As Phoebe listened, the memories came back. The sense of worry in her chest at being alone in the dark. The unsettling feeling of going to bed in a house when her parents were not in it. “You would rub my back and tell me stories, about when Mom was a little girl.”
Elsie nodded. “That’s right. It helped you to sleep.” She cocked her head, studying Phoebe closely through her watery eyes. “Are you having trouble sleeping, dear?”
Phoebe could not help it. Without warning, tears flooded her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She hadn’t slept well in weeks. She didn’t know if she ever would again.
“Oh, honey.” Elsie reached a shaking hand and pressed it to Phoebe’s back, and Phoebe found herself leaning in to it like she was a little girl all over again.
“Nana, I’ve made such a mess of things.”
“There, now. It can’t be all that bad.”
Phoebe grabbed the edge of her T-shirt and blew her nose into it. “Oh, but it is. That house we bought? I can’t afford it anymore.”
Her grandmother didn’t answer, and at first Phoebe thought that the lightbulb was flickering again. But then she said, “It is just a house. Four walls. A roof. A door. The house does not matter.”
But it did. It was the place she would raise her children, just as her parents had raised her. Where memories would take shape and form, into scratches on the floor from a favorite dog’s toenails, into marks on the doorframe, counting the years by a child’s height. Where birthday candles would be blown out and wishes made. Some that would never see the light of day, but were made nonetheless. Like Phoebe’s own, as a little girl, when she biked up to the lake house and saw the young couple with the baby and saw her future.
“Nana, we need to finish our home.”
“You already have a home.”
At first, she thought Elsie was not understanding. “No, Nana, this is my childhood home. Rob and I can’t stay here for good,” Phoebe tried to explain.
Elsie’s brow furrowed in frustration. “When your grandpa and I got married, we did not have a house. We lived in a tiny apartment in Yonkers. Our first real house was just a cottage, a little ranch in Westchester. But we raised all four kids in it.” She paused, her watery blue eyes wandering softly across the ceiling as she remembered. “Later we moved. The house was bigger, nicer. But no matter where we lived over the years, the walls didn’t make a difference.” Here, she looked at Phoebe. “From the day we got married, we had our home. We had each other.”
It was not her grandmother who was mixed up, at all, Phoebe realized. As she cried, Elsie clucked her tongue, her hand working across the plane of Phoebe’s back in slow, rhythmic circles, the way it had all those years ago. It made Phoebe still. First her mind, then her tears. Until all that remained was the warmth of her grandmother’s hand at the small of her back, and the dimly lit room, and the quiet breath.
When Elsie’s hand slowed and she drifted off against her pillows, Phoebe found her own eyelids fluttering. It was cramped at the foot of her grandmother’s bed, but Phoebe curled herself around Elsie’s birdlike legs and nestled into the blankets. For the first time in months, she slept through the night.
Olivia
This was not how she’d envisioned their moving in together. She should’ve known better. The cottage was really meant for a single dweller, two at most. The notion of squeezing in one more had seemed cozy. What a foolish notion that had been.
The first floor proved to be a field of land mines. Luci’s toys. A pair of flip-flops. Buster, the dog. And there was Jake—crutches splayed and balancing on one leg amid the hazards. The open layout had seemed like a good idea to move him into, but the quarters were so narrow that Jake had to keep his crutches tight against his sides as he navigated the couch, the kitchen island, the dining table. Olivia spent her days folded in half, seemingly forever bent over to retrieve a doll, a Lego, a shoe. To push a chair in, to shovel things into the closet. She felt like a snowplow, making her way in a repeat circuit around the cottage, forever clearing a travel lane for Jake. By day’s end she wanted to scream, “Why can’t you just sit?”
Jake, for his part, was not complaining. Worse, he was being a good sport. And it was driving her crazy. He wanted to do too much, and the fact was, he couldn’t. Which was probably driving him crazy, too, but she was not about to ask.
