The Art of Love

by Anne Whitney

  “Then we will. He’s not going to hurt you anymore, Marina.”

  She’s not the first person to say that to me, but it’s the first time I believe someone when they say it. After today, it’s finally true. I don’t have to run and hide. He can’t hurt me anymore. He’s going to pay for everything he did to me.

  After some more form filling and discussion of what pressing charges entails, I’m finally free to leave. This isn’t the end, of course, but for the first time, I can see light at the end of the tunnel. I don’t have to pretend to be someone else now. I can be me, free of constraints and the terror of being forced back to Spokane.

  This city is my home now.

  Once I leave the interrogation room, Viridian pounces on me with a hug.

  “About damn time!” she says, squashed against me. “I thought they were going to arrest you or something. You ready to go?”

  “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

  “Derek called. He says Fitz is fine, if a little sore, and annoyed that they won’t discharge him. I think he’s going to try sneaking out later, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Oh god,” I sigh, feeling incredibly guilty. “He’s not going to be able to do his show anymore.”

  “Don’t worry about that. The art museum’s closed until further notice now that it’s a crime scene. Besides, a dislocated shoulder is nothing for Fitz. I’m sure he’ll find a way to turn a severe injury into blatant exhibitionism. How’s your face?”

  I had almost forgotten about that. There’s still some tenderness but it’s been the last thing on my mind.

  “I’ll live. I’ve had worse.”

  “Come on, let’s go home,” Viridian tells me, giving me one last bear hug that will probably leave bruises in the morning. She’s far stronger than she looks. “You can think about Fitz another day. We’ll get Ethiopian take out, how about that?”

  Home. That sounds good.

  “Just give me a sec,” Viridian coughs. “I need to use the bathroom. I’ve been holding it in since the museum!”

  As she dashes off to relieve herself, I’m left alone in the hub of the action, watching officers and detectives swap notes, answer phone calls and fill in paperwork. Detective Chapman is sullenly talking to one of his colleagues while his co-worker is nowhere to be seen. Everyone is far too busy to pay attention to me, for which I am incredibly grateful. A lifetime of peace couldn’t come soon enough.

  Amidst the casual chatter and ringing phones, I can faintly hear a familiar voice in full on rant mode. Even through the walls, my dad’s growls are unmistakable. My heart still quickens with the knowledge that he’s here in the same building as me, but I resist the instinct to run away. Instead, I follow the sound, amazed by my own boldness, and find myself outside another interrogation room. I stand in front of the glass, watching my dad scream and bluster as a surprisingly composed detective sits opposite him, tapping a pen rhythmically against the table that separates them. Dad’s wearing handcuffs that dig into his pudgy wrists, not at all helped by his flailing as he speaks. He’s red faced and angrier than I’ve seen him in a long time, but it no longer scares me. It’s just pathetic now.

  “See,” he yells. “This is just like you people to do something like this, after all I’ve been through!”

  “Mr. Phillips,” the officer calmly says. “You punched your daughter in the face, and on top of that you’re facing some very serious allegations. It would be beneficial for all of us if you would please calm down and cooperate.”

  “Where’s my little girl? I want to speak to my daughter.”

  “It’d be best for the both of you to stay as far away from each other as possible. Now, on the evening of Tuesday 12th...”

  “See!” He thumps his fists against the table, making it rattle. “You’re all trying to keep her away from me! This is exactly what I knew you would all do.”

  “Why did you think we would keep your daughter away from you, Mr. Phillips?”

  “All of you, that’s what you all do. You take my things and ruin them. They took my wife and now my poor, sweet little girl’s ruined now by that pervert. They’re all perverts, they just love to soil the pure and the good. Marina had to stay good. Only I can keep her good and clean and the Devil out of her.”

  A hand lands on my shoulder and I flinch away instinctively, ready to run.

  “It’s okay,” Detective Kapoor says softly. “You shouldn’t really be here, but I think you need this.”

