Mom knows me inside and out. Right away she says, “Kate, you sound funny. What’s the matter? Do you want me to come down there? I have a couple of days of vacation coming and it’s the slow season at the resort.”
Now I’m making Mom worry. “No, I’m fine.” I don’t want Mom telling me to come home or, worse, coming down here herself. I search for an explanation for the way I must sound. “Well there is something,” I tell her. “I had two paintings accepted by a gallery. The show opens Thursday night, and they’re already up on the gallery wall.”
“That’s terrific, honey. Can you get someone to take a picture for me to see?” There’s a pause. “I suppose he’s pleased.”
“Oh, you know Dad. He’s cool about it.”
Somehow I get through the rest of the conversation, answering questions and asking a few of my own, but as the call goes on, I’m afraid I’ll lose control and scream, “Help!” At last I sign off.
I think of November up north. It’s deer season. The deer pole will be up in our little village, the gutted deer hanging in a row as the hunters show off their trophies. Before daylight I’d have been in the woods behind our trailer, stamping out the tracks in the snow so the hunters wouldn’t be able to find our deer.
When I awaken to the cheerless Detroit daylight, I dial the hospital. Dad has had an uneventful night. How can that be? How can a night when you’re taken by ambulance to the hospital and you’re in intensive care be uneventful?
I shower, gulp down some coffee, and take off. There are strict visiting hours for intensive care, and I have to wait. I sit with other unhappy and frightened folks in a lounge where coffee is available. There’s a stack of magazines that must reflect the taste of the people on the hospital staff: golf, parenting, decorating magazines. I read them cover to cover and remember nothing. When I read one over again, everything is brand-new.
At last we’re allowed into intensive care, where the patients’ beds are gathered around the nurses’ station like kindergartners around a favorite teacher. I find Dad, who gives me a cross look as if this is all my fault, and I know it is. He has an IV going, but the frightening paleness is gone.
“I want to get out of here.”
“We have to talk with the doctor.”
“That boy doctor from the convenience store was here.”
“Thomas.”
A staff doctor appears. He’s probably already seen a dozen patients by now, so he’s skipping the bedside manner, giving all his attention to the heart monitor over Dad’s bed. He fools around with his stethoscope. “How are we doing?” he finally asks, as if there are several people in Dad’s bed. Or maybe I’m included in his question.
“I want to be released,” Dad says. In a threatening voice he adds, “You can’t keep me if I want to go.”
“Oh, no,” the doctor says, and sizes Dad up. “We can release you right away. If this is your daughter here, she can alert the funeral home so there’s no time wasted.”
Dad shuts up. The doctor has won, and now he’s the gracious host. “Actually you’re doing very well. We just want to make you comfortable and take a look at what’s going on. You’ll be on your way home in a day or two, after we’ve adjusted your medication and gotten rid of the fluid that’s accumulating in your lungs and putting stress on your heart.” He makes a few notes on the chart and moves on.
“What did he write?” Dad asks.
I look, but it’s all scribbles and weird medical talk.
As I leave, Dad says, “Not a word to Morgan.”
In the corridor I see Thomas. In a flood of tears I pour out my story. “I’m sure it’s what I said that did it.”
Thomas leads me to an out-of-the-way corner and puts a consoling arm around my shoulders, but his words are not gentle. “You’re making yourself too important. Guilt comes from feeling we’re at the center of the universe. We’re not. We’re just a small part of someone’s life; there are a hundred thousand other things going on. In the case of your father it’s his cirrhosis, exacerbated by portal hypertension.”
When I look puzzled, he says, “Don’t worry about the medical terms, but I’m afraid, Kate, you have to face the fact that there will be more of these episodes.”
Why is it we only have to face bad things? No one ever says, I’m afraid, Kate, you have to face the fact that your father is just fine or that you’ll be a famous artist. I ask, “How long does Dad have?”
“You can never tell, but I’d guess months. They’re going to keep your dad in for a few days and release him on Friday. That’ll give you a little rest. I haven’t seen you around. What are you up to?”
