Write My Name Across the Sky

by O'Neal, Barbara

  “Perhaps those of us who purchased works of art we believed to be stolen, lost masterpieces should be a bit less judgmental, hmm?” Miriam says. “I knew mine was a fake, actually, but it was so beautifully done I wanted it anyway.”

  “Oh, sure you did,” Fran says, rolling her eyes. “Miriam always knows everything.”

  “Just art,” she returns calmly, then stands. “I’ve made tea. Will you help me, Dani?”

  Dani stands and flings me a look I can’t quite read. Somewhere between disgust and admiration.

  The rest of us sit in the silence. I look at my hands, folding and refolding, then out the window, searching for Yoga Woman, but the apartment is empty today. A bird flies by, and in the distance, I see the contrails of a plane lingering in the high blue sky.

  “How could you lie to us?” Angie asks softly.

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I mean . . . I could offer excuses, but I don’t have any.”

  “Did you even think about it?” Fran asks.

  “Would it really make it any better if I had?”

  “Oh my God!” Angie spits out. “You are so insanely selfish. You always have been.”

  “Pot, kettle,” I return. “You sure didn’t win any awards for altruism, Miss I Stole My Billionaire Husband.”

  She rolls her eyes. “From his third wife. Believe me, I was pretty sure it wouldn’t last.”

  I laugh. “So that makes it okay?”

  Fran says, “It does, actually.” She leans forward. “Without those paintings, I’m going to end up in some horrible nursing home, alone.”

  Her husband is quite ill, in a nursing home. She’s the only one of the three who didn’t marry a wealthy man. Her husband is a kind, good man, but he didn’t make millions. Her apartment is a good legacy, a two-bedroom in the East Forties, but she’ll have to sell it. My stomach rumbles again.

  “Look. I know you don’t have much. The reason I brought the nude is because it’s his best piece, and it will sell for a lot of money. We can split it, five ways.”

  “You don’t need it,” Fran says. “You have all your sister’s royalties. I still hear that damned song practically every day.”

  “There isn’t that much anymore, actually, and it belongs to Sam and Willow. Once I disappear, there will be no way to access it. I have to have cash.”

  Miriam settles an enameled tray on the coffee table, and I remember the day she bought it from a market in Hong Kong when we first started flying. The memory brings a jolt of spice and cacophony with it.

  “I am sorry for the lies,” I say. “But let’s just work out a plan, all right? I need to get out of the country, and you all need to hide the paintings.”

  “Where?”

  Angie frowns at the tea. “I’d rather have wine.”

  “Help yourself. It’s in the fridge.”

  “Safe-deposit box should be fine for now.”

  “Really?” Fran asks. “That seems . . . iffy.”

  “It will do.” She offers me a cup, but my stomach is so wretched I just shake my head. As if she knows, she offers me a cookie instead, and I take it, nibble a small corner. “In the meantime, I’ve contacted a couple of friends who should be able to negotiate a quiet sale of the portrait.”

  “You can’t just go,” Fran says. “Leave Sam and Willow? Your beautiful apartment? Your greenhouse? How will you stand to live without your greenhouse?”

  The knife in my gut cuts straight downward. “I don’t have a choice.” With a small, bitter smile, I add, “Funny that it takes such a long time to find out what really matters.”

  Miriam snorts. “You wanted to fly, and you did—for almost thirty years. Don’t discount that. Having that life gave you this one.”

  “Wise Miriam,” Dani says, and this time, there’s no sarcasm.

  We spend the better part of two hours working out details, and on the way out, Miriam hugs me hard. “I will miss you more than I can possibly say.”

  “How will I get through my old age without you?”

  “We’ll figure something out. Mysterious meetings on faraway shores. Coded letters.”

  I rest my forehead on her shoulder, unwilling to let go. “Something.”

  Out on the street, the sense of breaking, of loss, follows me to the curb, where I hail a cab that sails over to pick me up. A young man with thick dreads woven with green and red and yellow threads gives me a smile. “Good evening, beautiful lady. Where am I taking you today?”

