Where You End

by Anna Pellicioli

  I opt for the girl’s bathroom. I ask him if he needs help, but he says he can do it by himself and can I wait for him, please. Sure. Pablo comes out of the stall with his shirt half tucked, but I don’t say anything, and he tries to jump for the soap, but he can’t reach it. I lift him up and run his hands under the water, and we smile at ourselves in the mirror. “Can we go get my tío now?” he says as we walk out.

  “Okay,” I say, hoping I won’t disappoint him. “Do you know where to go?”

  “Yes,” Pablo says, and he laughs, and I feel a hundred times better.

  We walk through the large wooden doors, back full-circle into the maze of stained glass and marbles. Pablo grabs my hand. There are flowers in the nave and along the aisles, which could mean a wedding. Pablo launches into a bouquet, inhales, and tells me it’s yummy, and we move to the back of the church, toward the tip of the cross. After a few steps, Pablo lets go of my hand and runs full-speed away from me. A few people turn around and I walk faster, until I see who he’s heading for.

  Eva stands up in a pew next to her uncle. She’s wearing my green sweater. Pablo stops before he gets to them and just stands there, frozen. I walk up and stand next to him and he grabs my jacket and tells me that’s his mama. I grab Pablo’s hand and it’s sweaty and warm, and I know it’s wrong, but I don’t want to let go, so we stay exactly where we are, Pablo’s face fixed on his mother.

  She walks toward us, and he lets go and walks away from me, and she hurries up and grabs him and hugs him hard, and, although I’m sure he loves her, he doesn’t hug her right back, probably because he doesn’t know what is in her head.

  Pablo asks for a couple of bucks to turn on a candle, and they each light one and say a prayer, which makes me think of my mother, and how she’s still here.

  forty-four

  In the car on the way home, Eva sits in the back with Pablo and he falls asleep on her shoulder. We don’t say a word to each other, even though I want to tell her I know everything, especially about her mother, but maybe it doesn’t matter now that she’s going back. Maybe this is really the end of her trouble. Uncle is driving with one hand, and every once in a while he sighs, like he’s letting the air out a little at a time, and I can see in the rearview mirror that Eva’s got one hand on Pablo’s knee, and they both have their eyes closed now. It would make a great picture.

  When we get to my house, the uncle walks over to my side and opens my door, then he shakes my hand really hard and says thank you, about five times. I tell him I’m sorry about all the confusion, and he waves it all away, now that his sister’s child is back in his car, now that he can keep his promise. Eva steps out.

  “So this is where you live?” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “It’s nice,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Look … ” she says, and I should stop her, but I don’t because I don’t want to say goodbye.

  “There’s a lot going on, but I’m sure you’ll be okay,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “You too.”

  “You have the book?” she asks.

  “Uh, actually, your uncle has it, but you should keep it.”

  “Maybe I can give it to you the next time,” she offers.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “So what are you going to do about the sculpture?” she says.

  “Well, I told my parents, so we have to think of something.”

  “What are they going to do?”

  “I don’t know, but they’re going to make me tell the truth. They’re big on that,” I say.

  “That’s good,” she says. “That’s hard, but it’s good.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So … ” She looks back at the car. “He’s awesome, right?”

  And I say, “Your uncle?” which makes her laugh until I say yes, he’s awesome, like his mama, and we both look down.

  I can’t wait any longer, and neither can Eva, so we hug, and she smells like ten days outside your home, sleeping God-knows-where, having God-knows-what nightmares, battling God-knows-what creatures with sharp teeth who eat your hopes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She pats my back, and I grab my sweater and whisper that I’m sorry about her mom, because I am, because I can’t even imagine. She says thank you again, and it’s time to go.

  But as she walks away, I see the date, those swirls of ink on her neck, and think it could be either—a birth or a death.

  forty-five

  Every house on my block has at least one light on. Upstairs or downstairs, people are wrapping up their day, stretching on their couches, checking the movie times, not doing the dishes yet. Most jack-o’-lanterns are still out, and the fake cotton webs are all sagging from last night’s rain. My chest won’t decide whether it feels light or heavy, but either way, I feel like something is pulling me home. I look back at the street, but their car is gone. Our mailbox is open, and when I reach inside, I find Eva’s key. She didn’t give me my camera either. It’s too late to go after her, and I don’t want to bother everybody right now. She knows where I am. I slip the key back in my pocket and make a mental note to put it somewhere safe when I get upstairs. I stop at the door and peek through my window before going in.

