by Marni Mann
My eyes continued to drift downward and stopped once they reached the script that spread across his collarbone. I hadn’t been close enough to him before to see it, but the letters were tattooed over scars. Deep, deformed wounds that had healed on top of his skin. Some looked like he’d been burned; others appeared as though he had been slashed with a knife.
“I wish you’d told me,” he said.
He was the one speaking, but it felt like the words were coming from my mouth. Who would have hurt him like this? Was he trying to cover the marks with ink, or was this the dark period in his life that had given rise to his art? I suspected both.
“Told you about what? That you make me nervous?”
My fingers gripped the palette that was still in my hand, and I realized I’d stopped breathing. I knew I was staring at him. I had to make myself stop.
“About your exhibit,” he said.
I took a breath and met his eyes. “Professor Freeman told you?”
He nodded.
“I just found out—”
“This morning,” he finished. “I know.” His face was disappointment. No mask. “I figured you’d be running in here, dying to share the news.”
I was excited…but I was a bit overwhelmed, too. The exhibit was in a month, and Professor Freeman wanted twenty pieces from me, which included Kerrianna and my Day of the Dead. I’d have to create the remaining eighteen pieces within the next four weeks and I’d be using acrylics, not my normal oil paints, because there wasn’t enough time for the oil to dry. I assumed that because Cameron was featured year round, and because he already knew how it felt to exhibit his work, my news wasn’t worth sharing. I was wrong.
“Congratulations, Charlie. This is a big deal. I hope you’re ready for it.”
“I’m not ready—at all.”
Concern crept into his eyes. “Do you need any help?”
I wanted to spend more time with him, and I wanted to know about his scars. Mine didn’t mark my body, but they were bound to be just as dark as his.
“Are you offering?” I asked.
“As long as your brush doesn’t mess my face again,” he said, a small laugh passing between his words, “then yes. I’d be honored to help you.”
***
“Help yourself, please,” Victoria said as I took a seat in front of her desk.
I had come in an hour early, reporting to her room so we could have lunch together. A tablecloth had been placed over her dark cherry desk; there were two plates set on top, each filled with a breast of pan-fried chicken, green beans, salad, and roasted potatoes. I was always fed well at the mansion, given full meals and dessert rather than small, quick things to eat.
I placed the napkin in my lap and picked up the fork and knife. “Thank you for inviting me.”
The food smelled delicious, but I wasn’t hungry. Several hours had passed since I’d been at Cameron’s studio, but I still couldn’t get his scars out of my head, or stop my mind from contemplating how alike we were.
She left her napkin beside her plate and didn’t touch her fork. “How are you coping with…everything?”
I had the feeling she was asking about Lilly rather than the mansion or my clients. I wondered how much the Doctor had told her, or if she’d listened in to our conversation.
“I’m OK.”
“At least that’s what you’re telling everyone, right?”
I nodded.
“You don’t have to do this alone, Charlie. I’m here for you. The Doctor is here for you, too. I know I’ve told you this before, but we’re your family now.”
“I know, and I appreciate that. I do almost everything alone. It’s the way…the way I’ve always processed things.” That had been true since Emma had died. But I had Dallas now, in spite of how messy those feelings were. We were learning to adjust to this new friendship. And it felt like something was beginning to develop with Cameron, too. I just didn’t know what that something was yet.
“You can talk to me about whatever else is bothering you, too,” she said. “Anything.”
“Anythings, you mean?”
She smiled and finally placed her napkin in her lap. “Yes—anythings. I hope they don’t have to do with your work at the mansion…?”
I shook my head. “No. The mansion is wonderful. Everything outside, though…it’s all a mess.”
“It’s not a mess, Charlie,” she said. “It’s consuming, yes, and exhausting. Overwhelming at times, I’m sure…and it can be dark, for certain.” She sighed, and smiled again. “But that, my dear, is how life is. You can try to fight it, but it will fight right back. Better that you should embrace it, learn from it. Accept the darkness, because it’s who you are. It’s who we all are. Some of us get lost in it…others wrap themselves in it and wear it like skin.”
I’d been wrapped so tightly in mine that no light had been able to get in. But I wanted to know that there would be a dawn for me, somewhere. Even if I had to make one for myself.
Was that what Cameron had done? Instead of allowing his scars to limit him, had he embraced them and turned them into art? Had he found what fulfilled him, what made him whole…had he made his darkness into his dawn?
Was it possible for me to do the same with my darkness as well?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lilly’s clothes were piled in a heap on the living room floor. Her dresser was nearby; so were my mattress, the kitchen table, and everything else that had furnished our apartment. All of her belongings, everything that she owned, fit in this small space. The few possessions we’d accumulated through the years were dwarfed by the emotional baggage we shared between us.
