The Unbreakables

by Lisa Barr

She laughs. “Not exactly but close.” She hands me the knife, which looks like it was a prop from The Shining, and I reluctantly take it.

  I don’t ask questions. I follow orders. I’m numb now. I’m Lea’s science experiment. I’m anyone but me. Together we exit the Women’s Room and head back over to the paintings, which she has propped up onto twin easels.

  “Now stab them, Sophie.” She gestures toward the knife.

  “What? That’s crazy. No.” I step backward, drop the knife to the floor, hold up my hands. She picks it up and points it directly at me in the exact way that I had taught Ava repeatedly when she was younger to never point a knife or scissors. “Stab the damn paintings. You want to release the pain? This is what I do. I go to my women and then to my artwork. You can’t do one without the other. Now, stab!”

  I’ve never stabbed anything in my life. I’m not violent. I don’t throw things. I don’t kill spiders—I’m the type who puts a glass over them and takes them outside. Although I did rip apart that blue birthday dress pretty damn good. And right now, thinking of Lauren and Gabe and all the years of betrayal—I could Jack Nicholson the fuck out of anything. Taking a deep breath, I walk in front of the first canvas—the one I painted. Lea grabs a glass of wine from the kitchen table, sits on the bed cross-legged, and watches me as though I’m a spectator sport.

  I turn to her, hesitating. “But I’d be stabbing you.”

  “Yes, and I welcome it! Now go!”

  I raise the knife high overhead and I stab right through the center of the canvas.

  “Again!” she shouts from behind me, my rage coach. “The other one too. Let out all that pain, all that anger.”

  I stab my painting first, and then I turn to the one she did of me. It’s simple in form, painted with fluid black lines and bright splashes of color, like a Matisse—and it looks like me. I don’t hesitate. I stab it right through its belly, then repeat. Again and again, each thrust becoming increasingly violent. Each stab is for all of them, all those women in the closet, who, like me, have felt sheer joy and the darkest betrayal. I stab for Lea. For Ava. Even for Sabine. I stab as though what’s left of my life depends on it. I stab at everything that I had refused to see—even when it was all right there in high def. Truth is ugly, commitment is a lie, love is shit, and marriage is betrayal. I murder and pillage both canvases, until there is nothing left but two large squares, emptied frames, through which I can see the hardwood floor. Shards of still drying colors are scattered everywhere. Breathless and depleted, I turn slowly to Lea. Our eyes lock. She nods. She feels me. She knows.

  Coming toward me, she gently peels the knife from my trembling hand, then tosses it into the sink, and leads me back to the table where the evening began. I’m still shaking as she pours more wine, then lights up yet another cigarette, and hands it to me. It doesn’t matter that I’m not a smoker, a lesbian, or a slasher—I have earned my rite of passage.

  “Life is messy,” she says through the opaque haze of smoke. “Love is messier. But pain is the messiest of all. Now you can begin to move on. Now you are ready.”

  IV.

  At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.

  —FRIDA KAHLO

  Chapter Twenty-One

  NATHALIE SENARD AGREES TO MEET ME AT HER HOME IN A PRIVATE VILLA JUST outside of Èze, a picturesque medieval village situated between Nice and Monaco, nicknamed the Eagle’s Nest because of its spectacular view 427 meters above the Mediterranean Sea. The drive itself in the early afternoon was stunning with surprisingly little traffic. After being admitted through the Senards’ electric gate, I park along the pebbly circular driveway, where a giant marble sculpture of a wild-haired Amazonian woman guards the entrance of the bougainvillea-wrapped villa. I can hardly wait to see what’s inside.

  As I slowly make my way to the front door, I can’t help but think how ironic it is that Nathalie is celebrated for her fierce depiction of women. Just wait until she meets me. Zero control of my life right now. I’m excited for the meeting but nervous. When Olivier called from Paris yesterday, he emphasized repeatedly that Nathalie is not to be touched, not to be challenged. Her illness has made her extremely irritable, he added just before we hung up, so be aware.

  An Asian woman in a crisp white uniform answers the door and welcomes me inside. She leads me directly through the art-filled foyer, past the kitchen, and out onto the backyard terrace, where Nathalie is waiting. I only wish I could have stopped to peruse all the incredible artwork covering the walls of her home along the way.

