The Unbreakables

by Lisa Barr

  The truth is out. Mine and Gabe’s, and now we have to address Ava’s. I reach over and place my hand over hers. They feel cold and tiny inside mine. “There is something I wanted to talk to you about alone, but since we’ve started all this . . . like I said I am sculpting again, and I should probably tell you that I’m sculpting with Nathalie Senard.”

  Her eyes open wide. Gabe sees Ava’s startled reaction. “Nathalie Senard—the famous artist?” he asks.

  “Yes, her,” I tell him. “She’s dying of cancer and I was asked to help her finish her final installation in secret.” I’m hoping I can skip the relevant detail that it was Olivier who connected us. I glance at Ava. Your turn.

  “Are you working on Eve?” Her voice is barely there.

  “That I am,” I say, waiting.

  “Who is Eve?” Gabe asks.

  Ava’s mouth drops. She knows I know.

  Her cheeks blow out slowly. “What Mom is getting at is . . . well, during the semester, I posed nude for Nathalie Senard. Eve is me.”

  “Eve is you?” Gabe looks confused. “Where is this being shown?”

  Ava’s body tightens, she goes mute. There’s no point in holding back, so I take over. “Eve is Nathalie’s final sculpture. They’re calling it the feminist answer to Michelangelo’s David. I’d say there’s a good chance it will be shown pretty much everywhere. I was concerned at first too, but now I have to say that I’m proud.”

  Ava’s face breaks out with relief. It doesn’t matter that we are a house of artists, and Gabe’s a doctor. Our daughter posing nude is still our daughter naked in Gabe’s eyes. “Everyone will see this.” His mounting anger is more than apparent. “I’m not happy about this at all.”

  I wait for Ava’s “it’s not porn, Dad, it’s art” retort. She’s not one to hold back. Ever. She lets go of my hand and points at him. “At another time, Dad, you’d have a leg to stand on. Now, not so much.”

  Touché. But I interject reflexively. “Ava, he is still your father. Don’t forget that.”

  “This is so fucking ridiculous.” She jumps up off the couch, faces us with a steely glare, hands on her hips, and this time, points at me. “You ditched us, ran away from your problems. And Dad is the blue-ribbon cheater of North Grove, and you’re still a united front? I posed because I wanted to. It’s art, Dad, not porn. I’m an artist, and so is Mom—get over yourself.”

  And there you go. She crosses her arms, challenging either of us to say another word. Gabe and I look at each other. No matter what went down between us, we are hurting the one person we both love most in this world.

  “A united front is something,” I tell her gently. “It’s a good thing, a start.” I pat the couch cushion. “Come sit down, honey. Let’s all just watch the movie together.”

  Sometimes saying nothing is the best option. Too many truths for one night. But at least there are no more lies. That is something. Ava reluctantly sits in between us. We watch the rest of Definitely, Maybe in silence, munching the popcorn, our hands meeting in the middle of the giant bowl, each of us lost in our own thoughts. We are still a family, only different now, stripped down and raw. Perhaps just a little more honest about our dysfunction. Maybe just maybe, now that the crap is out there, we will be better for it.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  IT’S LATE AFTER THE MOVIE ENDS, BUT NONE OF US IS TIRED. WE DECIDE TO PACK up Ava’s jeep and the small U-Haul with the four stuffed duffel bags, the new futon and bedding, framed prints of her favorite paintings, the new microwave, the mini-fridge, and myriad kitchen appliances and bathroom supplies for her new apartment. University of Wisconsin–Madison is a two-and-a-half-hour drive from North Grove. Ava and I do the loading because of Gabe’s arm and ribs. I made it clear to him that I’m taking her to school alone in the morning and setting her up. From there, I will be returning to France. He’s not happy about it, but silently accepts it.

  As we pack up the car, Gabe says nothing directly to me. He just belts out orders like “Put it over there,” “Seriously? That’s not going to fit,” and “Stack it right, or it’s going to break.” He talks to Ava but looks past me. When everything is done, Gabe heads into his office and shuts the door and Ava goes upstairs into her bedroom. I wait for a bit, clean up the kitchen, go down to the basement and grab a large suitcase, and then make my way up to the master bedroom, which I’ve avoided.