The Doctor had referred me to a company that would purchase our things. They had come in this morning and gone through each room, boxing the smaller items and packing it all in the living room. I stood in the entryway, watching the men carry down one box at a time and partnering up to haul the larger items. The room slowly began to clear. As it did, more stains were revealed on the carpet, more dents in the molding and nicks in the paint. The scars I had painted across Kerrianna’s body, though painful, were still beautiful; so were the scars on Cameron. But our home showed the scars of our lives there, and there was nothing beautiful about them.
We generally hadn’t lasted more than a year anywhere; paying rent had never been a priority until I had taken over the bills. But we’d been here for five years. It was the longest we had ever stayed in one place. And now, it was empty again. As the last load was carried downstairs, one of the men handed me a receipt and a check for four hundred dollars. That’s all it was worth.
Lilly’s whole life had sold for what I made in a night.
I thanked him and locked the door behind us as we left. I didn’t need to walk through each room, saying good-bye to the apartment. It had never felt like a home. The memories that were made in that place, though? Those would never leave me.
The landlord was waiting by the curb, a thin cigar dangling out of the driver’s side window of his car. His moustache curled inside his mouth; tiny crumbs were stuck to the hairs. His dirty nails gripped the steering wheel, and he slid it between his fingers like he was trying to make it hard. In the past, I’d found his cigar stubs in the ashtray by Lilly’s bed. But all he’d ever gotten from me was the rent.
“You got the money?” he asked.
I endorsed the check over to him. Since our damages exceeded our security deposit, he asked for more. I gave it to him in cash. Then I gave him the keys.
“You have everything you need now, so we’re done here, right?” I asked.
His lips stayed shut. He had already shouted so much when we had spoken over the phone a few weeks earlier. He wasn’t angry that we weren’t renewing our lease; he was furious that Lilly had died in the apartment. He would have to disclose that information if he ever decided to sell the building. It wasn’t exactly a marketable feature.
“We are.” His tongue slid out, circling his bottom lip. Mostly, it just brus
hed over the hair. “Unless…”
He’d already touched Lilly; I couldn’t even imagine how many times. I would never allow him to touch us both.
I stepped away from the car, moving toward the sidewalk in the direction of the train station. I gripped Lilly’s sweater as I walked. It was the only item of hers that I had saved. She’d worn it when I was younger, during the nights she didn’t have to work. Sometimes she’d wrap it around us both while we were on the couch. There was a hole in its side and it reeked of smoke, but it reminded me of her, of the happier times we’d had together. It gave me something to hold—a forgotten memento, a worn piece of history—and it would serve as a final token of love. In life, I never recognized that Lilly loved me, but in death, I wanted to believe that part of her did. This sweater was our new beginning, and it kept her close to me.
This was me learning to forgive.
I stopped in front of Mary Jo’s, an all-night diner a block from our old apartment. Since the parks in my neighborhood weren’t safe at night and the McDonald’s was full of junkies, I used to go to Mary Jo’s when I needed space from Lilly. As a kid, I would sit at the counter and sip water; I switched to coffee once I acquired the taste. And if Mary Jo’s daughter Sammy Jo was working, she’d make me a strawberry milkshake to go along with either drink. I’d done so much thinking at that counter; I’d worked through problems, cried over slaps and buried words and wounds.
Breathe. Forgive. Run my fingers through an old sweater.
A set of bells chimed as I opened the door. One of the waitresses looked over and told me to find an empty seat. I sat down in my usual place, resting my toes along the bottom lip of the counter and crossing my hands over the cold laminate. My eyes focused on the names that had been carved into the hard surface. None had been added since the last time I’d been here. That seemed to be the only thing that hadn’t changed.
“Good to see ya, baby girl.”
I looked up to find Sammy Jo setting a strawberry milkshake and mug of coffee in front of me on the counter.
I smiled. “You always know what I need. Thank you.”
“You look different since the last time I seen you. All grown up now.”
“It’s only been a few months, Sammy Jo.”
There were many nights when I’d come here with Lilly’s handprint still on my face. Sammy Jo had known…she had to, even though I’d tried to hide it. But she’d never asked any questions. During the periods when I’d been my skinniest, she’d given me a cheeseburger and fries to go along with my shake. I didn’t feel like I’d matured from those skinnier days; I felt weathered, as if the last few months showed on my face…and those prints were still on my body, but now they were on my ass instead, left by men whose faces I’d never seen without a mask.
She placed a few napkins next to the straw. “It’s just real good to see that you turned out all right. Most of the girls from this neighborhood…well, Lord knows they didn’t.”
I’d gone to middle school with the girls she was referring to, but most of them hadn’t made it past freshman year. They’d dropped out, pregnant, many addicted to drugs. Around the same time, the boys had started joining gangs and hustling on the streets; several were killed in gunfights or drive-bys.
Their common thread was that they had all wanted more—we had all wanted more. More than any of our parents had given us.
I snaked the tattered remnant of Lilly’s sweater between my fingers. The soft fabric soothed my skin.
Maybe our parents wanted more for us, too, but they didn’t know how not to fail at providing it.
“I won’t be around much anymore, Sammy Jo. I’m moving to Boston, into my own place. I’m finally getting out of here.”
