Lost

  I tried to make it seem like I was interested in the art because I didn't want to just run through looking for myself. I even faked an interest in at least one piece of almost each artist's section of wall. But I was dying inside and I needed to know.

  Eventually, in the middle of the gallery I gasped when I finally found myself. On a wall, halfway through the little gallery, behind a panel that separated the room into 2, I was up on the wall, and I was stunned.

  There was no mistaking me. There could be no mistake to anyone who knew me or had ever met me that it was absolutely me on the wall.

  I was painted 4 times in vivid color, dressed as I always did, looking like I remember I looked when I was with Peter. There were 4 beautiful paintings of me in various displays of happiness with Peter.

  I was smiling outside surrounded by snow in one, and in the next I was sitting on my couch smiling straight at anyone looking at the painting. In the third painting I was striking a pose at my bedroom door in a sexy little negligee, beaming at the watcher. And in the final painting I was sleeping and snuggled up in my sheets but looking content as I slept.

  I looked beautiful in every painting, truly. I may have been attractive, but Peter's ability to make me look beautiful was amazing. I couldn't stop staring at all the color and the life in my eyes and through my smiles as he saw and painted me.

  Trying to take it all in, I realized the 4 paintings were mounted as corners with a charcoal sketch sitting sadly in the middle, which seemed awful somehow in comparison to all the color of the paintings.

  Looking at the center piece I saw it was a dark, charcoal drawing of devastation. It was a tragic portrait of me that Peter had captured. It must have been the very look I had when I stood by the door, almost leaning against the back of my couch when he broke up with me.

  Looking even at my clothing, I realized it was that exact Sunday morning in March. I was wearing tights and a long brown sweater and I still had my brown riding boots on after getting our coffee that morning. My hair was down, and slightly disheveled from the cold March morning blowing through me.

  Looking closely, the sketch actually showed every emotion I had felt that day. And sadly, I looked like a woman who had just been destroyed as she walked into a nightmare.

  Staring for however long, I let the first sob take me until the tears caused me to sit on the floor underneath the sketch of myself as I cried.

  And as time passed while I sat in my heartbreak, I heard myself moan just once, “Peter...”

  Eventually, the gorgeous guy asked, “Can I get you anything?” But I shook my head no while he looked at me until recognition clearly dawned on his face. He didn't whip his head back and forth between me and the wall, he just looked once at me and back to the paintings, and he so clearly knew I was her on the wall, he seemed to shake his head at the pain he was experiencing.

  “I see you're familiar with Mr. Connor’s work,” he gently prodded.

  “A little,” I moaned. “He painted a few portraits of me, and sketched me a few times. But I didn't know about this,” I cried.

  After a few minutes of silence, gorgeous guy introduced himself as Michael and asked if I'd like a chair to sit on, which I did. And once he placed a chair beside me, I sat down, perfectly situated in front of myself as I stared, and remembered, and felt everything of my life with Peter.

  At one point, a couple walked through the gallery and past me, but thankfully, they didn't acknowledge me or otherwise hover around. I didn't know if it was because I was clearly dying in front of them, or because gallery etiquette meant you didn't hover around someone else's devastation. But for whatever reason, they were there and then gone as I sat staring at the beautiful paintings.

  Staring, there was no mistaking the brilliance or the light that came from each one. Even the sleeping painting captured me in total bliss as I slept. I looked like a woman totally in love, sleeping with almost a private little smile in my slumber. I looked so happy in the painting, I could actually feel the happiness all around me in my current sad reality.

  Looking at myself sleeping, I wondered about the watcher. I wondered how many times Peter must have watched me, and what he was thinking about me when he did. I thought of our last night, and Eddie Vedder’s voice faded away as I remembered Peter gently singing Black to me as I wept in the tender moment between us.

  Exhaling my misery, I looked next at the beautiful bedroom doorway painting which was just that, beautiful. I looked so lovely standing there gazing at the person I was going to be with. I looked like I was happily entering my room for the best sex of my life. I looked sexy, but so in love the painting took all the potential smut and sleaziness out of the pose and clothing. I didn't look slutty or trampy, even though the negligee was slightly transparent.

  You could definitely see the slight coloring of my nipples through the pink negligee but it looked beautiful, not slutty. It didn't matter that you saw the slight dusting of my nipples, because you were drawn almost immediately to my little smile and bright eyes. I looked like a woman so in love, everything else faded but that minute before I walked to the love of my life waiting for me in my bedroom.

  The couch and outdoor painting were also just a lovely representation of nothing specific but everything loving in that moment. I was sitting on the couch staring at Peter, and I loved him. And in the outdoor painting I was standing with the backdrop of white snow highlighting my green coat and eyes as I smiled at the person I loved in front of me. I was loved and adored and my smile told our story beautifully.

  But naturally, I was drawn back to the charcoal drawing in the middle. Looking at the drawing, I finally noticed the only words to be found anywhere, because the exhibit itself wasn't titled, and Peter's name wasn't listed below.

  The only words to be found were at the bottom of the charcoal drawing. In a desperate looking script, almost like the word appeared before the sketch itself, it read… LOST.