  Standing in the doorway of my bedroom feels even stranger than the kitchen. I enter slowly and pause in front of our tainted bed, staring at all the matchy-matchy decorative pillows, and know one thing for certain: I will never sleep there again.

  My heart beating fast, I walk past my sculpture, enter my closet, and quickly rummage through my stuff. It feels as though I’m robbing someone else’s closet as I toss shoes, shirts, skirts, jeans, and dresses into the luggage. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing or even how long I will be staying. All I know is that I am going back to Saint-Paul, to the life—the me—I’m creating there.

  Before I zipper up the suitcase, I snag the photo of me, Gabe, and Ava, taken on her first birthday, off my nightstand. It’s my favorite. We all looked so happy then, so blissfully innocent. We were happy, were innocent. It was before the cheating began and the sculpting ended. I run my fingers along the chrome frame. This is how I want to remember us—the memory I will always treasure.

  I take one last lingering look at my bedroom, turn off the lights, and pass by Ava’s room. Her light is still on. I leave my suitcase outside her door.

  “Mom.” She hears me.

  I peek my head inside. “Hi. I will wake you up at around eight thirty. Sound good?”

  “You’re going back there, aren’t you? No changing your mind?” She sounds so heartbroken.

  Deep breath. I walk inside. Her room is dark; just her nightstand lamp is on. Her laptop is balanced on her stomach and her cell phone is right next to her; Pablo is curled up at the end of the bed. I sit next to her, remove the devices. “Yes, I’m going to finish the sculpture. And then . . .”

  “And then what?” She sits up.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. No plan yet.”

  “That’s not like you. Everything is always planned. You always seem to know what’s next.”

  “Yeah, but that kind of went out the window.” I smile sadly.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  I reach out and hold her toasty hand, and she squeezes mine. “I hope so. How ’bout you? It was a hard night. Are you okay?”

  “I think so. No, probably not.” She pulls me toward her and I lie on the pillow next to her. “I’m worried about Dad, though. He’s losing it.”

  “Yeah, I’m worried too.” And it’s the truth.

  “He loves you, Mom, despite everything. I can see it.” Still wistful. Still hoping. Still right.

  Say something soothing so Ava can sleep. No, I correct myself, say something real so she can actually believe in it, hold on to it. “Love is messy,” I say softly, borrowing from Lea. “I don’t think I ever really understood that until now. But no matter what, even if life hurts like hell, sometimes you just have to pick yourself up and build again. That’s what I’m going with.”

  She looks up at me, eyes large and round. “What if Jake cheats again? It happened once.”

  “Yes, but don’t forget you were with Olivier at the same time,” I remind her. Accountability is everything. Brokenness and betrayal are never a one-person show.

  “I still think about him,” she admits, leaning against me. “How did you get to Nathalie Senard anyway?”

  More truth. There’s no way out. “Remember you told me that Olivier was going to be teaching in the South of France? Well, I actually ran into him. I had taken a day trip to Cap-Ferrat and I bumped into him and his students at the Rothschild art museum. It took me by surprise, I admit. He told me about his friend Nathalie, who he said needed help and thought I might be a good fit. He set it up, never mentioning to me that you had modeled for her. You can only im
agine my shock when I took one good look at Eve.” The truth is out there, bent a bit, filtered, but out. I stop at the edge of full disclosure.

  Ava pulls the covers up to her chin. “It’s crazy how it all connects, isn’t it? How sick is Nathalie?”

  “Very,” I say, my head nestled against hers. “It’s only a matter of time. I’m finishing Eve, working as fast as I can. She sits there all day and watches me, directs, and corrects me.” I smile to myself, thinking of Eve’s toes. I lean over and kiss the top of my daughter’s head. “Last year in college—I still can’t believe it.”

  “I feel so old and young at the same time,” she says. “This summer, this whole year—it was so much.”

  And then she begins to cry. My baby finally lets it all out, and it’s about damn time. She’s been so strong, too strong. Ava cries for all the things in life that she can’t fix. And all I can do is hold her, rub her head, and be present. It’s the most powerless aspect of parenting. We can’t take away our child’s pain, we can’t carry it for them. We can only just be there, a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, an ear to listen, and a hug to reassure. I feel Ava’s pain more than my own. She flips over, and I rub her back until her tears dry up and the light soothing sound of her snore overtakes her sadness and carries her through the night.

