by Lisa Barr
“I know . . . but I’ve seen the images of your work, from Ava. Your technique, especially with marble and women . . . there’s something there that reminds me of Nathalie’s work—especially the shine. I can’t explain it.”
The shine, my signature. Everyone used to talk about the gleam of my sculptures. But that Sophie Bloom is gone and buried, a suburban relic.
My mind wanders from Olivier to “Mermaids and Madmen.” That exhibit was volatile, passionate, and it took everything out of me to create. I had tapped into the sheer elation of being pregnant and about to give birth to Ava—I was so young then, so in love with Gabe—and overwhelmed by that precious moment of Ava’s birth. Seven giant marble mermaids materialized out of those joyous emotions—frolicking, swimming, diving, fins flapping—such freedom depicted in those sculptures. And then . . . it was followed by the ugly—the nemeses—seven monsters rising up out of the ashes of a postpartum depression so aggressive that I never thought I would come out from under it. I had turned gleaming blocks of black marble crisscrossed with veins of gold into vicious, violent creatures of the night. It was a shocking display of extremes that put my name on everyone’s radar in the art world, especially because I was so young—just shy of twenty-six when I finished it.
But I owe it all to Samantha and Lauren. Just weeks after Ava was born, I couldn’t get of bed, could barely lift my head off the pillow. I hardly remember Ava or Gabe during that dark period, just whirring silhouettes that would move in and out of our bedroom. Samantha and Lauren didn’t leave my side during those lost, melancholic months, encouraging me—begging me—to sculpt during the worst of it, shoving instruments into my limp hands—anything to bring me back to life, back to me. And eventually, their joint maternal force overpowered the darkness.
I remember the day, the exact moment when everything changed, when I finally got out of that bed. It was a breezy, sunny morning, nearly thirteen weeks after I’d given birth, and I lay awake watching the golden rays from the window traverse my covers, demanding that I rise, urging me to come back to me. Obeying finally, I threw off my sticky pajamas and walked naked into my tiny studio, which was adjacent to our bedroom. I knew after the first chisel, that everything I had been feeling would hemorrhage out of me, through my hands. “Mermaids and Madmen” emerged two years later from the ashes of my greatest joy and my deepest pain.
But that was so many years ago. I’m not that same sculptor anymore. I get up out of the bed and pace the room naked. I then grab a robe and cover up, as though Olivier could see me through the phone. “Why me, Olivier? I’m sure there are brilliant young artists you know who are French, who sculpt daily. I’m—”
“You,” he interrupts, “have the one quality that may just appeal to Nathalie—your anonymity. You are a stranger here who knows no one in our community, and could quietly help her with no one finding out about it. You don’t strike me as a braggart and god knows, you’re overprotective. And, you are ready to work again, oui? I saw it in your eyes at the Rodin—”
“Don’t even start with that,” I warn him. Yes, Olivier, I’m dying to sculpt again, to wrap my hands around tools, to feel the coolness of marble against my fingertips.
“Nathalie has a studio in Paris and one in Èze. She’s there now. Where are you staying?”
Èze is about forty minutes away, I calculate. “I prefer not to say, but not far.”
“You’re as difficult as she is,” he says, not hiding his irritation. “Okay have it your way. But is this something you would want to do—can do—before I ask her? And will you stay here until it’s done?”
I want to do it with all my heart, but can I do it is a different story. This opportunity won’t come knocking again. Don’t be afraid of it. “Yes, Olivier, I want this,” I say adamantly. I press my lips tightly. “I’ll stay as long as it takes.”
“Excellent. Then I will talk to her, and hopefully, convince her. I must warn you that Nathalie is very difficult and demanding.” He pauses for another long drag on his cigarette. “She was difficult even when she was well and now, understandably, it’s much worse . . .”
Suddenly, I feel a sharp pang in my chest, like a stab. What if I disappoint her? She doesn’t have much time left. I sit back on the bed as the panic sets in. It’s Nathalie Senard we’re talking about. “Maybe the timing is wrong, Olivier. I’m not a sculptor anymore,” I stammer. “I need practice. Maybe you are better off finding someone else.”