  Nathalie sits on a large cushioned chair next to a stone wall facing the sea and does not turn when I go out to the terrace. I take a quick look around. The backyard has a luxurious pool, a large Jacuzzi, and a colorful Moroccan-style garden with an ornate fountain at its center.

  “Nathalie,” the caregiver announces loudly. “Sophie Bloom is here.”

  “Good afternoon,” I say, still standing behind her chair after the caregiver leaves us alone together.

  Instead of responding, Nathalie waves me over to join her as she continues to stare silently out into the abyss. I stand next to her quietly and follow her concentrated gaze downward. The view is gorgeous. Clusters of terracotta-roofed houses are perched on rock outcrops above the cliffs leading down to the sea. The sun-kissed beach at the very bottom is accented by a rainbow of beach umbrellas. White yachts sail across the sea. The sky is bright and cloudless, the water crystal blue. I steal a glimpse of Nathalie’s aristocratic profile, so pale and long-necked that she reminds me of a cameo. I wait patiently until she acknowledges me.

  “Lovely, isn’t it,” she says with a half-smile as she slowly turns toward me. Her eyes meet mine and I’m struck by the startling shade of turquoise. They pop from her pale, ravaged face as though someone had colored them in. She wears a vintage fire-engine red Hermès scarf wrapped like a turban around her bald head, a throwback most likely to much better days.

  But those piercing eyes hypnotize, draw you in, and hold you hostage. I have seen eyes like those only once before. When Samantha’s mom, Lynda, was dying, she insisted on taking Samantha, Lauren, and me for high tea at the Four Seasons, accompanied by a nurse from hospice and an oxygen tank. It had been our annual ritual together since freshman year in high school—the four of us—just before the holidays. We all knew that it would be Lynda’s last high tea. Once so stylish and commanding, Lynda before she got sick was a high-powered corporate attorney who never lost a single case, except her own to cancer. She had those identical daunting eyes—determined and unstoppable—to the very end.

  “Olivier said nice things about you.” Nathalie gestures to the chair across from her, nods to her caregiver, who is standing in the kitchen window watching us. Within seconds, the woman appears carrying two tall glasses of fresh lemonade and an assortment of pastel-colored macarons. I reach for a pink one and laugh. “My daughter’s favorite. Thank you.”

  “Yes, Ava . . .” Nathalie says her name with a look and a pause that tells me she knows everything. My cheeks begin to burn slightly. For the first time ever, I’m deeply ashamed of my daughter’s actions.

  “You know,” I say.

  “Of course.” She doesn’t elaborate and it’s better that way. “Tell me, Sophie, why are you here?”

  My eyes widen. I lean back against the chair. Clearly, Nathalie knows exactly why I’m here. I know her type. She doesn’t really want to know why I’m here, rather why I deserve to stay. But a dying woman is entitled to the truth. “I was once a sculptor and had early success in my twenties,” I tell her. “I stopped sculpting because I developed severe carpal tunnel syndrome, which was debilitating. After that, life took some turns.” I pause to gather my thoughts. “I’m here in Provence because I’m recovering from a broken marriage and I’m trying to put my life back together. Olivier told me about you and your situation. He’s seen my work and thought I could help you with the installation at the Musée d’Orsay.”

  “But I
don’t want help,” she says defiantly.

  So why am I here? I don’t hold back. “And yet you agreed to see me, why?”

  Nathalie looks slightly shocked, as though nobody in her right mind would dare challenge her. And my guess is people don’t. “Because Olivier insisted. He is a selfish man, you know. And for him to help someone other than himself required a viewing.” She assesses me critically. “I can see why . . . but you’re older than his usuals. First the daughter, now the mother. Interesting, even for him.”

