I think back to those funny pictures where the colors were bright and beautiful but everything was all the wrong size, and the tables all sloped the wrong way. “Not so much,” I say.
David is excited. “Exactly, exactly. To us, those paintings don’t look alive, don’t look real. But I’ll tell you a secret.” He leans down and looks me in the eyes. “That’s just because we have a different idea of what it means to be alive than the men who painted those pictures. To them, God was everything. Jesus was everything. Mary, Jesus’ mother, was everything. So they’re the biggest things in the picture. And the saints and other holy people, like the leader of the Church, are the next biggest. And then comes the man who paid for the painting. And then comes everyone else.”
I can see how that makes sense. “But why doesn’t the place look real? Why didn’t they try harder?”
“Because to those men, no place on earth was ever as important as the reality of heaven. Their paintings are glorious because they show how important it was for them to love God more than the way they loved the look of the world.”
“So what about van Gogh?” I ask.
“What about him?”
“How is he real? What does he believe in?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
He sweeps his arm in front of him, and the painting moves out to meet my eyes. It moves me. Moves me closer and moves me far away. Because it has thickness. The actual paint sticks out. It’s a painting but a sculpture too.
I tell David that and he squeezes my shoulder. “Look, it’s so simple. The trees are just there. Two trees in the middle of the canvas. So effortless. We know that one tree is farther away only because part of it is obstructed by the other one, not because van Gogh has forced perspective on the painting, not because there are some artificial rules imposed on the trees themselves.”
David smiles. “The painting scatters your eyes—you don’t know where to look. The grasses in front make you want to touch them, but also refer back into each other, so you’re constantly moving over them like wind over a meadow. And the swirls of blue and pink and white in the sky have the same effect, making your eye move swiftly through the air like wind. There, in that corner, a cloud curls like a wave. And the purple mountain majesties loom in the distance. But there’s no distance, really; instead, the trees are in the middle, and the color of the hills spreads out on either side. We only see a distance there because our reality insists that’s where the hills must be. But that’s our brains, not our eyes, not van Gogh’s brushstrokes.” I can only catch a few things that jumble out of David’s mouth, but I don’t stop him. I don’t want him to stop. I watch him, watch the painting, and van Gogh’s colors and David’s words swirl inside me.
“Ultimately, the painting insists that you’ll never be allowed to settle on one still, stagnant point. Your eye is required to bounce and cascade about, like a breeze. You’re tossed. There’s movement everywhere. And what’s brilliant about that movement is that just by looking, just by standing here in a museum, we get to feel what it actually felt like for van Gogh to stand in this field, looking at these cypresses. We look at this painting, and we’re alive on this hill with van Gogh’s eye. It’s just breathtaking.” David laughs and squeezes my hand.
“So I guess he’s trying to tell us what it feels like for him to be alive?”
David is so happy, he can hardly hear me. “Yes, Prudence, yes. And if you lived with this painting, wouldn’t you want to touch it?”
He’s right. You always would, running your fingers through the grasses and hills and tall sharp pointy trees. Then I’m glad we’re alone and Myla isn’t with us. She’d never let us stand still like this for so long without moving. She wouldn’t understand.
EMMA BOUNDED UP THE FRONT steps and threw her arms around Myla. “Surprise! I made Mom and Dad promise they’d keep me a secret.” Myla had been in the kitchen when Jane called her out onto the front porch. Now, burrowing into Emma’s familiar warmth, Myla believed that if she relaxed long enough, possibilities would keep on coming. First there’d been the notebook, then Samuel, then the manuscript, and now Emma—entirely herself but older. Safe.
Emma’s head smelled like Emma’s head. Her arms were longer, and her eyes met Myla straight on as they stood nose to nose. When Emma kissed Myla’s cheeks, Myla realized that were Pru alive, she’d be even older than this woman standing before her.
“You’re so short,” said Emma, touching the top of Myla’s head.
“I’m taller than you are.”
“Barely. And anyway, not the way you used to be.” Emma laughed. “I imagined you were eight feet tall or something. Like a giant.”
Jane played with the ends of Emma’s hair. “Well, the last time you saw Myla, you were, what? Ten? And Myla was eighteen? So that makes sense.” Jane’s words weaned Emma from Myla’s arms for a few moments. Jane and Emma hugged briefly, and Myla watched the way they became one, their shoulders meeting each other.
Emma looked at Myla. “Let’s get this out of the way. I know Mom told you. I’m in recovery. But that means I’m fine. I’ve gotten my life together. I’m with this great guy, Jake. I’m working for a nonprofit. And that pretty much brings us up to date, right, Mom?”
Myla could feel herself being pulled by sadness, by the knowledge that Emma’s life had obviously been difficult, when Emma stopped her. “No. No one’s allowed to feel sad about it. I made my choices, and that’s that. I’ve made big changes in myself. And one of them is total honesty. Full disclosure. Which means we’ll get along, because Mom told me you’re on a big honesty kick too.” Then Emma squeezed her arms around both Jane and Myla. Myla could feel Emma’s body gripping toward something, could feel her own body Velcroing back.