Her hands found mine. They were sticky from the ice cream scoop. “Nothing makes me happier than to hear that, dear.”
Would Sammy Jo have said the same thing if I told her how I had afforded the security deposit and first month’s rent? Would she think I was just like those other girls?
Maybe I was.
It might have been self-preservation, but I thought of it differently. My nights at the mansion were a release; the lack of emotion, the all-consuming fucking, the domination—they drove me, kept me moving forward. Sex held me at night, stopped my mind from dwelling, remembering, regretting.
It was the only time I didn’t feel alone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cameron stood with his back to the wall of windows in his studio. There was an easel in front of him and a fan brush in his hand. He was adding the finishing touches to his painting of me. I stood several feet away, holding a flat brush and attempting to add the last sweeps of shading to his button-down. But my attention wasn’t really on the shirt that needed a few more stripes…it wasn’t even on the canvas. It was on him, on the way his expression changed every minute and the way his fingers wrapped around the handle of the brush. How his stance was so purposeful, seemingly on the verge of movement and yet at ease, relaxed—a contradiction to the intensity with which his eyes anatomized his work.
This was my fourth visit to the studio, and I was more relaxed than I had been during my first. With each session, it seemed I’d become a little more comfortable painting in front of him. I had allowed him to watch while I filled in the outline of his body, the trunks of the trees, the substance of his fingers. When he stood close, I didn’t smear paint on his face; instead, I used his presence to lengthen my strokes, to fuel my confidence, to inspire me to spread paint in the same deliberate manner as I disrobed. I channeled his talent through me; his encouragement strengthened me. There was something about this piece that was different from my others. As with the others, I’d used only a small spectrum of color, and the darkness I’d captured left mere specks of light peeking through the canopy of leaves. But the look on Cameron’s face wasn’t the product of pain. To me, it exhibited a sense of discovery.
His gaze met mine suddenly, and his lips spread into a grin that slowly expanded to his eyes. I responded in kind, without thinking; it was as though my expression was controlled by his. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, my eyes from gleaming. And I didn’t want to.
“I just added the final stroke to your body,” he said, placing his brush on the table next to him. His hands went in his pockets, but his stare never left me.
I felt my face redden; I had to look away to stop him from boring into my mind, from dissecting each of my thoughts the way he did his paintings. So I focused on my piece instead. My bristles had been hovering over the canvas for several minutes but had yet to touch it. Small details still needed to be added: more shading in the leaves, additional character in the bark and blending for the fog. He hadn’t seen the face—his face—and even though that needed work as well, it was finished enough for him to view it.
He made his request before I could make mine. “Come see yourself,” he said, “the way I see you.”
I crept over to his easel, stalling behind it for several seconds. Flutters began to tickle my chest, the tease of the anticipation becoming palpable. I took a step closer, then another, focusing on the ground as I walked.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said.
My eyes shot up and met his.
“Look at yourself.”
The air from my lungs got stuck in my throat as I followed his gaze. In the scene he had created, I was completely naked, my body literally cut off at the knees. I had been painted from a side angle, with my hand pressed against my hip and my chin resting on my shoulder. My exposed breast was firm, with just the right amount of bulge. The muscles in my stomach were tight, my ass high and rounded. Filling the space behind me were bursts of crimson, cadmium lemon, Prussian blue, and manganese violet; the blended clouds scattered in the sky generated warmth that practically emanated from the canvas. Finer details—the hardening of my nipple, the transition point where my stomach met my upper thigh—were slightly obscured…abstracted, even. And though I felt my true innocence had been lost, my green eyes
, my sensuous lips, my entire expression portrayed tranquility, satisfaction, and wholeness.
I had never dropped the sheet lower than my stomach. He had asked me to cover my nipples with my hands, but he had painted the one that showed so perfectly. They tingled as I felt his stare upon me, and my breath got caught again. He had an edge of darkness that I hadn’t quite figured out. He was the only man who had gotten me naked and hadn’t touched me or even tried to seduce me. During each of our sessions, he had proven that he genuinely cared about me. What did all of that really mean?
“It’s my turn,” he whispered.
When his eyes met mine again, they didn’t just graze; they dug in and pulled everything out of me, my thoughts and feelings. What if he wasn’t satisfied with what he found underneath—not the woman who could make him come alive with desire and orgasmic suffering, but the broken girl Dallas and the Doctor were trying to heal? The Charlie that he had portrayed on canvas was truly beautiful. But if he knew all of me, the deep dark malaise of my secret self, would he find that Charlie equally stunning?
I didn’t say anything; I just followed him to my easel. When he reached it, he jumped back as though he’d hit an imaginary wall. His lids squinted; his arms unfolded and dropped to his sides. “This is…”
In the dream that had inspired this painting, Cameron had been walking toward me, his lips parted, words ready to fall out. I woke before he got the chance to speak them, so I based his expression on the one he always wore when he was around me. The look of discovery I’d painted was as confusing to me as the signals he sent.