you. This is only the beginning,
but the first gallery show is always the hardest. You need to work to have
something to display after this. Don’t let me down and stop your career after
one show. I’ve welcomed back quite a few of my successful third Friday
artists.”
“I won’t stop
after this, Ray. I promise.”
She gathers
the work she was looking at into a neat pile on her desk. “I look forward to
your show. Now go on, go tell the good news to everyone.”
I shake Ray’s
hand. God, I can’t wait to tell Emmy.
I load
everything I brought to the gallery into my car. It starts to rain as soon as I
put the last of my things away. Thank god it didn’t start any sooner than this.
I begin my
drive to Providence. If I’m lucky, and drive fast, I can get there in around an
hour and a half. The ride to Hartford took me nearly two hours with all the
traffic I was facing. I want to call Emmy now and talk to her, but I want to
see the look of surprise on her face when I tell her the good news. I’ll stop
by her apartment before going home. I want her to be the first person to know.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Emilie
He’s strong enough to push the door open,
despite my efforts.
“Get out.”
I say, as I try to push my father out the door. He doesn’t budge.
His body feels planted into the ground. He tosses the door closed behind him as
he walks forward.
What is he
doing in Rhode Island? How did he find me?
I remember
the letter, he obviously figured out my address way before this. I was too
stupid to realize that.
My hands are
shaking. The old terrifying effect my dad used to have on me quickly returns. I
can feel myself cowering in his presence. I’m being careful of my next moves so
I don’t set him off.
My dad wipes
his hand down his face. He looks on the verge of tears. “All I see is Liv,”
he says.
Liv, my
mother.
“I was here
when you called, I was in Newport. That was one of her favorite places, did you
know that? She loved it there.”
I never knew. I picked this
state because it felt like I was as far away as possible. It also felt safe,
felt right. And now I learn this was somewhere my mom used to love.
I don
’t know if I should keep
my dad talking to the point of him being distracted, then call the police, or
make a run for it now. I don’t know what could be more dangerous.
I decide to
keep him talking. “I didn’t know that.”
He nods. “I
went back to her favorite beach. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I wanted
to see you too. That’s why I took the trip. Rehab…it…it wasn’t working. When I
was on the beach—that was her paradise, being on the water. She would always
walk around in her dark red raincoat and enjoy the sea. I’ll never get her
back. After all these years I can’t get over it.” He’s crying now. I also
notice his clothes are disheveled, and he looks like a mess. “I’m sorry. I’m so
sorry.”
“It’s okay, I
forgive you,”
I lie to placate him. “You’re upset, I think this isn’t the place
to talk about it. Go outside I’ll call you a cab.”
He takes
another step in my direction and I step back.
“Don’t cower
from me, Emilie.”
His harsh voice is a complete change from
his upset tone only a moment prior.
I stop
moving. I can’t afford to make him angry right now. Not when he’s this upset.
He points his
finger at me. “You know, I should have her here instead of you. She left me to
look out for you. On my own. If you weren’t born, she never would’ve gone to
the store that day to get groceries, leaving me home with you. She never
would’ve gotten in that car accident.”
He screams at me. As he
gets closer, I can smell the alcohol on him. His newfound sobriety is gone.
“This is all your fault.”
I can’t help my tears. They’re blurring my
vision. Why is he putting this on me? Why now? I left to get away from him, to
leave the blame and the pain behind, but it only followed me to the one place I
felt safe again.
“It’s not my
fault.”
I say. I know I sound hysterical. He can’t keep saying this to me.
“It was an accident.”
“No it
wasn’t!”
“It was.
You’re wrong!”
He backhands
me so hard I’m knocked to the floor. I clutch the side of my face as pain
radiates from my jaw to my eye.
I’m
momentarily stunned. I look to my dad, afraid of what he’ll do next. He stares
down at me, a miserable, horrible look casts across his face. He runs out of my
apartment and leaves me. This time I know it’s the last.
I want to
calm myself down, but I can’t stop the tears that are pouring down my face.
Everything is coming back to me
—
all my emotions that I’ve
struggled to keep at bay.
On unsteady
legs I rise. I lock the door to my apartment before finding my phone. I dial
Ren but he doesn’t answer. I keep pacing, clutching onto my arms, still unable to
stop the hiccupping sobs that are escaping me.
I try Ren
again but he
doesn
’
t answer.
Why
won’t you pick up my calls?
I decide to
do something that in the moment disgusts me. I get a drink. It’s the only thing
that can calm me down. I pull the bottle of vodka from the cabinet and pour a
large portion into a glass. I down half of it in three gulps. I have to stop to
heave and keep myself from vomiting. I finish off the rest and pour more.
I sink to the
floor in my kitchen and finish my drink. I’m no better than my father right
now, turning to alcohol in solution to my problems. I just want to block it all
out. I just want to stop my thoughts, stop my sadness.
I keep
drinking, but it isn’t helping me. It’s just making me feel sick and nauseous.
I need the pool.
I need it now.
I struggle to
pull my body off the floor. The alcohol is quickly taking affect. I grab my
sweatshirt and phone and leave my apartment.
I try Ren
again and still no answer. I rub the side of my face where my father hit me. The
pain has gone numb, or I have gone numb. I don’t know which.
When I call
Ren for the fourth time I leave a voicemail and tell him everything.
I get to the
motel and stumble towards the gate of the pool. I’ll just put my feet in. That
will be enough. I hope.
It takes me
three tries to undo the lock from the opposite side. By the time I get in to
the pool area, I feel the beginning sprinkles of rain. But I don’t care.
I go to the
edge of the pool and drop my legs in. I’m too drunk to care that my shoes are
still on, or that my pants are getting wet. None of it matters right now.
All I want is
to be able to slip into the water and float around. To be at peace, if only for
a moment.
That’s what
I’ll do. I’ll float as I wait for Ren. And I’ll breathe.
Just for a
moment.