There was a look on his face she had not seen before. It was in the tightened corners of his mouth and around his eyes when he spied the bags of groceries lined up in the hall. The ones he could barely get around, never mind pick up and carry, with crutches. Everything, it seemed, was a reminder to him of what he could not do to help. The everyday little things were the hardest, like taking out the garbage, bringing Buster outside to pee, unloading the car. When she was looking for her phone and realized she’d left it in the studio, he hopped up on his crutches before he got the look. “Don’t worry. I’ll get it,” she’d say before running outside. She realized, with chagrin, that his desire to help was more burdensome than waiting on him.
Then there was Luci. Who wanted to do the impossible. She wanted to show Jake the green beans that were growing in the garden, the ones she and Marge had planted and made trellises for a few months earlier. But the garden was all the way across the yard, at the far end of the fence, in a muddy section. Or she wanted to go to the beach. “What can you possibly do at the beach?” Olivia wanted to ask. She couldn’t imagine trying to keep her cast sand-free, let alone dry. Jake at the beach was simply not possible. In her worst moments, Olivia fantasized about tugging on her own swimsuit, sneaking out to the car, and just driving away. Just to steal an hour of sun and respite.
“Try some indoor activities,” Olivia had pleaded with her daughter. As it was, with Jake on crutches and Luci in her cast, the outside world was rife with disappointment. Sand. Lake water. Sweating, which was no small thing when wearing a cast in summertime. Indoor activities it was. “How about one of your craft kits from Christmas?” Olivia suggested.
Luci listened, if begrudgingly. She got out a macramé kit that they all instantly realized required two hands. Same for her model clay. And the damn rainbow loom that a friend had handed down. Olivia stood at the craft drawer she kept in the kitchen and stared at all of the art supplies with rage. Tiny beads. Fishing wire. Glitter. She slammed the drawer shut before the urge to pitch them out into the driveway overtook her.
“So, what’s the plan for today?” Jake asked. He was half-reclining on their small couch, his bad leg propped up on her good pillows, his good leg dangling off the side. She knew he’d be uncomfortable and trying to adjust his position within minutes. After all, she watched him do this all day.
“The plan?” She drew in her breath. Ben’s art show was upon them. Today she had to be in the studio. For a good several hours, uninterrupted. Initially, she’d been relieved to have Jake with her to help keep an eye on Luci. She’d even gone so far as to hope they could entertain each other, or at least provide distractions. But with Luci’s ongoing muteness showing no improvement, she’d found herself hovering between the two. Translating and trying to connect the dots between them. Even with his deep well of patience, she could tell Jake sometimes grew weary from the effort it took to connect with Luci. And Luci was growing shyer around him, too. Which left Olivia awash with guilt and wildly distracted whenever she tried to steal an hour in the studio, so that instead she ran back and forth from barn to cottage to check in on them. Marge had offered to watch Luci, but Olivia couldn’t take advantage. She was working for them, not the other way around. But at this rate, nothing was getting done.
“I was thinking of inviting Emma over,” Olivia said.
“Emma? Why?” Jake looked alarmed.
“Because Luci likes her a lot. And I thought maybe she could use the money. That way you can do what you’d like, without having to watch Luci while I’m working.”
“I don’t mind watching Luci. Besides, you’re only fifty steps away in the studio.” Here
they were again. Jake supported her work, but he still didn’t get it. How many times would she have to explain that creating something wasn’t like picking up a paint roller and starting in on the blank wall where you left off last? It required uninterrupted thought. A certain mindset. And time alone in your headspace once you finally got there. She couldn’t just pick up her tools and “get it done.”
She switched the subject. “Don’t you have work to catch up on for the Audubon Center? Yesterday you said that you needed to spend time on your laptop. Make some calls,” she reminded him. Jake had taken time off of work, at first, but he’d since made arrangements with his boss to work remotely until he could get back into the office.
“I guess,” he said. But she could tell he didn’t like the idea.
Olivia dialed Emma, but the call went straight to voicemail. She decided to send a text to Perry and Amelia, as a courtesy—she wasn’t sure what was appropriate being the soon-to-be step-aunt, and since Emma didn’t have a license and they were her parents, Olivia didn’t want to step on any toes bypassing Amelia and Perry. But there was no reply from either.
