Queen of Dreams (13 page)

“We met when I was visiting Calcutta—and fell in love.” She looked surprised, as though she had forgotten this fact.

“What was it like?”

But she had regained her composure. “No different from what happens to other young people, I imagine,” she said, shrugging. “Now, don’t you have something better to do than waste your energy on things that are long over with?”

What she didn’t know is how much energy I would expend later, trying to fill in the gaps. Trying to imagine, over and over, a man and woman, very young, meeting on the streets of a city I’d never visited. In my fantasies they looked at me, but their faces were not the parent faces I was familiar with. There were only two things I knew about them for certain.

^“
Congratulations!” my mother says, kissing me on the cheek. “Your paintings are just beautiful.”

Of course she’d say that. She’s my mother. I keep my eyes away from the walls. I know that the paintings are worthless and that viewers—if any do eventually come—will hate them.

My father pats me on the back murmuring something about being so proud. He’s sober and holds a mineral water in his hand. I throw my mother a grateful look.

“You look beautiful, too! Very chic. Why, you’re wearing my old dupatta.” She touches my scarf lightly.

It had happened the day before my marriage. She’d opened an old trunk to take out a silver cup I used to drink from when I was a baby. It was valuable, and she wanted to give it to me for my children-to-come. But my eyes had been caught by the scarf, balled into a corner. I’d lifted it up and its silver threads had shimmered the way a web might, if spiders danced on it.

“Can I have this?”

She hesitated. Then she said, “This old thing? Why ever would you want it?”

Because it’s from your other life, I wanted to say, the one that’s magic, the one you won’t let me enter. But I didn’t want to spoil the moment. Besides, it wasn’t all her fault. If I’d had the gift, the way she did, nothing could have kept me out.

She had handed the dupatta over, with a smile and a shake of her head. She did that sometimes, as though my actions were mysterious beyond fathoming. When all along it was she who was unfathomable.

All this I’d forgotten, the way we forget so many things without knowing what we’ve lost.

“Where’s my granddaughter?” my mother is asking. I tell her that Sonny was supposed to drop her off at the studio before the show opened. But of course he’s late.

“He probably has a reason,” she says.

“Yeah, it’s always the same one: me, myself and I.”

My mother purses her lips. I know she thinks I’m too hard on Sonny. But then she doesn’t know what happened that night. A champagne bubble of a smile forms inside me and bursts before it reaches the surface, leaving a bitter aftertaste.
Well, Mom, I guess I
do have my own unfathomability, after all.

All of a sudden the room is full of chatter and laughter. A few people are acquaintances, but there are many I don’t know. I’m torn between the desire to eavesdrop and the fear that they might be saying my work is no good. Or—worse still—maybe they’ll be discussing the weather or their holiday plans.

Then I spot him in the far corner, alone, looking intently at a painting. The man from the eucalyptus grove. I can’t see his face from here, but I’m sure it’s him. The build, the way he holds his body. The white jacket. There’s a quietness around him even here, in the middle of this bustle.

I start toward him, but a whirling dervish hurtles into me, almost making me spill my champagne.

“Jona!” I kiss her runaway curls, which Sonny-the-delinquent-dad has obviously not thought to comb.

“Mom, you look great! And all your paintings are up on the walls! Cool! How many did you sell so far?”

I find myself grinning. “Do they look okay?” Some of my nervousness melts as I hug my daughter and take another sip of champagne. I’m glad that I arranged for her to come and share this special evening with me, even though Kathryn had expressed some concern at having a child present.

“Can I try some?” Jona asks.

“No, sweetheart. It has alcohol. Come with me to Auntie Belle. She’ll get you some apple juice.”

“Apple juice! Yuck. Yours looks much more interesting. Why can’t I have just a little bit? Sonny lets me—” She sees my face and backtracks. “Only sometimes, of course.”

I take a deep breath and hold on to my smile. Later, Sonny-boy. Later.

