Drift (Lengths) (21 page)

2
1  LYDIA

“He’s perfectly willing,” I assure my sister for the thousandth time.

Cece is looking at me with nervous eyes, heavily made up in all black. It’s supposed to look somber, but it actually looks quite sexy. Not that I mention that to her.

“You didn’t force him. You know, using your…” Cece cups her hands under her breasts as Maren, Caro, and Whit walk in and giggle, hands over their mouths.

Though I try to keep the solemn nature of the day at the forefront, living with my crazy brothers and sisters has never made it a very easy feat.

The low blood sugar from fasting doesn’t help much either.

“What are you girls doing?” Maren asks, her mouth in a thin, scared line.

Of all of us, Maren is most edgy. Judaism is traditionally considered a religion passed through the mother’s bloodline. We’ve all assured Maren that her desire to convert is more proof than anyone would ever need about her commitment, but she feels some kind of deficiency because she’s not one of the blood daughters of Israel.

“Cece was just making sure Isaac wasn’t being coerced into participating by my…” I gesture down and they giggle again, throwing their hands over their lips.

“They are
really
nice ones,” Whit whispers.

I roll my eyes, but can’t help the smile. Deo definitely rubs off on that girl.

“So, are things, um, serious? With Isaac?” Maren asks, putting on her fitted white dress with long sleeves over her silky slip.

Whit, Caro, and Cece get equally busy with their costumes and makeup, though they all wait silently for my reply.

“I think…” I look at them, these women I trust and adore, and I just say it. “I think I love him.”

Cece, who’s attempting to tug a faux-leather boot on with both hands, falls over with a heavy thud. She looks up, her eyes wide, her curls swaying everywhere. “What?” she squeaks.

The other girls are statue still in all states of undress, looking at me like I just announced that I’m going to try fire dancing as my next profession.

“Isaac,” I repeat calmly. “I think I love him.”

“It’s only been a few weeks,” Cece objects.

“Ten weeks,” I clarify.

Well, kind of clarify. Ten weeks since the day I walked into his class and failed to be able to even see another man after laying eyes on him. I’m counting that as day one.

Love at first sight.

I don’t recognize myself anymore...and it’s fine with me. This new version of myself fits perfectly.

“Have you told Isaac?” Whit asks with a raised eyebrow.

Trust Whit to strike right at the heart of it all.

This time I’m the one insanely focused on my stupid costume. “Well...no. Actually, I haven’t.”

Whit crosses her arms over her chest and raises
both
eyebrows. “You haven’t? Really? Are you waiting for something? Has he mentioned how he feels to you?”

“Yes. He told me he loves me. But in Spanish.” I shake my head. “We all say crazy things we don’t mean in Spanish.”

Cece slaps the flat of her palm to her forehead. “
We
do, you
idiota
! Spanish is our second language. It’s his first! Damn, for someone so smart, you are so exceptionally stupid sometimes.”

I fasten the tiny buttons on the bodice of my dress with furious concentration. “You don’t understand,” I sigh.

“What don’t I understand?” Cece demands. “A brilliant, employed, passionate,
sexy as hell
artist tells you he loves you. He’s even willing to do interpretive dance at your synagogue for your sister, even though he’s neither Jewish nor obligated by blood or marriage. You admit openly that you love him. But this whole gorgeous relationship isn’t going to work out because of a language technicality? Is this real life?”

“Of course this is real life,” I hiss, whirling around to face her, my breath flying out of my lungs. “I
do
love him. You have no idea! I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone!” I cry, and it hits me, right here in the synagogue women’s meeting room, just how much I love him. And just how tricky this is. “But he’s only here for the semester. He’s an incredible artist. An amazing professor. If the university doesn’t renew his contract, he’ll be traveling in no time, finding something new.”

“So?” Cece asks, holding her arms out and shaking her head.

“So, my life is here. My work is here. My family is here.” I tug my white heels on and glower at her. “Stop pretending it’s so damn easy.”

“Stop pretending it’s so damn hard!” Cece swats back. The other girls stand silent, watching us volley back and forth like they’re observing a tennis game.

“What do I do then, oh wise Cece? How exactly do I make
this
work?” I throw my hands up and yank the card out of my purse, the one I’ve been carrying since the day that art guy came by and said...said that Isaac had one single chance to make it.

But Isaac told him no.