  The Shabbat candles are lit on the dining room table and Mom, Dad, and Adam are sitting around a pile of pizza delivery boxes. Friday’s come and gone, but the special olive plate is out and covered in plastic hot sauce containers. There’s an extra place setting, for me. Their faces look softer in the light; Adam’s napkin across his lap, Mom’s rings, Dad’s plate still clean. I blink my eyes like a lens, because I know everything changes. When my mother answers the door, I collapse in her arms, babbling between sobs that I’m sorry I’m late, that I should have lit the candles last Friday. My father and my friend wait patiently behind us, and Adam suggests maybe he should go home, but I tell him he doesn’t have to, that I’m sorry about him too. My father tells us all to settle down and stop being sorry and eat some Shabbat pizza instead, and so we do, talking and laughing and ripping our hair out about how the hell does a sculpture just fall when you push it.

  epilogue

  To: Kathryn Lowell, Associate Curator,

  Hirshhorn Museum

  From: Miriam Ariel Feldman

  Dear Señor Picasso,

  My name is Miriam Feldman, and I pushed your sculpture at the Hirshhorn. Perhaps you are wondering why anybody would do such a thing, but I think you of all people can understand, given that you married twice, had many mistresses, drove everybody crazy, and, in every portrait of you I have ever seen, you look like you never blink. As far as I can tell, you spent your life pushing things. Still, as my mother would say, that doesn’t mean that’s what I should be doing, and your sculpture certainly wasn’t mine to break. Also, since you are now the most famous artist in history, your work has gotten really expensive, and one can’t just go around knocking down expensive things every time one is mad.

  Which brings me to the next part: why I did it. I have been thinking about this a lot, and it’s hard to put it into words, so I thought I would use pictures. I chose five pictures for you because my school counselor (who you would probably want to sleep with) asked me for five, and I thought it was a good number. I hope all the pictures together will tell the story of what happened. It helped me understand. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I thought I owed you the truth, artist to artist, if I may.

  When we get critiqued, our photo teacher makes us say no more than three words about our work, but we can’t name anything that’s in there. Here goes.

  The first is about falling in love.

  The second is about losing.

  The third is about holding on.

  The fourth is about the truth.

  The fifth is about hope.

  I welcome whatever you bring my way, be it a life-long curse or a f
lood of insults, and I am ready to face it with grace, humor, and quite a bit of strength. You see, Señor Picasso, I know this may sound dramatic, but I think I was dying there for a while, or at least disappearing, and your sculpture changed everything. I am the one who pushed it, yes, but you are the one who made it. For that, you crazy bronze bender, I am forever grateful and at your service.

  Yours, Miriam

  Acknowledgments

  Grazie mamma and papa, who filled our house with books and photographs and taught me to keep my heart and mind open, especially when it’s hard.

  My fratello and sorelle, who are my favorite characters in real life.

  My nonni, whose spirits nudged me along.

  My friends, who get it, and share, and look for me when I hide.

  There’s not enough room for the number of times I’d like to thank Kate McKean, for her guidance, patience, perseverance, and sense of humor. Thank you. Thank you.

  Thank you, Brian, for taking Miriam on and helping me say what I mean, the ultimate goal (see Mr. Kite).

  Thank you, Sandy, for aligning time, space, and language. Your work is priceless. And Mallory, for handing the book to the readers.

  Thank you, Lanie and Dolores, who made it possible for me to sit and write.

  A friend once told me a story about a girl who knocked over a Picasso on the National Mall. Thank you, Kerri, for giving me that seed. I’ve never met the girl, but thank you, wherever you are, for inspiring me with your moment.

  My high school copy of Pablo Neruda’s Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair (trans. W. S. Merwin) came back for Eva while writing this book. I’m grateful I could experience his words again.

  I am indebted to the following people who read the early, terrible, long-buried versions of this book, especially Meaghan, Erum, and Allison. I hope you like this one better. Also, Erika Mailman, who made me write an outline.

  To Mr. Kite, who told me to cut the crap and say what you mean. Best advice ever.

  To my students, whose courage and tenacity gave me zero excuses.

  To my three beautiful children, who make and break my heart every day.

  This book is dedicated to my husband, Benjamin, for all of it.

  © Melissa Rauch Photography

  About the Author

  Anna Pellicioli was born in Italy, the third of five children.

  Since then, she has moved to seven different countries, in-cluding France, Nepal, and Russia. She graduated from Barnard College and taught high school English and Lit-

  eracy before starting to write books. She now lives in Istanbul with her husband and three children. Her other loves include walking in the woods, swimming in the ocean, and reading picture books aloud.