“So, how is it
Dad
was so late getting you here?”

“He couldn’t find parking. Oh, there’s Gramma!”

I start to say that he didn’t need to find parking—all he had to do was drop her at the door. But she’s gone. A terrible thought comes to me and, along with it, a prickling at the nape of my neck.

I turn slowly toward the entrance, and there he is, even though I have expressly not-asked him to come. He looks good, I’m forced to admit—far better than someone with his degenerate lifestyle has any right to look. That slightly tousled, boyish look, as though he just got out of bed, the full lips that remind me— much as I would like to forget—of how they felt on various parts of my body. Except he’s not smiling that crooked, half-mocking smile that I’ve come to expect of him. He’s standing there, lean-hipped in black pants and a form-fitting black silk shirt that shows off his muscles, and he’s looking at me with dark sympathy. His look implies that he knows me more intimately than any other man ever will. That he can sense the little voice in my head that whispers,
You shouldn’t be here, there’s some mistake, you aren’t good
enough.
As though he, too, has heard a voice like that sometimes.

But that’s impossible. Sonny has the sturdiest ego west of New York. If a little voice ever got inside his head, it would shrivel up and die quicker than a slug in a salt mine. Besides, I don’t want his sympathy. I don’t want anything except for him to stay away from me. Especially on this, the most important night of my life. (As I think this, there’s an echo in my head,
the most important
night, the most—.
When had I said those words before? Not remembering makes me angrier.)

And in my anger I stride toward him, forgetting my high heels. I stumble, and his hand comes out to steady my elbow. I see the smile in his eyes, his fingers burn my bare skin, his voice says, lazily, “Riks, you look gorgeous,” and the composure I’ve worked so hard on learning since I left him vanishes.

My voice is shaking as I snatch my arm away and say, “Why did you come? To ruin everything for me as you’ve always done?”

It isn’t what I meant to say. Amazing how quickly he can reduce me to this.

Around us, people pause their conversations to hear better. An unexpected look of hurt flashes in Sonny’s eye, but it’s gone so fast that maybe it was never there.

“Good evening to you, too,” he says.

“Please leave,” I whisper.

I think he’s going to say something sarcastic, something I don’t have the reserves to counter. But he only gives a slight bow and turns away, making me feel guilty and uncharitable and profoundly thankful.

He’s at the door when Jona tackles him from behind with one of her hugs. “Sonny-y-y! I didn’t see you come in. Where are you going?”

He kneels and whispers something in her ear.

“You can’t leave! You haven’t even looked at Mom’s paintings. And you haven’t talked to Gramma and Grandpa yet!”

I walk over and lay a firm maternal hand on her shoulder. “He has to go. He’ll look at the paintings some other time.”

“But I want him to look at them with me!”

“Jona, didn’t you hear me? He has to leave. And I want you to go to Gramma or Auntie Belle and stay with them.”

Jona looks from Sonny’s face to mine.

“You fought with him, didn’t you?” she says. “You told him to go away. How could you be so mean, Mom?”

I feel heat flood my face. “Jona,” I say in my best don’t-mess-with-me voice, “go to your grandmother.”

“I bet Gramma won’t let you send him away. I’m going to tell her right now. Gramma! Gram-ma!” Her clear child tones cut through the buzz of conversation. “Mom’s telling Sonny he has to go away!”

All heads turn toward us. I want to sink through the floor. My mother comes hurrying. She whispers to Jona while Sonny tries to pry her loose from his arm. Jona’s sobbing loudly. Over the heads of the crowd, which obviously finds this little drama far more riveting than my paintings, I see Kathryn’s face, a death mask of disapproval.

No more shows for me at the Atelier.

Is the man in white watching, too? Somehow, that thought humiliates me most of all.

“Just leave,” I hiss to Sonny. With my eyes I say, None of this mess would be happening if you hadn’t decided to show up.

