by Leigh Kramer
Our small talk covered a variety of topics. The Chicago music scene, of course. How he was settling into his apartment. My penchant for baking dessert. The hour quickly passed.
Surprised by my reluctance, I drew the meeting to a close when I noticed the time.
“If you don't have any more questions, why don't you look everything over and get back to me in a few days,” I suggested. My hands busied themselves with straightening the desk. I hoped he would agree to display here. I could stand to feel competent in one area of my life.
He stood but didn't move. I looked up at him.
“I do have one more question, actually. Can we get back to what you said when I first got here?”
I stared at him. “About my grandmother?” Guilt descended. I hadn’t thought about Gram once since the meeting began. What kind of granddaughter was I? My brow furrowed in self-reproach.
“You look like you might need the company and as the new guy in town, I happen to be free. Can I buy you a drink after you finish work?”
My mind raced. I didn't get invitations from handsome strangers every day. However, processing Gram's diagnosis might not put me in the best light. Plus, I had a wonderful group of friends who would be willing to listen. Although, I wasn't ready to tell anyone. It would make it all too real. I'd told Reagan, though. This baffled me. When was the last time a man had slipped past my defenses without lifting a finger?
I should say no. I should keep things strictly professional.
The kindness in his eyes puzzled me and drew me in, weakening my resolve.
A drink wouldn't hurt. What I wouldn’t do for a glass of wine or a good Manhattan. He probably didn't have many friends here yet. I would be doing him a favor, really.
“Since you're new to the area, why not? I should be done here by seven,” I said.
“I'll see you then,” he said with a wink, and headed out the door.
Slowly I rose from behind the desk to shut the door, feeling dazed. I returned to the desk and sagged into my chair. Check that off the list, whatever it was.
Overloaded on all fronts, my eyes darted around and tried to find a place to land.
Sunshine poured through the window on the opposite side of the room. The flowering tree boasted tiny buds of pink and white. Distant bird songs called back and forth. A picture-perfect spring day.
All wasted on me. My body felt one with the chair; I didn't want to move from this position.
Reagan was unexpected. I could not label and categorize him the way I wanted to.
I agreed to see him outside of work. Puzzling. I must not be thinking clearly about anything.
The heaviness of this morning returned, but I didn't know how to absorb it. Trite though it may be, I wished for rain and thunder outside. Bad weather to match how deflated and disoriented I felt by Gram’s diagnosis.
The dull ache in my forehead intensified. Slightly dizzy and disoriented, I felt lost. There wasn't a road map for what came next and I didn't know where to start.
Of all the emotions running through me, fear took front and center. What if my family was right about me? What if I let Gram down? No matter what happened, I had to see this through. For Gram's sake, as well as my own.
My planner loomed from the desk, scribbled with appointments and daily to-dos. I could not stay insulated for long. My first decision: fall apart now or later?
Gram was dying of cancer. It didn't make any more sense four hours later. If she'd been propped up in bed in a tragic soap opera pose, it would have sunk in by now. A smile curled at my lips as I pictured Gram as a washed-up soap star, milking her lines with all her worth.
The smile froze. I could smile, but not cry after receiving such news. How could I be so insensitive? This not an auspicious start.
I sensed Mom’s disappointment all these miles away, but I still didn't know what she wanted of me. I couldn't please anyone today.
Except Gram. She'd looked relieved by the time we were through. After the lawyer left, I was uncertain of my place. Uncles and aunts milled about, avoiding my eyes, no doubt casting aspersion on my new role. For once, it seemed they'd be late to work. Then equilibrium returned and they scattered. No doubt the phone lines had been busy ever since.
Gram chose me, though. No one ever chose me.
Gram somehow always knew what I was capable of before I did. I trusted this would be no different.
Only, how does one prepare to make life and death decisions? I didn't know how to hold Gram's life in my hands. Hospice meant serious business. Gram was dying and before long, it would come down to me speaking for her.
I could not go into this blind—Frasiers were always prepared. Much as I wanted to resist my family’s influence, I was glad this mantra had stuck.
I snagged my purse handle to drag it closer. No need to move quite yet.
I fished my cell phone out, took a deep breath, and looked to see how many calls I'd missed.
Twenty-three. Nine voice messages. Sixteen texts.
I'd better get used to it. I scrolled through the missed calls, hoping they were not all related to Gram.
My meltdown would have to wait. The next exhibit was just days away, and I needed to devote my attention to the unique chaos of the gallery. I would have to balance my obligation to Gram with my obligation to my business. If only the show was behind us, I'd have time to sit and process how my life had been turned upside down.
I set my phone down and tapped my fingernails on the desk, then my planner, letting the syncopations dash my whirring thoughts into the semblance of a plan. The maple desk shone, reflecting the day's good weather. The room was imbued with light.
I'd taken such care when decorating the office, knowing it would be viewed as an extension of my personality. I'd wanted artists to feel comfortable with me, but also hopeful their work would do well at Madison Gallery. To that end, I'd prowled thrift stores in search of furniture to rehab, and borrowed from my traveling treasures. Framed pictures from my childhood added a personal touch, while the artwork on the walls spoke of my interests and dreams.
