“That’s your ego inflating.”
“Doubtful.” He lowers his gaze toward the ground, kicking at the cobblestones. “Would you like me to send you a bill for my psychological services?”
“Please do. I’ll forward it along to my accountant.”
He adjusts his glasses over the bridge of his nose. “So, what? When you went on family vacations, did you have visions of tying a rock to your mother’s ankle and dropping her to the bottom of the ocean?”
“That’s kind of morbid. And no, I didn’t. I always hoped to escape into the water myself.” The same pang hits my stomach once again. It’s a new-to-me nervousness. “Do you promise not to laugh?”
“No,” he utters curiously, “but I’ll try not to.”
“Great. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. It sounds so silly, but part of me always hoped that I could turn into a mermaid and plunge into the depths of the sea forever.”
Foster tilts his head. “That doesn’t sound silly.”
“Really?”
“No. And your family can’t be all that bad.”
“Well, that’s debatable.”
“It’s doubtful that they’re so bad that you’d rather spend your entire life as part fish, drowning sailors with screeching siren songs.”
“The gig was attractive when I was ten.”
I take two more shots and then stop to review my digital images. Satisfied with the variety and angles, I announce, “I think that’s everything I need.”
Detaching the camera from the tripod, I place it into my bag and rise back up to begin breaking down the rest of my equipment.
But someone beat me to it.
Foster collapses the tripod legs and then locks everything into place without me having to even tell him how. Carrying the metal stand, he begins to walk toward where my vehicle is parked in a nearby garage.
“So, what’s your parents’ story?” Foster questions as we’re crossing the street. “Divorced or something?”
“Worse. They’re happily married. They always do the right thing and are loved by everyone they meet.”
“Sounds like a total nightmare.”
“A very scary one.”
It’s the Friday after Thanksgiving, and I’m fleeing New York City two days earlier than regularly scheduled. The visit was not a warm one.
I’d arrived at my parents’ penthouse on Wednesday afternoon and ended up going out with a high school friend, who was also back in town, to catch up since my parents had a social function to attend that would last through the evening. The following day, I’d joined them, Barbara, and her newlywed husband, Geoffrey, for Thanksgiving dinner at the same hotel we had dined at since I was six.
The meal itself had been overly indulgent and grand, as was the conversation. By the time dinner had ended, it had been obvious that my presence wasn’t needed in New York—or even desired, for that matter. My father had promptly left for Italy on business, and my mother had made arrangements with Barbara to visit Geoffrey’s family in the Hamptons. Being an afterthought for the holiday, I’d decided to return to campus where stilettos and pencil skirts weren’t a requirement.
I’d devised a white lie about studying for finals and spending the weekend working on my thesis. None of my family had batted an eye about my soon-to-be absence, so I’d booked the earliest flight available.
I will be landing back where I truly belong in less than three hours.
“Flight attendants,” the pilot announces over the aircraft cabin, “prepare for takeoff, please.”
Settling back into my seat, my tension dissipates when the plane pulls away from the gate. It’s not long before we’re on the runway and ascending into the air. I gaze out the window, watching the world below become smaller with every passing second. When the New York skyline is well out of view, I close the shade along with my eyes, exhausted and free, drifting to sleep.
~~~~~~
“Evelyn,” my mother says, her high heels clicking across the hardwood floor of my bedroom, “I’m heading out for the day.” She stops by the window, drawing the taupe curtain to view the street twenty stories below.
“Where are you going?” I ask in my eleven-year-old voice, turning within my seat at the vanity.
“Meetings, darling. The charity auction I’m heading this year needs a lot of my attention right now. After that, I have an appointment with Gregor at the salon and then drinks with Charlotte and Daniella. I can’t very well let them down.”
“Oh,” I say, smoothing out the wrinkles in the skirt my mother purchased for me on one of her daily shopping excursions last week. The white eyelet trim is similar to the scallop on my bedding.
“Marisa will see that you do all your lessons,” she says, referring to our live-in au pair.