  I give him the address and stare out the window.

  I don’t want to leave.

  But I don’t know how to stay.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sam

  I’m dozing, my mind filled with thoughts like soap bubbles, bouncing, bumping each other, iridescent and insubstantial. For a moment, I’m with the game, the powerful visuals of a girl navigating a challenge, wearing the uniform she chooses.

  Boudicca crosses my heart. It’s safe for the moment, but I have to get this game to market fast.

  Then I’m thinking of my mother’s apartment and my old bedroom.

  Then it’s Asher and the strange hallucination I had about us being married. It was such a sweet, soft vision; my ovaries are still aching with the wish for those beautiful boys. Asher’s boys. Mine.

  Asher has been coming in every few hours, day and night, as if I really am his wife and he doesn’t want to leave me alone. Or rather as if we are the best of friends and he’s realized that he almost lost me.

  That he would have lost me if I hadn’t sent that SOS. What possessed me? I still don’t know.

  When he’s here, I try to just let it be, our easy connection. I try not to think about that last, awful fight or, even worse in its way, the long weekend that led to the fight. We spent approximately fifty-six hours in bed. Literally in bed, ordering food from room service, and the rest of the time having mind-blowing, endless sex. We were both raw and sore by the end, laughing about it but still unable to stop exploring each other’s bodies, as if both of us had been imagining it for twenty years.

  I had not been. But Asher had. He had been in love with me for decades by then, a fact I had known and conveniently ignored. I loved him, but I had never been in love with him, and when we fell into bed at Tina’s wedding, I thought I was maybe just lonely. Recovering from the relationship with Eric.

  Or so I thought.

  But that weekend.

  That weekend. In my wide-open state, where all my walls have been demolished, I think of that first kiss, Asher leaning in, a little tipsy, his thumb tipping up my chin ever so slightly, and then his mouth was on mine. I had not realized his lips were so lush, that he would taste so right, like dawn, like the sea, like wedding cake, and I fell into it with abandon.

  That kiss. It went on and on and on, my back pressed up against the wall outside my room, our pelvises moving in ancient rhythm, his hands neatly on my waist. I kept thinking I should stop, break away, laugh it off, but I couldn’t stop.

  I just couldn’t stop kissing him. He couldn’t stop kissing me.

  I realized that I was in love with him. Had been in love with him for a thousand years, maybe always, and had never let him in because . . . because what if he stopped loving me? What if then I lost him completely?

  That weekend, all my illusions were shattered. Our union went so deep, so fast, so far—

  And then, when we got back to the city, everything broke into a million pieces because I was terrified. I lashed out. As I do. As I’ve been doing for years and years.

  How can I stop? How can I stop shoving everyone I love away from me?

  A voice says my name quietly. “Hey, Sam.”

  I jerk my eyes open to find that it’s the doctor, who is Eric. I feel weirdly revealed, with tears at the corners of my eyes and the awareness of the thin covering of the hospital gown over my otherwise-naked body. It didn’t bother me the first time, so I must be feeling better.

  I try to sit up a little more demurely, but
his hand settles on my shoulder. “You’re fine. Sorry to wake you.”

  “I was only dozing. Are you here to let me go?”

  He smiles. “Are you ready?”

  “More than ready. This is not the most exciting place on earth, I have to tell you.”

  “By design.” He places the tablet on my rolling table. “How are you feeling?”

  “Good.” I sit as straight as I can, hoping my eyes look bright and shiny.

  “Is it all right if I touch you?”

  “Yes.” But this time, it’s a lot weirder than last time. My body is all reactive and strange, and I have to look away as he palpates my neck, my lymph nodes. “Still a bit stiff. Do you have any headache?”

  “Not much. Is my brain going to be okay?”

  “Yes. It should be fine. You do have to take it easy for a while, however, Sam.” He gestures to the notebook and scrawled notes on my lap. “New project?”