The small couch by the window now beckoned but I remained immobilized in the chair. I took a deep breath and picked my phone back up. Best to get the voicemail messages over with.
Gram's voice came on crisp and clear trying to atone for her decision. She didn't understand it wasn't me she needed to apologize to.
“Olivia Jane, I don't want you to think I ambushed you this morning. Whatever they say, I am glad you said yes. The hospice will be trying to schedule the...evaluation, I believe it's called. I gave them your number so please schedule it at your convenience. Though sooner rather than later. Love you dear.”
I started to question my sanity. Adding Gram's appointments to my already crammed schedule made my head pound further. I crooked my shoulder to hold the phone as I massaged my temples.
The next two messages were from Mom. Bless her for her tendency to keep calling, even about minor matters, until the other party called her back. Her ratio tended to be one message for every three attempted calls. She’d likely forgotten I had a meeting first thing. Not that anyone considered this to be real work. After all, I only spent time with paintings every day.
Frustration tinged her voice, more evident in the second message; she probably thought I was avoiding her. I made a mental note to text her later, if only to stave off her relentless calling habit.
My nose wrinkled as Marcus' voice filled my ear, angry. Eyes rolled as his demands began. I stopped listening and stabbed Delete with relish. We can't choose our family but we can certainly ignore their voicemail messages.
Finally, a familiar and welcome voice, Kristy, my oldest and best friend. When we were little, people used to ask if we were sisters because of our similar coloring and features. We didn’t look as similar anymore but she was the closer than a sister and I was better for it. Her voice rushed through the phone.
“Livvie, please don't be mad.” Never a good start. “Mark has to
go out of town for work tomorrow and he won't be back until Saturday. I've been trying to find a babysitter so we can still go to the game but no luck with such short notice. It's killing me to miss the game and miss you,” she exclaimed. It was killing me too. I scrambled to think of who else could take the ticket.
“Anyway, I hope you can find someone to go with you. We definitely need to catch u—Reid! Get away from there. Oh crap, gotta go. Call me back.” I could only imagine what hijinks her toddler son had gotten into. He was a blur of energy, that one.
Sox ticket, I scribbled on a piece of paper. That game was going to be my saving grace. A distraction for this low point. I'd go by myself if I had to.
The next few messages were from random family members, all expressing dismay at Gram's news. No one directly questioned her choice in me as her decision-maker, but it was implied. One didn't need to be around the Frasier family for long before picking up on the things said and better left unsaid. There was an art to their passive aggression—an art form I'd unfortunately picked up as well.
Finally, the last message played.
“Hi Olivia, this is Beth Freeman from Sanctuary Hospice.” It became real. Beth left her contact information and wished me a good day.
Good days did not begin with early alarm clocks, cancer diagnoses, and family drama. Then again, good days did include cute artists who invited gallery owners out for drinks. No wonder my head was spinning.
I looked at the list of phone calls to return and compared it to pending work tasks. My shoulders slumped. Something would need to give. I hoped it wouldn't be me.
* * *
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I worked through lunch, picking at a bagel as I scheduled the hospice appointment, confirmed details for the exhibit, and returned email. I held myself together as I filled Suzy in on Gram's news and how it might affect the gallery.
Belying her caffeinated, hard-shell ways, my assistant cried. Her tears bothered me; I still hadn't cried myself. Another check mark in the “abnormal reaction” column.
I should let go, but not here, not now. There were professional roles and obligations to consider. I worried about where a lack of control would lead me. The tears hovered beneath the surface. I knew they would come out eventually, no matter how much I tried to control the circumstances, but best to get through this day and then collapse in the privacy of my home.
I pictured my bedroom, an inviting place to fall apart for a while. Preferably with hard rock playing in the background. Just as I gave in to the idea, I remembered my plans with Reagan. Why had I agreed to go out with him? If only there was a way to back out without impacting the gallery.
I pulled my attention back to the office as Suzy asked how she could help.
“I don't know yet, Suz. Tomorrow Gram signs up for hospice and then hopefully I'll know more. I can't really think about it.”
She nodded with understanding. Her sympathy shouldn't have unsettled me, but I wanted life to go on as usual. I wanted her to pester me with updates and inane requests. If she offered to get me tea, I'd have to kick her. I needed to get us back on track.
“Oh my gosh! I never asked you how last night went,” I exclaimed. Suzy’s girlfriend Mei had been planning a surprise for their one year anniversary and I wanted to hear all the details.
Suzy’s smile stretched across her face. “You’re not going to believe it. She took me to Alinea.”
My mouth dropped open. “No way!” It was notoriously difficult to get a reservation there and people usually had to plan several months in advance.
Suzy nodded. “I know! She told me she knew a few months in that we were the real deal and booked it. I mean.” Her hand fluttered over her heart. “I felt so loved and cherished. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“I’m so happy for you, Suz.” She deserved nothing but the best. I really liked Mei and the way they took care of each other.
“I hope you get to go someday because Grant Achatz is some kind of mad scientist genius with food. It was the most incredible meal I’ve ever had.” Suzy’s rapturous expression faded. “But back to you. Is there anything I can do to help right now?”