  BY THE TIME I CLIMB INTO THE GUEST ROOM BED, I AM MENTALLY AND PHYSICALLY exhausted and yet still wide awake. My mind is churning, rehashing the entire day that wasn’t even a day—it was a life, an afterschool TV movie special. There’s no way in hell I’m going to fall asleep now. I pop two melatonin and peruse an old People magazine from the bathroom that I’d already read a couple of months ago, when I hear my door open. I freeze.

  “Soph.”

  “Yes,” I say, my heart beginning to pound.

  “I know you’re leaving tomorrow.” Gabe’s voice cracks. “Can I just . . .” He points to the pillow next to mine. He wants to lie with me. I put down the magazine, uncertain what to do.

  “Okay.”

  We don’t speak at all as he climbs in.

  “With everything that happened between us, somehow I just never envisioned goodbye. Is that crazy?” he whispers. His breath is hot and he’s been drinking. Bourbon. “I think I must be the dumbest man alive. Book smart, life stupid. How did I let this happen? How did I not see the collateral damage of my actions? I mean, I pictured being caught, but not losing you—”

  He doesn’t finish. There is no transition. It all happens so fast that there is no time for me to even process what comes next or to put a stop to it. We rip each other’s clothes off. And he’s pretty skilled with one arm. It’s our bodies in the room working it now, not our heads. It’s our past clinging, touching, groping, not our present. We don’t even see each other in the darkness, just feel each other, the excitement, the familiar, and, now, the strange. Suddenly, I’m not in the House of Lies, but I’m back at Gabe’s old house where he grew up, and we are high school seniors sneaking off into his bedroom, tearing up his twin bed. His parents are sleeping. They thought we were in the basement watching TV, not fucking our brains out, just as we are now.

  His hands caress my breasts roughly—much rougher than I ever remembered his touch. But after my Jean-Paul tutorials, I’m all in, up for anything.

  “Jesus Christ, Sophie,” Gabe pants. “I’ve missed you, this.”

  I say nothing back. I just close my eyes and absorb—his scent, his touch, his tongue moving everywhere on my body as though it’s motorized. I feel the muscles of his well-worked-out abdomen and slowly inch my way down his long torso, teasing him with my lips, my tongue, and then taking him fully into my mouth. Gabe returns the favor, and we curve together, reclaiming familiar turf with a passion that has long been forgotten, catching glimpses of each other as lovers do in the grainy darkness. And then it goes from passionate to reckless. Him on top, me on top, me holding on to the shaky headboard—we really need to fix that—him hungrily exploring my body from behind. We are no longer a middle-aged beaten-down version of us, but fearless Cirque du Soleil performers free falling and twisting under and over each other.

  “What the hell was that? Incredible. Man, I still love you,” he whispers as he penetrates me. “You’re still so goddamn beautiful.”

  “And sad,” I say, spreading my legs wider.

  “And mad,” he adds, thrusting hard inside me.

  “Yes, all of it—yes.” His heart beats against mine, as he strokes my clitoris. This is not make-up sex or break-up sex—but the Final Fuck—and it’s spectacular. And there, right then, we climax, together, a celebration of all that once was.

  Gabe is silent, satiated, panting heavily next to me, and I cry just a little as I meld into the crook of his muscular arm, like a car pulling into its home garage for the very last time. The soapy underarm scent that I know so well, that was once so comforting, still is. But Gabe, once my hero, can no longer take the bullet for me—this time, he was the shooter. And there’s no fixing that, no going back from that.

  Seconds later, maybe less, he predictably falls asleep. How does he always do that? It could have been an earthquake, a fire, a robbery, a bomb going off, but once Gabe finishes, he’s out for the count, undisturbed by the voices in his head, and I’m more awake than before.

  Sitting up, I look at him beside me and use this sacred time to do all my goodbyes. I lean over, tenderly kiss his cheek, graze my finger along the light stubble lining his strong chin, kiss the tip of his nose and that scar lining his eyebrow. My lips brush his thick eyelashes and the slight cleft in his chin that mirrors Ava’s. And at very last, I kiss his sleeping snoring mouth, those full lips that once belonged to me but now no longer do.