“I really need to get into the studio,” she said, finally.
Luci was upstairs, playing with her dolls. Olivia was worried about the amount of time she was spending alone, unlike other kids out enjoying the summer with friends.
But she had no other choice than to leave Luci with Jake. Olivia made tomato and mozzarella sandwiches and left them on a plate in the fridge. She washed and sliced strawberries and set them on the counter in a bowl. “Lunch is all set, whenever you’re ready. Just call Luci down when it’s time.”
When she slid the barn door open, she was surprised to see Ben standing at his worktable. “Well, well. Come in.”
“Am I interrupting?” she asked. Ben often worked alone, and she knew he preferred it that way.
“Not unless you consider walking in on an old man’s doubt.”
“Doubt?” She closed the door behind her and joined him in the cool recess of the barn. “Is this about the show? Don’t tell me you get stage fright. I won’t believe it.”
Ben chuckled softly. “No, I have no nerves, though I don’t like the meet and greets as much as Marge does. She’s far more adept at that nonsense. I’m just not sure this one will finish.”
Olivia came to stand beside him, and considered the sculpture. Ben had finished the galloping mare, and it was waiting to be boxed and crated for shipment to the gallery. This piece was a sudden last-minute addition, as Marge had warned her he was prone to do. “Just before a show, his wheels get spinning. Be prepared for eleventh-hour projects. Sometimes they make it in time, sometimes they don’t.”
Sure enough, Ben had done just that. Starting only a couple weeks ago, when Olivia had done inventory of studio materials, she’d noted the red clay was low in the bin and had asked if he wanted her to place another order. Instead of answering, he’d come to inspect the supply and removed a hunk of it. Shortly after, he’d had it on the table and begun playing around with it. When she’d come in later that evening, Ben was gone. But in his spot was a new project. A tree trunk, twisting up and away from the block of clay out of which it sprouted. She’d stood in the barn shaking her head in wonder for a long time before locking up.
Standing beside him now, she understood his concerns. The red clay needed to cure. And although the sculpture was a much smaller scale than he usually did, and with simpler material, Ben wasn’t yet done.
“I’ve reserved six installation spaces for this show. This being the sixth.” He set his tool down and stepped away, leaving Olivia alone with it. “It’s not ready.”
Olivia walked around it, considering its form. “It’s lovely, Ben. You’ve captured the spirit of it.”
Ben stood to the side, and lit up his pipe. “Bullshit.”
Olivia turned to face him.
“Unless I finish it today, it won’t cure by the show.”
She turned back to the sculpture. The broad trunk at the base gave way to long limbs, then to branches, all suggesting subtle movement. The branches were so inviting, she fought the urge to run her fingers along them. But there was something about one of the larger limbs. The angle of it was perhaps too sharp.
“What do you see?” he asked, as if reading her mind.
Olivia let her breath out. Working for an artist was a tricky dance. Her job was to gather his audience and get his work out in the world, not critique it. But she wanted the chance to test herself. “The larger branch on the left?”
“What about it?” Ben sounded dejected, as if it had been something else that was bothering him. This was now another.
“I don’t know, for sure.” Olivia moved around the base, studying each angle. “It grows sharply away from the tree. Maybe it interrupts the continuity?”
Ben blew a ring of smoke out and walked back over. She felt a rise of hope.
“Maybe. I was thinking about the form, overall. She’s too sinewy. I want grace, but also strength. She needs to look like she could bend in a wind.”
Olivia was used to this; Ben assigned gender to his pieces, and she understood why. There were traits in every subject that an artist had to convey. The more you knew your subject, the more likely you were to grasp its essence.
“I need to give it time.” Ben dipped a sponge in a stained bucket of water, and gently ran it over the tree. Then he covered the piece with canvas, where it would stay dark and moist until he returned to work on it tomorrow. She watched as he tidied his table, wiping down the work board with a towel, then picking up and cleaning each individual tool with another wet sponge. “I can do that,” she offered.
Ben shook his head. “You,” he said, “need to work.”