I tell him about the gallery and my two paintings. “No one’s going to buy them, but I love seeing them on the wall.”
“Fantastic. I’ll be able to say I knew you when.”
I blurt out, “The opening’s tomorrow night. I can bring a friend.”
“Could I be the friend? I’m off duty.”
So it’s all arranged. I drive home and walk into the empty house. Not my fault, Thomas said, but I don’t know. I try to concentrate on the opening tomorrow night. What will it be like to walk into the gallery and maybe hear someone talking about my paintings? What if they say something soul shriveling? Or what if everyone just ignores them? Suddenly I’m not sure I want to be there; only now that I’ve asked Thomas to come, it’s too late to back out. I open the door to the studio and Dad’s paintings scold me. They tell me all that’s important is doing everything I can to help Dad get ready for his show. This is his last opportunity, his last chance. “Months,” Thomas said. I have years ahead of me. I can wait. I look at the painting of the little girl lost in the big chair and suddenly it’s me.
Chapter 10
I’m at the hospital for the morning visiting hours. Dad is out of the ICU and in a regular room. I tell Dad how great the painting of Ruth is and ask if it’s finished.
“Of course it’s finished. Can’t you tell? I thought you pretended to be an artist. I want to get home and send it off.” He growls about having to spend another night in the hospital. In a loud voice he complains about the food and the nurses and about the man in the bed next to him who keeps the TV on. I try to hush Dad and look apologetically at Dad’s roommate, but he’s totally involved in a soap opera.
Back home I get out wood, saw, hammer, and nails. It takes all day, but the crate is finally finished and ready for Dad. Just as I try the painting in the crate to be sure of the fit, I make a tiny scratch on the surface of Ruth’s blue dress.
I’m destroyed. Dad’s a perfectionist. He’ll see the scratch. I mix cerulean blue with a touch of white. My hand is shaking. The brush barely touches the canvas. The match is perfect. I’m sure he won’t notice. I can’t help grinning. I’ll have a part in Dad’s show. Maybe a famous museum will buy Dad’s painting of Ruth, and I’ll stand in front of the painting and know there’s a tiny bit of my own work on the canvas.
There’s just time for a shower and a blow-dry before the opening. There’s a spot on my blouse, and rubbing it with water makes it worse. The doorbell. Too late to change. Thomas takes my arm and heads for the car. It’s not the old jalopy but the Lincoln, and there is a girl in the front seat. He’s going to leave me at the opening and take off with his girlfriend.
“This is Mary.” He says my name to her. She gives me a big smile. Well, why wouldn’t she? She’s got the guy. She is drop-dead gorgeous, with long black hair and black eyes.
Thomas opens the rear door, and I slide in like Cinderella getting into the wrong coach.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Mary says with an accent that sounds French but probably isn’t. “Since you’re going by the university, I asked Thomas if he would drop me off.”
I can breathe again. “No, of course I don’t mind. It’s nice to meet you.”
Thomas says, “The good news is that when Dad heard I was going out with Mary, he gave me the keys to this baby instead of the crate.”
Mary is busy
with her cell, and when we pull up in front of one of the university buildings, a young man hurries over to the car and helps Mary out. They walk away arm in arm.
Thomas motions me up front. “Like Mary, Mark is here on a student visa. My dad’s not too happy about Mary dating him.” He smiles at me. “But let’s forget about all that and have a little fun. I’ve never been to a gallery opening. Should I have a beard and a beret?”
The gallery is crowded and about a hundred degrees. It’s mostly students, and I recognize a couple of kids from the art school. Thomas looks at a wacky sculpture made of burned candles molded into a contorted shape. “The guy’s kidding, right?” he asks.
I push my way over to the wall where we hung my paintings, and there they are. One has a red dot on the card with my name and the painting’s title. “It’s sold!” I screech. Not very cool, but I can’t help it.
Thomas jokes, “I ought to get a commission for taking you to the island.”
I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Lila.