Marisa has been with me for the last two years, joining us after the previous employee went back to Europe.
“Be sure to brush up on your French. I hope she’s been conversing with you in it daily.”
“She has.”
“Good. I’ll talk to her about it as well. We’re all going with your father to Paris to meet up with our dear friends in two weeks. You need to be prepared.”
“I remember,” I reply obligingly.
“Yes. Well, you’ll want to be sure you can speak the language fluently to make good conversation with their son, Gerard. The Beauchamps are very important people to us.”
“Fera, Maman,” I answer, loosely replying, “Will do, Mom,” in French.
“Bon.” She nods, still gazing out the window into the sea of buildings. The fine fabrics hanging from the windows frame her elegant long physique tastefully. “Keep practicing. Don’t forget, you have violin in an hour.”
“What about my pottery class?”
“What pottery class?”
“Don’t you remember? I asked last week if I could take one. I gave you a flyer about it.”
“Evelyn, dear.” Her angelic eyes set within her angular face demand my attention. “I’m not so sure. You have more important things you need to be concentrating on right now. French, violin, and swimming on top of all your regular studies are really important if you want to get into an Ivy League school, which is a must. You don’t want to jeopardize your future.”
“I know this,” I say, lowering my head.
She approaches where I’m sitting, placing both hands on my shoulders. “Sit up straight. You’re a young lady, not a Neanderthal.”
I nod, not saying anything more.
“Now,” she continues, “I will see you tomorrow.”
“But I thought you said you were just going to be gone for the day?”
“Sorry, dear,” she consoles, fingering a tendril of my light-brown hair. “I actually won’t be home until late. There’s a dinner with the Thompsons, and Sandra is heading a Christmas fundraiser. I have to be there.”
“I understand.”
“Besides, Marisa and you have plenty to go over. I don’t want you to get behind.”
“Okay,” I say reluctantly.
She kisses the top of my head. “Don’t forget to go over your French. Gerard is really nice.”
Her body, a product of a strict low-calorie organic diet and exercise with a side of liposuction, retreats out of the room.
My mother is a stranger to me in so many ways. The only interactions we have are in regard to what I should be doing, according to her wishes.
Her wishes.
Does she even know my wishes?
Does she even care?
Does she even know me at all?
Who am I?
For the first time ever in my existence, I realize that my life isn’t really mine. It’s the one my mother has been planning and molding since the day I was born. I’m being groomed for Gerard or whatever man who comes from a good family with money and fine breeding.
I’m the human equivalent of a Fifth Avenue mare seeking a European stud.
I dreamily stare at the landscape print of blue-and-orange swirls over a
dark village. What I wouldn’t give to live in that starry night in the painting.
~~~~~~
“Excuse me.”
My eyes flutter, shades of gray vinyl flashing through my vision, and the stale air hits my nose as I awaken.
“Excuse me, miss,” a voice calls to my left. “The captain has announced our descent,” a flight attendant in her sixties, wearing a terrible shade of red lipstick, continues. “Please return your seat to the upright position. We’ll be on the ground shortly.”
Still returning from my dream state, I nod while straightening my seat. The flight attendant lingers down the aisle, uttering similar instructions to other passengers.
As the aircraft descends closer to the ground, I retrieve a small notebook, a memento of my childhood, from the seat pocket in front of me. Each trip home always brings about new revelations, and this was no different. I discovered that my bedroom had been downsized to make room for my mother’s expanding closet.
Because two weren’t enough. Apparently, she needed another one for her handbags.
Much of my room had been packed into boxes in preparation for a remodel.
At first, I was livid when the house attendant explained the upcoming construction since this was the first I knew of it, but then I quickly accepted the change because, in all honesty, most of the memories I had were not fond ones. I took the opportunity to reminisce about my youth, as I made sure nothing of importance was being thrown out or stored away, and I found my first art journal.
