Robin stepped out of the car, and the mist settled around her like Magnolia’s stole. She took a tentative step. And then another, on something that felt more like a floor underfoot than a street.
And then the mist parted, and she was standing in someone’s living room. Oh, God. Frank’s.
“Well, isn’t this Middle America?” Magnolia said as she sashayed over to the photographs on the wall. “Look at you,” she said. “A bouncing baby lesbian. Honey, you had the gay all over you from the get-go. Oh, and what’s this?”
Robin joined her. A watercolor cityscape hung between the photos, a soft almost impressionistic depiction of Seattle and Puget Sound. She’d done that piece as a freshman in college.
“Girl, you have some skills.” Magnolia gave her an appreciative look. “Put that to work, sugar, and use your powers for good.”
Robin was about to say something when Frank walked into the room. She hadn’t seen him in a year, and in the stress lines around his eyes, she saw echoes of their mom, who worked all the time to make sure they had the basics. Deb was right behind him, and her body language broadcast tension. Great. Magnolia had dropped her in the middle of a spat between her brother and his wife.
“I feel weird not telling her,” Frank said. He was staring at the painting on the wall. “I mean, I’m going to be a dad. I want to share that with my sister.”
Robin stared. Deb was pregnant?
“Oh, Lord,” Magnolia said. “Drama.” She fanned herself with one gloved hand.
“Baby, I get that,” Deb said. “But she always blows you off. You barely see her anymore, and when you do, it’s never because she wants to.” Deb moved behind Frank and leaned her head against his back as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Can you see where I’m coming from? I know what it does to you every time she blows you off. Do you honestly think she’s going to be involved in the baby’s life when she can’t even be bothered to be in yours?”
“Oh, snap.” Magnolia said, but Robin was too stunned to even glare at her.
“She’s working through some things,” Frank said, and the pain in his voice made Robin cringe.
“You’ve used that excuse the entire time we’ve been together.” She released him and turned him to face her. “Look at me,” she said. “Frank.” She stroked the side of his face. “I know she’s your sister, and I know that you used to be close. But that’s not true anymore.”
“She’s just lost,” he said, and Robin knew, again, what heartbreak felt like.
“And that’s sad. But you can’t help her. And she doesn’t want your help, anyway.” Deb brushed at the tear on Frank’s cheek. He had always been a crier. Women loved it about him. And apparently queens did, too, because Magnolia dabbed at her eye.
“I’m not going to give up on her,” he said.
Deb smiled and gave him a kiss. “I’m not asking you to. I’m just asking you to have a more realistic view of things, and to stop expecting anything from her. If you can get to that point, then it won’t hurt so much when she doesn’t come through.”
He leaned his forehead against hers. “Should I tell her about the baby?”
“Generally, family members tell each other things like this. But she might not say what you want to hear.”
“What do you mean?” He pulled back slightly.
“What I just said. You might be expecting her to be the sister you had years ago, and that things will go back to that. And if that doesn’t happen—” Deb brushed his hair away from his eyes. “I don’t like to see you hurt.”
He sighed. “It makes me feel bad not to. I know she can be a total jerk, but she’s my sister, and I want her in the loop for this.”
“A jerk?” Robin’s stomach felt as if she’d been punched.
“The reaction she gives might not be what you want,” Deb said. “Be prepared for that.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Robin demanded. “What reaction?”
“Sugar, quiet.” Magnolia put her hands on her hips and stood, statuesque, listening.
“She’ll be happy for us,” Frank said, and it sounded defensive.
“I’m sure she’ll be happy on some level.” Deb put her hands on his shoulders. “But don’t expect anything else from her.”
“That’s cold,” he said.
“Yes, yes it is. Thank you, Frank.” Robin shot Magnolia a look of triumph.
“No, it’s realistic.” Deb rubbed his shoulders. “In the five years we’ve been together, I’ve only been in your sister’s company twice. And the first time was when I met her.”