  “Thanks.”

  She’s right. I do need this. I need to see the ghost of my nightmares, the shadow of fear that has plagued me for my entire life, completely exposed for what he really is. The curtain has been pulled back to reveal a sad, scared little man, one possibly even more scared than I ever was.

  “Mr. Phillips,” the officer says forcefully in the middle of my father’s rant. “On top of the assault and abuse accusations, you’re being charged with submitting a false police report. Do you understand what that means? We know that the man you accused of kidnapping your daughter had nothing to do with her running away. We have footage to prove that. So I’m going to ask you again. Why did you lie about this?”

  For once, my dad seems speechless. He stammers and spits as he tries to find an answer, pulling at his handcuffs. I can see the beads of sweat dripping down his reddened forehead.

  “She’s a good girl,” he sobs. “She was supposed to stay a good girl, she needed to be safe.”

  “Why did she need to stay a good girl?”

  “Because she’s mine! She’s my daughter and she’ll do what I say. She knows better.”

  I suppress a shiver after hearing his final statement. He constantly told me I was his when I was growing up and I assumed that was what all fathers did. They loved and cherished and cared for their little girls, and if they had to teach them a lesson now and then, it was only because they cared. It took me a long time to break free from that brainwashing, far too long.

  I wasn’t his. I never was his.

  I don’t belong to anyone.

  Detective Kapoor rubs my back reassuringly. I can tell she’s good at her job. She radiates understanding. I smile back at her, glad I’m not standing here alone.

  “I think I should go now,” I say, my voice wavering.

  “Of course. We’ll need to talk with you at a later date regarding the charges.”

  “Will I see him again?”

  “Depends if he pleads guilty or not. Don’t worry. We’ll keep you safe.”

  “I know you will.”

  Detective Kapoor guides me back through to the main area where Viridian is waiting for me impatiently. I shake Kapoor’s hand tightly, repeatedly telling her how thankful I am for all she’s done. Now it’s time for me to go home.

  EPILOGUE.

  After an extended period of adjustment with endless days of interviews, news coverage, a police investigation and a whirlwind of attention from what feels like the entire country, I decide that it’s time for me to take in some real art.

  It’s been two months since my father was arrested and the truth of my life was revealed to the world, and I haven’t had a moment’s peace since. My hopes for a quiet life were quickly dashed after the details of the case made their way to the newspapers. Suddenly, the same hacks that gloried in painting me as the poor, lost little girl of a doting father were banging on Viridian’s door to tell my side of the story. Practically overnight, I went from being a helpless victim to the heroine of a shocking true life tale that was too appalling to believe.

  Originally, I wanted to tell them all to go away, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized how crucial it was for me to correct the lies, if only to stop the looks of pity I seemed to receive on a daily basis from passers-by in the streets.

  So now I had a book deal to tell the whole truth of Marina Phillips. I’ve never written so much as a short story in my life, never mind an autobiography, and I still have no idea how I’m meant to finish this
thing, even with the generous help of my publisher. However, sitting down to type my memories onto the screen has proven to be incredibly cathartic. I still cry and the nightmares will probably always be there, but they don’t rule me anymore.

  My dad remains in jail, awaiting his sentencing. Much to my surprise and that of Detective Kapoor, he pleaded guilty to all charges. He would be living the next couple of decades behind metal fences and heavy locks, forever known as the monster he pretended he wasn’t.

  My life was finally beginning. No more tears, no more looking over my shoulder, no more running away.

  I’m free of his grasp. Forever.

  I stroll through the grand corridors of the gallery, taking time to stop at every single painting. This is what I picture when I think of an art gallery: No literal piles of garbage, no re-enactments of crime scenes, and all the naked people are safely located within painted canvases and gilded frames. I’m sure Fitz would hate this place.

  Fitz...