I know he doesn’t think I could hear through the door, but I could. Every word. And I expected him to pressure me, no matter what he said the night he showed me his paintings. But he didn’t. He said those works were off limits to Cumberland, and he pretended they had never been a point of negotiation when I pressed him for details. I haven’t been able to get another word out of him about it.

Cece snaps the card out of my hand and looks up from it slowly, her eyes wide with shock. “How...how did you get this?”

“What is it?” Caro asks, craning her neck to look. “Holy shit!” She claps her hand over her mouth and looks at the closed door in panic. “So, so sorry. Just...wow! How did you get George Cumberland’s card?” She brushes just the tips of her fingers over the rich, white vellum like she’s touching a holy artifact. I already know it’s soft as down and rich as cream.

I wanted to reimagine George Cumberland as a classless parasite. But everything from his thoughtful, respectful voice to his squeaky clean Google search results, to his damn understated but gorgeous business cards let me know he’s the one. The one who could help bring Isaac’s work to an international platform.

“I didn’t. Isaac did.” I take a deep breath and sit back on one of the wooden chairs set up around the wide, round table where Gen, Mami, Cece, and I have sat and discussed Ruth and Judith and all the other great women of the Torah with the great women in our congregation. “Mr. Cumberland came to visit him.”

Cece and Caro gasp. Whit and Maren exchange a confused look.

“Wait. Who is this guy?” Whit asks, glancing at the business card like it might offer up some clues.

Cece turns to her, practically shaking with excitement, waving her hands all over the place. “George Cumberland is this completely
amazing
curator and patron. He collects art, all kinds of art, but he’s especially interested in up and coming artists. The basic rule of thumb is, if you manage to get into a show of Cumberland’s, your art career is made.” Whit and Maren nod, and Caro and Cece turn to me with shining eyes. “Sooo?” my sister says, dragging the word out. “What exactly did Cumberland say? Was he impressed?”

“Very. Very, very,” I say, folding my arms and laying my weary head on top of them.

This is the day of atonement, and I need to atone for the sin of selfish stupidity and puritan uptightness. I’ll just add them silently into the
Al Cheit
when we’re all reciting the specific list of prayers. And I’ll petition for forgiveness.

The only problem is, I shouldn’t be atoning or petitioning...I should be making sure this isn’t an issue at all.

“Is that a problem?” Cece asks, then slides the card back across the table to me. “How is George Cumberland’s interest a problem, Lydia? I know artists who would murder—I’m talking cold-blooded, no remorse homicidal bludgeon your skull—for an in with Cumberland.”

And then I remember my sister’s provocative video and how I was an asshole about it, and I’m afraid to tell her. It sounds freaking ridiculous.

They all wait, Cece tapping her foot, Caro twisting her hands, Whit and Maren still looking slightly lost.

I clear my throat. “Cumberland didn’t love Isaac’s architectural series.”

Caro and Cece huff with disgust, and Caro dares to suggest, “But did Cumberland say Isaac had potential? Or ask if Isaac would consider taking a new direction?”

“No.” I shake my head and feel that stupid internal fight.

So what? They’re just nudes. Nudes been the focus of art since its inception. Am I really going to let my prudey feelings stand in the way of Isaac’s achievement? Even if I’m truly humiliated to think of
anyone
—let alone people like Richard, Tanya, my fourth grade teacher, my rabbi, my
father
—able to gawk at me, totally exposed; physically, sexually, emotionally. I shudder and go ahead and explain, figuring their outrage at me might help get me over my insecurity hump. I take a deep breath and explain to the women I love most, trusting that they’ll understand no matter what.

“Isaac did a set of paintings that deviate from his usual style and, um, subject. But they were just experimental. And they were of me. And I was not wearing clothes. Like, not wearing any clothes. At first Isaac wasn’t even going to show
me
. They’re extremely personal, and it was an accident Cumberland even saw them in the first place. And Cumberland absolutely loved them. He offered Isaac a spot in an international traveling show. He told him that they’re the only things he should be showing, and if he doesn’t want to show them, he should reconsider why he’s even making art.”

Everyone stares. I know, for sure, everyone is wondering how I look naked. Of course! That’s the whole silly but elementally unavoidable problem.

“You...posed nude?” Maren asks, pressing her lips together to stifle a laugh.

“Can we see the paintings?” Whit asks, nudging Maren in the ribs gently. “Are they super hot?”

“Did Cumberland say he was interested in an alternative? Like maybe if Isaac used another model?” Caro asks.

