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Bea turns back to me, her triumphant smile a little dim. “You see?”
“I… yeah.” I turn an apologetic glance towards Luke. “I’m going now.” I tell Bea.
She has a small frown on her brow. “Yeah... see you later.” She says, without looking at me.
The day passes slowly. Larry isn’t coming to the store, Jan tells me, because his son is graduating and giving the valedictory address.
“He’s really going to ogle Stephanie,” He adds with a laugh. “That’s his ex-wife, and he’s still crazy about her.”
I frown, wondering what the right reply is to that particular bit of information. I’m still in love with my estranged husband as well, only last night we had sex, in a restaurant, up against the wall.
And it was amazing.
“I should be there too,” Jan continues, oblivious to my thoughts. “But Jo - that’s my ex – will probably be there and things never go well when we find ourselves in the same room.”
“Are you still in love with her?” I ask boldly, thinking that perhaps we’re all stuck in love.
“Hell no!” He barks out a laugh. “We hate each other’s guts. You know, we went in expecting so much from each other, with neither of us prepared to give anything.” He shakes his head, “That never works.”
“What if you give everything you have,” I ask contemplatively, “and the other person just isn’t ready to give anything.”
Jan shrugs. “I’m no expert.” He says, “If I were, I’d still be married.” He studies my face. “So how’d your date go last night?”
We had mind-blowing sex, in a restaurant, up against the wall.
I close my eyes against the memory. “It was okay.” I tell Jan, forcing a small, lighthearted smile.
When I leave the store later in the day, I walk down to the small museum down the street. Inside, it’s quiet as usual, with hardly anyone around. I make my way over to my painting, as I’ve come to think of it, the painting I always end up looking at.
It’s still in the same position, and nothing has changed about it. The young woman is still half turned towards me, perpetually in motion, looking as if any moment she would turn completely around and I would see her face.
But I don’t need to see it. I already know, without a doubt, whose face it is. It’s the face I’ve been drawing all my life. It’s my mother’s face.
I try to imagine what she would have said when she turned fully towards the painter, her married professor. Would they have talked about his wife? How wrong their relationship was? Did they plan their future together, or did they decide to enjoy it for as long as they could and then let it go?
I’ve searched the name of the painter online. There’s a small article on the university’s website about his work there. I also found a few news articles about the murder-suicide, some of his wife’s poems and the haunting last poem she wrote before she drove herself and her husband off a bridge.
Don’t tell me love is not forever
Mine will only die when we close our eyes
One last time
I remember Aunt Josephine’s taunts. Her favorite words to describe my parent’s relationship had been “sordid affair” It’s agonizing to think that she was right. That my mother was instrumental in shattering someone’s heart to the point where her only recourse was to drive her car off a bridge.
And even then, my love will take root
Grow, and last for eternity
However, was it her only recourse? Is it right to hold on to a love that isn’t returned? Aren’t I better off letting go of my feelings for David instead of holding on to a love that never was, and never will be mine?
I close my eyes, and when I open them, the painting is still there, and just looking at it, I can’t escape the aura of love, the feeling that there’s some intense emotion in the room. No, it wasn’t a sordid affair. It was much more than that. I wonder sadly if my mother knew then that she was pregnant. I wonder if my father would have wanted me.
I sigh. What does it matter? He died, and even though, unlike Modigliani’s wife, my mother didn’t throw herself out of a fifth floor window in grief, she’d still died and left me alone.
I’m still at the museum when Eddie calls me on my phone. As usual, I’ve spent so much time looking at the painting, that the day has gone and left me behind.
“How about today?” He asks.