“The timing is only now, and yes, you are.” Olivier cuts me off. “Talent at your level doesn’t disappear. It’s just hibernating. I believe you are exactly what Nathalie needs to cross the finish line. I thought about it last night. I feel it. When I feel things here”—I picture him pointing to his gut—“I’m never wrong. Especially about art—never.”
“There’s always a first time,” I counter softly. I hate this man but at this very moment, I kind of love him.
“Look, I will show her images of your work and ask her to consider this proposal.” His voice is cautious. “I know Nathalie—her damn pride, her strong sense of dignity. You would not get any credit. You would be a ghost. Can you handle that?”
“One hundred percent yes.”
“Sophie . . .” My name lingers a little too long on his breath.
Here’s the catch. Right now. I feel it. “Yes?” I clench my teeth in anticipation of the fine print. Please don’t make me hate you all over again.
“I can’t promise anything, but I will try my best.”
I heave a deep sigh of relief right into the phone. “Thank you, Olivier. I mean it.”
We hang up, surprisingly, without any strings attached. I climb back into bed, pull the covers up to my chin. I stare up at the ceiling. Nathalie Senard . . . If this works out and she agrees to me coming on board, I will be Olivier’s parting gift to his precious friend before she dies. And ironically, his gift to her is also a gift to me. Sadly, I may be finding my new beginning with someone else’s ending.
Chapter Nineteen
I SPEND THE REST OF THE DAY ROAMING THE VILLAGE OF SAINT-PAUL. I WALK IN and out of boutiques and galleries for a good two hours, then have a late lunch at a tiny bistro with a magnificent view overlooking all of the village. I enjoy a delectable dish of escalope de mérou au citron, sea bass in lime, then indulge in a two-scoop Nutella gelato for the finale, topping if off with my third cappuccino of the day.
I keep checking my phone. Olivier said he will call as soon as he speaks to her. Stop checking. To keep my mind occupied, I decide to google Nathalie instead. An interview from the Paris Match three years ago pops up, headlined “The Power Art Couple.” I peruse the long interview and pretend to understand the French. After a while I give up on the content, but stare at the incredible photographs of the Senards taken at Le Jardin Exotique d’Èze—the exotic garden—apparently her husband’s favorite spot and where a few of her famous sculptures of women are installed amid the flowers, succulents, and cacti. I zoom in on each photo and check out all the details closely. The gorgeous couple stands intertwined, arm in arm, leaning against the mountaintop garden’s protective stone wall overlooking the coastline below, next to a giant marble sculpture of a woman with her arms raised high as though she is about to fly. The wind rustles through Nathalie’s long blonde hair, Luc’s arm wraps tightly around her waist. Partners, lovers, artists. I stare at the photo for so long that their features begin to merge from two people to one. So much love and beauty this couple has brought into the world, and obviously to each other. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes, then the guilt sets in, and the excitement turns to gloom. And now she’s dying. His heart must be breaking. She’s dying . . . and her illness may just be my big break.
I’M NOT SURPRISED WHEN I RETURN TO THE HOTEL LATER THAT EVENING THAT LEA has left me a message. Jean-Paul had his turn and now she wants hers. Everyone, it seems, wants a piece of me. I stare into the small, narrow closet mirror. I look so put together—the hair, the dress, the makeup—but the
truth is, it’s all a lie. The damn truth is I really just want to click my ruby red slippers and reclaim my old life. I sigh loudly. But there is no Kansas anymore. I slip off my dress and watch it fall into a black puddle around my feet. I kick it away, glancing at the nightstand clock. Nearly seven p.m. Maybe I can catch Ava.
“Mom?” Ava answers on the first ring. That voice. God, I miss her.
“Hi, honey, how are you?”
“I’m good now. I spoke to Dad this morning and he said he’s feeling better and will be out of the hospital tomorrow. He told me to stay in Barcelona. So Jake and I decided to stay but we cut our trip short. I’m heading back to Chicago at the end of next week.” She pauses. “When are you coming home?”
I feel a hard twitch in my stomach. Do I tell her about Olivier? No. It doesn’t matter—even if it does. “I don’t know yet . . .” I say evasively. “But as soon as I figure it out, you will be the first to know. Tell me, are you and Jake having fun?”