  She may be dying, but I don’t have to sit and take this. For a brief second, I want to tell her to go to hell, but something even stronger keeps me in my chair. She’s volleying, waiting for my return, seeing what I’m made of. Olivier had said to be aware, but what he really meant was beware. “Just so you know, I am not interested in Olivier in that way at all.” I can feel my eyes blaze, and I fight to keep my voice even. I need this job. “I’m interested in you and in how I can help you. Here’s what I do know. You’ve had a phenomenal career. You stood alone, broke ground for so many women sculptors. You are working on a final installation but . . .” It’s obvious what the but entails. I don’t finish that sentence. Nathalie raises a barely-there eyebrow and something tells me she’s waiting for me to continue. This is a woman who clearly disdains pity. Our eyes remain locked. I sip the lemonade slowly. “Everyone knows you, Nathalie. I’m totally alone here. No one has ever heard of me. I don’t move in your circles. In fact, I don’t move in any circles. But if my hands prove their mettle, I can still sculpt. Olivier told me that this installation is in marble, which is my expertise.” I exhale deeply. “So here’s what I propose . . . You be the eyes, let me be your hands. Let’s finish this together. I know it means a lot to you.” I lick my dry lips. I don’t know whom this voice/these words belong to, but they come and there’s more. “You’re dying. I’m alive but dying inside, desperately trying to recover. I believe that alone makes us compatible, right? But should we agree to this relationship, let’s respect each other. There’s no need to test me or to cut me down. I’ve been tested and I promise you, I can’t fall any farther than I already have.”

  I stand. I’ve said my piece. She watches me with piqued interest and an amused smile, but remains unnervingly silent. So be it. “I’m staying in Saint-Paul-de-Vence. I’d like to hear from you in the next few days,” I continue. “If you want to work with me, it would be my great honor. And it would, of course, remain our secret. The installation would be in your name alone. But if not . . . I truly do understand and wish you well.”

  Her swimming-pool blue eyes shimmer as the sun beams down, contemplating me. This woman needs me even more than I need her. She just has to decide if her ego will allow it. I may be desperate but I’m nobody’s doormat. “There is one other thing,” I say, turning slightly. “If we do work together, you need to know that my daughter is the most important person in my life. She is the sole reason I’m still standing, still breathing. So, whatever you know about her and her silly teenage mistakes—which I’m sure you’ve made plenty of your own, as I have—please respect that I’m a mother first and last. You can say anything to me and we will work it out. But as far as Ava is concerned—she’s off-limits, my line in the sand.”

  I’ve never used this reprimanding tone of voice with anyone and certainly not with a dying woman who is a national treasure. But my gut tells me that if I show any weakness of character, if I allow her to berate my own daughter, Nathalie will boot me out with whatever strength she has left. Weakness is the deal breaker here. I gather my purse and turn to go. Nathalie’s caregiver watches me from the kitchen window.

  “Please, Sophie . . . sit back down,” Nathalie calls out from behind me. It is not a request or an order. It is an agreement.

  I stop in my tracks without turning around. I see her reflection behind me in the glass patio door. Her hands are crossed, she’s leaning forward. I have passed her test. Glancing down at my unused hands, I flex them. Electricity charges through my fingers. This is happening. I’m about to sculpt again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  IT’S NEARLY 5 A.M. AND I CAN’T SLEEP. I FLIP THE PILLOW TO THE COOL SIDE AND puff it up once again, and when that doesn’t work, I decide to watch CNN for a while. Too antsy to concentrate, I fling off my covers, grab my robe, and head out to the balcony. I sit and stare out into the sepia-tinted nothingness until my restless gaze meets sunrise, a jubilant display of orange and gold illuminating the shady distant hills. My mind, finally, begins to calm. I bring my knees to my chest and hug tightly. I’m going to sculpt today after so many years, to carve actual marble, to feel the tools inside my hands that I’ve avoided for far too long.

  The hardest part is that I cannot share my good news with anyone because I promised Nathalie no one would know that I would be her ghost sculptor—just Olivier, of course, and her husband. So that leaves me with just Olivier, which basically leaves me with nobody. I try unsuccessfully to meditate to pass the time, then I go back inside the room, and check my phone. An “I miss you” text comes in from Ava, and there’s another one from Gabe.

  GABE: Hi. Tried calling you. Can we talk? Are you okay? Pablo misses you.

  Pablo misses me. I stare at the text, at Gabe’s cheap attempt at being cute by using our dog as a mouthpiece, and I feel nothing and everything at once. Am I okay? Yes and no, depending on the moment. But today, right now, yes.

  First, I respond to Ava with a “Miss you more” text, and then I delete Gabe’s text altogether. Cold, but what does he expect from me—emoji kisses? Those days are over.