Cece nods her head slowly, staring at the ground. I don’t answer any of the girls’ questions
—especially Caro’s, since the idea of Isaac so much as
looking
at another naked woman freaks me out—because I’m waiting for my sister. She gets up suddenly, stalks across the room to me, and throws her arms around my shoulders.

“It’s hard,” she says softly, her hold crushing but comforting. “To put yourself out there, to be willing to put up with that exposure. Especially when you thought it would be private from the start. You’re between a rock and a very shitty hard place.” Cece
smoothes my hair down and smiles. “Screw it. Isaac is just starting. Cumberland will keep tabs on him, and he’ll have other amazing opportunities to prove himself.”

I pick up the card and run my finger along the edges. “You don’t think I should tell Isaac to let Cumberland use the paintings?” I ask.

“Did Isaac pressure you?” Cece asks, her usually dancing eyes blazing with fury.

“No!” I say around a nervous gasp. Cece can be insanely intense. “Not at all. He shut Cumberland down, didn’t even allow him to entertain the idea. I was in the other room, and when I came out I pretended I didn’t know what happened. I asked him about it, and he changed the subject, tried to hide the card, and kind of blew me off.”

“Good for him,” Cece says, nodding. “He doesn’t need to be a damn open book. Neither do you. There will be so many other chances to make it. Screw Cumberland. Well, for now anyway.”

“But I’m ruining Isaac’s career,” I say. My voice is barely a whisper. It feels trapped in my throat, like a moth in a jar.

Maren walks over and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Lydia, you obviously aren’t comfortable. And neither was Isaac or else he would have told you what he felt. Put the card away and forget it. If you both feel like it’s not good fit, you can’t do this. And neither can Isaac.”

I nod, so happy for their support, but not entirely sure it’s right.

I feel relieved. But also like a huge coward.

Whit clears her throat loudly. “I don’t care if the world gets to see them or not...I think we need to see these paintings at some point, Lydia. Hot, hot, hot!”

The other girls fall over themselves giggling and pointing at me.

For the second time today, my
eye roll is interrupted by a smile. “Perverts,” I say.

Though, obviously, what I mean is, “
I love you crazy girls
.”

22  ISAAC

I never envisioned meeting Lydia’s family on the most sacred holiday of their year, after everyone is incredibly short-tempered from fasting and praying for hours on end. I’m dressed in head to toe white and wearing a yarmulke that Lydia found in her brother Enzo’s room. He’s in Napa Valley, tending a vineyard, so he has no reason to look like a Jewish version of a boy band backup dancer.

But I love her.

I love Lydia so much, I’m willing to pray alongside her congregation through the
Ashamnu
and do interpretive dance to illustrate the atonement for treason, aggression, slander, and a host of other transgressions after.

Their rabbi
—a very forward-thinking, and artistic man—holds his hand over his heart when we finish waving our arms around sashaying back and forth as Cece half-speaks, half-sings from the Torah in Hebrew.

I pray it looks good, though I have no clue if prayers to the Virgin register in a Jewish temple.

It feels a little silly. Or
I
feel a little silly. Deo seems to be doing his best to upstage me with fierce hip thrusts and step ball chains. The girls look very graceful to me, but I have a built-in soft spot for girls in general and these girls in particular. Cohen growls a few times when I step to the left instead of the right, but he’s otherwise gritting his teeth as much as I am.

The congregation seems to enjoy it all, and it finishes more quickly than I imagined. I don’t want to think about how the few times Lydia and I were supposed to rehearse the choreography Lydia sent us, we wound up doing our own slow dance in her living room or mine. And then the dancing led to kissing. And that led to other things that defy the atonement theme of this exercise.

But Lydia takes my hand when we move back to our place by her parents and squeezes softly. I smile at her, but it doesn’t last long.

Because we come to the
Al-Chet
, which is a much longer list of confessions. I’m a Roman Catholic: I know all about confession, but, in my religious experience, confession is private, whispered in a small, dark box, taken care of with discreetly uttered prayers. Your parents ask if you go to confession, but they don’t ask
what
you confess. That is between you and God.

For Lydia and her people, the confessions are public, heartfelt, and all-encompassing. As one we confess to sins intentional and unintentional, spoken and acted upon, to sins we have committed and those committed by our brothers and sisters on earth.    

At first it strikes me as strange to ask forgiveness for things I haven’t done, things I never intend to do. But, as I recite and listen to Lydia’s clear voice at my side, something in me loosens and frees.