“Yes, we’re good. Right, Jake?” I can practically see the way she is looking at him. Her lively dancing eyes. And Jake smiling back at her with that dumbass frat-boy grin of his. Though he’s not dumb. He just parties as hard as he studies. They’re good. I smile to myself. Somehow, they are finding their way back, post-Monica, post-Olivier. Could I ever be that forgiving? Could I ever find my way back to Gabe?
I think back to the one time when we broke up for three weeks during college, and it was all my fault. Gabe was studying at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, where Ava also goes to school, and I was at Northwestern. Two and a half hours separated us and yet we somehow made it work, alternating weekend visits. That particular weekend it was my turn to travel his way. It was late Thursday night and I was working hard in the art studio because I knew I would lose the weekend and had to finish a piece. A few of my sorority sisters barged into the studio and insisted I go with them to the Sigma Chi fraternity party. I just wanted to sculpt and not be bothered. They literally pulled me out of the studio with plaster all over me. Nancy, who was also my roommate, was carrying my going-out clothes with her—a miniskirt, a cropped top, and boots—which meant I had no excuses. So, I went with them reluctantly, and unfortunately for me, I stayed, as in all night. There was a local band playing cover songs on the fraternity’s front lawn. It got crazy, and I downed several shots of tequila and a few plastic cups full of rancid neon yellow Everclear mixed with pineapple juice. I found myself lying in a bed in a dark musty room at some point during the night. Everything was so brown, so muddy, even the ceiling. I remember the wood-paneled walls spinning around me and that the room smelled like urine mixed with Clorox mixed with body odor. I was a sophomore and the guy lying next to me was the frat house president. I had seen him around campus but never officially met him until that night. I knew I should have left with my friends, but I was drunk and wanted to stay. I missed my ride to Madison the next morning to see Gabe. I didn’t sleep with Sig Chi’s president but it got close—what was his name—Mark, Craig? After at least a dozen calls discussing “the situation” with Samantha and Lauren, I decided not to lie. Terrified, I told Gabe the truth and we broke up. He wouldn’t talk to me—though I begged, apologized, left him one hundred messages. Two and a half weeks later, he finally called me back and said simply, “Now, we’re even. Do you want to get back together?” And I did. Tit for tat. We never talked about it. Why didn’t we ever talk about it? Gabe had evened the score and that was all that mattered.
Are Ava and Jake even? He was with Monica, but she had an affair with her professor. Am I supposed to somehow even the score with Gabe? My mind wanders to the nurse in the ICU recovering from that car accident. Did he sleep with her the night before? Did he take her to our home, to our bed? Did she sleep on my side? It just doesn’t end. There is no evening it up.
Ava shares a few details about their trip—the Miró museum, the Sagrada Família. Her animated descriptions move through my brain but my thoughts are elsewhere. I can feel the exuberance in her voice, and it’s enough.
“Mom, are you there?”
I snap back to the present. “Here.”
“How are you—really?”
“I’m . . . I’m really pretty good, managing.”
“Managing?” Ava pauses, clearly not convinced. “Have you met any friends? Who do you go out with for dinner? I just can’t picture you eating alone.”
If she only knew about Jean-Paul and Lea. My face instantly flushes. What kind of mother does that?
“I cut my hair,” I tell her. That should change the subject quickly.
“What?! You’ve had that same style since forever. Short? I’m FaceTiming you right now. Don’t move.”
I quickly put on a robe and take the phone with me out to the balcony, and she calls back. I see her beautiful face light up the phone screen, and at the sight of her I feel my eyes swimming with tears. I really miss her.
“I love it!” she shrieks. I can see that she and Jake are sitting in an outdoor café. “Look at my mom. So hip. And . . . you got highlights.”
I laugh, happy that she approves.
Ava is drinking wine. She takes a sip and holds up her glass as proof that yes, she’s only nineteen and underage in the States, but in Europe, wine is ageless. No fake ID required. Her carefree gaze waxes serious. She does this squinty thing with her eyes that Gabe does. She puts the glass down.
“By the way, why aren’t you talking to Samantha?” Her face is now up close to the phone, as if she’s trying to gauge my real reaction. “What’s up with that?”
There is no way that I am going to tell her about what happened with Lauren and Samantha. “How about we discuss that another time,” I say.