Olivia turned for the stairs. “The mailings have gone out, and all the announcements we printed are posted around town. I’ve got another email blast to put together.”
Ben turned. “Not that.” He nodded toward the table in the corner of the barn. Her table, where her own work was shrouded in canvas. “That,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had a look.”
Olivia paused on the stairs. “You looked at my piece?” She wasn’t offended; she’d offered it to him countless times, hoping for some criticism or guidance. But she’d had so little time lately, she hadn’t worked on it at all. There was no way she could sit down and work now.
“Unlike this,” Ben said, nodding at his tarped work, “I think your piece is ready.”
“But it’s not done.” Olivia was shocked. Ben had taken the time to inspect her work. But it was incomplete; there was no way it was near done.
“What’s left to do?” he asked, watching her with genuine curiosity.
“Well, the right hand. The fingertips aren’t even done. They’re just clay stubs.” She paused, closing her eyes, and she could see her mother’s hands. The long, elegant fingers. How would she ever capture them?
“Then get it done.”
Oliva glanced at her worktable in the corner, then up the stairs toward the office loft. There was desk work to finish up—work that could not wait—they were so close to the show. She needed to review details with the gallery owner, and go over the schedule for the installation, which would take at least two days before the show. Besides, even if all that were done, she wasn’t in the mindset. Outside the studio, her cottage practically hummed in the distance. Jake and Luci would soon be done with lunch and looking to do something. They needed her. No one could work creatively like that. Ben, more than anyone else, should understand that.
“I know I need to spend more time sculpting,” she admitted, trying not to see the disapproval in his expression. “But things are kind of crazy right now. I haven’t got the time. Or the headspace.”
Ben shrugged, and continued to clean up his work area. He took a bucket of dirtied water and went to the door, where he tossed it outside. “There is never a good time. That’s life.”
Olivia swallowed. “I know. But Jake and Luci ne
ed me right now.”
“Yes. And so does your work.”
Olivia tried not to let her frustration show in her face. This was where Ben was wrong. He was an artist, but he had Marge. He had her. What he did not have was a child, or a fiancé who was recovering from an accident and surgery. That was exactly what she had been hired to do: to protect his time, so that he didn’t have to do anything other than focus on his work.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “if it seems I am pushing you. I know you have much to concern yourself with. And I respect all of it. Deeply.” He looked at her softly. “Do you want to sculpt?”
Olivia nodded, a plume of defense rising in her chest. “It’s why I’m here.”
Ben scoffed. “Then sit.” His voice was angry.
“Excuse me?”
“Sit down with it, Olivia.” He paused. “Sit still, and contemplate it. Look at it. Run your hands over it. Your work will speak to you. But you have to sit still with it so you can listen.”
She waited, unsure of what to do. Olivia did not like being told what to do. But this was different; Ben was urging her. And she understood.
“Bah.” He shook his head in frustration and made his way to the door. She feared he might slam the door, but he paused. “I have reserved six spaces at the gallery,” he said gruffly. He jabbed his finger at his tarped sculpture in the center of the floor. “That is not ready.”
Olivia understood: he had only five sculptures to show.
She waited until the door creaked closed on its hinges. Until Ben’s footsteps on the gravel grew distant. From her position on the stairs, Olivia could see outside. The cottage was not on fire. There was no one crying for her attention or her help, at least not yet. She set the studio mail down on the bottom step. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she crossed the barn floor to her worktable and whisked the cover off her sculpture.
Olivia studied the clay length of the wrist she’d sculpted. It was narrow and long, both familiar and not at all a part of her. Much like her mother. Growing up seeing her mother’s pictures, she was always struck by the elegance of her long fingers and slender wrists. Holding a glass of wine. A cigarette. And in one rare picture of the two of them together, holding Olivia on her lap. Her father, Pierre, often said with a note of sadness, “You have her hands.” Now she placed her fingers gently on the sculpture and closed her eyes. The clay wrist was cold to the touch. But Olivia knew. All it would take was the warmth of her own hands. The strength of her fingertips. And it would yield in her desired direction.
The View from Here Page 27