“Hey, I have a name,” Robin said.
“Girl, is that true?” Magnolia raised her perfect eyebrows. “Twice? In five years?” She shook her head, a gesture that managed to convey both pity and patronization.
Frank smiled at Deb. “Okay, it’s realistic,” he said.
“Hey, wait a minute. Frank—” Dammit. He couldn’t hear her. Robin clenched her fists. “What do you mean, it’s realistic not to expect anything from me?” she asked anyway.
“But I think I’ll still tell her, even if she decides not to be involved.”
“Whatever decision you make about telling her is up to you. The baby will still have involved aunts and uncles,” Deb said.
Frank nodded. “I just wish—”
“I know. Just keep in mind that your sister doesn’t seem to want much to do with us.”
“That is so not true.” Robin was shaking, a mixture of anger, hurt, and pain. “Frank, that’s not true. That is totally not true.”
“When was the last time you had a face-to-face visit with him?” Magnolia asked.
“A year ago.”
“Sugar, it was longer than that.” This time, she almost sounded gentle.
“Frank, don’t listen to her. I’m right here.” Robin patted her chest emphatically. “Right here.”
“Is she coming for Christmas?” Deb asked him.
He hesitated. “Probably not.”
Deb hugged him, and he held her close. In his expression, Robin saw that Deb had made her point. The worst part was that Robin had given her all the ammo.
“It’s not a war, sweets,” Magnolia said. “It’s just life. You make your choices, you own the consequences.” She adjusted her stole.
Robin tried to swallow, but the lump in her throat prevented it. Frank was going to be a dad. And he hadn’t told her. Maybe he had wanted to, the last time they talked, and she’d gone off on him about a practical joke that he said he didn’t do. She gave him no room to talk about it. Robin hadn’t felt this bad since Jill had left. No, this was worse. This was her brother, the little boy she’d tried to protect when they were kids, the man she’d somehow left behind. This was a red-hot poker to the heart. She gulped back a sob.
“My mama always said truth’s a mean bitch.” Magnolia took her arm and guided her through the mist to the car. Ramón closed the door behind her again, but Robin barely noticed. She touched her face. Tears. Her whole body ached with sadness. The car moved. Or maybe the mist did. Robin couldn’t tell and she didn’t care.
“Can I go home?” she asked after a while, glad that Magnolia hadn’t said anything else.
“Soon.”
“I hate this.”
“Change don’t always come with a hot meal and a highball.”
The car stopped, and Robin’s door opened again. “Please, I really just want to go home.”
“Honey, we’re still in the middle of our come-to-Jesus moment. Move your booty on out.”
Robin stepped out of the car. Did Frank really have that conversation with Deb? Or was it all a setup? Her feet sank into carpet, and she smelled familiar cologne. Cynthia. This was the apartment she used with Robin if they didn’t go to Robin’s place.
She heard the unmistakable sounds of Cynthia and sex comi
ng from the bedroom.
“This could be interesting.” Magnolia model-walked to the open doorway. Her heels should have left indentations in the carpet, but they didn’t. “Oh, no she didn’t,” she said, fanning herself.
Robin gritted her teeth and joined Magnolia at the doorway. “Seriously?” she muttered at the sight of Cynthia underneath a naked woman on the bed. Both were going at it hard.
“Mmm mmm,” Magnolia scolded. “Careful where you dip your honeystick, sugar. Because Miss Thing here seems to attract a lot of flies.” She gave Robin a sympathetic look, but it only seemed to make this whole trip worse.
Robin walked away, back to where she estimated they’d arrived, but she still heard the sounds emanating from the bedroom. Why was she surprised? Hell, Cynthia had screwed around with her, why wouldn’t she screw around with someone else? She wondered how many more Cynthia had on her chain, and a wave of queasiness roiled her stomach. If she puked, would Cynthia see it the next morning? Or would it be invisible like Robin was? The thought amused her, and she fought a laugh, knowing that if she started, she’d probably cry, too.