  I put away the phone, read for a while, shower, order an early breakfast, and an hour and a half later, I walk inside Nathalie Senard’s enormous studio, which is adjacent to her home. My gaze shifts immediately upward, toward the vaulted wood-beamed ceiling that must be twenty feet high. I then turn in Nathalie’s direction. She is waiting for me on the far side of the studio, sitting on a sturdy chair wearing a denim work shirt, jeans, and a blue Hermès scarf. I’m sure she has one in every color. There’s a radiance to her face that wasn’t there yesterday. Her caregiver, whose name is Claudia, is there too.

  As I walk toward her, I scan the studio, an imposing, barnlike structure. The walls are stark white, lined with vibrant pottery, mounds of clay, plaster, casting materials, odds and ends, and every tool imaginable. At its center, and unmissable, is a giant marble statue nearly touching the ceiling, enveloped inside a womblike scaffolding. It’s her. The installation. From my angle, through the metal guardrails, I see the unfinished backside of a woman; the long sturdy legs, the carved indentations of her hamstrings, the athletic muscles straining through her calves, the sensual smooth curve of her buttocks, the long, stalwart back, the protruding shoulder blades. She is formed, yet far from finished.

  “It’s 5.17 meters high,” Nathalie says when I approach her. No good morning. No how are you. Just that.

  “Isn’t that the exact height of . . .” I interject. Seventeen feet high, I translate inside my head.

  “Yes. Michelangelo’s David. And that’s the point.” She smiles broadly. “This is my answer to the David.” Nathalie begins to cough hard, and it sounds painful. Claudia immediately hands her water. My heart goes out to Nathalie. I stay where I am, respectfully waiting until she steadies and signals me over. Her answer to the David? Every artist knows that no one has ever been able to measure up to Michelangelo, including Michelangelo himself—his own fiercest critic. His last works were full of self-doubt and struggling uncertainty—nowhere near the perfection of his early work.

  “Come,” she whispers finally when her breath evens.

  I walk toward her with trepidation, excited and overwhelmed by the statue’s size and the magnitude of the work ahead of me. I turn to glimpse the front of the statue, hearing Nathalie’s voice emanating from behind me.

  “Meet Eve.”

  Eve. I stare upward and take in the powerful body. I touch my hand to my chest. I can barely br
eathe. Eve is usually depicted as a long-haired naked beauty, a rib derivative best known for succumbing to a serpent’s temptation—but not this version. Nathalie’s Eve is far from weak. She clasps the serpent by its throat in one hand and holds a spear in the other. This Eve is no second-class biblical character but a warrior, a marbleized fuck-you to the doubters of a woman’s true power. My gaze slowly travels upward, absorbing every illustrious detail of this masterpiece—the powerful thighs, the indentation of her mound, the flat yet muscled torso, the proud breasts, erect nipples—all still needing work but already well-defined. Yet it’s Eve’s face that is most commanding. Chiseled, shined, finished. And strangely familiar. Not just familiar . . . I cover my mouth, take a clumsy step backward, and grab onto the nearest chair to prevent myself from falling. I turn to Nathalie with an accusatory glare. She doesn’t look at me. She knows exactly what I see.

  My inner rage, a hot bubbling magma, rises to the surface. That’s not Eve. That’s Ava. The long neck, the refined nose with the slightly flared nostrils, the almond-shaped eyes, the perfectly arched brows, the prominent cheekbones softened by a full, sensual mouth. But it’s the chin that is unmistakable, the giveaway. Lightly squared, with a tiny indentation. The woman representing all women, clutching the serpent, is the nude image of my nineteen-year-old daughter. Nathalie holds up her hand before I can speak. “Yes,” she says with all the strength she can muster. “It is who you think.”

  Heat boils inside me. I’ve been played. Olivier neglected to mention this part. The catch. My voice echoes loudly throughout the studio. “That bastard used my daughter, and you did as well. I’m an artist. I get it. I understand nudes—I’ve sculpted them. But she is just a teenager, damn it . . .” The affair, the pregnancy scare, and now posing nude for a very public exhibition. My heart begins to palpitate. “I’m leaving.” I turn to go.