  I lie there with my husband who claimed most of my life and once all of my heart. I watch his stomach rise and fall like a metronome. I even place my hand on top of his belly for a few sequences. My mind begins to quiet, and I realize that I am finally straddling the border of peaceful and okay. I reach up and remove a stray curl covering his left eye and know that I will always love this man despite his flaws, his marital transgressions, and weaknesses. But I also know that for the first time in way too long that I love me enough—enough not to stay.

  VI.

  The main thing is to be moved, to love, to hope, to tremble, to live.

  —AUGUSTE RODIN

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I ARRIVE IN NICE MIDMORNING ON TUESDAY, TAKE A CAB FROM THE AIRPORT TO the apartment in Saint-Paul. I’m wired from the travel, having slept on and off the entire flight. Now I just need to stay up until at least 9 p.m. to regulate, so I can start fresh and early with Nathalie tomorrow—one day later than promised, but I will make it up to her.

  Walking around Lea and Jean-Paul’s apartment, I realize how happy I am to be back in this cozy environment. I glance at the mismatched furniture and colorful shabby throw pillows. It’s so vastly different from North Grove—so much less than everything I have there—but strangely in its own way, much richer. Real. Artsy. Me.

  I unpack, lie on the bed for a few minutes, then pick up my trusty guidebook off the nightstand and sift through it. I’m starving. I flip the pages and stop. La Colombe d’Or. That’s it. I’ve been dying to go there for a good, long leisurely lunch. Now’s the time.

  I call the restaurant and make a reservation for 1 p.m., thrilled that I got in, knowing that people make reservations weeks, perhaps months, in advance. La Colombe d’Or is not just the most famous restaurant/hotel in all of Saint-Paul—it’s known for possessing some of the most famous artwork in the world.

  Apparently, the owners—the Roux family—had befriended many “starving” artists as far back as the 1930s and ’40s. The restaurant became a cultural safe haven for struggling artists whose work could be exchanged for a meal or a night’s stay. Paul Roux, the patriarch and a man ahead of his time, had the foresight to dole out meals to the likes of Picasso, Chagall, Matisse, Calder, and Miró. And the artists paid Roux back in kind—gifts of thei
r artwork are displayed throughout the renowned restaurant and hotel. The guests, from Charlie Chaplin to Bono, are so legendary that the owners actually keep its visitor book filled with famous signatures of artists, actors, musicians, politicians, and VIPs in a vaulted safe.

  I put away the travel guide, shower, and slip on a black maxidress and my favorite double-strand vintage antique silver necklace, which Ava bought me at one of my own art fairs a few years ago. It has an ornate oval locket, inside which she’d stuck a tiny picture of us, taken on her first day of kindergarten. Our heads are mushed together and we are both beaming. I smile at the memory, recalling the sheer joy in Ava’s tiny face as she clutched her new Hello Kitty backpack, and the mixed emotion in mine. She was leaving the nest for the first time, and I had to let her separate and fly. And now . . . I think, fondling the precious locket, Ava is grown and flown and I’m just discovering my wings.

  A half hour later, I park in the center of town, a few blocks from the restaurant, which is just footsteps from the village entrance. I then walk toward the densely framed ivy entrance of La Colombe d’Or, stopping briefly along the sidewalk to watch a group of old men playing a mean game of boules, a kind of horseshoes with balls.

  As I cross the street, I stand back and observe the renowned façade of the restaurant for a few precious moments before entering. It is composed of old medieval stones and it’s gorgeous, timeless. I gaze into the distance, down the road, at the high stone walls surrounding the village like a fortress from Game of Thrones. So much history in this little village. How I’ve loved walking through its labyrinth of narrow and picturesque cobblestoned streets filled with charming boutiques and art galleries, exploring the hidden gardens, the ornate ancient fountains—centerpieces—in the shady historic squares. It’s such a far cry from North Grove, where all everyone talks about is the just opened Juice-ation, a neon monstrosity next to the car wash, that offers myriad anti-aging vitamin juices and smoothies, avocado toast, and acai bowls.