“Hang on, sugar,” Magnolia said softly near her ear. “And enjoy the ride.”
At the sight of the mist gathering around her feet, she almost cried anyway, from relief. The mist seemed to swell, but Magnolia wasn’t with her, and Robin was falling, like the last time she’d gotten a visit from the Bureau. She shut her eyes and braced for a crash. It came, but not as hard as she’d expected. Her feet hit ground, and she stumbled and went down, landing on cold concrete that bit into her palms and her knees. Hard enough to sting.
“Oh, my God, are you okay?” said a woman’s voice. It sounded weirdly familiar.
“Yeah, for the most part.”
“Here.” The stranger took Robin’s arm and helped her up.
“What happened?” Robin asked as she inspected her knees. Her slacks hadn’t torn, fortunately.
“I don’t know. You just seemed to fall. Are you sure you’re okay—” the stranger stopped, and Robin looked at her. Her throat seemed to close, and she couldn’t talk as they stared at each other.
“Uh,” Robin managed after a few seconds.
“Oh, my God. Robin?”
Robin kept staring. “Jill?”
“It is you. Oh, my God.”
“I—um.” Robin stared again, at her amazing cheekbones and the still familiar sparkle in her dark eyes. “You cut your hair.”
Jill laughed, and it broke the awkwardness of the moment.
“Oh, Jesus,” Robin said. “I can’t believe I said that. I mean, of course you cut your hair. It’s been years. Why wouldn’t you?” And it looked really cute, with the buzzcut on the sides and back and the punkish spikiness up top. She also had several piercings in one of her ears, each hole decorated with either a silver stud or a small jewel. And she wore a black leather motorcycle jacket, tight dark jeans, and combat boots. Jill had never dressed like that in college. She was always wound a little tight, but sometimes she’d show her rebel side with a punk rock T-shirt and a pair of black canvas sneakers that she’d decorated in art classes. But this—this was so not how she’d been in college.
“And you grew yours out,” Jill said, still smiling. “Oh, my God. I cannot believe it’s you.” She started to move as though she was going to give her a hug but stopped, as if she remembered the circumstances that had created the length of time between them. “So—oh, my God, I have so many questions and it’s so great to see you. But you’re probably on your way somewhere—”
“No, actually, I’m not.” Robin smiled down at her, wondering why it didn’t hurt to see her, and wondering why it felt as though it hadn’t been years between them.
“Oh. That’s—that’s great. I’m having an opening. Across the street.” Jill motioned at a building ablaze with lights and people. And art. Lots of art. All over the walls, Robin saw through the front windows.
“Seriously?” Robin stared first at the building and then back at Jill.
“Seriously,” she said with a little grin. “And you are now formally invited, if you don’t think it’s too fucked up to do that. Since we haven’t seen each other in a while and you might still—”
“I’d love to.”
“Okay. Come on.”
And Robin followed her across the street, dodging traffic and smiling like she was in college again, going out to explore abandoned buildings looking for objects to use in their art pieces.
She entered the gallery behind Jill, who was greeted effusively by a guy who looked like a thinner, gayer version of Thor.
“You’ve sold five so far,” he said, clearly pleased for her.
“That’s great news. Samo, this is…an old friend from college. Robin.”
“Charmed,” he said with a nod, apparently not one to touch strangers since he didn’t offer his hand.
“Nice to meet you.” Robin returned his nod and several people converged from different directions on Jill, going on about her art.
“I’m going to wander,” Robin said to her as she backed away.
“Thanks. I’ll find you later. So please don’t leave.” Jill smiled.
“I won’t.” Robin half waved and left Jill to her fans. She took her coat off and carried it on one arm, the faint smell of paint that seemed to always linger in galleries taking her years back, to her days and nights in the studio when she was sure she was an artist, sure that was her path.