  That's all there was- One word to sum up everything I was in that exact moment of time and everything I became afterward.

  I was lost.

  Sitting there, I realized I could almost make a play on the word itself. Thinking about the word I realized I was lost, yes, but I had also lost. I lost Peter. I lost my lover. I lost the life I wanted. I lost everything I had ever wanted when he walked out the door. I had lost.

  And I was lost.

  So I cried again. I cried a harder, soul-consuming cry of agony and defeat. I cried like a total loser right in front of my paintings in the middle of a quaint little gallery at the end of the village on a brisk day in December. I cried almost one year after the first date I ever had with Peter.

  Crying, I suddenly realized nothing seemed more cruel to me than knowing Peter understood completely who I was and what I had felt that day, but he left anyway. He captured me as I was with him, yet he still ended us.

  And that became the greatest cruelty of our life and ending together.

  Peter knew and saw but he still left me alone. Peter knew but he still left me alone and lost.

  *****

  After forever I noticed Michael checked up on me from time to time. But other than a quick look which I ignored, he never spoke to me again or made me feel embarrassed for my breakdown in his gallery.

  Michael brought me a bottle of water which I accepted with a nearly inaudible thanks, and then I was left alone with myself, then and now.

  Eventually, after what felt like hours in the gallery I knew I had to leave. I knew I had to function again. I knew I had to move on again but I felt trapped in the gallery. I didn't want to leave and I didn't want to say goodbye. I just didn't know how to leave Peter in the gallery without me.

  So I called my mom and asked her to please meet me, which amazingly she said she would without question or even pause. My mom said she was coming for me, but she could be up to a half hour away, giving me another half hour to sink deeper into my despair.

  However long later though, I heard a soft whis
per of my name as I turned to my mom walking toward me. Walking to me with kind eyes, I finally released everything I had felt for the hours I sat staring at my previous life.

  “See. This is what we were together…”

  “Oh, baby. I see it,” she said kneeling on the floor, wrapping her arms around my shoulders as I buried my face in her neck and sobbed all over my mom.

  “I'm fucked up again,” I choked.

  “It's okay to be,” she whispered in my ear.

  “Can you see it? I wasn't delusional or wrong or dramatic, or even an idiot. It was real because he saw it too.”

  “I see it, Sophie. Can I take a better look?” She asked as I released her so she could really look.

  Still kneeling beside me, she kept one arm around my waist but she seemed to only see what was in front of her. She stared at the paintings of me while I cried silently beside her. I didn't want to interrupt her by crying loudly, so I held in the sobs that wanted to destroy me. And I kept my hands in my lap so I wouldn't rip the paintings from the wall and run.

  With tears slowly falling from her eyes, I knew my mom finally understood.

  “These are so beautiful. I can't believe how he painted so much life and love in your eyes.”

  “He could because that's what I was. I was alive and I loved him,” I whispered sadly.

  “I can see that. Oh, god... Sophie. This hurts me to look at, so I can't even imagine what you're feeling. This is the most amazing and tragic thing I've ever seen in my life,” my mother cried softly. “The middle drawing-”

  “Was the last day,” I cried to my mom's obvious understanding. “That’s what I was wearing and that's what I must've looked like when he walked out of my apartment for the very last time. That was me that day, and I feel...” But there were no words.

  Looking at the woman's face in the charcoal drawing who stared back at me was beyond tragic. She looked terrible and so destroyed you could actually feel her pain.

  “That's how I still feel even though I've physically moved on. Inside I still feel like that all the time,” I wept.

  “What do you want to do? What can I do to help you, Sophie? Tell me what I can do.” My mom begged me.

  “I don't know...”

  “Okay. Just give me a minute,” she said rising, as I nodded while I stared at the lost woman on the wall.

  After a few minutes I heard raised voices, but I still couldn't get off the damn chair. Sitting there staring at myself, I wanted to know what my mom was yelling about, but I just couldn't move.

  “Sophie!” I jumped. “Show him some ID,” my mom barked walking back to me from behind the partition.

  “What?”

  “I tried to buy the paintings, or take them, or friggin' steal them from the wall, but I can't. But he said there's a note for a Sophie Morley with the paintings,” she said loudly as I gasped and stood so quickly the chair toppled behind me.

  “What note? What?”

  “Sophie. Open your purse and take out your Driver’s License,” she annunciated slowly for me.

  Scrambling for my little purse beside my coat on the floor, which incidentally I had no memory of removing, I grabbed my wallet with shaking hands, as my mom took it from me.

  Opening my wallet, she ripped through the credit cards and bank cards, until she pulled out my driver’s license and practically assaulted Michael with it.

  “Here! Jesus, it's not like you couldn't tell it was her on the fucking wall,” my mom snapped scaring even me a little.

  But totally professional, Michael held his own against the crazy bitch and her psychotic daughter in front of him.

  “Look, I didn't doubt for a moment she was the muse of the paintings. I just needed proof of her name before I gave her the letter. Mr. Connor insisted on it,” he said with gentle patience.

  “Fine. I understand. But she's Sophie Morley, you have your proof, now give her the letter please,” my mom demanded, even as I still stood dumbfounded watching the exchange between them.