  “Yeah. It showed up with the fever, believe it or not.”

  “That’s great, but as I recall, you can spend a lot of time on a new project. You can’t do that right now. You’re going to have to let your body heal.”

  “That’s reasonable. I just want to be home.”

  “Is there anyone who can stay with you?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Did you talk to my sister?”

  “The crazy tiger woman?” He grins ruefully, and I love the intelligence in his eyes as much as I ever did. “No.”

  “She wants me to come to the apartment so she can take care of me.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.”

  I frown, but a part of me wonders if this might be the chance. The way to start practicing letting down my guard.

  “Poor Sam,” he says, meaning exactly the opposite. “A lot of people would be grateful under the circumstances.”

  I roll my eyes, and just as it did with Willow, it makes my head hurt. I make an involuntary noise and press my fingers to the place. “They hover.”

  “It’s good for you. Did you talk to your dad?”

  “Yeah. He was just as mad as I thought he’d be.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Tell that to him.”

  He tucks the tablet under his arm. “I’m going to let you go on the condition that you are released to your aunt and sister. And I will check.”

  “Fine. How long do I have to stay?”

  “Until I am convinced you’re actually safe on your own.”

  “How are you going to figure that out?”

  “I remember where Gloria lives.”

  For a minute, I let that sink in. “You make house calls?”

  He holds my gaze, and all at once I see the regret and hope in his face. “For you, I will.”

  I don’t know how to respond. The craziness of losing him ripples through me, the times I called and called and called, the number of times I ran by the hospital, all the awful, ridiculous things I did as a grief-crazed ex-lover. I just look at him for the longest time. “Okay,” I finally say.

  His hand curls around mine. “Take care. I’ll see you soon.”

  Then he’s gone, and I’m frowning at the door when Asher walks through it. He has a bag of food in his hands and a cup of chai I can smell across the room.

  Everything about him is as welcome as dawn. His unruly curls, his serious eyes. After thinking of the weekend of the wedding, I particularly notice his mouth, such full lips. “Hi!” I say, sitting up, and the gown slips on my shoulder. “Would you help me with this?”

  Wordlessly, he places the bag on my lap, the chai on my table, and robotically ties the gown at my neck. His fingers brush my nape, and it’s ridiculous, but I’m aware that my nipples are visible beneath the thin cotton, and now that it’s in my mind, I can’t stop remembering how it was to have him kiss me that way, against the wall—

  “You’re going home, huh?” he says, and there’s something off about his tone. He isn’t meeting my eyes.

  “Yeah. But only to Gloria’s. I’m not allowed to be on my own yet.” I open the bag and find my all-time-favorite vegan cheeseburger on a gluten-free bun. “Oh my God! You are the absolute best, Asher.” Pulling it out, I ask, “Do you want half?”

  “No, I’m good.” He takes a breath, his hands in his pockets. Again I look at his mouth and wish we could kiss, that he could lie down here beside me and we could just kiss and kiss and kiss.

  And then he looks at me, and I can see that his wall has come back. “I have to go, actually.”

  “What?” A hole is punched through my heart, and I don’t know where it’s coming from, and maybe I’m reading too much into his kindness. “Really? You can’t even stay just a little while?” Tossing aside all the rules we’ve had between us, I reach for his hand. “Please?”

  “Sam, I just—this was a bad idea, for us to be friendly again.”

  Tears spring to my eyes. “No, Asher. I have missed you so much it’s like I lost a limb.”

  “Me too.” His hand lies limply beneath mine.

  I pick it up and place it against my cheek, holding it there until my skin melts into his palm. It connects me to all that’s real and right with the world, as if his skin is an electric current that smooths all the wild electrons in my body and puts them in order. “Then don’t go.”

  “Are you seeing Eric again?”

  “What? No!” I drop his hand. “He’s my doctor.”

  “That’s a little weird, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I mean, of course. But he’s one of the best virologists in the city, this is his hospital, and I didn’t choose to get meningitis.”

