“Where’s his painting?” I demand.
“Hard to say. A portrait by a contemporary master like Krell can end up anywhere: China, Russia, Bahrain. A Swiss art vault. A drug lord’s villa.”
I shudder and pull my blanket around my shoulders. Krell’s painting has gone underground. Stolen art almost never resurfaces, especially when crime lords are involved. The Rembrandts and ten other masterpieces stolen from the Gardner Museum decades ago have never been found despite a ten-million-dollar reward.
Adam continues, “When I picked you for my partner—“
“I’m not your partner.”
“I could not believe my luck. A highly talented student, the only one in her class who’d even attempted encaustic painting, desperate to hold on to her scholarship in the face of Krell’s unrelenting abuse.”
I’m horrified at how easy I was to figure out, how transparent.
“Now imagine how surprised I was to discover you weren’t the naive, innocent girl I’d assumed. You’re like me. You steal, but not just for the money. You wanted to get back at that woman.”
The words take my breath away. It was an accident Iona’s dress was in my car. I’m not like you, I want to say, but I can’t. “You won’t get away with this, Adam, or whoever you are. When Krell gets to Art Basel, he’ll realize the painting’s a fake.”
“Yes. The area on the shoulder I was forced to complete. Clumsy, I know. At first I was angry you refused to finish it, but as I imagined how this would play out and what options I had, I realized you’d pointed the way for me to get what I ultimately wanted.” He takes a sip of whatever he’s drinking.
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but the tone of his voice makes me squirm. “I’m going to Krell and I’m telling him everything.”
“Of course I can’t stop you, but you should ask yourself: Will Krell appreciate my honesty when he has to return the nine hundred thousand he got for the painting? Will it stop him from getting my ass thrown out of CALINVA?”
I have no comeback. The painting’s gone and confessing won’t bring it back. I’ll be the only one around for Krell to blame.
“And before you try calling his dealer, consider this: Barry Ankarian has no reason to believe you, not when the truth would screw his million-dollar sale. And a few years from now, when you’re angling for your first gallery show, he’ll warn his friends you don’t appear to be ‘all there,’ and they might want to stay far, far away from you.” Adam lets that sink in before he says ever so quietly, “So, is confessing really worth the price?”
I hang my head, hating myself for my silence.
“I promise you, Sabine. Next semester will be easier.”
He hangs up and I set down the phone and pull the blankets tight around me. I lie awake, thinking I can’t fix this.
Adam could be anywhere. He could live for years on what he got for Krell’s painting. Maybe not in the US, but in Mexico, Costa Rica, Thailand.
There’s just enough moonlight to make out Mom’s painting on the bureau. I gaze at her face and remember her saying, “I didn’t hit bottom because of what life did to me. I got there because of what I did to myself.”
I don’t know how far away bottom is, but I’m careening through space and it’s going to hurt like hell when I hit.
On Thanksgiving morning, I swear I’ve just fallen back to sleep when the whack whack whack of furious chopping makes my eyes snap open. From the sound of it, Mrs. Mednikov is dicing pounds and pounds of onions or maybe celery.
Ugh. I know I promised her I’d help with Thanksgiving dinner, but right now I can barely lift my head. Adam’s call has flattened me, and I wish I could disappear and not come back until the mess with Krell is over.
Mom looks down from her portrait. “I know, I know. You don’t have to say it,” I tell her, and drag myself out of bed. “The only way out is through.”
I pluck Mom’s paper turkey hat off the dresser. It’s wrinkled, and most of the glitter’s gone, but I stick it on my head and scuff into the kitchen. Today sucks, but I will get through it.
“Good! You are awake!” Mrs. Mednikov says, and heaves a bag of russets into my hands. “The potatoes need peeling.” She raises an eyebrow at the paper turkey perched on my head. “You are wearing a hat.”
“My mom liked to wear this on Thanksgiving.”
“Very festive, but perhaps something dressier when the guests arrive?”
“Oh, I guess you want me to change out of my pajamas, too?”