“I don’t think so. I’m going to stay a little late tonight because I'm not sure how much I'll be around tomorrow. Do you know how long hospice appointments last?” Suzy shook her head. “Me neither. Between that and updating the family, I'm guessing it'll be a while. And the show is Friday. This is our busiest week.” A hysterical note crept into my voice.
Keep calm. Breathe. Don't do this now.
I put my head in my hands and groaned. “Of all times...” my voice trailed off. There would never be an ideal time for this kind of situation.
“Don't worry about the show. We'll figure it all out one way or another.” This I didn’t doubt. She handled business so efficiently, I sometimes felt irrelevant.
The gallery belonged to me, but it had become her baby.
If I couldn't be here, I was leaving the gallery in good hands. It would have to be enough.
Suzy returned to supervising an installation for the show and I crossed off a few more items from my checklist. So far, the show looked like it was in good shape.
I reentered the rhythm of work and lost myself for a while. I glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was almost seven o'clock.
So much for taking time to freshen up before Reagan's arrival. This outing was decidedly in the “friends” category now. My forehead wrinkled at this thought. Did I want Reagan to be in the friends category?
I straightened my desk as best as I could. A pile to work on first thing tomorrow morning. A pile of what could wait. A pile for future endeavors. The piles never ended. I glanced at the clock every few minutes, aware of the butterflies dancing in my stomach.
If not for Reagan coming to pick me up, I might have worked all night. Though my body cried out for relief, there was simply too much to do in not enough time. As it was, I'd come in early tomorrow before heading back to Gram's house.
A mindless distraction was just the ticket.
Chapter Four
I headed to the front of the gallery, turning off lights as I went. Everyone else had gone home for the night. We were in good shape for the exhibit, all things considered.
I debated whether I should wait inside by the door or outside on the steps. I didn't want to appear too eager. Then again, this wasn't a date. Remembering the warm view from the window earlier, I opened the door right as Reagan walked up.
“Perfect timing,” I said, as I locked the door behind me. Instinct said I should hug him, my greeting of choice for friends. But I was his future employer, depending on how one viewed the artist-gallery owner relationship. I didn't want to shake his hand though—too formal.
Instead, I patted him on the arm and laughed to cover up my awkwardness.
Great. He probably wanted to run for the hills now. Friend Zone for sure.
If this was going to turn into pity drinks, I determined we would at least enjoy ourselves.
I asked about his day and as he answered, I tucked my nerves away. I was merely having a drink with a handsome man. A colleague. No big deal. People do this all the time. Nothing to see here.
We stood in front of the gallery, caught in the trap of chitchat without knowing which direction to go. I took a deep internal breath and suggested a bar down the street. Corked boasted mood lighting and soft ambiance, good for two people getting to know each other without being romantic. It was a popular place, but it never felt crowded. Corked would give Reagan a taste of the neighborhood as well. He lived in the city, but Oak Park was always a nice escape. I enjoyed showing off my town.
Once inside Corked, we found a fair amount of available seating.
“Booth or bar table,” Reagan asked, one eyebrow cocked.
“Oh, definitely a table. Better people watching that way,” I replied, not willing to risk the intimacy of a booth. Not a date, not a date, not a date.
He guided me to a table near a wall with a full view of the room. He pulled out my chair for me. He was a gentleman but not pushy. He seemed sure of himself, in his words, his actions, but I hadn't detected any arrogance.
We swiftly settled in. My favorite waiter served us. Our little familiarities, those that only come about from being a regular, set me at ease. A glass of merlot soon sat before me and a beer before him.
“Smithwick’s,” I said as I nodded toward his drink. “I’m impressed.”
“I got into it after spending time in Ireland several years back. I didn’t know much about beer before that and the locals enjoyed educating me after I tried to order a Budweiser,” he said with a chuckle. I laughed in response.
“I can imagine. Gram took the whole family to Ireland and Scotland about fifteen years ago so we could trace our heritage. Some friends and I went to Dublin last year and it was even better than I'd remembered. Why were you there?”
He leaned forward, one elbow propped on the table, his other hand encircling his beer. I moved closer in turn, as if we were about to conspire.
His eyes danced. “Why, to look for leprechauns, of course.” His eyebrow quirked as he sat back and waited for my reaction.
I laughed but the wheels turned in my mind. Not many men would joke about mythical gold pot-guarding elves. There had to be a story. I tipped my head, indicating he should elaborate.
“Okay, not leprechauns. I decided to explore the ruins; mostly the Rock of Cashel, but a few other spots. I was on a ruins kick at the time, really exploring redemption as a theme in my work. I wanted the in-person visual of these powerful, beautiful places that are now wrecked. Then I took that and transported it to my work.”
“In what way?” I asked. This was familiar ground, discussing the influences on one's work.
“You already know I like to play with the thin line between that which is seen and unseen. So, you take a castle, which was impenetrable at one time.” His voice strengthened and the spark grew in his eye. “And now you've got rocky outcrops and grass growing everywhere. How did that happen? It made me wonder about the buildings we see today and how long it would be before they know the same fate.”