They went inside, and Steve came downstairs. Emma unlatched Myla long enough to give him a bear hug. They were both forthright, up front with their bodies and emotions in a way Myla deeply admired. Emma said, “Jake says hi. He was going to come up, but he couldn’t get off work.”
Jane looked worried. “So you drove up all alone?”
Emma rolled her eyes, and Myla glimpsed the adolescent she’d never known, an impertinence she’d never witnessed. “I was fine, Mom. But can someone help me with my bags? I brought laundry.”
Now it was Jane’s turn to roll her eyes. “You packed the car with laundry again?”
Emma giggled. “It’s my birthright.”
Samuel came inside from the backyard, and looking at him, Myla realized that in all her excitement about Emma, she’d practically forgotten about him. Jane introduced Samuel as Myla’s friend. Emma was having none of it. After they’d exchanged pleasantries, he headed back outside to help Steve with Emma’s laundry. Before he was out of earshot, Emma couldn’t resist saying, “He’s hot, Myla. He’s, like, really attractive. He’s your boyfriend?”
“Something like that,” said Myla, trying to shush her.
Jane smiled. “He’s a lovely person. How about some tea?”
On their way into the kitchen, Myla asked, “So what’re you up for tonight, Emma?”
Emma swiveled with a pained expression on her face. “Oh, that sucks. Mom told me you had plans, so I made plans too. I actually have a dinner party tonight—one of my best friends from high school’s getting married.” She made a face. “To a creep. But I’m here for the whole weekend. I’m not leaving until Tuesday.”
Myla was disappointed. But Jane piped up right away. “Don’t give me that look, Emma. Even Myla doesn’t know about tonight.” Myla noticed Jane’s glance land on someone in the doorway, and Myla turned to meet Samuel’s gaze.
“I’m taking you on a date,” he said, smiling.
“Oh,” said Myla.
“Well jeez, Myla, don’t sound excited or anything,” said Emma.
Myla was standing still in the middle of the room. She couldn’t switch gears. Emma’s being here changed things. She could feel herself kicking into sister mode and ached with the realization that Samue
l was going to serve as a distraction from that, from what she needed to make up to Emma for all those years of being gone. But Emma nudged her into a smile. “Yeah, okay. A date.”
“A date,” said Samuel.
“You know, dates aren’t really a big deal, you guys. Especially when you’re already seeing someone,” said Emma.
“Of course they aren’t,” Myla said, trying to look excited. And then Jane made tea.
WHEN WE GET BACK TO PORTLAND, we don’t talk about New York that much. We show Steve and Jane the snapshots from our trip, and I give Emma a miniature snow globe with the Empire State Building inside. But then we all have our lives to get back to. I have fifth grade, Myla has high school, and David has his classes, so I think less and less about our time in New York.
Then one day Myla comes into the bathroom looking like she has a secret to tell me. She says, “In The New York Times, there was an article about our pictures.”
I don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I don’t even know what The New York Times is. I say, “Really?” and Myla doesn’t even have time to act annoyed.
She says, “Yeah, and it didn’t say very nice things.”
“What did it say?”
“It just said all this . . . all this stuff.” She’s waving her hands around in small circles, and she looks upset. “Just stuff about us and Ruth and the pictures.”
“Bad stuff?”
“Yeah. Bad stuff.” She looks at me suddenly, like she sees me. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
I shrug. I say, “Okay.”
Myla looks like she’s going to leave, but then she stays instead. She says, “No, you know what? If they aren’t going to tell you, then I am.” She’s saying this more to herself than to me, and now I’m curious what this bad stuff could be.
“There were protests,” she said. “Some people think the pictures are obscene. That they’re porn.”
I know this word, but I don’t know exactly what it means. I just know it makes me feel creepy, makes me want to not think about it. I’m embarrassed to ask what porn is, because if I wasn’t such a baby I’d already know, and I’m afraid that hearing what it is will change the way I think about things, will turn what is creepy and shadowy into fact. But I don’t have to ask, because Myla tells me. “Porn means sex pictures. Pictures of people doing it.”
I giggle a little bit. “But the pictures of us aren’t pictures of people doing it.”
Myla looks serious, which makes me want to stop giggling but also makes my giggling harder to control. Every time I look at her makes me giggle harder, and thinking about pictures of people doing it makes my stomach flip into more laughing.
Myla rolls her eyes. “Do you want to talk about this or not?”
“Yes,” I say, “yes I do.” I try to make my face serious. “What are we supposed to do?”
“Nothing,” she says. “I was waiting to see if David would say anything, but he didn’t. And Ruth didn’t either.”
“So are you going to ask them?”
“No,” says Myla. “Maybe.” She looks at me. “Do you want to?”
I can see why she brought this up. “No,” I say. I remember that talk David and I had about the picture of the Great Wave, but I don’t know how to explain it to Myla.
After that, she leaves. I look in the mirror and try to figure out what exactly a picture of people doing it looks like. I get close to seeing it, but I can’t see it all the way. It makes me feel weird, trying to imagine it, and I try not to think about people mixing up pictures of that with pictures of me.