“I’m trying,” he growls back. With his eyes he says, None of this mess would be happening if you hadn’t left me.

“If Sonny goes, I’m going with him,” Jona announces. “I hate you! I don’t want to look at your horrid paintings.”

“Good!” I say. I’m about to add,
I don’t want to look at your
horrid face,
but my mother puts a warning hand on my arm. She nods to Sonny, who picks Jona up and shoots me an unreadable look. (No, I take that back—I read it loud and clear. It’s a look of triumph.) My mother walks me across the hall, past the curious faces and into the restroom. I expect her to tell me how shamefully I overreacted, but she merely suggests that I wash my face, repair my makeup, and breathe deeply. She leaves me alone with a row of faucets, all winking accusingly at me.

When I finally force myself to emerge from the restroom, bracing myself for stares and whispers and knowing smirks, I am amazed to find that no one pays me much attention. People are busy talking to each other, pointing at paintings, nodding. I walk over to Kathryn to apologize.

“No problem,” she says, looking unexpectedly cheerful. “It seemed to pique people’s interest. You know—Passionate Young Artist Confronts Her Dark, Handsome Past at Show Opening. You sold quite a few paintings after that little scene—more than I’d expected. Maybe I should insist from now on that artists invite their exes.” She gestures and I see the bright red SOLD tags on the pieces.

The eucalyptus grove is tagged, too.

“Who bought that one?” I ask.

“Let’s see—it was a man. Not one of our regulars. Looked Mediterranean—or maybe Middle Eastern. Isn’t that great? That’s your most expensive piece—and your most accomplished. Something about it I can’t put my finger on—. Well, he must have a good eye for art.”

My heart speeds up. “Was he wearing white?”

“I don’t remember. There was a big rush right around then.”

“Do you have his name? A credit card receipt?”

She looks at me curiously. “No. He paid in cash and said he’d be back to pick up the painting when the show was over. I asked for a phone number, but he said he was between numbers right now. I did write down his name, though.” She opens a folder. “Emmett Mayerd. Unusual, isn’t it? I hope I spelled it right. He was in a hurry to leave, so I just scribbled down what I thought he said.”

Emmett Mayerd
. I repeat the name to myself through the rest of the evening, through Belle’s hugs and Kathryn’s congratulations, through my mother’s fingers cupping my face, her eyes proud but with a shadow in them. My father gives an exaggerated bow and raises a glass of cabernet in a silent toast. (When did he start drinking?) Emmett Mayerd rustles inside me as I ask my parents if they would like to stay overnight in my apartment. (They refuse, but maybe that’s because, distracted by the possibility of Emmett, I don’t insist as much as I should.) Would they like me to drive them down to Fremont? (Another refusal.)
I’ll be fine driving,
my mother assures me.
Don’t be such a worrywart.
Emmett stands by me as I wave my parents good-bye, turn down an offer to go clubbing with Belle, and drive to my place. He watches as I open the door to the too silent apartment. He is used to silence, Emmett. It is his element.

Emmett, I’m not as strong as you. I need someone tonight. Someone to share the excitement of the evening, the achievement and the upset, the feeling of deflation that I’m left with. Jona would have wrapped her arms tight around me, pushed her sweaty, demanding curls against my face, and kept me from thinking. But she isn’t here. She’s with her Sonny (
whom she loves more,
my little voice is quick to remind me) and I must face the truth by myself.

Seeing Sonny look at me in that infuriatingly kind way tonight broke open something inside me, some shell of denial I’d built around myself ever since I moved out on my own. All this time I told myself I’d be fine alone, I’m tough, I don’t need anyone. But I’m not fine—and I’m not as tough as I’d like to believe I am. I want to be loved by a man who understands me the way Sonny did in our best days. I need him to love me until my whole body shakes with it.

Every time I exhale, I feel a little piece of my youth leaving me. Emmett, white shadow in a world of green, can you understand this? Can you be the man I want?