Falling Under

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  Chapter 36

  We sleep.

  I wake rested and new.

  I wake before Erik and watch the light grow in the morning sky. I hear the city waking. I breathe in the smell of my exploded life and wonder that I am still here and feeling so much better, so much more, than expected.

  I tiptoe to make coffee and then check my messages as it brews.

  It’s been two days, but there are only four.

  Mom: Hi dear. I know you’re busy, but call me sometime when you get a chance.

  Bernadette: Okay, I appreciate that you called to let me know you’re all right, but where the fuck are you? Call me. Call me soon, I’m worried.

  Sal(!): Yo. Babe. I came by twice and you weren’t there. We gotta talk. Call me, or next time I’m gonna break down the door.

  Bernadette: Please call me, I need to talk to you. It’s important. Jesus, where the hell are you?

  7 a.m.: Erik wakes and joins me for coffee on the couch.

  7:10: Erik pulls me closer and we hold each other without speaking...and without spilling our coffees.

  “You have to go, don’t you?” he says eventually.

  “My house could be falling down.”

  “That’s not really the reason.”

  “No,” I say. “It’s just time. Listen, this whole, last night and—”

  “Shh,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  “It’s funny,” he says, “I don’t even know where you live.”

  “The Danforth—on Pape.”

  “We could walk.”

  “What?”

  “I could walk you there. Walk you home.”

  “You’re kidding—it’s cold out. And it’ll take over an hour.”

  “Good,” he says. “The longer the better.”

  In the shower I wash his hair.

  He holds me and we share the hot water and I ask, “Did we dishonor him?”

  “I don’t think so,” he says. “Not this time anyway.”

  “I hope not.”

  As we walk, we hold hands. We stop for toasted bagels with jam and cream cheese and more coffee. I see a dog that reminds me of Pollock and my heart flip flops, but the owner is a young Asian woman, not Hugo.

  Crossing the Bloor Viaduct, we stop at the center and look down at the parkway.

  “Erik,” I say.

  “Yes?”

  “I wish things were different.”

  “I know,” he says. “Another lifetime maybe.”

  “We’d always be...in relation to him.”

  “I know.”

  He turns my face to his and presses his forehead to mine.

  “It was good to love you,” he says.

  The ache at his words is deep.

  “At least for a few hours,” I say.

  “You know it was longer than that.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  Alone in the center of the bridge on a Wednesday morning in January, we hold each other and let our hearts mingle one more time.

  “We’d better go,” he says, when he feels me starting to shiver.

  “All right.”

  We wrap our arms around each other’s waists and stay that way for the minutes it takes to get to my house.

  In front of it we stop.

  “I like it,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  He pulls me closer, presses his cold cheek to mine and sighs.

  “Well,” I say, and pull my key out, “this won’t get easier, will it?”

  “No,” he says.

  “Do you want to...come in for a few minutes?”

  “Better not,” he says. “I might never leave.”

  I nod and take a step back.

  And he goes.

  Chapter 37

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Shh.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang, bang.

  “What the—?”

  I haul myself out of bed.

  Where am I?

  Home.

  Right. Home.

  Oh. Ow.

  Home and someone is knocking, which would not make sense except that it is...morning? Ugh, 8 a.m. And I have been sleeping, it must be, since sometime yesterday when Erik left and I came inside and threw myself on the bed and...

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Jeez.

  In the kitchen I listen and realize the banging is coming from the back.

  I open the door to my neglected studio and peer through the window.

  Sal.

  Shit.

  “Yo, babe!” he hollers when he sees me. “What the fuck?”

  Last I checked, Sal wanted to kill me, but he seems friendlier now. And really, if I was going to die, it would have happened by now. Sal would probably make it quick anyway, if that was his intention, so what the hell?

  I squint out at the morning sun, hobble to the door and open it.

  “Oh, babe,” he says when he gets a good look at me. “I guess your lesbo buddy was telling me the truth.”

  “Huh?”

  “You got coffee?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I say, and shuffle toward the kitchen. “Come in. Uh. You spoke with Bernadette?”

  “Who?” Sal says, and lifts his pant legs before sitting at the kitchen table. “Oh, yeah, the cute dyke. She said she’s your best friend.”

  “She is.”

  “Well, good, I like her,” he says. “How’s that coffee coming? You look like you could use some.”

  “Oh. Uh.” I cast about for a moment, re-orienting myself to the kitchen and trying to wake up. “Yup, just a minute.”

  I make coffee and Sal talks about the basketball game he won money on last night and the excellent ice-cube blow job his latest girlfriend gives.

  “You should try it,” he says. “Well, not that you ever needed props, babe, you’re pretty good at—”

  “Sal.”

  “Sorry.”

  I hand him a coffee and sit down across from him with mine.

  “You saw Bernadette?”

  “Oh. Yeah. She didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “She was supposed to tell you.”

  “She left messages, but I’ve been...away.”

  “Physically or mentally?”

  “Ah, both.”

  “Okay, well.”

  “What?”

  “She came to see me. Didn’t like me much at first, but said she needed, well, that you needed, my help. That you were havin’ some kinda meltdown.”