Mrs. Mednikov’s been baking for days, and the kitchen counters are crammed with gingerbread, dinner rolls, rye bread, and pie. We prep Russian potato salad and wedge it in the refrigerator under a bowl of pickled herring. Then I help her wrestle a pork roast into the oven with the turkey, because what if there wasn’t enough to eat?
A half hour before the guests are due, she shoos me out of the kitchen to get dressed. Fresh out of the shower, I sift through my closet for dressier until I find a blouse I’ve never worn. Loose silk with sheer gold, crimson, and cobalt stripes, I touch the fluttery ends of the sleeves, remembering how Mom beamed when I slid it out of the tissue last Christmas.
An ache fills my chest. She spent way too much and I told her I wanted to save it for a perfect occasion, and she said, “Wait too long for perfect, and you’ll miss great.”
I slide my arms in the sleeves. The silk is light as air on my skin as I button it on.
When I walk back to the kitchen after drying my hair, Kevin’s there. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and he’s mashing a big pot of sweet potatoes.
My heart swells, and I throw my arms around his shoulders. “What are you doing here?” Kevin glances over his shoulder at me, and green sunbursts halo his irises. How did I not notice his eyes are hazel, not brown?
“I’m on kitchen duty. I came in the wrong door and she nabbed me,” Kev says, and jerks his elbow at Mrs. Mednikov. “I’m not a serf, you know.”
“You want to eat, you can help,” she throws back.
“She thinks she’s a czarina,” he mutters.
Mrs. Mednikov gives me a look. This one I like.
Me too.
The doorbell rings, and Mrs. Mednikov slaps a spoon in my hand. “The gravy. Do not let it burn.” Then she’s gone.
“I thought you were going home,” I tell Kevin as I start to stir.
“Too much going on between lab reports and the First-Year Exhibition next weekend, so when Stephania invited me, I canceled my flight.”
Mrs. Mednikov didn’t ask me about inviting Kevin, but I smile to myself and decide to give her a pass. “How’s Unresolved?”
“It’s living up to its name.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’ll be fine. My roommate’s helping me with the mechanical stuff.” Kevin points to the open door of the sunporch. “Seen/Not Seen is looking good.”
I left the canvas on the easel after working on it yesterday. “Yeah, almost done. I hope it’s enough to impress the faculty.”
“I wouldn’t worry. I think you’re solid.”
The front door opens, and Mrs. Mednikov’s joy can be heard all the way to the kitchen. “Peter! Chelsea! Welcome! Oh, Tobias, what a big boy you are.”
I peek into the living room, where she’s kissing the cheeks of a young couple and their toddler. Peter’s a tall blonde with a port-wine stain across his temple. He rented from Mrs. Mednikov several years ago. Chelsea’s a small, freckled Madonna whose ginger hair is braided like a challah on top of her head.
Chelsea takes in the paintings that cover almost every inch of the living room walls. “Art students did all of these?” she says.
“Yes. I give one month rent-free in return for a painting,” Mrs. Mednikov answers. “Can you pick out your husband’s?”
“Shouldn’t be hard.” Chelsea puts Tobias on her hip and strolls around the room while his dad and Mrs. Mednikov watch.
It’s hard to take my eyes off this happy family, the nods
and glances and smiles that go back and forth between the couple, a deep silent conversation that only they truly understand.
Someday, I could have that.
I turn back to the stove and stir the gravy. Where the hell did that come from?
Guests continue to arrive, and Mrs. Mednikov frees Kevin and me from the kitchen. She puts her arm through mine, and we circle the room with a tray of tiny glasses of vodka. From the guests’ smiles and knowing glances as she introduces me, I sense they’ve already heard about me.
An older man, a collector of rare books, looking dapper in a burgundy tie and navy vest, raises his glass. “To our beautiful hostess,” he says, and we toast.
Her guests are as vibrant and varied as the paintings on the walls. Men and women of different ages: a music composer for documentaries, a rose collector, a trustee of a local dance company, a chess master, and a man who designs bridges.
Kevin sits on the floor with Tobias as the little boy stacks yellow, red, and blue plastic blocks on the coffee table. Kevin removes the top block from Tobias’s tower and hands it to Tobias, who puts it right back on.