  “You just don’t have a lot of perspective about him.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I didn’t have perspective. That was years ago.”

  “Two years.”

  “Almost three, actually, but what difference does it make? Everybody makes an idiot of themselves once in a while.”

  “Yeah, they do,” he says and presses those beautiful lips together. “Including me.” He stands there, and I can feel the conflict in him. “I was doing really well, and I don’t want to go down this road again.” He spins on his heel.

  “Wait. Are you leaving?”

  He turns at the door. “Yes. I’ll call later to see how you are.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little unreasonable?”

  For the longest time, he stands there, and I feel the intensity of his gaze on my face, my body, and the heat of our tangling rises up again, limbs and skin and tongues and breath, all of us, all of him, all of me. I think of our long, long hours of working on one game or another, of the past days, when he’s been so present and I realized the depth of my loneliness without him.

  “No,” he says at last and turns to go.

  I’m suddenly four years old, and my father is carrying his suitcase from the bedroom to the front door. In the background, a baby is wailing. I’m running, trying to hold on to the suitcase, cling to his legs. Don’t go, don’t go, Daddy, please don’t go.

  “Wait! Asher, please.” My voice breaks a little on the last word, and it stops him.

  He takes a breath. “What?”

  “I didn’t mean it, all those things I said.”

  When we got back to the city after the wedding weekend, he wanted to come inside and stay with me. All the way up the stairs I’d been feeling more and more emotional. By the time we got to my apartment, I was a Tasmanian devil of terror, lashing out savagely, protectively.

  “I just got scared.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” Unmoved, he raises his eyebrows. “I think you did mean them.”

  “I was afraid. Afraid that if we kept going, I’d lose my best friend.”

  He lifts his chin. “Thing is, Sam, you called me—what was it? ‘Smothering,’ was it?”

  “I didn’t mean it, and you know that.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “You were brutal, too, you know.” Tears sting my eyes. “You were meaner than
I was.”

  He ducks his head. “Self-defense.”

  “Can’t we just let go? Start over?”

  “No, Sam,” he says, and his voice is certain. “I just can’t do it.”

  All the emotions that have been shaken loose by this illness rise up in my throat, spill from my eyes. “Please,” I whisper.

  He turns away.

  I scramble to come up with an errand. “I need one of my notebooks. You’re the only one who can get it.”

  “Sam, this is—”

  “You said you would help me save Boudicca.” I swallow. “I really need your help. Please.”

  For a long moment, he says nothing. His head is bent, his body still. Everything about him feels like the most precious detail of all time—his shoulder. His forearm, covered with silky black hair. His nose.

  At last, he says, “All right. Tell me where it is. I’ll bring it back later.”

  “Thank you.”

  He only nods, and I wish I had the brainpower to say something, make this go back to the ease we were feeling, the simple connection. “Don’t . . . ,” I begin.

  “Don’t what?”

  Everything I can think of to say sounds like something you’d say to a lover, and he’s my friend. I just shake my head. “Nothing. Thank you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Willow

  When I was fifteen, I wrote in my journal that I wanted to have a life in music, make money, and be happy. That last part really mattered because I’d seen that my mother was not. I didn’t know why, back then, only that what I saw was that she loved music and loved her work but wasn’t happy anyway.

  Make music. Make money. Be happy.

  I’m thinking about that triad as I work on the homey chores of readying the apartment. Gloria has to take care of some business she would not share with me, but she took the painting with her. The work makes me feel as if I have some control over something. Being busy helps calm my anxiety.

  I’ve finished the bedroom—made the bed with fresh, sweet-smelling linens and even dug out the vacuum cleaner to give the floors a quick once-over. I like household work. I love the sense of putting things in order and the solid feeling of accomplishing a task, and I’ve also learned that my creativity simmers wildly. Taking a shower, washing dishes, cooking—all those tasks give the muses room to play without me examining them too closely.