  “Oh.”

  “Man problems,” Sal says, and then inhales his coffee.

  “Um…”

  “And mental problems.”

  “She said I had—”

  “Wait, no. Emotional problems—that’s what she said. Emotional problems and man problems and a creative breakthrough—but she said you didn’t realize that part.”

  “Oh.”

  “And she told me about the dead guy, babe,” he says. “I wish I’d known that’s what you were dealin’ with back then, maybe I coulda helped.”

  “It’s okay, Sal.”

  “Anyways, I wanted to say I’m sorry, and I’m sorry I cut you off. I was just pissed.”

  “Oh, Sal, it’s fine. It’s okay. I should have been honest.”

  “All right,” he says. “Then we’re clear. We’re good.”

  “Good,” I say.

  But how will I ever go back to painting circles and rectangles?

  “Thing is though, babe, I’m gonna rip up our contract.”

  “What? Why?”

  Uh oh. Wait—I’ll take circle painting over a job at Starbucks any day. Did I say I didn’t want to do geometrics? I love geometrics! Bring back the contract, bring back the parallelograms!

  “Well, you see, that sassy red-headed, too-bad-she’s-a carpet-muncher friend of yours—”

  “Sal! Offensive.”

  “Sorry, sorry. Anyway, she brought over one of the pieces you’ve been working on—”<
br />
  “What? How did she...”

  “You gave her a key.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “So. She brought it over and said she thought I should try it at some of those Queen Street galleries.”

  “She shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Well, you might change your mind on that, ‘cuz it sold, babe. It sold fast.”

  “What?”

  Sal reaches into his briefcase, pulls out an envelope, and hands it to me.

  “Open it,” he says.

  “Hang on, I’m still back at Bernadette stealing my painting and you taking it to Queen Street.”

  “Open it.”

  “Fine, but—”

  “Just open it!”

  I open the envelope.

  Inside is a check for twenty-five hundred dollars.

  Twenty-five hundred dollars!

  “Holy shit.” I feel lightheaded.

  “Less fifteen percent, if you agree to let me be your agent,” Sal says, grinning like crazy.

  “Wow, wow, wow. Okay,” I say, still shaking my head and blinking. “Where do I sign?”

  “No, no,” Sal says, “think about it first.”

  “Okay.”

  “And in the meantime, you have work to do, chicky, so whatever’s got you looking like something somebody barfed out, you better get over it.”

  “I’m fine, Sal,” I tell him. “Or I will be soon.”

  “How many new paintings you got?”

  “How many new...? I don’t know, ten? Minus the one you sold, so that’s nine. And a couple of those are ones I put aside half-finished, so it’s probably more like seven. But there’s no rush, this money—less fifteen percent—will last me awhile as long as Bernadette doesn’t hit me up for any charities.” And I can pay her back.

  Sal does his knee-slapping thing and then points his index finger at me.

  “Listen, there’s something else,” he says. “And I hope this doesn’t disturb your mental state, but...”

  “Yes?”

  “At the gallery where I sold the first one, it’s nothing fancy, but they like your stuff. They want to exhibit you—a small exhibit—and I told ‘em we’d have twenty canvases for March first.”

  If I’m not drooling or falling on the floor, it’s only because I’m too stunned to move.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Well, I didn’t sign the contract for you, I thought you’d want to do that yourself. Besides, you work fast, right?”

  “Sal...”

  “Here it is: Oz Gallery requests the artist, Mara Foster, provide...etc, etc. Have a look.”

  An hour later, I’ve signed the contract, left a message for Bernadette, had a shower, and am sitting, terrified, in front of a fresh, blank canvas, in my studio.

  There were two other people—Erik and Hugo—that I wanted to call to share the good news with, but I didn’t.

  Erik is still fresh—on me and in me, and calling him would violate our unspoken promise.

  And being home brings memories of Hugo. I feel a little sad that he hasn’t called, but maybe it’s for the best.

  Before he left, Sal and I counted the canvases, and I actually have eight. That leaves at least another twelve for me to complete in the next few weeks. I might be screwed, but at least I’m busy.

  I look at the time.

  10 a.m.: begin.

  I close my eyes and pray for the creative channel to open.

  Paint to brush, brush to canvas, and breathe.

  I am home.

  ***

  Love might be good for art after all.

  Even if it is lost love, confused love...dead love.

  I pour forth all of it, day upon day, and soon I have my twelve canvasses.

  Bernadette is giddy with excitement and I have forgiven her five times over for running off with that first painting.

  The new-new stuff is odd—dark and weird like the old-new stuff, but with an added element that Sal calls “quirky” and Bernadette calls “spiritual-slash-whimsical.”

  A week before the show goes up, a van pulls into my driveway and Sal and I crunch through the snow to load up the paintings.

  “What are they going to do with them all week?” I ask as we lurch through traffic toward the gallery.

  “The guy’s gotta pick which ones he wants, and then—”

  “Wait a sec, I thought he wanted twenty?”

  “Twenty to choose from, babe. It’s a boutique gallery, not the fucking MoMa, ya know? You didn’t think he’d want all of them, did you?”