We hug, and she says, “Your pictures are terrific, girl, but your clothes are shabby. Didn’t I teach you anything? You take the money from your sale and come shop at my place.”
I introduce Thomas, and Lila sizes him up. “Are you the doctor looking after Kate’s granddad?”
Thomas is about to correct her when I interrupt. “Thomas is a sophomore in medical school, but he explains all the medical words to me and he keeps an eye on my grandfather for me.” Thomas gives me a quick look at the word grandfather but keeps quiet.
We push our way through the crowd and circle the gallery. Lila and I explain the art to Thomas, who appears to know nothing except what he dislikes.
“Most of the stuff is weird.”
“You have to study it, experience it,” I tell him. “It’s no different from studying medicine.”
“Medicine is a science. Art is supposed to be accessible.”
“Yes, but not easy,” I tell him.
Diane comes over to us, and surprise, she knows Thomas. He looks embarrassed.
“Hi,” Diane says to him. “You can’t have the painting until the show is over.”
Lila and I stare at Thomas. His face is red, and he doesn’t know where to look.
Diane puts her hand over her mouth. “Did I give something away?”
I’m destroyed. I was imagining that a distinguished art collector had wandered into the gallery and, bypassing all the other art, lasered onto my painting. Or maybe it was a curator from the Detroit Institute of the Arts, wanting it for the museum’s permanent collection. But no. It’s Thomas, who doesn’t know anything about art, who bought my painting. I try to calm down. Here is this great guy who made his way to this obscure gallery and paid money he couldn’t afford just to make me happy.
I give him a hug and tell him he’s the nicest person in the world.
He’s protesting. “I didn’t buy it. I mean I bought it, but I bought it for someone else.”
“Right,” I say. “You’re just an agent for the Museum of Modern Art. I really appreciate your buying the painting, but it’s going to be a gift. I can’t possibly take your money.”
“I’m trying to tell you it’s not my money.”
He’s so insistent, I have to believe him. Who else knew about the show? I look at Lila.
“Not my money, honey. That’s a great painting, but all my money goes into the shop.”
No one else knew, except for Mom, and she’s hundreds of miles away. Wait. Dad knew. “It was my dad.”
Thomas says, “He’ll kill me if he finds out you know.”
Right in front of everyone I dissolve in a flood of tears, and my friends all crowd around me in a kumbaya moment. They get me some Coke to drink and ply me with cheese and crackers. I pull myself together and tell Lila I’ll explain later. The gallery is filling up. They’re playing a k. d. lang song about life being sad and dull, but beautiful. And it is. No one’s looking at the paintings. They’re all talking. I think of how Dad said people go to openings just to be seen, but I love being part of this. It’s exciting. Thomas hits it off with Pearce, who like Thomas is a big Tigers fan.
He shows us one of his own paintings of the old Tiger stadium, with ghostly fans sitting in ghostly bleachers. The long shadows of the fans are lost in darkness while the players are all in a blaze of lights. Thomas has found a picture he loves. He looks longingly at the painting, checks the price, and gives a big sigh.
“Tell you what,” Pearce says. “Next time I need an operation, we’ll trade.”
Diane comes up to me. “We sold your other painting. The woman who bought it wants to meet you.”
She’s much older than most of the people in the gallery, mousy-looking with a long skirt and a sloppy sweater in a drab shade. I’m disappointed. It’s not the way I pictured the owner of my work.
“I love your painting,” she says. “I’ve never bought any art before. I stopped in because I work at the cleaner’s next door. Then I saw your painting of Belle Isle. When I was growing up, my mom and dad used to take me there. They had pony rides and an elephant house and we’d pack our dinner and have it at a picnic table on the water, just like the one you painted. We’d stay and watch the freighters at night, just like you’ve got it lit up in your painting. I can’t tell you how it takes me back. It’s like we’re all together again.” She grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “I didn’t mean to take up your time. I just wanted to tell you.”