The bound pages were a secret between Marisa, my last au pair, and me. She’d introduced me to so many new ideas about life, the world, and people in general. Before taking me under her wing, she had been a struggling musician in Europe, and she’d come to the States to fulfill her grand and lofty hopes and dreams of having a professional career in the music industry. However, when Marisa had found herself unable to pay the rent, she had taken on me—my mother’s burden—as her own. While we had only been together for a short number of years, I’d learned more in her presence than with any other au pair my parents had afforded me.
Within the first few pages is a postcard print of Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. Marisa had taken me to the Museum of Modern Art on one of our required cultural excursions, and I had fallen in love with the colors and lines of the masterpiece. I recall gazing at the canvas for what had felt like an eternity, as if it had sucked me into a dimension where only I existed within the eloquent echoes of Van Gogh’s mind.
Over lunch in the museum’s cafe, my au pair and I had talked about a variety of art, what it meant to us as individuals and what each artist was trying to convey when they’d crafted their masterpiece. Before we’d left the museum, she’d bought me the postcard and the journal in my hands with her own money. Although Marisa had said it was because she wanted to give me a gift from herself, in retrospect, there’s no doubt in my mind that it was because she had known my mother would have disapproved.
Why else would she have asked me to keep it a secret?
When we’d returned to the immaculate penthouse, smelling of bleach from a recent cleaning by the maid, Marisa had asked me to summarize my feelings and observations about Van Gogh’s The Starry Night.
Studying the painting had become my obsession for years as I tried to properly describe the way this art piece in particular made me feel. My words had started off simple, but as I had grown, so had my thoughts.
As I flip through each note, I can’t help but smile.
When I come to the final entry—written when I was nearly seventeen, according to the date—my eyes water. Some feelings never change.
THE STARRY NIGHT BY VINCENT VAN GOGH
HUES OF BLUE AND YELLOW SWIRL LIKE COSMIC WAVES OVER THE SMALL EVENING VILLAGE. THE ILLUMINATIONS ARE SO BRIGHT IN THE PAINTED SKY THAT THEY PIERCE A VIBRANT HEARTBEAT INTO THE STILLNESS OF THE RIGID BUILDINGS BELOW. UNBENDING BOXES HAVE BEEN CONSTRUCTED TO CONTAIN AND CHAIN THE MORNING CREATURES, SO THE NIGHT CAN PLAY FREELY, ALLOWING THE DARKNESS TO ABSORB ITS OWN LIGHT.
HUMANITY RESTS AND FLOURISHES IN THE RECTANGULAR CLUSTERS. BUT WHAT IF THE BEINGS ARE HOLLOW? THEIR EMPTY HEARTS HAVE BEEN MOLDED AND REGIMENTED TO FOLLOW RULES FORMATTED BY THE DAYTIME INHABITANTS.
SLAVES TO THE VOID.
I AM NOT ONE OF THOSE HOLLOW HEARTS. MY PUMPING BLOOD IS A CAGED AND FAMISHED BEAST PRIMED TO EAT AWAY AT THE BINDINGS OF THIS EXISTENCE.
I WANT TO LIVE IN THE NIGHT—TO DANCE AND TO BE FREE, TO RIDE THE WAVES OF THE WIND. I WANT TO BE WILD AND WITHOUT BOUNDARIES.
MY BODY WAS GIVEN A LIFE IN THE STILLNESS, BUT MY SOUL YEARNS TO RETURN TO THE STARRY NIGHT.
“So, who are we meeting again?” I question Chandra.
We turn the corner at the end of the block where streetlamps light up the sidewalk, paving the way for college students to enter the many off-campus bars.
“Jeremy,” she replies, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets as the crisp fall night air cuts through us.
“And?” I ask, pulling the newly dyed red strands from my balm-covered lips.
“Just a few of his friends.” She peeks at me, a mischievous grin playing at the edge of her cheeks. “Including his super cute roommate, Anthony.”
“Great,” I drawl with the insinuation of impending doom.
“What? It’s not all right for Jeremy to tell me which of his friends are going to be there?”
I laugh. “Don’t pretend like I don’t know what you’re up to.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says, her voice rising to an octave of false innocence.