  “You said twenty, so I thought twenty. It’s not unheard of.”

  “Sure, but you’re not famous yet and we’re not sellin’ to furniture stores anymore, Babe. These people are Artsy, capital A,” he says. “And so are you, for that matter.”

  “All right.” I say. “I’ve never done this before. And I haven’t been leaving my house much the last couple of years, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Sal says and pats my leg. “Anyway, he chooses what he wants and then they gotta, you know, set the scene, decide where to put what, how to group shit together, that kind of thing.”

  “I didn’t realize I’d have to sit there while somebody picked my work apart.”

  “Welcome to being an artist, babe. Wait till the reviews start to come! Maybe not on this show, but it’ll happen. Reviewers can be brutal.”

  “Sal, I’m not feeling better, if that’s what you’re working towards.”

  “Don’t be nervous, this guy knows talent and he likes the digital prelims I’ve e-mailed him. It’s gonna be fine.”

  By the time we’ve unloaded the canvasses and walked up two dingy flights of stairs to put them in the back room of the gallery, Sal, the assistant, and I are pouring sweat, even with our coats undone, not to mention I’m having a heart attack about this whole thing.

  The co-owner, a skeletal goddess named Michelle, seats us in a makeshift office with bottles of water and goes to find her partner.

  “Maybe you could handle the rest?” I whisper to Sal. “I don’t like this part. I could just take the streetcar home and you can tell me later which ones he’s chosen.”

  “You don’t know that you don’t like this part—you’ve never done it,” Sal reminds me with a smirk. “Sit the hell down and relax with Uncle Sal.”

  I groan. “I’m not going to call you Uncle, Sal. That’s creepy.”

  “Suit yourself, but you’re stayin’ right here. The guy specifically said he wants the artist here when he looks at the work.”

  “Fine.”

  “Here you go,” Michelle says, floating in with a file under her arm. “I’ve paged Mr. White and he should be here any—ah, here he is! Mara Foster, Sal Angelo, may I present Caleb White.”

  It would be so wrong to faint. Of course, that means I can’t stand up to shake his hand.

  Caleb.

  Caleb White.

  Oh wow.

  Fortunately Sal has me by the elbow and is hauling me up.

  “Nice to meet you,” I croak.

  His eyes fasten on me and he gives me that strange old smile that looks like he’s standing on broken glass.

  “Lovely to...meet you, too.”

  His voice is lower and he has the slightest trace of a British accent now.

  I have the wild urge to say things like “Small world!” and “Hey Michelle, you’re the only person here I haven’t had sex with!” Instead I open my water bottle and gulp some down, spilling on my already sweaty turtleneck.

  Sal is talking and now Caleb is talking, and then Sal again.

  The rest of the meeting is a blur. I sit back, keep my mouth shut and observe.

  Finally it’s over. Caleb and Michelle both shake my hand and I hold tight to the railing as I walk back down the stairs.

  ***

  Sal drives me home.

  “You gonna send out any of those invites he gave you?” Sal asks.

  I look down at the stack of platinum ve
llum in my hand and think about the e-mail I received from Hugo last week.

  “Checking in” was the subject line, and he’d pasted a picture of Pollock unraveling toilet paper to the body of the text. “Wondering how you are and where you are,” the message said.

  I didn’t know how to respond and I still had ten paintings to finish, so I figured it could wait.

  Now I don’t know what to tell him, how he’ll react to what happened with Erik and me, whether or not I’ll ever feel ready to be in love again...

  But I laid awake thinking of him that night and wished I had him to cuddle up to.

  And then, imagining me cuddled up to Hugo made me think of Erik, alone in his bed across the city and the heavy, sad truth of never seeing him again.

  “Maybe a few,” I tell Sal, and then head inside.

  Later I address envelopes to Dad and Shauna, Mom, Bernadette, Faith, a couple of old professors and then, with my hands shaking, to Hugo.

  At the bottom of Hugo’s card I scrawl a short note: “Hope you can come. Mara.”

  All I can do is open the door, right?

  In the morning, I walk to the post office unmolested by gruesome daydreams and mail the invitations. Back at home I make a phone call.

  By the time the courier arrives, I’ve triple-bubble-wrapped a small painting, one that Caleb didn’t want, and tucked a copy of the invite inside with “FYI” written on it.

  In the other lifetime, that parallel lifetime where Lucas is not part of us, Erik comes to the opening and stands by my side. In this one, he will at least know I’m all right and that I’m thinking of him sometimes. Perhaps he’ll read the reviews online, if there are any, and smile when he thinks of me. Perhaps he will come to the gallery and look at my work when I am not there. If he does, he will see himself, and he will see Lucas, buried deep but everywhere, in my work.

  Chapter 38

  His hair is silver now and still long, worn in a ponytail. He looks like Vidal Sassoon—all arty European, lean in a crisp, collarless shirt and pleated linen pants.

  His eyes are the same.

  “Good morning, Ms. Foster,” he says when I show up to inspect the layout the day before the opening.

  “Hi, Caleb.”