  I haven’t really spoken to Fitz or seen him since he was dragged off by the police, completely naked with his arm hanging loose from his shoulder. There have been one or two phone calls, relayed via Derek or Viridian, mainly for updates on his injury, but otherwise, contact has been non-existent. Between pressing charges against my dad and the tidal wave of public attention that’s been dumped on my shoulders, I didn’t have much time to sit down with him face to face to figure out what’s going on between us. Our relationship sits in limbo.

  I miss him, and I miss what could have been.

  I enter a large, almost empty room, where one particular painting grabs my attention. It’s a vibrant, psychedelic piece covered in every color imaginable. The countless lines merge together in a dizzying mish-mash. As I move closer to the painting, the various textures become more obvious, and I spot several cut-outs of faces stuck in between the maze of brightness. The large piece is taller than me and sits on top of two varnished, dirt colored balls. I find myself completely entranced by this painting. The colors and textures seem to move under my gaze and the effect is completely hypnotic. I could stare at this piece all day.

  “You’ve made an interesting choice,” a voice says behind me. It takes me a moment to remember where I’ve heard it before.

  Fitz moves to stand beside me, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and he gazes up at the painting, as fascinated by it as I am. He’s fully clothed for once, although his shirt buttons are all undone, of course. Otherwise, he looks pretty normal by his standards: Clean shaven, neat hair, well polished shoes. He looks great, and having him standing next to me, within touching distance, just reminds me of how much I’ve missed him.

  “I’m glad you like it,” I reply. “It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

  “It’s shit.”

  “Hey!” I exclaim, very defensive of my new favorite piece of art. “That’s just your opinion.”

  “No, I mean literally.” He points to the balls the painting rests on. “See those? That’s elephant dung. This artist uses it all the time.”

  “It’s… shit?” I ask, mouth gaping.

  “Oh yeah. Actually, his use of this particular material is ingenious. It really shows the...”

  “Stop,” I groan. “Enough! Great, I finally find a piece of modern art that I like and it is literally made of something that came out of an elephant’s ass.”

  Fitz laughs.

  “And there was me thinking you were my number one fan, Marina.”

  “Can I make a confession?”

  “Go for it.”

  “I can’t stand modern art. Seriously, it drives me nuts.”

  “Even performance art?”

  “Especially performance art!”

  Fitz just laughs even harder. It’s true though; after months of being in the thick of the performance art scene in all its maddening glory, I am sick of it all. I have come to accept that I just don’t get it and probably never will, and it’s no skin off my back.

  “I didn’t think it was really your thing,” Fitz says after his laughter has subsided. “Then again, there were so many pieces you never got to see. Sometimes I do this piece with a bearskin rug where...”

  “You know what? I think I’ll pass, but thanks.”

  As we stand in silence, our gazes changing between the painting and each other, I’m reminded of the moments we shared where there was nothing between us but complete comfort and warmth, and how he could make me smile without even trying. Everything just kept getting in the way and ruining our peace.

  “I like your hair,” Fitz tells me. “It’s very you.”

  Instinctively, I bring a hand up to my head. Now that I had no reason to hide any more, I felt it was time to become me again. So, much to the disappointment of Viridian and Derek, I said goodbye to the dramatic blonde bob and hello to a pixie cut in a dark brown shade that more or less matched my natural hair color. I felt practically bald but now it would all grow in at the same length and I could return to having silly frizzy locks if I wanted to. Whatever look I chose in the future, be it plain or over the top, it would be my choice and my choice alone. I’m not a project or a woman in hiding anymore. I’m just me.

  “Thanks,” I reply. “Viridian tried to talk me into going bright red.”

  “She’s got her own hair for that, doesn’t she? Scarlet hair would look pretty awesome on TV, though. Maybe when you go on your promotional tour, you can mix things up a little.”

  “You heard about that?”

  “Pretty hard to avoid. Derek’s kept me updated, too. He got a kick out of being referred to as the missing woman’s ‘gay best friend’ in one of the papers.”

  “I’ll never hear the end of that one.”