“Sure you don’t. You’ve only mentioned Anthony’s name to me almost daily for the last month. Stealth you are not.”
“Yoda you are not.” She bumps her shoulder against mine. “I just thought it’d be nice if we could all go out together sometime. Honest.”
“I get it, but I’m really not in the dating mood tonight. I was hoping to just get hammered.”
“Well, you can still do that,” Chandra says, stating the obvious. “And maybe meet someone at the same time?”
“We’ll see.”
Coming back to campus early was definitely for the best. The moment I walked into my apartment from my shortened New York trip, I immediately felt at home. The streets of Manhattan might be a lifelong dream for many, but for me, it’s a prison surrounded by invisible bars of expectations, false lives, and my inability to live up to any of my family’s desires.
Wanting to leave my unpleasant New York holiday behind me, I did what any girl would do. I dyed my hair. Being that it’s autumn, I opted for a seasonal shade of red to match the changing oak leaves, in hopes of shrugging off the cold still lingering from my last interaction with my mother.
“Here we are,” says Chandra, swinging open the door to a local pub that caters to college students and known for craft beers on tap.
It’s a rite of passage to vomit on the restroom floors at least once while attending the nearby university. On my twenty-first birthday, I made my pledge to this establishment’s porcelain god while Chandra held my hair.
We enter together, the heat removing some of the chill from the dropping temperature.
“I see Jeremy,” Chandra says, tilting her head toward the front corner. “This way.”
I follow her lead, joining her boyfriend and a few of his friends surrounding two tables pushed together. Unbuttoning our coats, Chandra and I take a seat along the booth as the four men rearrange their seating positions to make room for us.
“You made it,” Jeremy states, sliding his arm around my friend’s shoulder.
“Did you have doubts?” she teases him.
“None whatsoever.” He leans forward, peeking at me. “Hey, EJ. New hair?”
“Yep. Decided to go seasonal.”
“I like it.”
“Thanks.” I smile at him.
Jeremy is easy to get along with.
“How was New York?” he questions me further.
“The
same as always in a reliably obnoxious way.”
He laughs. “So, I take it, you didn’t see the parade?”
“Nope.” I fold my jacket, tucking it next to my hip. “Monster-sized turkey balloons were not on my agenda. Just good old-fashioned family drama with a side of cranberry sauce.”
“Sounds like you could use a drink.”
“I could likely use two.”
“I can get it,” a blond guy with broad shoulders says, rising from the table. “What do you want?”
“Something with alcohol, please.”
He chuckles. “That sounds manageable. What about you, Chandra?”
“Whatever,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “Just a beer.”
“Be right back.”
The blond leaves the table, and Chandra proceeds to introduce me to Jeremy’s friends. They’re all in the same architecture program and apparently live in the same building.
“And this,” Chandra states as a dark amber lager is placed in front of me by the alcohol-fetching blond, “is Anthony, Jeremy’s roommate.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, pulling the beer closer. “And thanks. Next one’s on me.”
“Sounds good,” Anthony replies, pulling out the seat across from me. “Or maybe you could let me buy you drinks all night? It would be my honor to serve you, angel.”
Is this guy for real? Lame ass. There’s no way that actually works on girls.
“Is this the part where you ask me, ‘Did it hurt? You know, when you fell from heaven?’”
“Well, did it?” he asks with a wide grin and a slimy wink that makes my skin crawl.
Great. I’m stuck with this guy.
Chandra subtly nudges me with her elbow and smiles in my direction, encouraging the oh-so hopeful and likely never-going-to-happen mating between her boyfriend’s roommate and myself.
This should be a fun evening.
Over the next hour and two beers, I listen to Anthony’s not-so-subtle come-ons between touting on and on about his greatness and egotistical gloating about how he will be taking over his father’s architectural firm once he’s done with school. And, in case I missed it the first five times he mentioned it, he boasts once again that it’s the largest firm in the tri-county area.
More Than Water Page 5