  “There's something else,” Michael said as he handed me the envelope with a slight humor that seemed completely misplaced under the circumstances.

  “What?!” My mom demanded as I sensed her impending explosion.

  “I'm to sell all these paintings to Sophie Morley for 5 dollars...”

  “What?!”

  But as my mom asked the obvious question, I burst out laughing, and crying, and laughing at the absurdity of this situation.

  Looking at me, my mom recovered quickly. “I don't understand,” she said exasperated.

  “I do! It was always 5 dollars between us. If I was bitchy I owed him 5 dollars. When he was an asshole, he owed me 5 dollars. Whoever got out of bed and went for the coffee run owed the other 5 dollars. Oh, god... It’s always been 5 dollars between us,” I laughed and cried at once.

  Watching me and my mom, Michael handed back my ID at that point, and asked if I could wait until the next night to take the paintings. He told me he needed them for a little exhibit he was having that night, and the following morning, but otherwise for 5 dollars they were mine. He almost begged me to leave them in the gallery, and after his kindness I just couldn't refuse him, no matter how badly I wanted to take them with me right then and there.

  “But they're of her...” My mom protested until I stopped her.

  “It's okay. I know they're here now and I'll have them tomorrow night. What time can I pick them up?” I asked obsessively rubbing the letter in my hand.

  “We close up by 5:00 on Sundays, so maybe quarter after. I'll make sure they're taken down and packaged for you as soon as we close. Is that okay? You can pay me then if you'd like?”

  But again my mom was losing her patience. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Hand him a five, Sophie,” she barked as I quickly found a five dollar bill in my wallet and handed it over.

  I wasn't ready to be finished just yet though. There were so many things I needed to know.

  “Um... How long have these been here?”

  “Since the first week of June, I believe.”

  Nodding, I went for broke. “Do you know where Peter lives or how to contact him?”

  Pausing like everyone else, Michael shook his head no but asked, “Don’t you?”

  “No. Did he leave an address to mail his payments or anything?”

  “No. These weren't for sale. Ever. Peter agreed to display them, but they were under no circumstances to be sold. Well, except to you,” he smiled.

  “Do you know anything about him? Has he been in recently? Does he come in often? Do you ever see him around?” The desperation in my voice was becoming more and more obvious.

  “I'm sorry, I don't. Mr. Connor seems someone reclusive and-”

  “No shit!” I jumped in by mistake as my mom laughed at me. “Sorry...”

  “Anyway,” Michael continued. “He’s been in only a few times since he dropped them off and though I've told him about the interest from a few Buyers and I've given him business cards from a few people who would like him to paint for them, he had no interest. Mr. Connor only asked if a Sophie Morley- you- came by and received his letter. Then he'd leave again,” Michael answered somewhat sadly.

  “How did he look?” I begged.

  “Look?”

  “You know what I mean. How did he look? Was he well or like weird or anything?”

  “I really couldn't say. I don't know him at all, so I don't know what his well looks like. Plus, let’s face it, I work with artists all day and some are crazy, some are eccentric, and some are completely normal. I've learned to not expect or notice anything about the artists who come and go.”

  “If I give you a something tomorrow when I pick up the paintings, would you please give it to him? Please?” I begged desperately again, though I truly didn’t know what the something would be.

  “Of course I will,” Michael said as he squeezed my hand in a kind little gesture of reassurance.

  “Thank you so much Michael. You have no idea w
hat today is like for me,” I said sadly.

  “I probably don't. But I like seeing a happy ending of sorts,” he grinned even as my heart broke again.

  I knew he thought this was a happy ending of sorts, but it still felt like a tragedy to me. I was still no closer to Peter than I had been for the last 8 1/2 months of my life.

  “Let's go, Sophie,” my mom said tugging me into her arms as she tried to turn me from the room.

  “Thank you, Michael,” I whispered again as my mom pulled me out of our area. Holding up my coat she helped me put it on, and as we reached the door and I paused for a second, she continued to pull me through the front doors.

  “Where are all the people?” I asked suddenly.

  “They're closed between 2 and 4 every Saturday.”

  “Oh! What time is it?” I asked confused again.

  Looking at her watch as we stood outside I learned from my mom it was close to 3:30. Shocked, I did the math in my head and almost laughed again.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “About an hour. Why?”

  “Because I sat and stared at myself for over 3 hours,” I laughed.

  “Wow. Narcissistic much?” My mom said so deadpan, we both burst out laughing. “Where’s your car, baby?”

  “At home.”

  “I'm parked just a little down the street, so I'll take you home. Do you want to come home with me, or to your place? And it's okay to come home with me. After the day you've had, I would love to be there for you,” she smiled on the street still holding my arm in her own.

  “Sorry. Being stubborn as usual I just want to go home. In a weird way I'm sad, obviously, but I feel a little good, too. I know I'll probably lose it sooner or later, but something feels good about all this, so I think I'll be fine tonight. Oh shit!” I suddenly remembered. “I was supposed to bring a bunch of pottery to the cafe tomorrow, and I totally forgot to get my stuff from the studio. Shit,” I moaned again frustrated.