  A question hangs in the air that I’ve been dying to ask for months, but never worked up the courage to talk about with Derek or Viridian. The question of how my location had been revealed.

  “Fitz,” I begin, a touch nervous. “Have you talked to your dad?”

  He flinches a little at the mere mention of his father, not that I blame him.

  “He’s... Things have been tense,” he admits. “He’s sorry for what he did, but I just... I can’t talk to him right now. Not after this.”

  “You should talk to him,” I say. Fitz shakes his head.

  “Not sure that would end well,” he sighs. “He thinks I’m a psycho kidnapper who cages women for artistic purposes and all I need to sort myself out is admittance to Harvard and a Paul Smith suit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, it’s not your fault. He got me out of prison more than once. It was about time he got me sent there for a change. Not that I actually ended up in prison. I just had to sit through this interrogation with a total jackass while I was in my hospital bed, maxed out on painkillers.”

  “Detective Chapman?” I ask.

  “Ah, so you met him too?”

  “We shared a moment. How’s your shoulder?”

  “Still a touch sore, but I can bear it. It’s out of the sling at least. Derek made me one from purple silk.”

  “What about the show? Did you have to drop out?”

  “Nah, that’d be too easy. I just had to make some adjustments. We found some stethoscopes in a flea market and used them, instead. The piece was still great, of course, just intimate in a new way.”

  “Did you put on any clothes?”

  He looks at me as if I’ve just asked him the stupidest question in the world. Of course he didn’t wear any clothes. Even a sling would be considered too much clothing by Fitz. At least it was a fashionable sling. Derek would have made sure of that.

  “I just asked,” I laugh. “Sorry I didn’t come to see it. I was just... Well, you know. Things got a little out of hand.”

  “It’s okay. I didn’t want to bother you. I figured that the last person you’d want to deal with in the middle of all that shit was me.”

  “Yeah. It was all pretty weird.”

  With my focus back on the painting, I see Fitz in
the corner of my eye edge closer to me until the fabric of his blazer brushes against my bare arm. I’ve kept a hold of some of the clothes Derek picked out for Mary Fenton, although I’m permanently retired some of the wilder numbers. Right now I’m in a sea blue summer dress, perfect for the stifling New York June heat.

  Fitz’s fingers graze my forearm. Deliberately or accidentally, I’m not sure. Either way, his touch is welcome, and my arm moves against him. For a while, we stand silently, both focusing on the painting as our arms dance together until I work up the courage to just take his hand in mine. He seems surprised by my boldness and I can’t help but grin.

  “I miss you,” he says, his voice a shaky whisper. “I miss you like crazy.”

  I give his hand a squeeze.

  “I miss you too, believe it or not,” I confess. “I wish we’d ended things on a better note.”

  “I wish we hadn’t ended things at all.”

  “Fitz...”

  “I’m sorry,” he interrupts, flinching a little. “I know I went into things too deep and everything moved so quickly. I didn’t want to rush you or make you feel like you had to love me right away, but I was a total jerk about it. You deserve so much better than a jackass like me.”

  “Fitz...”

  “But I love you. I love you so much that I can’t even express it. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to find a way to tell the world how I feel, but all of that is useless when it comes to you. I’d give anything for us to be able to do things right so we could be together and I could give you all the love you deserve. Marina, I...”

  “Fitz!” I finally manage to get him to stop talking, but he looks terrified. “Fitz, I’m kind of messed up. I have a lot I need to deal with and I’ll probably be hounded by press and whatever for years to come. I have no idea who I really am or what I’m going to do with my life. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  He seems confused, so I do the most sensible thing I can think of. With my free hand, I grab his blazer, spin him around to face me and pull him into a kiss. It takes him a while to react, but when he does, it is as wonderful as I remember. Soon I’m pulled against him and the kiss deepens, warm and passionate and with none of the awkwardness I feared. I pull back before things become more heated, not in the mood to put on another public performance. I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.