Something stirred within her as she stopped to admire one of the larger pieces Jill had chosen for this show. Mixed media, Robin automatically catalogued. Oils and found objects. Jill had painted a day scene of a city port that looked a lot like Seattle’s, and she’d incorporated objects like antique fishing lures and hooks and a retro fishing rod. It seemed to be part of a port series she’d done, since this one was called “Port 9.” She’d included hints of her Chinese background, in the characters she’d skillfully painted into spots on the canvas.
Bold, Robin thought, to use those kinds of objects, but Jill had placed them in such a way that they complemented the oils with their own bright colors and positions.
“I love this piece,” said a woman next to her. “The colors are so vibrant and alive.”
“Yeah,” Robin agreed, automatically cataloguing the woman, too. Trust fund college student who liked art and the local scenes, she figured.
“Jill Chen is brilliant,” said another woman who joined them. College student, probably not trust fund. Funky hipster goth-y, Robin decided. Nose ring and dreads.
“The way she places found objects in her paintings—I can’t replicate it,” funky hipster said.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Robin said, and both women looked at her as if she’d just slashed the painting. “I mean, maybe you should find your own way, and use media that best expresses you.”
The women looked less appalled.
“After all, art is your personal creative journey, and how you travel is all you,” Robin said.
Funky hipster nodded. “I feel you.”
“What’s your medium?” Robin asked.
“Mostly photography. But I work with others.”
“What makes you feel the best?”
“Photography and collage, actually.”
“Have you combined them?”
Trust fund leaned in, interested.
“Not really, no,” funky hipster said.
Robin shrugged. “Maybe try it. See if you like how those two play together.”
“Right on.” Funky hipster nodded.
“Good luck,” Robin said and she moved through the crowd toward some of Jill’s other work. That had been a conversation like she used to have back in her art days. Sharing thoughts and offering suggestions. It felt good. Was it some kind of automatic response to art? To being in a place like this? Or was there s
omething changing in her subconscious, brought on by Magnolia and Decker? A waiter in black tie slowed when he saw her.
“Wine?”
“Love some.” Robin took a plastic flute from the tray and sipped. Some kind of chardonnay, she guessed. She moved to the back end of the gallery, which featured a few more of Jill’s oils, all with found objects that echoed the painting themes or provided a juxtaposition that strengthened the relationships between internal elements. Jill leaned toward urban scenes, though she had a couple of landscapes of the Pacific Northwest that were gorgeous, and in each one, she’d included elements that related somehow to her Chinese background. Robin particularly liked how Jill had incorporated mahjong tiles in a few of her pieces. Jill’s older female relatives loved to play that, and Jill’s stories of particularly heated games had always make Robin laugh.
She sipped, seeing in these works a maturity and grace that the artist she’d met in college hadn’t yet developed, though Robin definitely saw glimpses of her past, in some of her choices of found objects. Whimsical but maybe a little restrained in some instances. Playful and flirtatious in others. And weird, how Robin fell so easily into art vernacular, so easily into a scene like this. Weird, but somehow not.
Robin didn’t know how long she’d been in the gallery, but she was nearly finished with her second flute of wine and she’d munched on a plate of cheese and fruit. Many of the pieces had sold already, which made her happy but somehow sad, because she’d lost that part of herself, and somehow, Jill had held on to the dream.
Maybe breaking up had been what Jill had to do in order to remain true to herself, Robin thought. After all, look what she herself had become. A corporate dick who burned her bridges and torched her memories. Another lump formed in her throat, and she tried to wash it down with the last of the wine. She managed to swallow it and then set the flute on a tray stand in a corner.
Robin went back to the painting of the city port, with the fishing lures and the hooks and the fishing rod. Someone had bought it, and Robin wondered if it was the trust fund student from earlier.
“Okay, I think I’ve pretty much talked to everyone who needs to be talked to,” Jill said at Robin’s elbow. “What do you think?” she asked, as if there were only a few days between now and the last time they’d seen each other.
The Bureau of Holiday Affairs Page 5