Because, left up to me, the only things I was ever willing to confess were the things I didn’t fear getting back to my father during my youth. As I got older, I stopped going to confession almost completely, and, when I did make it, my list of sins was so long, I gave an abbreviated version.

Now I have the chance to atone for it all.

For everything.

Everything I’ve done, didn’t do, never planned to do, never will do.

I can atone for the sins of my mother, and those of my father. I can atone for sins of past loves, the sins of friends, the sins of enemies.

At first my voice is low and uncertain, but it gains strength, and soon I feel the wash of the sunshine through the windows of the temple and hear the voices intoning together. The woman I love is beside me, and my burdens are being vanquished, one by one, until I have no more.

I stand next to Lydia during the last
Ne’ila
, the final prayers. The belief is that this prayer marks the closing of the time of great forgiveness. It’s one last opportunity to cleanse, let go, burn away whatever old weights held you back.

Lydia leans against my arm, her smile weary but full of pride and happiness. More than ever before I want to do right by her.

When the
shofar
is blown, the rabbi wishes us well, and we start out of the temple.

“It was heavy, right?” Lydia asks. “Sorry. I know Christian holy days tend to be a little happier. Passover will be better, I promise,” she says, leading me to her car. Services were late at the temple, because fasting lasts
till the evening. Her mother has a whole spread prepared at her parents’ home.

“I loved it,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat. She closes her door and looks at me with one eyebrow crooked high.

“Really? You loved admitting to every sin in the world?” She laughs and shakes her head. “You don’t have to tell me you love every aspect of my religion. I’m not sensitive about it, I swear.”

“I wouldn’t lie.” I reach over and rub a hand over her knee. She presses her lips tight, and I rub higher, harder. “I think it was incredibly brave. It was very raw. I know most people think Christmas is
the high holiday of Catholicism, but it’s really Holy Week, leading up to Easter Sunday. I know in America people tend to think of rabbits, right? And eggs? Chocolate ones?”

She nods. “Deo used to bring the basket his grandmother made to our house to share with Cohen. We were so jealous. Passover does
not
include huge baskets of candy and egg hunts.”

I laugh, imagining Lydia as a young girl, pouting. “Easter didn’t mean that for me or my family. My mother’s parents were very strict. My grandfather was part of a very pious brotherhood, and they were known to walk the streets of town dressed in
capirotes
—”

Lydia frowns and tells me, “I don’t know that word.”

“Like a cap.” I make a triangle on my head. “With a cone top.”

Her eyes go wide and she grips the steering wheel. “Like the KKK?” she asks, her voice hushed.

I snort. “If ours are like theirs, they stole the design. The color is usually deep, like a purple. Don’t KKK members wear white?” I ask.

She nods. “So, you wore it for religious days?”

“Yes.” I think back to the first time I was permitted to wear the robes my grandfather passed so proudly to me. “You must show your piety. I fasted through the forty days of Lent. I did good works in the community. I followed my grandfather’s example. And then I got to walk through the town, barefoot and shackled.”

She wrinkles her forehead. “And you were happy about it?”

I laugh. “Not exactly. I was happy the way you were happy to participate in something that made your sister feel good. My grandfather was proud of me. It was also...it was spiritual. I’d lived with physical trials and some cruelty from my father, but I’d never endured something without hatred in my heart. I never endured just to know what sacrifice tasted like.” I look over, and I can’t read the look on her face. “What is it?”

“You.” Her profile softens, and she keeps her eyes glued on the road. “There’s something about you that’s so...sexy. Everything about you, actually, is so damn sexy.”

I laugh, but her words have a serious tinge. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I just...I want to know more about you.” Her voice is soft, low
—exactly like a penitent whispering her deepest confession.

“You can know everything. Ask anything at all, and I’ll tell you. I’m an open book for you, Lydia.” I hold my hands out, trying to make light of it.

Why?

Why am I not telling her that my singular goal is making it so that she never wants to leave my side?

Because I’m scared.

I love the fact that she has a thousand goals, and I’m scared that it’s very possible none of them have to do with keeping me around in the long run.

She pulls over, her car parked crookedly on the shoulder of the busy road, her face turned my way. I watch her eyes blaze, her dry lips fall open. “I want to know about Mr. Cumberland.”

This is the day of atonement. Of letting go.

I refuse to lie to her today.