“Did you pick out your husband’s painting?” I ask Chelsea.
“On the first try.” She points to the dark blue abstract whose brush marks crash like a turbulent sea. “I know him so well, how could I miss?” She raises her glass to Peter’s, and they clink.
I think back to the disconnect I felt with the painting Adam claimed was his. I knew it wasn’t. I knew in my gut, but I ignored it.
Kevin plucks the top block off Tobias’s tower, but this time he covers his eyes as Tobias puts it back. When Kevin uncovers his eyes, he acts shocked that the block has reappeared, and Tobias screams with delight.
I steal glances at Peter’s port-wine stain. It’s beautiful in a way, a map of an imaginary island. And the fact that he doesn’t hide it, but instead he parts his hair so it’s exposed, makes me like him even more.
Mrs. Mednikov refills Peter’s vodka glass, and he gives me a wink. “Has Stephania chosen a painting of yours yet?” he asks.
Before I can answer, Mrs. Mednikov interrupts. “I would like the painting Sabine is working on now, Seen/Not Seen. It is very powerful.”
“I didn’t know you liked it that much,” I say.
“Now you know.”
Peter smiles and raises a pale eyebrow. “Can we get a preview?”
“No. It is not ready,” Mrs. Mednikov declares. “But you may view it at the First-Year Exhibition next Saturday.”
“I guess we’re going,” he says as Mrs. M turns to another guest.
“Don’t feel you have to come,” I tell him.
“Stephania’s an unstoppable force and I’ve given up trying to resist her.” Peter sips his vodka. “What did you think of Collin Krell’s newest painting?”
It’s an innocent question, but for a split second I freeze. “Um, it’s genius.”
“One of those paintings you wish you’d painted?”
My cheeks get hot as I laugh. “That happens to you, too?”
“Happens to everyone,” he says.
Mrs. Mednikov sets the vodka on the table and invites us all to take our seats. Kevin sits across from me. The table’s lush with gourds and red and gold mums. Light catches on the facets of the delicate crystal that survived the trip from Eastern Europe decades ago.
Kevin and the bridge designer mirror each other as they talk, their hands shaping arches and sweeps of steel. I can’t hear over everyone talking, but I know when Kevin describes Unresolved because his hands flick back and forth like the panels of his painting.
The sun sets and the first round of toasts is followed by three or four or maybe five more. I lose count. We eat, and with each course, Mrs. Mednikov brings out dishes I didn’t even know she’d made.
The conversation roams from art to literature to politics. The woman with the dance company invites me to sketch a rehearsal. Kevin and the chess master debate openings in chess-speak. The composer makes a hand puppet out of napkins and keeps Tobias giggling until he crashes on his dad’s shoulder. They lay him on the couch facedown, and the book collector sings a Russian lullaby over him, gazing at Mrs. Mednikov while he does.
We are an odd assembly, like a sculpture of found objects: a clock, a kettledrum, a kitchen whisk, that once they’re put together remind you of an elephant or a pagoda.
Taking in this makeshift family, I’m flooded with longing for Mom. Tears judder in my eyes, and when I glance across the table, Kevin is looking back. I’m here for you.
I don’t know how he knows what I’m feeling, or how he knows what I need, but I curl my hand into a fist and lay it over my heart.
We gaze at each other, and smile. The air shimmers with the raucous harmony of this table, these people.
For a long time, I didn’t believe that I could ever be happy again. But at this moment, I see that real joy is possible.
At one point, Kevin disappears into the kitchen and doesn’t return. I get up, wondering if he left, before I spy him through the open door to the sunporch. He’s lounging in a wicker chair, talking on his phone.
Light from the kitchen falls across his back. On his phone screen, a girl a few years younger than us, whose cropped hair is badly dyed, is chatting at him nonstop.
Kevin senses me behind him and turns. He unhooks his earphones and tugs me onto the chair arm. “Hey, Toby, this is my friend Sabine.”
“Hi, Sabine!” She gives me a little wave, but a sinister glint has entered her eyes.
“Hi, Toby.”