Ava’s eyebrows narrow in. She is reluctant to let it go. “Hmmm. Okay . . . well, I’m still really upset about things with you and Dad.” Her eyes flicker with sadness. “You know that, right?”
“I know. Me too, baby.” My heart breaks, aware of how much all this is hurting her. I can actually feel it cracking.
“But I really hope you are okay. Jake—say hi to my mom,” she says brightly, her moods changing with the wind, as always. She then presses her mouth to the phone and a giant kiss appears in the miniature screen. So resilient. How does she do it? A boyfriend breakup, losing her best girlfriend, an affair with her married professor, a pregnancy scare, our marriage breaking up, and poof—back to being Ava. Unlike me, falling apart at forty-two and unable to catch myself.
Jake sticks his head into the phone screen to say hello. His hair is longer than I remember and his face is scruffy. He smiles that silly smirk but it looks right on him. He looks happy.
Ava grabs the phone back. “No matter what, I will see you in three weeks for college drop-off. Can you believe it’s our last one? Love you, Mom.”
I stare at the phone, long after we say goodbye, calculating the timing. Three weeks. It’s just not enough time. Ava automatically assumes I will be on a plane to North Grove and taking her back to school as usual. Why wouldn’t she? I’m her mother. That’s what I do. I’m a given. And what if . . . it does work out with Nathalie Senard? I place my hand on my chest, feeling the quickening of my breath. I don’t want to go back, not like this, still in pieces. And they will all be there—Gabe, Lauren, Samantha, Eric, and Matt—their lives the same, continuing on without me. Did Gabe and Lauren discuss that I know what happened between them? Was it only one time? Goddamnit—how could they do that to me?
I bring my knees up to my chest into a fetal position on the cushy balcony chair. I just want to rewind, start again from the very beginning. Gabe and I should have talked about the Sigma Chi incident back in college—as if evening up the score were enough. There are so many things we should have talked about over the years, but didn’t. Instead we clung to our history, to all of our firsts—we held on to a version of us that no longer existed.
Three weeks . . . what then?
Chapter Twenty
I CALL LEA BACK BECAUSE I DON’T W
ANT TO BE ALONE ANY LONGER WITH MY thoughts, which are becoming increasingly bleak and anxious. She answers the phone right away.
“I was wondering when you’d return.” Her voice is soft, seductive. “How are you?”
I avoid answering that. “How are you?” I ask instead, leaning over the balcony. No one is around except random cleaning staff roaming the grounds.
“Great. There’s an interesting exhibit opening in Nice tonight—a friend from one of the galleries in town organized it. Around nine. You want to come?”
“Jean-Paul too?”
She pauses just enough to take a long drag on her cigarette. I hear her breathy exhale. “Just me.”
I didn’t see Jean-Paul when I arrived at the hotel earlier, but I wonder if he is here. Or with someone else? I feel a twinge of jealousy and let it pass. “Yes, I’d love to.” Anything not to be with me right now, alone inside my head.
“Pick me up,” she says. It’s an order not a question.
WHEN I PICK UP LEA AT HER APARTMENT, I NOTICE HOW CLEAN AND ORGANIZED IT is and that it smells lemony. The other night, the place was a disarray of clothes and art supplies, and reeked of marijuana. And she looks different too. Not all hippy artist, rather sophisticated and clubby in tight black shorts, a black tank, gladiator sandals, and bright red lipstick. Her hair is pulled back into a high sleek ponytail, reminiscent of Madonna circa the Blond Ambition tour, which of course I saw with Samantha and Lauren. Her colorful geometric earrings dangle like a Calder mobile. She looks sexy and elegant at the same time.
“Wow, you look fabulous.” I glance down at my skinny capri jeans, sandals, and flowy halter top. A very suburban-mom-getting-salad-or-sushi outfit. Why did I wear this? “I feel underdressed.”
“You’re perfect.”
She kisses me hard on the mouth, as if she now has the license to do that. I pull back reflexively. Though we shared a bed the other night, I cannot help but think of Ava. How I wish I could be edgy, carefree, and twentysomething again, and slide my tongue into Lea’s inviting mouth, but I’m not and I can’t. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. What was I expecting? To sit cross-legged on the floor with a bottle of Tito’s and braid each other’s hair?