She hurries away. So no collector to slap one more painting on his wall. No curator to shove my painting down in the storeroom of the museum with its other second-best stuff. Instead my painting has found the perfect owner, someone to look at it hundreds of times a day, to live in my painting, to love it for giving her back a piece of her past. I’ve only been thinking of what the painting has meant to me, forgetting that once it’s sold, it’s part of someone else’s life and just as important to them as it is to me. Maybe I’ll talk to Dad about that.
On the way home I promise Thomas I won’t tell Dad that I know who bought the painting. After I say good-bye to Thomas, I call Justin on my cell. I have to tell someone about selling my paintings.
He congratulates me and then asks, “How much did you get?”
In a second he’s multiplied the amount by three hundred and sixty-five. “If you do two pictures a day, every day for a year, you’ll have fifty-four thousand, seven hundred and fifty dollars.”
“It’s not like making doughnuts or building birdhouses,” I tell him. “You have to be inspired, and it takes days and sometimes years to get a painting the way you want it.”
“Well, what you’re doing is working,” he says. “So congratulations. We’ve got our own art right here on Lake Superior. Slices of ice are starting to pile up along the shore.”
After we say good-bye, I imagine this winter’s icy towers and think what a great painting that would make.
When Dad is finally released from the hospital, he’s his usual complaining self. “Why weren’t you there to pick me up earlier?” “Why all the forms to fill out?” “It’s a prison.” He’s not interested in the instructions for his medication. “Doctors don’t know anything.” At last he’s transferred from the wheelchair to the car and we take off.
I tell him about the opening. “And the most exciting thing is that I sold both of my paintings.” I tell him about the woman and her memories of Belle Isle. “I don’t know who bought the other painting,” I say, “but I could have died with happiness.”
“Whoever it was,” he says, “if they’re shopping in that gallery, you can be sure they don’t know a thing about art.”
Silence from me.
Dad gives me a rare glance of approval when he sees how I’ve built the crate for his painting of Ruth. I hold my breath, worried that, perfectionist that he is, he may detect the scratch I repaired, but no, it’s okay. Although he can hardly totter over to his easel, he works on his last painting. It looks finished to me. It’s a pain
ting of enormous cars on an expressway that stretches out forever. His paintings have giant autos, huge computers, and big furniture, everything absorbing and overcoming, swallowing up midget people. He fusses, painting and then painting out what he’s done. I think he doesn’t want to finish this work because then what? Everything is a terrible effort. Clearly he isn’t strong enough to begin another work. Painting has been his whole life, and now he’ll never paint again.
A frantic call from Morgan makes him let go, and together we build the last crate. The UPS man, who is an old friend by now, carts the final painting away.
Dad is in a rare good mood, so I dare to ask, “What makes artists want to keep painting?”
He gives me a disgusted look. “If you have to ask that question, you have no business being an artist.”
“I know about wanting to paint,” I say, and although it feels disloyal, I tell him about the fights I had with Mom about my painting. “But I don’t mean just wanting to paint. What I mean is that a lot of artists never get famous like you have, no one ever sees their work, but they keep painting.”
Dad says, “No one else can paint the picture you are painting, and if you don’t paint it, that glimpse of the world that you had will be lost. All those years I wasted, I lost so much, and—I don’t care how immodest it sounds—the world lost as well.”
He points to the door and turns his back on me. I hurry upstairs to my own little studio. The world’s not losing any of my ideas.
We get endless emails now from Morgan. He can’t say enough good things about the coming exhibition. He’s invited the curators from the Whitney and the Museum of Modern Art to have what he calls “a peek” at the paintings. “They’ll both want the same ones. There’ll be a bidding war; more money than you’ve ever dreamed of, Quinn. I’ve got buyers from Dubai, Russia, Hong Kong.” He’s not finished. He can’t help writing, “When I see what you’re capable of, I’m furious at how you’ve wasted your life.” Then he adds, “The only good thing is you’re still a young man. Your best years are ahead of you.” I tell Dad what Morgan said, leaving out the last sentence.