“Give her the phone, Kevs. I want to talk to Sabine in private.”
Now I’m intrigued. I reach for the phone, but Kevin hugs it to his chest. “You don’t have to talk to my kid sister. I can tell Toby you’re busy.”
“No, I want to. How else am I going to learn your secrets?”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I carry the phone down the steps into the yard. Whoa. I haven’t drunk this much in a long time, and I’m a little unsteady on my feet. “So what do you want to talk about, Toby?”
“I’ve heard about you and I know you’re after my brother.”
I catch my toe on the stone path and lurch forward. “I am?”
“Yes, Ms. Just a Friend from School. Showing up late at night with bagels? Inviting him to help you track down the Korean-Mexican fusion truck? Kevs may be dense when it comes to how girls hook guys, but I’m not.”
Kevin’s seeing someone?
My stomach goes sloshy, imagining him and a girl sharing kimchi. How did I not know? How did Taysha not know? Doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Kev deserves to be happy. “Yeah, you’re onto me.”
I wander into the driveway and peer out at the street. Someone is strumming a guitar nearby, not playing a song exactly, but trying out the strings.
“Listen,” Toby says. “You’d better treat my brother right, because if you hurt him like that cockroach-lipped Chantal, I will take you down. Maybe not me exactly, but I know how to access the dark net.”
“Did you just threaten to have me murdered?”
Her mouth drops open. “No. Not murdered.” It takes her a moment to recover her steely-eyed bravado. “I’d have them break your hands!”
The porch light snaps on and I turn back to the house. Kevin’s holding a guitar I didn’t know he’d brought.
“So, Toby, I hate to disappoint you, but I am not the girl seducing your brother with Korean-Mexican fusion. Kev and I are just friends. But I will help you exact revenge if she hurts him.”
“Why didn’t you just say it wasn’t you?”
“Curiosity, and a bunch of vodka shots. You want to say good night to your brother?”
I walk the phone toward the house, and the first notes of a song send ripples down my spine. Kevin sings so softly I can barely hear him, but the lyrics of the song are tattooed on my heart. I sing along in my head, hearing the ache in Mom’s voice.
“Cruel wind
at my back and holes in my shoes…”
Mom hardly ever talked about leaving Oregon for LA, but on the nights she sang that song, I’d learn one or two more things about Grandma Betty, who turned her back on us.
I step onto the porch, and Kevin looks up. I hold out the phone and he strums a few more bars before he takes it from me. As he says good night to Toby, he fails to notice I’m frozen in place.
Red roses twine up the neck of the guitar he’s playing. It isn’t a copy of Mom’s guitar. It’s Mom’s.
I shake my head, openmouthed. “I can’t believe it. How did you know?”
“‘Broke Down in Stockton’? It’s a classic.”
He’s talking about the song, not the guitar. My silent confusion prompts him to try again. “Oh, wait,” he says. “Did your mom play that song?”
“Yeah, she did.” Nothing makes sense. How the hell did Mom’s guitar get here?
“God, I’m sorry. I should have asked before I touched her guitar, but when I saw the case, I wanted to see how the repair turned out.”
A sick feeling floods me. If Kevin didn’t bring me Mom’s guitar, then who did? The only person who knew I’d pawned it was Adam. I’m nauseous, imagining him creeping around the backyard early this morning and dropping it off on the porch.
“It’s okay. I’m not mad,” I tell Kevin.
“The guy did an amazing job matching the wood. I can’t even tell where he fixed it.”
I sink down on the chair beside him. It could be the endless vodka shots or my lack of sleep, but I’m so damn tired of lying about everything.
“The guitar wasn’t being repaired. I lied, because I was too embarrassed to tell you I pawned it.”
One thing about painting portraits is you learn to really look at someone’s face. If you’re not blinded by how you feel about them, you can catch small shifts in their expression that reveal more than they’d ever admit.
And what I see in Kevin’s face tells me he’s heard people talking about me, and he’s tried to ignore it, but he can’t any longer. I’m ready for him to ask me about Iona and the dress when he says, “Is it true you were homeless?”
What I Want You to See Page 18