“He wanted the paintings of you. I didn’t offer them. He took advantage of the fact that they were out. But I covered them up. I told him it wasn’t a possibility.” I hold my hands in front of me, like I’m asking for her to listen to my complete surrender. “I would never
—
never
—make things difficult for you so I could have some kind of gain. Please believe me.”

“I do,” she says, taking my hands in hers and holding tight. “Isaac, it’s not that. It’s the opposite, actually. I know you’d always protect me. Who’s protecting
you
?” she asks.

“Me?” I laugh around the word. “I’m fine, Lydia. This isn’t some one time only offer. I’ll be in the art world for many years to come. This, my career, is like a marathon, not a sprint. So Cumberland doesn’t get this round of paintings. Fine. I try to do something else and see how that goes. And if it doesn’t work? I do something else again. As long as I’m painting, I’ll be perfectly happy.”

Her smile is relieved. “Are you sure? You’re positive you’ll be happy?”

She’s double checking what I just asked her. This isn’t a woman fishing for more.

Funny.

Fishing, groping women were such a huge turn-off before Lydia. Now I wish she was one of them.

“Actually? I kind of lied to you just now.” She tries to pull her hands back. Her face falls and she nods, tightly.

Why does she
nod
? She’s been taken advantage of before, by her asshole boyfriend in particular, but I know she learned from that. Learned to value herself, learned to fight for what she wanted. Why is she backing away from me now? Why is she just agreeing?

“I’m glad to hear it,” she says, her words spoken to the floorboards. “See, I’ve been thinking. Hard. About you and me. About your passion. And mine.”

I wait for her to go on, but she stalls.

“I’ve been thinking too,” I admit. Her gaze finds mine, and she tilts her head to one side, curious to hear what I’m about to say. “I said I’d be happy if I could paint. And that was true. Before I met you.”

Her nod is quick, subdued. “Right. But now you’ve painted me, so it’s this whole new direction and I just need to—”

“Be quiet. You just need to be quiet and listen,” I interrupt, laughing at the shocked look on her face. “Because I need to say this before you go any further, okay?
I know I’m younger—”

“I’ve never made than an issue, Isaac. I just—”

I press my index finger to her lips.

“
You make me happy. Period. I’d change tires or bag groceries for a living if it meant I could come home to you every night. I’ll burn those paintings if that will help prove to you how serious I am. As long as you promise I get to see your gorgeous body in my bed. Do I have...do I have a chance?”

“Isaac,” she breathes. “I...what?” She clutches the Star of David she’s wearing around her neck like she’s saying a silent prayer. “Burn them! Never! You have to promise me you’d
never
do that.” She puts her hands up to my face and turns my jaw so I’m looking in her panicked eyes.

“I felt like getting out the lighter fluid when Cumberland was looking. I don’t know if I’m mature enough to handle all those eyes ogling you.” I say it as a joke, but I’m not sure if I’ve ever been more serious about anything in my life.

She turns in her seat and puts her hand on my cheek. “Isaac. Cumberland told you that you need to think about why you’re painting. And I think he was trying to say that you can’t hide your true passion. Not to save my feelings, not to keep yourself from feeling jealous.”

I press my hand over hers, take it from my cheek, and press my lips to her palm. “Lydia, my father poured himself into his art to the exception of everything else. And he’s a fat, pompous, sad old man now. I have no desire to end up going down his path. I want to be with you.”

“And I want you to be with me
and
happy with your career.” She takes a deep breath. “I want you to show those paintings.”

“No.” It’s not even a temptation at this point. “You need happiness too. Your life is unsettled right now. Committing to having those paintings displayed feels right in this moment. But you may regret it, and once they’re in the world, it will be nearly impossible to erase their impression.” I rub my thumb over her delicate knuckles. “There will be more to this, to us, than this moment. We’ll put them away. Maybe one day when we’re saggy geezers, I’ll put them out there.” I smile.

She does and doesn’t. Or, she smiles out of obligation only, which barely counts.

Her eyes flutter half shut and she lets her head hang. “I feel like a coward.”

I snort at that. “I’ve never met a braver person in my entire life.” I want to continue talking. I do. But my stomach makes such a loud rumble, Lydia pulls back onto the road without another word. “We can keep talking about this. Ignore my hunger pains.”

She shakes her head glumly. “You need to eat.” She sighs. “Yom Kippur is over soon, and I plan to give you a healthy meal,
and then work you all night long.”

I know I should argue in favor of talking this over more, but why bother trying to argue with a lawyer? Especially one so damn sexy.