I stay in the bathroom for a while. It feels easier to be in here, where things are white and clean and sorted.
chapter fourteen
they were on an official date now. Chicken and fish had been ordered, and they were sipping expensive wine. It was strange to be here with Samuel across a table, discussing Northwest regional cuisine. Across this table swathed in linen, in the soft light emanating from a candelabra, surrounded by the gentle tones of classical music, sat a man whom Myla barely recognized. He’d held her chair for her when she sat down. He was wearing a tie. This was Oregon; real men didn’t wear ties here. They didn’t need to. She felt irritated with herself for wanting Samuel to know something he couldn’t possibly know.
She was trying to enjoy herself. But what she really wanted was to be at home—at Steve and Jane and Emma’s—immersed in the world of her father’s thought. She felt guilty about that desire, telling herself she should appreciate Samuel’s effort instead of finding him trivial for wearing a herringbone tweed jacket and making small talk. And then she felt guilty about sharing the manuscript with him in the first place. Oh, he’d been great at the time. Very supportive. But wasn’t she somehow betraying Steve and Jane and Emma by keeping the book a secret? Why had she wanted to tell Samuel about it and not her family?
His voice came across the table. “We can leave if you want to.”
“No,” she said. “That’s okay.”
“This is supposed to be fun. Remember what Emma said? We’re supposed to be having a good time here.”
“I just wish you’d told me you were planning this.”
“It was a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises,” she said, aware that she sounded like a brat. But that didn’t stop her from saying it.
“Okay,” he said. Then: “But come on. Are you kidding me? We’re on a date. It’s not like I took you skydiving or something.”
“But the point is, you didn’t ask me. You didn’t take the time to know whether this—specifically this—was something I’d enjoy.”
“Exactly. And that’s what being with someone is about. Stretching. Learning by trial and error.” He lowered his voice as the waiter delivered their appetizers. Then he said, “I don’t get it, Myla. We have these great conversations, and then, just when I think we’re having a good time, you shut down. Like you’re not allowed to have fun.”
She ate her salad in silence, feeling her anger and hurt mounting as she speared baby spinach onto her fork. Finally she glanced up, her eyes nearly spilling with tears. “That wasn’t just any old ‘great conversation,’ Samuel.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“This morning? My father’s book?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just—” He paused, trading his smile for a look of sincerity, seriousness. “Are you regretting sharing David’s book with me? That we talked about it?”
She felt the heat entering her cheeks. She was caught in her own mean emotion. She hesitated.
“Come on.” Frustration was creeping into Samuel’s voice. “Be honest with me.”
“Yeah,” she admitted, looking down. “I don’t like that I just handed it over to you. I mean, where is this actually going, anyway? And then I think, well, you’re being so nice, and I wonder why I have to be so cynical all the time.” She folded and refolded her napkin. “What kind of person am I that I can’t just relax and enjoy—”
“Whoa.” Samuel had propped both elbows on the table and was leaning forward. “Myla, look at me.”
She lifted her head.
“You’re a perfectly normal person. That’s what kind of person you are. That manuscript is precious to you. If anything, I worry about it being too precious. He seems to have pulled you in so fully. But I’m happy that reading it makes you happy. I want you to trust that you can tell me about it. I understand how much it matters to you.”
Myla felt herself flooding with relief as the waiter, a gray-haired man wearing a starched white apron, caught the change in mood at the table and refilled their wineglasses. She took a bite of bread and felt a bit more like herself again.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Reading this book, as dense and difficult as it is, is exactly like being a child again. Being held inside one of my father’s huge stories.” She paused. “It becomes everything that matters. In fact, I was thinking about the way David makes me, made me, question ev
erything. Right now, in the section I’m reading . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Still the first section, right?”
“Samuel, we don’t have to talk about my father’s book just because I’m obsessed with it. This is a date, after all.”
“Yeah,” he said, brandishing a bread stick, “and we’re overly educated intellectuals. What else do we do? What do you think I liked so much about Kate Scott? Your looks? I don’t think so.” He pointed the bread stick at her. “Hit it.”
Myla gathered herself. “Well . . . David was suggesting that linear time—you know, this idea of past, present, future time flowing in one irreversible direction—piggybacked its way into society’s mind on the back of the straight line. The straight line is something we can see; time is something we can’t. But the idea of time going from start to finish, birth to death, works a lot like the idea of a straight line moving from left to right.”
“So we’re talking the typical time line here. The kind I made in fifth grade for my report on the Trojan War: first this happened, then this, then this.”
“Exactly. David says we’ve learned to think about time that way—and then, and then, and then—because it’s so simple, so satisfying. We can link certain events to other events, thereby making time more manageable. What an easy way to digest history. Except David says that for most people, time isn’t really experienced like that at all. Instead, it seems to move in cycles, like seasons. Things pass and then come again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, tell me, does time feel like a straight line you just follow through your whole life? I mean, does your life feel like some clear trajectory from past to future?”
Samuel closed his eyes and wrinkled up his mouth as he thought. “I guess not,” he said after a moment. “It’s just this big jumble of times. And then I look up and everything’s changed.”
The Effects of Light Page 18